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 Form No 513, 
 | Rev. 1/84 
 
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‘ 7 . Ke we : 
 MBS. ELLIS: 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 “THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND,” “WIVES OF ENGLAND,” “DAUGHTERS OF 
 | ENGLAND,” “POETRY OF LIFE,” &e. 
 
 DESIGNED 
 
 TO PROMOTE THE CULTIVATION 
 
 or 
 
 THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES. 
 
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 “* Would you judge of the lawfulness or utlawfulness of pleasure, take this rule: Whatever weakens your reason, impairs 
 the tenderness of your conscience, obscures your sense of God, or takes off the relish of spiritual things ;—in short, atc. 
 ghee the strength and authority of your body over your mind, that thing is sin to you, however innocent it may 
 
 In itself, 
 
 AUTHORIZED EDITION. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 Jo & H. G. LANGLE Ye rape 
 
 M DCCC XLIV. 
 
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THEIR 
 
 SOCIAL DUTIES, AND DOMESTIC HABITS. 
 
 EI NS 
 
 WOMEN OF ENGLAND: | 
 
 BY MRS. ELLIS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF ‘‘THE POETRY OF LIFE,” “PICTURES OF PRIVATE LIFE,” Etc. ETc 
 
 UNIFORM EDITION, 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET. | 
 1843. 
 
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PREFACE. 
 
 At a time when the pressure of stir- 
 ring events, and the urgency of public 
 and private interests, render it increas- 
 ingly desirable that every variety of la- 
 bor should be attended with an immediate 
 and adequate return; I feel that some 
 apology is necessary for the presumption 
 of inviting the attention of the public to 
 a work, in which I have been compelled 
 | to enter into the apparently insignificant 
 | detail of familiar and ordinary life. 
 
 The often-repeated truth—that “ trifles 
 make the sum of human things,” must 
 plead my excuse; as well as the fact, 
 that while our libraries are stored with 
 books of excellent advice on general con- 
 duct, we have no single work containing 
 the particular minutie of practical duty, 
 to which I have felt myself called upon 
 to invite the consideration of the young 
 women of the present day. We have 
 many valuable dissertations upon female 
 character, as exhibited on the broad scale 
 of virtue ; but no direct definition of those 
 minor parts of domestic and social inter- 
 course, which strengthen into habit, and 
 consequently form the basis of moral 
 character. 
 
 It is worthy of remark, also, that these 
 writers have addressed their observations 
 
 almost exclusively to /adies, or occasion- 
 ally to those who hold a subordinate situ- 
 ation under the influence of ladies; while 
 that estimable class of females who might 
 be more specifically denominated women, 
 and who yet enjoy the privilege of liberal 
 education, with exemption from the pe- 
 /cuniary necessities of labor, are almost 
 \|.wholly overlooked. . 
 
 It is from a high estimate of the im- 
 portance of this class in upholding the 
 moral worth of our country, that I have 
 addressed my remarks especially to them ; 
 and in order to do so with more effect, I 
 have ventured to penetrate into the famil- 
 iar scenes of domestic life, and have thus 
 endeavored to lay bare some of the causes 
 which frequently lie hidden at the root of 
 general conduct. 
 
 Had I not known before the commence- 
 ment of this work, its progress would soon 
 have convinced me, that in order to per- 
 form my task with candor and faithful- 
 ness, [ must renounce all idea of what is 
 called fine writing; because the very na- 
 
 ture of the duty I have undertaken, re- | 
 
 stricts me to the consideration of subjects, 
 too minute in themselves, to admit of their 
 being expatiated upon with eloquence by 
 the writer—too familiar to produce upon 
 the reader any startling effect. Had I 
 even felt within myself a capability for 
 treating any subject in this manner, I 
 should have been willing in this instance 
 to resign all opportunity of such display, 
 if, by so doing, I could more clearly point 
 out to my countrywomen, by what means 
 they may best meet that pressing exigen- 
 cy of the times, which so urgently de- 
 mands a fresh exercise of moral power 
 on their part, to win back to the homes of 
 England the boasted felicity for which 
 they once were famed. 
 
 Anxious as I am to avoid the charge of 
 unnecessary trifling on a subject so seri- 
 ous as the moral worth of the women of 
 England, there is beyond this a consider- 
 ation of far higher importance, to which 
 
 ae 
 
& PREFACE. 
 
 I would invite the candid attention of the 
 serious part of the public, while I offer, 
 | what appears to me a sufficient apology, 
 for having written a book on the subject 
 of morals, without having made it strictly 
 religious. I should be sorry indeed, if, 
 by so doing, I brought upon myself the 
 suspicion of yielding for one moment to 
 the belief that there is any other sure 
 foundation for good morals, than correct 
 religious principle; but I do believe, that, 
 with the Divine blessing, a foundation 
 may be laid in early life, before the heart 
 has been illuminated by Divine truth, or 
 has experienced its renovating power, for 
 those domestic habits, and relative duties, 
 which in after life will materially assist 
 the development of the Christian charac- 
 ter. And I am the more convinced of 
 this, because we sometimes see, in sincere 
 and devoted Christians, such peculiarities 
 of conduct as materially hinder their 
 usefulness—such early-formed habits, as 
 they themselves would be glad to escape 
 from, but which continue to cling around 
 them in their earthly course, like the 
 ‘clustering of weeds in the traveller’s 
 path. 
 
 It may perhaps more fully illustrate 
 my view of this important subject to say, 
 that those who would train up young peo- 
 ple without the cultivation of moral hab- 
 its, trusting solely to the future influence 
 of religion upon their hearts, are like 
 
 mariners, who, while they wait for their 
 bark to be safely guided out to sea, allow 
 their sails to swing idly in the wind, their 
 cordage to become entangled, and the 
 general outfit of their vessel to suffer in- 
 jury and decay; so that when the pilot 
 comes on board they lose much of the 
 advantage of his services, and fail to de- 
 rive the anticipated benefit from his pres- 
 ence. 
 
 All that I would venture to recommend 
 with regard to morals, is, that the order 
 and right government of the vessel should, 
 as far as is possible, be maintained, so 
 that when the hope of better and surer 
 guidance is realized, and the heavenly 
 Pilot in his own good time arrives, all | 
 things may be ready—nothing out of or- 
 der, and nothing wanting, for a safe and 
 prosperous voyage. | 
 
 It is therefore solely to the cultivation 
 of habits that I have confined my atten- 
 tion—io the minor morals of domestic life. 
 And I have done this, because there are 
 so many abler pens than mine employed 
 in teaching and enforcing the essential 
 truths of religion; because there is an 
 evident tendency in society, as it exists in 
 the present day, to overlook these minor 
 points; and because it is impossible for 
 them to be neglected, without serious in- 
 jury to the Christian character. 
 
 Saray Stickney Enxuis. 
 
 PENTONVILLE, Noy. 1838. 
 
THE 
 
 WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Every country has its peculiar character- 
 
 istics, not only of climate and scenery, of 
 
 | public institutions, government, and laws; 
 
 but every country has also its moral charac- 
 
 teristics, upon which is founded its true title 
 
 | to a station, either high or low, in the scale 
 of nations. sale: 
 
 The national characteristics of England 
 are the perpetual boast of her patriotic sons; 
 and there is one especially which it behooves 
 all British subjects not only to exult in, but to 
 cherish and maintain. Leaving the justice 
 of her laws, the extent of her commerce, and 
 the amount of her resources, to the orator, 
 the statesman, and the political economist, 
 there yet remains one of the noblest features 
 in her national character, which may not im- 
 properly be regarded as within the compass 
 of a woman’s understanding, and the prov- 
 ince of a woman’s pen. It is the domestic 
 character of England—the home comforts, 
 
 / and fireside virtues for which she is so justly 
 celebrated. ‘These I hope to be able to speak 
 of without presumption, as intimately asso- 
 ciated with, and dependent upon, the moral 
 feelings and habits of the women of this fa- 
 vored country. 
 
 It is therefore in reference to these alone 
 that I shall’ endeavor to treat the subject of 
 England’s nationality; and in order to do 
 | this with more precision, it is necessary to 
 draw the line of observation within a nar- 
 rower circle, and to describe what are the 
 characteristics of the women of England. I 
 
 | ought, perhaps, in strict propriety, to say 
 
 ee 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 } 
 
 would justify the obtrusiveness of a work 
 like this by first premising that the women 
 of England are deteriorating in their moral 
 
 character, and that false notions of refine- 
 
 what were their characteristics; because I 
 
 ment are rendering them less influential, less 
 useful, and less happy than they were. 
 
 ‘In speaking of what English women were, 
 I would not be understood to refer to what 
 they were a century ago. Facilities in the 
 way of mental improvement have greatly in- 
 creased during this period. In connection 
 with moral discipline, these facilities are in- 
 valuable ; but I consider the two excellences 
 as having been combined in the greatest per- 
 fection in the general average of women who 
 have now attained to: middle, or rather ad- 
 vanced age. 
 
 take precedence of the moral, by leaving no 
 time for domestic usefulness, and the practice 
 of personal exertion in the way of promoting | 
 general happiness, the character of the wo- | 
 men of England assumed a different aspect, | 
 which is now beginning to tell upon society | 
 in the sickly sensibilities, the feeble frames, | 
 and the useless habits of the rising generation. 
 In stating this humiliating fact, I must be 
 blind indeed to the most cheering aspect of 
 modern society, not to perceive that there 
 are signal instances of women who carry 
 about with them into every sphere of domes- 
 tic duty, even the most humble and obscure, 
 the accomplishments and refinements of mod- 
 ern education; and who deem it rather an 
 honor than a degradation to be permitted to 
 add to the sum of human happiness, by dif- 
 fusing the embellishments of mind and man- 
 
 When the cultivation of the | 
 mental faculties had so far advanced as to | 
 
6 
 
 ners over the homely and familiar aspect of 
 every-day existence. 
 
 Such, however, do not constitute the ma- 
 jority of the female population of Great 
 Britain. By far the greater portion of the 
 young ladies (for they are no longer women) 
 of the present day, are distinguished by a 
 morbid listlessness of mind and body, except 
 when under the influence of stimulus, a con- 
 stant pining for excitement, and an eagerness 
 to escape from every thing like practical and 
 individual duty. Of course, I speak of those 
 whose minds are not under the influence of 
 religious principle. Would that the excep- 
 tion could extend to all who profess to be 
 governed by this principle ! 
 
 Gentle, inoffensive, delicate, and passively 
 amiable as many young ladies are, it seems 
 an ungracious task to attempt to rouse them 
 from their summer dream; and were it not 
 that wintry days will come, and the surface 
 of life be ruffled, and the mariner, even she 
 who steers the smallest bark, be put upon the 
 inquiry for what port she is really bound— 
 were it not that the cry of utter helplessness 
 is of no avail in rescuing from the waters of 
 affliction, and the plea of ignorance unheard 
 upon the far-extending and deep ocean of 
 experience, and the question of accounta- 
 bility perpetually sounding, like the voice of 
 a warning spirit, above the storms and the 
 billows of this lower world—I would be one 
 of the very last to call the dreamer back to 
 a consciousness of present things. But this 
 state of listless indifference, my sisters, must 
 not be. You have deep responsibilities ; 
 you have urgent claims; a nation’s moral 
 worth is in your keeping. Let us inquire 
 then in what way it may be best preserved. 
 Let us consider what you are, and have 
 been, and by what peculiarities of feeling and 
 habit you have been able to throw so much 
 additional weight into the scale of your 
 country’s worth. 
 
 In order to speak with precision of the 
 characteristics of any class of people, it is 
 necessary to confine our attention as much 
 as possible to that portion of the class where 
 such characteristics are most prominent; 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 and, avoiding the two extremes where cir- 
 cumstances not peculiar to that class are 
 supposed to operate, to take the middle or 
 intervening portion as a specimen of the 
 whole. 
 
 Napoleon Bonaparte was accustomed to 
 speak of the English nation as a “nation of 
 shopkeepers ;”” and when we consider the 
 number, the influence, and the respectability 
 of that portion of the inhabitants who are, 
 directly or indirectly, connected with our 
 trade and merchandise, it does indeed ap- 
 pear to constitute the mass of English so- 
 ciety, and may justly be considered as ex- 
 hibiting the most striking and unequivocal 
 proofs of what are the peculiar characteris- 
 tics of the people of England. It is not 
 therefore from the aristocracy of the land 
 that the characteristics of English women 
 should be taken; because the higher the 
 rank, and the greater the facilities of com- 
 munication with other countries, the more 
 prevalent are foreign manners, and modes of 
 thinking and acting common to that class of 
 society in other countries. Neither is it en- 
 tirely among the indigent and most laborious 
 of the community, that we can with pro- 
 priety look for those strong features of na- 
 tionality, which stamp the moral character 
 of different nations ; because the urgency of 
 mere physical wants, and the pressure of 
 constant and necessary labor, naturally in- 
 duce a certain degree of resemblance in so- 
 cial feelings and domestic habits, among 
 people similarly circumstanced, to whatever 
 country they may belong. 
 
 In looking around, then, upon our “ nation 
 of shopkeepers,” we readily perceive that by 
 dividing society into three classes, as regards 
 what is commonly called rank, the middle 
 class must include so vast a portion of the 
 intelligence and moral power of the country 
 at large, that it may not improperly be desig- 
 nated the pillar of our nation’s strength, its 
 
 base being the important class of the labo- | 
 
 rious poor, and its rich and highly ornamental 
 
 capital, the ancient nobility of the land. Inno || 
 
 other country is society thus beautifully pro- 
 portioned, and England should beware of any 
 
> 
 ~ 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 7 
 
 deviation from the order and symmetry of 
 her national column. 
 
 There never was a more short-sighted 
 | view of society, than that by which the wo- 
 | men of our country have lately learned to 
 | look with envious eyes upon their superiors 
 
 in rank, to rival their attainments, to imitate 
 their manners, and to pine for the luxuries 
 they enjoy; and consequently to look down 
 with contempt upon the appliances and 
 means of humbler happiness. The women 
 of England were once better satisfied with 
 that instrumentality of Divine wisdom by 
 which they were placed in their proper 
 sphere. They were satisfied to do with 
 their own hands what they now leave un- 
 done, or repine that they cannot have others 
 to do for them. 
 
 A system of philosophy was once promul- 
 ‘gated in France, by which it was attempted 
 to be proved that so much of the power and 
 the cleverness of man was attributable to his 
 hand, that but for a slight difference in the 
 formation of this organ in some of the infe- 
 rior animals, they would have been entitled to 
 rank in the same class with him. Whatever 
 may be said of the capabilities of man’s hand, 
 I believe the feminine qualification of being 
 able to use the hand willingly and well, has 
 
 of woman. The personal services she is thus 
 enabled to render, enhance her value in the 
 domestic circle, and when such services are 
 performed with the energy of a sound under- 
 standing, and the grace of an accomplished 
 mind—above all, with the disinterested kind- 
 ness of a generous heart—they not only dig- 
 nify the performer, but confer happiness, as 
 well as obligation. Indeed, so great is the 
 charm of personal attentions arising sponta- 
 neously from the heart, that women of the 
 highest rank in society, and far removed from 
 the necessity of individual exertion, are fre- 
 quently observed to adopt habits of personal 
 kindness towards others, not only as the 
 surest means of giving pleasure, but as a 
 natural and grateful relief to the overflowings 
 of their own affections. 
 
 There is a principle in woman’s love, that 
 
 a great deal to do with the moral influence. 
 
 renders it impossible for her to be satisfied 
 without actually doing something for the ob- 
 ject of her regard. I speak only of woman 
 in her refined and elevated character. Vani- 
 ty can satiate itself with admiration, and 
 selfishness can feed upon services received ; 
 but woman’s love is an overflowing and inex- 
 haustible fountain, that must be perpetually 
 imparting from the source of its own blessed- 
 
 ness. It needs but slight experience to know, 
 that the mere act of loving our fellow-crea- 
 tures does little towards the promotion of 
 their happiness. ‘The human heart is not so 
 credulous as to continue to believe in affec- 
 tion without practical proof’ Thus the inter- - 
 change of mutual kind offices begets a confi- 
 dence which cannot be made to grow out of 
 any other foundation; and while gratitude 
 is added to the connecting link, the character 
 on each side is strengthened by the personal 
 energy required for the performance of every 
 duty. i 
 
 There may exist great sympathy, kind- | 
 ness, and benevolence of feeling, without the | 
 power of bringing any of these emotions into | 
 exercise for the benefit of others. They exist | 
 as emotions only. And thus the means which © 
 appear to us as the most gracious and benig- 
 nant of any that could have been adopted by | 
 our heavenly Father for rousing us into ne- 
 cessary exertion, are permitted to die away, 
 fruitless and unproductive, in the breast, 
 where they ought to have operated as a | 
 blessing and means of happiness to others. 
 
 It is not uncommon to find negatively 
 amiable individuals, who sink undera weight | 
 of indolence, and suffer from innate selfish- 
 ness a gradual contraction of mind, perpetu- 
 ally lamenting their own inability to do good. 
 It would be ungenerous to doubt their sin- | 
 cerity in these regrets. We therefore only — 
 conclude that the want of habits of personal 
 usefulness has rendered them mentally im- | 
 becile, and physically inert; whereas, had | 
 the same individuals been early accustomed 
 to bodily exertion, promptly and cheerfully 
 performed on the spur of the moment, with- 
 out waiting to question whether it was agree- 
 able or not, the very act of exertion would 
 
 eee! 
 
 — 
 
8 CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 have become a pleasure, and the benevolent 
 purpose to which such exertions might be 
 applied, a source of the highest enjoyment. 
 Time was when the women of England 
 were accustomed, almost from their child- 
 hood, to the constant employment of their 
 hands. It might be sometimes in elaborate 
 
 | works of fancy, now ridiculed for their want 
 
 of taste, and still more frequently in house- 
 hold avocations, now fallen into disuse from 
 
 | their incompatibility with modern refinement. 
 | I cannot speak with unqualified praise of all 
 | the oljects on which they bestowed their 
 
 attention; but, if it were possible, I would 
 write 1a characters of gold the indisputable 
 fact, that the habits of industry and personal 
 exertion thus acquired, gave them a strength 
 and dignity of character, a power of useful- 
 ness, and a capability of doing good, which 
 the higher theories of modern education fail 
 to impart. They were in some instances 
 less qualified for travelling on the continent 
 without an interpreter, but the women of 
 
 whom I am speaking seldom went abroad. | but few women whose hands have been idle 
 
 Their sphere of action was at their own fire- 
 
 sides, and the world in which they moved 
 
 was one where pleasure of the highest, 
 purest order, naturally and necessarily arises 
 out of acts of duty faithfully performed. 
 Perhaps it may be necessary to be more 
 specific in describing the class of women to 
 which this work relates. It is, then, strictly 
 speaking, to those who belong to that great 
 mass of the population of England which is 
 
 | connected with trade and manufactures ;— 
 
 or, in order to make the application more di- 
 rect, to that portion of it who are restricted 
 to the services of from one to four domestics, 
 —who, on the one hand, enjoy the advan- 
 tages of a liberal education, and, on the other, 
 have no pretension to family rank. It is, 
 however, impossible but that many devia- 
 tions from these lines of demarkation must 
 occur, in consequence of the great change in 
 their pecuniary circumstances, which many 
 families during a short period experience, 
 and the indefinite order of rank and station in 
 which the elegances of life are enjoyed, or 
 its privations endured. There is also this 
 
 peculiarity to be taken into account, in our 
 view of English society, that the acquisition 
 of wealth, with the advantages it procures, is 
 all that is necessary for advancement to 
 aristocratic dignity ; while, on the other hand, 
 so completely is the nation dependent upon 
 her commercial resources, that it is no un- 
 common thing to see individuals who lately 
 ranked among the aristocracy, suddenly 
 driven, by the failure of some bank or some 
 mercantile speculation, into the lowest walks 
 of life, and compelled to mingle with the la- 
 borious poor. 
 
 These facts are strong evidence in favor of 
 a system of conduct that would enable all 
 women to sink gracefully, and without mur- 
 muring against Providence, into a lower 
 grade of society. It is easy to learn to enjoy, 
 but it is not easy to learn to suffer. 
 
 Any woman of respectable education, pos- 
 sessing a well-regulated mind, might move 
 with ease and dignity into a higher sphere 
 than that to which she had been accustomed ; 
 
 all their lives, can feel themselves compelled 
 to do the necessary labor of a household, 
 without a feeling of indescribable hardship, 
 too frequently productive of a secret mur- 
 muring against the instrumentality by which 
 she was reduced to such a lot. 
 
 It is from the class of females above de- 
 scribed, that we naturally look for the highest 
 tone of moral feeling, because they are at the 
 same time removed from the pressing neces- 
 sities of absolute poverty, and admitted to 
 the intellectual privileges of the great; and 
 thus, while they enjoy every facility in the 
 way of acquiring knowledge, it is their still 
 higher privilege not to be exempt from the 
 domestic duties which call forth the best en: 
 ergies of the female character. 
 
 Where domestics abound, and there is a 
 hired hand for every kindly office, it would 
 be a work of supererogation for the mistress 
 of the house to step forward, and assist with 
 her own; but where domestics are few, and 
 the individuals who compose the household 
 are thrown upon the consideration of the 
 mothers, wives, and daughters for their daily 
 
comfort, innumerable channels are opened 
 for the overflow of those floods of human 
 kindness, which it is one of the happiest and 
 most ennobling duties of woman to administer 
 to the weary frame, and to pour into the 
 wounded mind. 
 
 It is perhaps the nearest approach we can 
 make towards any thing like a definition of 
 what is most striking in the characteristics of 
 the women of England, to say, that the nature 
 of their domestic circumstances is such as to 
 invest their characters with the threefold re- 
 commendation of promptitude in action, ener- 
 gy of thought, and benevolence of feeling. With 
 all the responsibilities of family comfort and 
 social enjoyment resting upon them, and un- 
 aided by those troops of menials who throng 
 the halls of the affluent and the great, they 
 are kept alive to the necessity of making 
 their own personal exertions conducive to 
 the great end of promoting the happiness of 
 those around them. ‘They cannot sink into 
 supineness, or suffer any of their daily duties 
 to be neglected, but some beloved member 
 of the household is made to feel the conse- 
 quences, by enduring inconveniences which 
 it is alike their pride and their pleasure to 
 remove. The frequently recurring avoca- 
 tions of domestic life admit of no delay. 
 When the performance of any kindly office 
 has to be asked for, solicited, and re-solicited, 
 it loses more than half its charm. It is there- 
 fore strictly in keeping with the fine tone of 
 an elevated character to be beforehand with 
 expectation, and thus to show, by the most 
 delicate yet most effectual of all human 
 means, that the object of attention, even when 
 unheard and unseen, has been the subject of 
 kind and affectionate solicitude. 
 
 By experience in these apparently minute 
 affairs, a woman of kindly feeling and prop- 
 erly disciplined mind, soon learns to regu- 
 late her actions also according to the prin- 
 ciples of true wisdom, and hence arises that 
 energy of thought for which the women of 
 England are so peculiarly distinguished. 
 Every passing event, however insignificant 
 to the eye of the world, has its crisis, every 
 occurrence its emergency, every cause its 
 
 ave a ea rT ee a Tn a 
 srs Sse 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 9 
 
 effect; and upon these she has to calculate 
 with precision, or the machinery of house- 
 hold comfort is arrested in its movements, 
 and thrown into disorder. | 
 
 Woman, however, would but ill supply 
 the place appointed her by Providence, were 
 she endowed with no other faculties than 
 those of promptitude in action and energy of 
 thought. Valuable as these may be, they 
 would render her but a cold and cheerless 
 companion, without the kindly affections and 
 tender offices that sweeten human life. It is 
 a high privilege, then, which the women of 
 England enjoy, to be necessarily, and by the 
 force of circumstances, thrown upon their 
 affections, for the rule of their conduct in 
 daily life. “ What shall I do to gratify myself 
 —to be admired—or to vary the tenor of my 
 existence ?’’ are not the questions which a 
 woman of right feelings asks on first awak- 
 ing to the avocations of the day. Much 
 more congenial to the highest attributes of 
 woman’s character, are inquiries such as 
 these: “ How shall I endeavor through this 
 day to turn the time, the health, and the 
 means permitted me to enjoy, to the best ac- 
 count —Is any one sick? I must visit their 
 chamber without delay, and try to give their 
 apartment an air of comfort, by arranging 
 such things as the wearied nurse may not 
 have thought of. Is any one about to set off 
 ona journey? I must see that the early meal 
 is spread, or prepare it with my own hands, 
 in order that the servant, who was working 
 late last night, may profit by unbroken rest. 
 Did | failin what was kind or considerate to 
 any of the family yesterday? I will meet her 
 this morning with a cordial welcome, and 
 show, in the most delicate way I can, that I 
 am anxious to atone forthe past. Was any 
 one exhausted by the last day’s exertion? I 
 will be an hour before. them this morning, 
 and let them see that their labor is so much 
 in advance. Or, if nothing extraordinary oc- 
 curs to claim my attention, I will meet the 
 family with a consciougness that, being the 
 least engaged of any member of it, Tam con- 
 sequently the most at liberty to devote myself 
 to the general good of the whole, by cultiva- 
 
10 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 ting cheerful conversation, adapting myself to 
 the prevailing tone of feeling, and leading 
 those who are least happy, to think and speak 
 of what will make them more so.” ~ | 
 
 Who can believe that days, months, and 
 years spent in a continual course of thought 
 and action similar to this, will not produce a 
 powerful effect upon the character, and not 
 only upon the individual who thinks and acts 
 alone, but upon all to whom her influence 
 extends? In short, the customs of English 
 society have so constituted women the guar- 
 dians of the comfort of their homes, that, like 
 the Vestals of old, they cannot allow the lamp 
 they cherish to be extinguished, or to fail for 
 want of oil, without an equal share of degra- 
 dation attaching to their names. 
 
 In other countries, where the domestic 
 lamp is voluntarily put out, in order to allow 
 the women to resort to the opera, or the 
 public festival, they are not only careless 
 about their home comforts, but necessarily 
 ignorant of the high degree of excellence to 
 which they might be raised. In England 
 there is a kind of science of good household 
 management, which, if it consisted merely in 
 keeping the house respectable in its physical 
 character, might be left to the effectual work- 
 ing out of hired hands; but, happily for the 
 women of England, there is a philosophy m 
 this science, by which all their highest and 
 | best feelings are called into exercise. Not 
 | only must the house be neat and clean, but 
 it must be so ordered as to suit the tastes of 
 all, as far as may be, without annoyance or 
 offence to any. Not only must a constant 
 system of activity be established, but peace 
 must be preserved, or happiness will be de- 
 stroyed. Not only must elegance be called 
 in, to adorn and beautify the whole, but strict 
 integrity must be maintained by the minutest 
 calculation as to lawful means, and self, and 
 self-gratification, must be made the yielding 
 point in every disputed case. Not only must 
 an appearance of outward order and comfort 
 be kept up, but around every domestic scene 
 there must be a strong wall of confidence, 
 which no internal suspicion can undermine, 
 no external enemy break through. 
 
 j 
 
 Good household management conducted 
 on this plan, is indeed a science well worthy of 
 attention. It comprises so much, as to Invest 
 it with an air of difficulty on the first view ; 
 but no woman can reasonably complain of 
 incapability, because nature has endowed the 
 sex with perceptions So lively and acute, that 
 where benevolence is the impulse, and prin- 
 ciple the foundation upon which they act, 
 experience will soon teach them by what 
 means they may best accomplish the end 
 they have in view. 
 
 They will soon learn by experience, that 
 selfishness produces selfishness, that indo- 
 lence increases with every hour of indul- 
 gence, that what is left undone because it is 
 difficult to-day, will be doubly difficult to- 
 morrow ; that kindness and compassion, to 
 answer any desirable end, must one be prac- 
 ticable, the other delicate, in its nature; that 
 affection must be kept alive by ministering to 
 its necessities; and, above all, that religion 
 must be recommended by consistency of 
 character and conduct. 
 
 It is the strong evidence of truths like 
 these, wrought out of their daily experience, 
 and forced upon them as principles of action, 
 which renders the women of England what 
 they are, or rather were, and which fits them 
 for becoming able instruments in the promo- 
 tion of public and private geod ; for all must 
 allow, that it is to the indefatigable exertions 
 and faithful labors of women of this class, 
 that England chiefly owes the support of 
 some of her noblest and most benevolent in- 
 stitutions; while it is to their unobtrusive 
 and untiring efforts, that the unfortunate and 
 afflicted often are indebted for the only sym- 
 pathy—the only kind attention that ever 
 reaches their obscure abodes, or diffuses 
 cheerfulness and comfort through the soli- 
 tary chambers of suffering and sickness—the 
 only aid that relieves the victims of penury 
 and want—the only consolation that ever 
 visits the desolate and degraded in their 
 wretchedness and despair. 
 
 I acknowledge there are noble instances in 
 the annals of English history, and perhaps 
 never more than at the present day, of 
 
women of the highest rank devoting their 
 time and their property to objects of benevo- 
 lence; but from the very nature of their 
 early habits and domestic circumstances, 
 they are upon the whole less fitted for prac- 
 tical usefulness, than those who move within 
 a lower sphere. I am also fully sensible of 
 the charities which abound*among the poor ; 
 
 actual merit .of the magnificent bestowments 
 of those who know not’one comfort the less, 
 with that of the poor man’s offering, and the 
 widow’s mite. Still my opinion remains the 
 /same, that in the situation of the middle 
 class of women in England, are combined 
 advantages in the formation of character, to 
 which they owe much of their distinction, 
 and their country much of her moral worth. 
 
 The true English woman, accustomed to 
 bear about with her her energies for daily 
 use, her affections for daily happiness, and 
 her delicate perceptions for hourly aids in the 
 discovery of what is best to do or to leave 
 undone, by this means obtains an insight into 
 human nature, a power of adaptation, and a 
 readiness of application of the right means to 
 the desired end, which not only render her 
 the most valuable friend, but the most de- 
 lightful of fireside companions, because she 
 is thus enabled to point the plainest moral, 
 and adorn the simplest tale, with all those 
 freshly-formed ideas which arise out of actual 
 experience and the contemplation of unvar- 
 nished truth. . 
 
 Among their other characteristics, the wo- 
 men of England are freely spoken of as ple- 
 beian in their manners, and cold in their 
 affections; but their unpolished and occa- 
 sionally embarrassed manner, as frequently 
 conceals a delicacy that imparts the most. re- 
 fined and elevated sentiment to their familiar 
 acts of duty and regard; and those who 
 know them best are compelled to acknow- 
 ledge that all the noblest passions, the deep- 
 est feelings, and the highest aspirations of 
 humanity, may be found within the brooding 
 quiet of an English woman’s heart. 
 
 There are flowers that burst upon us, and 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 and often have I been led to compare the . 
 
 startle the eye with the splendor of their | of creation, and supply the intelligent mind 
 
 ee 
 
 11 
 
 beauty ; we gaze until we are dazzled, and 
 then turn away, remembering nothing but 
 their gorgeous hues. There are others that 
 refresh the traveller by the sweetness they 
 diffuse—but he has to search for the source 
 of his delight. He finds it imbedded among 
 green leaves ; it may be less lovely than he 
 had anticipated, in its form and color, but oh, 
 how welcome is the memory of that flower, 
 when the evening breeze is again made fra- 
 grant with its perfume ! 
 
 It is thus that the unpretending virtues of | 
 the female character force themselves upon || 
 our regard, so that the woman herse/f is 1 
 nothing in comparison with her attributes, 
 and we remember less the celebrated belle, 
 than her who made us happy. 
 
 Nor is it by their frequent and faithful ser- 
 vices alone, that English women are distin- 
 guished. The greater proportion of them 
 were diligent-and thoughtful readers. It was 
 not with them a point of importance to de- 
 vour every book that was written as soon as 
 it came out. They were satisfied to single 
 out the best, and, making themselves familiar 
 with every page, conversed with the writer 
 as with a friend, and felt that with minds su- 
 perior, but yet congenial to their own, they 
 could make friends indeed. In this manner 
 their solitude was cheered, their hours of la- 
 bor sweetened, and their conversation ren- 
 dered at once piquant and instructive. This 
 was preserved from the technicalities of 
 common-place by the peculiar nature of their 
 social and mental habits. They were accus- 
 tomed to think for themselves ; and, deprived 
 in some measure of access to what might be 
 esteemed the highest authorities in matters 
 of sentiment and taste, they drew their con- 
 clusions from reasoning, and their reasoning 
 from actual observation. It is true, their 
 sphere of observation was microscopic, com- 
 pared with that of the individual who enjoys 
 the means of travelling from court to court, 
 and of mixing with the polished society of 
 every nation; but an acute vision directed 
 to immediate objects, whatever they may be, 
 will often discover as much of the wonders 
 
12 
 
 SEO TD 00 UC a 
 
 with food for reflection as valuable, as that 
 which is the result of a widely extended 
 view, where the objects, though more nu- 
 merous, are consequently less distinct. 
 
 Thus the domestic woman, moving in a 
 comparatively limited circle, is not necessari- 
 ly confined to a limited number of ideas, but 
 can often expatiate upon subjects of mere 
 local interest, with a vigor of intellect, a 
 freshness of feeling, and a liveliness of fancy, 
 which create, in the mind of the uninitiated 
 stranger, a perfect longing to be admitted 
 into the home associations from whence are 
 derived such a world of amusement, and so 
 unfailing a relief from the severer duties of 
 life. 
 
 It is not from the acquisition of ideas, but 
 from the application of them, that conversa- 
 tion derives its greatest charm. Thus an 
 exceedingly well-informed talker may be in- 
 describably tedious ; while one who is com- 
 paratively ignorant, as regards mere facts, 
 having brought to bear, upon every subject 
 contemplated, a lively imagination combined 
 with a sound judgment, and a memory 
 stored, not only with dates and_ historical 
 events, but with strong and clear impressions 
 of familiar things, may rivet the attention of 
 his hearers, and startle them, for the time, 
 into a distinctness of impression which im- 
 parts a degree of delightful complacency 
 both to his hearers, and to the entertainer 
 himself. 
 
 In the exercise of this kind of tact, the 
 women of England, when they can be in- 
 duced to cast off their shyness and reserve, 
 are peculiarly excellent, and there is conse- 
 quently an originality in their humor, a firm- 
 hess in their reasoning, and a tone of delicacy 
 in their perceptions, scarcely to be found else- 
 where in the same degree, and combined in 
 the same manner ; nor should it ever be for- 
 gotten, in speaking of their peculiar merits, 
 that the freshness and the charm of their 
 conversation is reserved for their own fire- 
 sides—for moments, when the wearied frame 
 is most in need of exhilaration, when the 
 mind is thrown upon its own resources for 
 the restoration of its exhausted powers, and 
 
 when home associations and home affections 
 are the balm which the wounded spirit 
 needs. 
 
 But above all other characteristics of the 
 women of England, the strong moral feeling 
 pervading even their most trifling and familiar 
 actions, ought to be mentioned as most con- 
 ducive to the maintenance of that high place 
 which they so justly claim in the society of 
 their native land. The apparent coldness 
 and reserve of English women ought only to 
 be regarded as a means adopted for the pres- 
 ervation of their purity of mind,—an evil, if 
 you choose to call it so, but an evil of so mild 
 a nature, in comparison with that which it 
 wards off, that it may with truth be said to 
 “lean to virtue’s side.” 
 
 I have said before, that the sphere of a 
 domestic woman’s observation is microscopic. 
 She is therefore sensible of defects within 
 that sphere, which, to a more extended vision, 
 would be imperceptible. Ifshe looked abroad 
 for her happiness, she would be less disturb- 
 ed by any falling off at home. If her interest 
 and. her energies were diffused throx 
 wider range, she would be less alive to the 
 minuter claims upon her attention. It is pos- 
 sible she may sometimes attach too much 
 importance to the minutie of her own domes- 
 tic world, especially when her mind is imper- 
 fectly cultivated and informed: but, on the 
 other hand, there arises, from the same cause, 
 a scrupulous exactness, a studious cbser- 
 vance of the means of happiness, a delicacy 
 of perception, a purity of mind, and a digni- 
 fied correctness of manner, for which the 
 women of England are unrivalled by those of 
 any other nation. 
 
 By a certain class of individuals, their gen- 
 eral conduct may possibly be regarded as too 
 prudish to be strictly in keeping with enlarged 
 and liberal views of human life. These are 
 such as object to find the strict principles of 
 female action carried out towards themselves. 
 But let every man who disputes the right 
 foundation of this system of conduct, imagine 
 in the place of the woman whose retiring shy- 
 ness provokes his contempt, his sister or his 
 friend: and, while he substitutes another be- 
 
 ' CHARACTERISTICS O | 
 
THE WOMEN 
 
 ing, similarly constituted, for himself, he will 
 immediately perceive that the boundary-line 
 of safety, beyond which no true friend of wo- 
 man ever tempted her to pass, is drawn many 
 degrees within that. which he had marked 
 out for his own intercourse with the female 
 sex. Nor is it in the small and separate de- 
 viations from this strict line of propriety, that 
 any great degree of culpability exists. Hach 
 individual act may be simple in itself, and 
 almost too insignificant for remark ; it is habit 
 that stamps the character, and custom, that 
 renders common. Who then can guard too 
 scrupulously against the first opening, and 
 almost imperceptible change of manners, by 
 which the whole aspect of domestic life would 
 be altered? And who would not rather that 
 English women should be guarded by a wall 
 of scruples, than allowed to degenerate into 
 less worthy and less efficient supporférs of 
 their country’s moral worth ? 
 
 Were it only in their intercourse with mix- 
 ed society that English women were distin- 
 euished by this strict regard to the proprieties 
 of life, it might with some justice fall under 
 the ban of prudery ; but, happily for them, it 
 extends to every sphere of action in which 
 they move, discountenancing vice in every 
 form, and investing social duty with that 
 true moral dignity which it ought ever to pos- 
 Sess. 
 
 I am not ignorant that this can only be con- 
 sistently carried out under the influence of 
 personal religion. I must, therefore, be un- 
 derstood to speak with limitations, and as 
 comparing my own countrywomen with those 
 of other nations—as acknowledging melan- 
 choly exceptions—and not only fervently de- 
 siring that every one professed a religion 
 capable of leading them in a more excellent 
 way, but that all who do profess that religion 
 were studiously careful in these minor points. 
 Still I do believe that the women of England 
 are not surpassed by those of any other coun- 
 try for their clear perception of the right and 
 the wrong of common and familiar things, for 
 their reference to principle in the ordinary 
 affairs of life, and for their united maintenance 
 
 ee nT 
 
 of that social order, sound integrity, and do-. 
 
 OF ENGLAND. 13 
 
 mestic peace, which constitute the foundation | 
 of all thatis most valuable in the society of 
 our native land. 
 
 Much as Ihave said of the influence of the 
 domestic habits of my countrywomen, it is, 
 after all, to the prevalence of religious instruc- 
 tion, and the operation of religious principle 
 upon the heart, that the consistent mainte- 
 nance of their high tone of moral character is 
 to be attributed. Among families in the mid- 
 dle class of society of this country, those who 
 live without regard to religion are exceptions 
 to the general rule; while the great propor- 
 tion of individuals thus circumstanced are not 
 only accustomed to give their time and atten- 
 tion to religious observances, but, there is 
 every reason to believe, are materially affect- 
 ed in their lives and conduct by the operation 
 of Christian principles upon their own minds. 
 Women are said to be more easily brought 
 under this influence than men; and we con- 
 sequently see, in places of public worship, and 
 on all occasions in which a religious object is 
 the motive for exertion, a greater proportion 
 
 *of women than ofmen. The same proportion 
 may possibly be observed in places of amuse- 
 ment, and where objects less desirable claim 
 the attention of the public ; but this ought not 
 to render us insensible to the high privileges 
 of our favored country, where there is so 
 much to interest, to please, and to instruct, in 
 what is connected with the highest and holiest 
 uses to which we can devote the talents com- 
 mitted to our trust. 
 
 EE, lS LLL ELE ONO LD 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Ir might form a subject of interesting in- 
 quiry, how far the manifold advantages pos- 
 sessed by England as a country, derive their 
 origin remotely from the cause already descri- 
 bed; but the immediate object of the present 
 work is to show how intimate is the connection 
 which-exists between the women of England, 
 
 -and the moral character maintained by their 
 
i4 
 
 INFLUENCE, OF 
 
 Bee ene ee eee eee en ce er TCT Cl ER AER cae). «| Ll ee 
 
 country in the scale of nations. For a woman 
 to undertake such a task, may at first sight 
 appear like an act of presumption ; yet when 
 it is considered that the appropriate business 
 of men is to direct, and expatiate upon those 
 expansive and important measures for which 
 their capabilities are more peculiarly adapted, 
 and that to women belongs the minute and 
 particular observance of all those trifles which 
 fill up the sum of. human happiness or misery, 
 it may surely be deemed pardonable for a 
 woman to solicit the serious attention of her 
 own sex, while she endeavors to prove that 
 it is the minor morals of domesticlife which 
 give the tone to English character, and that 
 over this sphere of duty it is her peculiar proy- 
 ince to preside. 
 
 Aware that the word preside, used as it is 
 here, may produce a startling effect upon the 
 ear of man, I must endeavor to bespeak his 
 forbearance, by assuring him, that the highest 
 aim of the writer does not extend beyond the 
 act of warning the women of England back 
 to their domestic duties, in order that they 
 may become better wives, more useful daugh-* 
 ters and mothers, who by their examples shall 
 bequeath a rich inheritance to those who fol- 
 low in their steps. 
 
 On the other hand, I am equally aware 
 that a work such as I am proposing to myself 
 must be liable to the condemnation of all mod- 
 
 ern young ladies, as a homely, uninteresting 
 
 book, and wholly unsuited to the present en- 
 lightened times. I must therefore endeavor 
 also to conciliate their good-will, by assuring 
 them, that all which is must lovely, poetical, 
 and interesting, nay, even heroic in women, 
 derives its existence from the source I am 
 now about to open to their view, with all the 
 ability lam able to command :—and would 
 it were a hundred-fold, for their sakes! 
 
 The kind of encouragement I would hold 
 out to them is, however, of a nature so wide- 
 ly different from the compliments to which 
 they are too much accustomed, that I feel 
 the difficulty existing in the present day, of 
 stimulating a laudable ambition in the female 
 mind, without the aid of public praise or 
 printed records of the actual product of their 
 
 meritorious exertions. The sphere of wo- 
 man’s happiest and most beneficial influence 
 is a domestic one, but it is not easy to award 
 even to her quiet and unobtrusive virtues 
 that meed of approbation which they really 
 deserve, without exciting a desire to forsake 
 the homely household duties of the family 
 circle to practise such as are more conspic- 
 uous, and consequently mote productive of 
 an immediate harvest of applause. 
 
 I say this with all kindness, and I desire 
 to say it with all gentleness, to the young, 
 the amiable, and the—vain; at the same 
 time that my perception of the temptation to 
 which they are exposed, enchances my value 
 for the principle that is able to withstand it, 
 and increases my admiration of those noble- 
 minded women who are able to carry forward, 
 with exemplary patience and perseverance, 
 the public offices of benevolence, without 
 sacrificing their home duties, and who thus 
 prove to the world, that the perfection of 
 female character is a combination of private 
 and public virtue-—of domestic charity, and 
 zeal for the temporal and eternal happiness 
 of the whole human race. 
 
 No one can be further than the writer of 
 these pages from wishing to point out as ob- 
 jects of laudable emulation those domestic 
 drudges, who, because of some affinity be- 
 tween culinary operations, and the natural 
 tone and character of their own minds. prefer 
 the kitchen to the drawing-room,—of their 
 own free choice, employ their whole lives in 
 the constant bustle of providing for mere 
 animal appetite, and waste their ingenuity in 
 the creation of new wants and wishes, which 
 all their faculties again are taxed to supply. 
 This class of individuals have, by a sad mis- 
 take in our nomenclature, been called useful, 
 and hence, in some degree, may arise the 
 unpopular reception which. this valuable 
 word is apt to meet with in female society. 
 
 It does not require much consideration to 
 perceive that these are not the women to 
 give a high moral tone to the national char- 
 acter of England; yet so entirely do human 
 actions derive their dignity or their meanness 
 from the motives by which they are prompted, 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 15 
 
 | that it is no violation of truth to say, the 
 most servile drudgery may be ennobled by 
 the self-sacrifice, the patience, the cheerful 
 ‘submission to duty, with which it is perform- 
 ed. Thus a high-minded and _ intellectual 
 woman is never more truly great than when 
 willingly and judiciously performing kind of- 
 fices for the sick; and much as may be said, 
 
 and said j—~ly in nraise of the public virtues 
 of women, the voice Of Nausea ic ca pawerful 
 
 in every human heart, that, could the ques- 
 tion of superiority on these two points be 
 universally proposed, a response would be 
 heard throughout the world, in favor of wo- 
 man in her private and domestic character. 
 
 Nor would the higher and more expansive 
 powers of usefulness with which women are 
 endowed, suffer from want of exercise, did 
 they devote themselves assiduously to their 
 domestic duties. I am rather inclined to 
 think they would receive additional vigor 
 from the healthy tone of their own minds, 
 and the leisure and liberty afforded by the 
 systematic regularity of their household af- 
 fairs. ‘Time would never hang heavily on 
 their hands, but each moment being hus- 
 banded with care, and every agent acting 
 under their influence being properly chosen 
 and instructed, they would find ample op- 
 portunity to go forth on errands of mercy, 
 secure that in their absence the machinery 
 they had set in motion would ‘still continue 
 to work, and to work well. 
 
 But if, on the other hand, all was confu- 
 sion and neglect at home—filial appeals un- 
 answered—domestic comforts uncalculated— 
 husbands, sons, and brothers referred to ser- 
 vants for all the little offices of social kind- 
 ness, in order that the ladies of the family 
 might hurry away at the appointed time to 
 some committee-room, scientific lecture, or 
 public assembly: however laudable the ob- 
 ject for which they met, there would be suf- 
 ficient cause why their cheeks should be 
 mantled with a blush of burning shame, when 
 they heard the women of England and their 
 
 virtues spoken of in that high tone of appro- ’ 
 
 batio1 and applause, which those who aspire 
 only to be about their Master’s business will 
 
 feel little pleasure in listening to, and which 
 those whose charity has not begun at home, 
 ought never to appropriate to themselves. 
 
 It is a widely mistaken notion to suppose 
 that the sphere of usefulness recommended 
 here, is a humiliating and degrading one. As 
 if the earth that fosters and nourishes in its 
 lovely bosom the roots of all the plants and 
 
 | trees which ornament the garden of the world, 
 
 feeding them from her secret storehouse with 
 supplies that never fail, were less important, 
 in the economy of vegetation, than the sun 
 that brings to light their verdure and their 
 flowers, or the genial atmosphere that per- 
 fects their growth, and diffuses their perfume 
 abroad upon the earth. To carry out the 
 simile still further, it is but just to give the 
 preference to that element which, in the ab- 
 sence of all other favoring circumstances, 
 withholds not its support; but when the sun 
 is shrouded, and the showers forget to fall, 
 and blighting winds go forth, and the hand 
 of culture is withdrawn, still opens out its 
 hidden fountains, and yields up its resources, 
 to invigorate, to cherish, and sustain. 
 
 It would be an easy and a grateful task, 
 thus, by metaphor and illustration, to prove 
 the various excellences and amiable peculi- 
 arities of women, did not the utility of the 
 
 present work demand a more minute and | 
 
 homely detail of that which constitutes her 
 practical and individual duty. It is too much 
 the custom with writers, to speak in these 
 general terms of the loveliness of the female 
 character ; as if woman were some fragrant 
 flower, created only to bloom, and exhale in 
 sweets; when perhaps these very writers 
 are themselves most strict in requiring that 
 the domestic drudgery of their own house- 
 holds should each day be faithfully filled up. 
 How much more generous, just, and noble 
 would it be to deal fairly by woman in these 
 matters, and to tell her that to be individually, 
 what she is praised for being in general, it is 
 necessary for her to lay aside all her natural 
 caprice, her love of self-indulgence, her vani- 
 ty, her indolence—in short, her very se//—and 
 assuming a new nature, Which nothing less 
 than watchfulness and prayer can enable her 
 
 essai IIR oan ee 
 
16 
 
 INFLUENCE OF 
 
 constantly to maintain, to spend her mental 
 and moral capabilities in devising means for 
 promoting the happiness of others, while her 
 own derives a remote and secondary exist- 
 ence from theirs. 
 
 If an admiration almost unbounded for the 
 perfection of female character, with a sisterly 
 participation in all the errors and weaknesses 
 to which she is liable, and a profound sympa- 
 thy with all that she is necessarily compelled 
 to feel and suffer, are qualifications for the 
 task I have undertaken, these certainly are 
 points on which I yield to none ; but at the 
 same time that I do my feeble best, I must 
 deeply regret that so few are the voices lifted 
 up in her defence against the dangerous in- 
 fluence of popular applause, and the still more 
 dangerous tendency of modern habits, and 
 modern education. Perhaps it is not to be 
 expected that those who write most powerful- 
 ly, should most clearly perceive the influence 
 of the one, or the tendency of the other ; be- 
 
 | cause the very strength and consistency of 
 their own minds must in some measure 
 exempt them from participation in either. 
 While, therefore, in the art of reasoning, a 
 writer like myself must be painfully sensible 
 of her own deficiency, in sympathy of feeling, 
 she is perhaps the better qualified to address 
 the weakest of her sex. 
 
 With such, it is a favorite plea, brought for- 
 ward in extenuation of their own uselessness, 
 that they have no influence—that they are 
 not leading women—that society takes no 
 note of them ; forgetting, while they shelter 
 themselves beneath these indolent excuses, 
 | that the very feather on the stream may 
 serve to warn the doubtful mariner of the rap- 
 id and fatal current by which his bark might 
 be hurried to destruction. It ‘is, moreover, 
 from among this class that wives are more 
 frequently chosen; for there is a peculiarity 
 inmen—lI would fain call it benevolence—which 
 inclines them to offer the benefit of their pro- 
 | tection to the most helpless and dependant of 
 | the female sex ; and therefore it is upon this 
 class that the duty of training up the young 
 most frequently devolves; not certainly up- 
 on the naturally imbecile, but upon the uncal- 
 
 ne 
 
 “leading women—they are in society but as 
 
 or the blessing of that bosom, according to 
 
 culating creatures whose non-exercise of their 
 own mental and moral faculties renders them 
 not only willing to be led through the experi- 
 ence of life, but thankful to be relieved from 
 the responsibility of thinking and acting for 
 themselves. 
 
 It is an important consideration, that from 
 such women as these, myriads of immorta! 
 
 beings derive that early bi#= ~¢ cuaracter, 
 which undox Dewvidence decides their fate, 
 
 not only in this world, but in the world to 
 come. And yet they flutter on, and say they 
 have no influence—they do not aspire to be 
 
 grains of sand on the sea-shore. Would 
 they but pause one moment to ask how will 
 this plea avail them, when as daughters with- 
 out gratitude, friends without good faith, wives 
 without consideration, and mothers without 
 piety, they stand before the bar of judgment, to 
 render an account of the talents committed to 
 their trust!) Have they not parents, to whom 
 they might study to repay the debt of care 
 and kindness accumulated in their childhood ? 
 —perhaps to whom they might overpay this il 
 debt, by assisting to remove such obstacles as 
 apparently intercept the line of duty, and by 
 endeavoring to alleviate the perplexing cares 
 which too often obscure the path of life? 
 Have they not their young friendships, for 
 those sunny hours when the heart expands 
 itself in the genial atmosphere of mutual love, 
 and shrinks not from revealing its very weak- 
 nesses and errors; so that a faithful hand has 
 but to touch its tender chords, and conscience 
 is awakened, and then instruction may be 
 poured in, and medicine may be administered, 
 and the messenger of peace, with healing on 
 his wings, may be invited to come in, and make 
 that heart his home? Have not they known 
 the secrets of some faithful bosom laid bare 
 before them ina deeper and yet more confi- 
 ding attachment, when, however insignificant 
 they might be to the world in general, they 
 held an influence almost unbounded over one 
 human being, and could pour in, for the bane 
 
 the fountain from whence their own was sup- 
 plied, either draughts of bitterness or floods 
 
oflight? Have they not bound themselves by 
 a sacred and enduring bond, to be to one fel- 
 low-traveller along the path of life, a compan- 
 ion on his journey, and, as far as ability might 
 be granted them, a guide and a help in the 
 doubts and the difficulties ofhis way ? Under 
 these urgent and serious responsibilities, have 
 they not been appealed to, both in words and 
 in looks, and in the silent language of the 
 heart, for that promised help? And how has 
 the appeal been answered? Above all, have 
 they not, many of them, had the feeble steps 
 of infancy committed to their care—the pure 
 unsullied page of childhood presented to 
 them for its first and most durable inscrip- 
 tion ?—and what have they written there ? 
 It is vain to»plead their inability, and say they 
 knew not what to write, and therefore. left 
 
 _the tablet untouched, or sent away the vacant 
 
 page to be filled up by other hands. Time 
 will prove to them they have written, if not 
 by any direct instrumentality, by their exam- 
 ple, their conversation, and the natural influ- 
 ence ofmind on mind. Experience will prove 
 tv them they have written; and the tran- 
 script of what they have written, will be treas- 
 ured up, either for or against them, among 
 
 the awful records of eternity. 
 It is therefore not only false in reasoning 
 
 but wrong in principle, for women to seis 
 as they not unfrequently do with a degree of 
 puerile satisfaction, that they have no influ- 
 ence. An influence fraught either with good 
 or evil, they must have ; and though the one 
 may be above their ambition, and the other 
 beyond their fears, by neglecting to obtain an 
 influence which shall be beneficial to society, 
 they necessarily assume a bad one: just in 
 the same proportion as their selfishness, in- 
 dolence, or vacuity of mind, render them in 
 youth an easy prey to every species of unami- 
 able temper, in middle age the melancholy 
 victims of mental disease, and, long before the 
 curtain of death conceals their follies from the 
 world, a burden and a bane to society at 
 large. 
 
 A superficial observer might rank with this 
 class many of those exemplary women, who 
 pass to and fro upon the earth with noiseless 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 step, whose names are never heard, and eo. || 
 even in society, if they attempt to speak, have 
 scarcely the ability to command an attentive | 
 audience. Yet among this unpretending 
 class are found striking and noble instances 
 of women, who, apparently feeble and insig- 
 nificant, when called into action by pressing 
 and peculiar circumstances, can accomplish 
 great and glorious purposes, supported and 
 carried forward by that most valuable of all 
 faculties—moral power. And just in propor- 
 tion as women cultivate this faculty (under 
 the blessing of Heaven) indepehdently of all 
 personal attractions, and unaccompanied by 
 any high attainments in learning or art, is 
 their influence. over their fellow-creatures, 
 and consequently their power of doing good. 
 
 It is not to be presumed that women pos- 
 sess more moral power than men ; but happi- 
 ly for them, such are their early impressions, 
 associations, and general position in the world, 
 that their moral feelings are less liable to be 
 impaired by the pecuniary objects which too 
 often constitute the chief end of man, and 
 which, even under the limitations of better 
 principle, necessarily engage a large portion of 
 his thoughts. ‘There are many humble-mind- 
 ed women, not remarkable for any particular | 
 intellectual endowments, who yet possess so 
 clear a sense of the right and wrong of individ- 
 al actions, as to be of essential service in aiding 
 the judgments of their husbands, brothers, or 
 sons, in those intricate affairs in which it is 
 sometimes difficult to dissever worldly wis- 
 dom from religious duty. 
 
 To men belongs the potent (I had almost 
 said the omnipotent) consideration of worldly 
 aggrandizement ; and it is constantly mis- 
 leading their steps, closing their ears against 
 the voice of conscience, and beguiling them 
 with the promise of peace, where peace was 
 never found. Long before the boy has learn- 
 ed to exult in the dignity of the man, his 
 mind has become familiarized to the habit 
 of investing with supreme importance, all 
 considerations relating to the acquisition 
 wealth. He hears on the Sabbath, and on 
 stated occasions, when men meet for that 
 especial purpose, of a God to be worshipped, 
 
 ST a 
 
“ae 
 
 i| a Saviour to be trusted in, and a holy law to 
 be observed; but he sees before him, and 
 every day and every hour, a strife, which is 
 nothing less than deadly to the highest im- 
 pulses of the soul, after another God—the 
 Mammon of unrighteousness—the Moloch of 
 this world; and believing rather what men 
 do, than what they preach, he learns too 
 soon to mingle with the living mass, and to 
 unite his labors with theirs. To unite? Alas! 
 there is no union in the great field of action 
 in which he is engaged; but envy, and ha- 
 tred, and opposition, to the close of the day,— 
 every man’s hand against his brother, and 
 each struggling to exalt himself, not merely 
 by trampling upon his fallen foe, but by 
 usurping the place of his weaker brother, 
 
 who faints by his side, from not having | 
 
 brought an equal portion of strength into the 
 conflict, and who is consequently borne down 
 by numbers, hurried over, and forgotten. 
 This may be an extreme, but it is scarcely 
 an exaggerated picture of the engagements 
 of men of business in the present day. And 
 
 surely they now need more than ever all the - 
 
 assistance which Providence has kindly pro- 
 vided, to win them away from this warfare, 
 to remind them that they are hastening on 
 towards a world into which none of the 
 treasures they are amassing can be admit- 
 ted; and, next to those holier influences 
 which operate through the medium of reve- 
 lation, or through the mysterious instrumen- 
 tality of Divine love, I have little hesitation 
 in saying, that the society of woman, in her 
 highest moral capacity, is best calculated to 
 effect this purpose. 
 How often has man returned to his home 
 with a mind confused by the many voices, 
 which in the mart, the exchange, or the public 
 assembly, have addressed themselves to his 
 inborn selfishness or his worldly pride ; and 
 while his integrity was shaken, and his reso- 
 lution gave way beneath the pressure of ap- 
 parent necessity, or the insidious pretences of 
 expediency, he has stood corrected before the 
 |) clear eye of woman, as it looked directly to 
 the naked truth, and detected the lurking evil 
 of the specious act he was about to commit. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF 
 
 Nay, so potent may have become this secret 
 influence, that he may have borne it about 
 with him like a kind of second conscience, 
 for mental reference, and spiritual counsel, 
 in moments of trial; and when the snares of 
 the world were around him, and temptations 
 from within and without have bribed over 
 the witness in his own bosom, he has thought 
 of the humble monitress who sat alone, 
 guarding the fireside comforts of his distant 
 home; and the remembrance of her charac- 
 
 the clouds before his mental vision, and sent 
 him back to that beloved home, a wiser and 
 a better man. 
 
 The women of England, possessing the 
 grand privilege of being better instructed 
 than those of any other country in the minu- 
 tie of domestic comfort, have obtained a 
 degree of importance in society far beyond 
 what their unobtrusive virtues would appear 
 to claim. The long-established customs of 
 their country, have placed in their hands the 
 high and holy duty of cherishing and pro- 
 tecting the minor morals of life, from whence 
 springs all that is elevated in purpose, and 
 glorious in action. The sphere of their direct 
 personal influence is central, and consequent- 
 ly small; but its extreme operations are as 
 widely extended as the range of human feel- 
 ing. They may be less striking in society 
 than some of the women of other countries, 
 and may feel themselves, on brilliant and 
 stirring occasions, as simple, rude, and un- 
 sophisticated in the popular science of ex- 
 citement; but as far as the noble daring of 
 Britain has sent forth her adventurous sons, 
 and that is to every point of danger on the 
 habitable globe, they have borne along with 
 them a generosity, a disinterestedness, and a 
 moral courage, derived in no small measure 
 from the female influence of their native 
 country. 
 
 It is a fact well worthy of our most serious 
 attention, and one which bears: immediately 
 upon the subject under consideration, that 
 the present state of our national affairs is 
 such as to indicate that the influence of wo- 
 man in counteracting the growing evils of 
 
 —- eens = e - 
 ee 
 
 i 
 ter, clothed in moral beauty, has scattered 
 
 i 
 
 LOS TET, 
 
 Sa ae 
 
THE WOMEN 
 
 society is about to be more needed than 
 | ever. 
 |. In our imperfect state of being, we seldom 
 attain any great 01 national good without its 
 accompaniment of evil; and every improve- 
 ment proposed for the general weal, has, up- 
 on some individual, or some class of individ- 
 uals, an effect which it requires a fresh exer- 
 cise of energy and principle to guard against. 
 Thus the great facilities of communication, 
 not only throughout our own country, but 
 with distant parts of the world, are rousing 
 men of every description to tenfold exertion 
 in the field of competition in which they are 
 engaged ; so that their whole being is becom- 
 | ing swallowed up in efforts and calculations 
 | relating to their pecuniary success. If to 
 | grow tardy or indifferent in the race were 
 only to lose the goal, many would be glad 
 to pause; but such is the nature of com- 
 merce and trade as at present carried on in 
 his country, that to slacken in exertion, is 
 altogether to fail. I would fain hope and be- 
 lieve of my countrymen, that many of the 
 rational and enlightened would now be wil- 
 ling to reap smaller gains, if by so doing they 
 could enjoy more leisure. But a business 
 only half attended to, soon ceases to be a 
 business at all; and the man of enlightened 
 understanding, who neglects his, for the sake 
 of hours of leisure, must be content to spend 
 them in the debtor’s department of a jail. 
 Thus, it is not with single individuals that 
 the blame can be made to rest. The fault is 
 in the system; and : happy will it be for 
 thousands of immortal souls, when this sys- 
 tem shall correct itself: In the mean time, 
 _may it not be said to be the especial duty of 
 Women to look around them, and see in what 
 way they can counteract this evil, by calling 
 hack the attention of man to those sunnier 
 Spots in his existence, by which the growth 
 
 of his moral feelings have been encouraged, 
 and his heart improved 1 
 
 We cannot believe of the fathers who 
 watched over our childhood, of the husbands 
 who shared our intellectual pursuits, of the 
 brothers who went hand in hand with us in 
 
 our love of poetry and nature, that they are 
 
 OF ENGLAND. 
 
 RR RR RR AR 
 
 19 
 
 all gone over to the side of mammon, that 
 there does not lurk in some corner of their 
 hearts a secret longing to return; yet every 
 morning brings the same hurried and indif- 
 ferent parting, every evening the same jaded, 
 speechless, welcomeless return—until we al- 
 most fail to recognise the man,.in the ma- 
 chine. 
 
 English homes have been much boasted of 
 by English people, both at home and abroad. 
 What would a foreigner think of those neat, 
 and sometimes elegant residences, which 
 form a circle of comparative gentility around 
 our cities and our trading towns? What 
 
 ‘would he think, when told that the fathers of 
 
 those families have not time to see their chil- 
 dren except on the Sabbath-day? and that 
 the mothers, impatient, and anxious to con- 
 sult them about some of their domestic plans, 
 have to wait, perhaps for days, before they can 
 find them for five minutes disengaged, either 
 from actual exertion, or from that sleep 
 which necessarily steals upon them immedi- 
 ately after the over-excitement of the day 
 has permitted them a moment of repose. 
 And these are rational, intellectual, ac- 
 countable, and immortal beings, undergoing 
 a course of discipline by which they are to 
 be fitted for eternal existence! What wo- 
 man can look on without asking—*Is there 
 nothing Ican do, to call them back ?”” Surely 
 there is; but it never can be done by the 
 cultivation of those faculties which contribute 
 only to selfish gratification. Since her so- 
 ciety is shared for so short a time, she must 
 endeavor to make those moments more rich 
 in blessing; and since her influence is limited 
 to so small a range of immediate operation, 
 it should be rendered so potent as to mingle 
 with the whole existence of those she loves: 
 Will an increase of intellectual attainments, 
 or a higher style of accomplishments, effect 
 this purpose? Will the common-place fri- 
 volities of morning calls, or an interminable 
 range of superficial reading, enable them to 
 assist their brothers, their husbands, or their 
 sons in becoming happier and better men? 
 No: let the aspect of society be what it 
 may, man is a social being, and beneath the 
 
 a 
 ERIS an <2 
 
 Jo a Sa. 
 
! 
 
 hard surface he puts on, to fit him for the 
 wear and tear of every day, he has a heart 
 as true to the kindly affections of our nature, 
 as that of woman—as true, though not as 
 suddenly awakened to every passing call. 
 He has therefore need of all her sisterly ser- 
 vices, and, under the pressure of the present 
 times, he needs them more than ever, to fos- 
 ter in his nature, and establish in his charac- 
 ter, that higher tone of feeling without which 
 he can enjoy nothing beyond a kind of ani- 
 mal existence—but with which, he may 
 faithfully pursue the necessary avocations 
 of the day, and keep as it were a separate 
 soul for his family, his social duty, and his 
 God. 
 
 There is another point of consideration by 
 which this necessity for a higher degree of 
 female influence is greatly increased, and it 
 is one which comprises much that is inter- 
 esting to those who aspire to be the support- 
 ers of their country’s worth. The British 
 throne being now graced by a female sove- 
 reign, the auspicious promise of whose early 
 years seems to form a new era in the annals 
 of our nation, and to inspire with brighter 
 hopes and firmer confidence the patriot bo- 
 soms of her expectant people; it is surely 
 not a time for the female part of the commu- 
 nity to fall away from the high standard of 
 moral excellence, to which they have been 
 accustomed to look, in the formation of their 
 domestic habits. Rather let them show forth 
 the benefits arising from their more enlight- 
 ened systems of education, by proving to 
 
 ; their youthful sovereign, that whatever plan 
 
 she may think it right to sanction for the 
 moral advancement of her subjects, and the 
 promotion of their true interests as an intelli- 
 gent and happy people, will be welcomed by 
 every female heart throughout her realm, 
 and faithfully supported in every British 
 home by the female influence prevailing 
 there. 
 
 It wiil be the business of the writer through 
 the whole of the succeeding pages of this 
 work, to endeavor to point out, how the wo- 
 men of England may render this important 
 service, not only to the members of their own 
 
 MODERN EDUCATION OF 
 
 BU et SEY A ON cn HOLT ES EE SU a rarmalieh Nia AIM UNEET INTL TAGHT, WLUTRST MERE EV AAMT MLA CIT CTULTOT TRC SoA), GSA GD Ha a aa 
 
 households, but to the community at large ; 
 and if I fail in arousing them to bring, as 
 with one mind, their united powers to stem 
 the popular torrent now threatening to un- 
 dermine the strong foundation of England’s 
 moral worth, it will not be for want of earn- 
 estness in the cause, but because I am not 
 endowed with talent equal to the task. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 MODERN EDUCATION. 
 
 In writing on the subject of modern edu- 
 cation, I cannot help entertaining a fear lest 
 some remarks I may in candor feel con- 
 strained to make, should be construed into 
 disrespect towards that truly praiseworthy 
 and laborious portion of the community, em- 
 ployed in conducting this education, and 
 pursuing, with laudable endeavors, what is 
 generally believed to be the best method of 
 training up the young women of the present 
 day. Such, however, is the real state of my 
 own sentiments, that I have long been ac- 
 customed to consider this class of individuals 
 as not only entitled to the highest pecuniary 
 consideration, but equally so to the first 
 place in society, to the gratitude of their fel- 
 low-creatures, and to the respect of mankind 
 in general, who, both as individuals, and as 
 a community, are deeply indebted to them || 
 for their indefatigable and often ill-requited |} 
 services. 
 
 A woman of cultivated understanding and 
 correct religious principle, when engaged in 
 the responsible task of educating the rising 
 generation, in reality fills one of the most re- 
 sponsible stations to which a hupdn being |} . 
 
 can aspire; and nothing can mozé clearly in- 
 dicate a low state of public orals than the 
 vulgar disrespect and parsimonious remune- 
 ration with which the agents employed in 
 
 education are sometimes requited. 
 It is with what is taught, not with those 
 
 who teach, that I am’ daring enough to find 
 
 fault. It may be that I am taking an unen- 
 
lightened and prejudiced view of the subject ; 
 yet, such is the strong conviction of my own 
 mind, that I cannot rest without attempting 
 to prove that the present education of the 
 women of England docs svt Gt them for 
 faithfully performing the duties which de- 
 volve upon them immediately after their 
 leaving school, and throughout the whole of 
 their after lives,—does not convert them from 
 helpless children into such characters as all 
 women must be, in order to be either esteem- 
 ed or admired. 
 
 Nor are their teachers accountable for this. 
 It is the fashion of the day—it is the ambition 
 of the times, that all people should, as far as 
 possible, learn all things of which the human 
 intellect takes cognizance ; and what would 
 be the consternation of parents whose daugh- 
 ter should return home to them from school 
 unskilled in modern accomplishments,—to 
 | whem her governess should say, “It is true, 
 
 a. 
 RRR SE REP RRR 
 : 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 ' 
 ' 
 } 
 b 
 
 | 
 
 I have been unable to make your child a 
 1 Seer apt either in French or Latin, nor is she 
 eae apt at the use of the globes, but she has 
 been pre-eminent among my scholars for her 
 freedom from selfishness, and she possesses 
 a nobility of feeling that will never allow her 
 to be the victim of meanness, or the slave of 
 grovelling desires.’ 
 
 In order to ascertain what kind of educa- 
 tion is most effective in making woman what 
 she ought to be, the best method is to inquire 
 into the character, station, and peculiar du- 
 ties of woman throughout the largest portion 
 of her earthly career; and then ask, for what 
 she is most valued, admired, and beloved. 
 
 In answer to this, I have little hesitation in 
 saying,—for her disinterested kindness. Look 
 at all the heroines whether of romance or 
 reality—at all the female characters that are 
 | held up to universal admiration—at all who 
 | have gone down to honored graves, among 
 the tears and the lamentations of their sur- 
 | vivors. Have these been the learned, the 
 accomplished women; the women who could 
 | speak many languages, who could solve 
 | problems, and elucidate systems of philoso- 
 | phy? No: or if they have, they have also 
 |) been women who were dignified with the 
 
 THE WOMEN 
 
 OF ENGLAND. 
 
 21 
 
 majesty of moral greatness—women who re- 
 gar ded not themselves, their own feebleness, 
 or their own susceptibility of pain, but who, 
 enduecd with an almust superhuman energy, 
 could trample under foot every impediment 
 that intervened between them and the accom- 
 plishment of some great object upon which 
 their hopes were fixed, while that object was 
 wholly unconnected with their own personal 
 exaltation or enjoyment, and related only to 
 some beloved object, whose suffering was 
 their sorrow, whose good their gain. 
 
 Woman, with all her accumulation of mi- 
 nute disquietudes, her weakness, and her 
 sensibility, is but a meager item in the cata- 
 logue of humanity ; but roused by a suffi- 
 cient motive to forget all these, or, rather, 
 continually forgetting them, because she has 
 other and nobler thoughts to occupy her 
 mind, woman is truly and majestically great. 
 
 Never yet, however, was woman great be- 
 cause she had great acquirements; nor can 
 she ever be great in herself—personally, and 
 without instrumentality—as an object, not an 
 agent. 
 
 From the beginning to the end of school 
 education, the improvement of se/f, so far as 
 relates to intellectual attainments, is made 
 the rule and the motive of all that is done. 
 Rewards are appointed and portioned out 
 for what has been learned, not what has 
 been imparted. To gain, is the universal 
 order of the establishment; and those who 
 have heaped together the greatest sum of 
 knowledge are usually regarded as the most 
 meritorious. Excellent discourses may be 
 delivered by the preceptress upon the Chris- 
 
 tian duties of benevolence and disinterested 
 
 love; but the whole system is one of pure 
 selfishness, fed by accumulation, and reward- 
 ed by applause. To be at the head of the 
 class, to gain the ticket or the prize, are the 
 points of universal ambition; and few in- 
 dividuals, among the community of aspi- 
 rants, are taught to look forward with a ra- 
 tional presentiment to that future, when their 
 merit will be to give the place of honor to 
 others, and their happiness to give it to those 
 who are more worthy than themselves. 
 
 \ 
 
MODERN EDUCATION OF 
 
 such thoughts; for there is a vaire in wo- 
 man’s heart too strong for education—a prin- 
 ciple which the march of intellect is unable 
 to overthrow. 
 
 Retiring from the emulous throng, we some- 
 times find a little, despised, neglected girl, who 
 has won no prize, obtained no smile of appro- 
 bation from her superiors. She isa dull girl, 
 who learns slowly, and cannot be taught so 
 as to keep up with the rest without incalcu- 
 
 lable pains. The fact is, she has no great 
 
 22 
 We will not assert that no one entertains 
 wish to keep up with them: she only wants 
 to be loved and trusted by her teachers ; and 
 oh! how does she wish, with tears, and al- 
 most with prayers, that they would love and 
 trust her, and give her credit for doing her 
 
 best. Beyond this she is indifferent ; she has 
 | 
 } 
 
 Ce NE 
 
 no motive but that of pleasing others, for try- 
 ing to be clever; and she is quite satisfied 
 that her friend, the most ambitious girl in the 
 school, should obtain all the honors without 
 her competition. Indeed, she feels as though 
 it scarcely would be delicate, scarcely kind in 
 her, to try so much to advance before her 
 friend ; and she gently falls back, is reproved 
 for her neglect, and, finally, despised. 
 I knew a girl who was one of the best 
 ' grammarians in a large school, whose friend 
 was peculiarly defective in that particular 
 branch of learning. Once every year the 
 order of the class was reversed, the girl who 
 held the highest place exchanging situations 
 with the lowest, and thus affording all an 
 equal chance of obtaining honors. ‘The usual 
 order of the class was soon restored, except 
 that the good grammarian was always ex- 
 pected by her friend to whisper in her ear a 
 suitable answer to every question proposed, 
 and as this girl necessarily retrograded to the 
 place to which her own ignorance entitled 
 her, her friend felt bound by affection and 
 kindness to relieve her distress every time 
 the alarming question came to her turn. 
 She consequently remained the lowest in the 
 class until the time of her leaving the school, 
 often subjected to the reproofs of her teach- 
 ers, and fully alive to her humiliating situa- 
 
 | tion, but never once turning a deaf ear to 
 
 her friend, or refusing to assist her in her 
 difficulties. 
 
 In the schools of the ancients, an act of 
 patient disinterestedness like this, would have 
 
 met with oneouragement and reward; in the | 
 school where it took place, it was well for 
 
 both parties that it was never known. 
 
 In making these and similar remarks, I 
 am aware that I may bring upon myself the 
 charge of wishing to exclude from our 
 schools all intellectual attainments what- 
 ever; for how, it will be asked, can learning 
 be acquired without emulation, and without 
 rewards for the diligent, and punishments 
 for the idle? 
 
 So far, however, from wishing to cast a 
 shade of disrespect over such attainments, I 
 am decidedly of opinion that no human be- 
 ing can know too much, so long as the sphere 
 of knowledge does not extend to what is 
 positively evil. I am also of opinion that 
 there is scarcely any department of art or 
 science, still less of mental application, which 
 is not calculated to strengthen and improve 
 the mind ; but at the same time I regard the 
 improvement of the heart of so much greater 
 consequence, that if time and opportunity 
 should fail for both, I would strenuously 
 recommend that women should be sent 
 home from school with fewer accomplish- 
 ments, and more of the will and the power 
 to perform the various duties necessarily de- 
 volving upon them. 
 
 Again, I am reminded of the serious and 
 important fact, that religion alone can im- 
 prove the heart; and to this statement no 
 one can yield assent with more reverential 
 belief in its truth than myself. I acknow- 
 ledge, also, for I know it to be a highly cred- 
 itable fact, that a large proportion of the mer- 
 itorious individuals who take upon them- 
 selves the arduous task of training up the 
 young, are conscientiously engaged in giving 
 to religious instruction that place which it 
 ought unquestionably to hold in every Chris- 
 tian school. But I would ask, is instruction 
 all that_is wanted for instilling into the minds 
 of the rising generation the benign principles 
 of Christian faith and practice? . 
 
iy 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 23 
 
 It is not thought enough to instruct the 
 young sculptor in the rules of his art, to 
 charge his memory with the names of those 
 who have excelled in it, and with the princi- 
 ples they have laid down for the guidance of 
 others—No: he must work with his own 
 hand; and long before that hand, and the 
 mind by which it is influenced, have attained 
 maturity, he must have learned to mould the 
 pliant clay, and have thus become familiar 
 with the practice of his art. 
 
 And shall this universally acknowledged 
 system of instruction, to which we are in- 
 debted for all that is excellent in art and ad- 
 mirable in science, be neglected in the educa- 
 tion of the young Christian alone? Shall he 
 be taught the bare theory of his religion, and 
 left to work out its practice as he can? Shall 
 he be instructed in what he is to believe, and 
 not assisted in doing also the will of his 
 heavenly Father ? 
 
 We all know that it is not easy to practise 
 even the simplest rule of right, when we 
 have not been accustomed to do so: and the 
 longer we are before we begin to regulate 
 our conduct by the precepts of religion, the 
 more difficult it will be to acquire such habits 
 as are calculated to adorn and show forth 
 the purity and excellence of its principles. 
 
 There is one important difference between 
 the acquisition of knowledge, and the acqui- 
 sition of good habits, which of itself ought to 
 be sufficient to ensure a greater degree of at- 
 tention to the latter. When the little pupil 
 first begins her education, her mind is a total 
 blank, as far as relates to the differe nt branches 
 of study into which she is about to be intro- 
 duced, and there is cohsequently nothing to 
 oppose. She is not prepossessed in favor of 
 any false system of arithmetic, grammar, or 
 geography, and the ideas presented to her 
 on these subjects are consequently willingly 
 received, and adopted as her own. 
 
 How different is the moral state of the un- 
 instructed child! Selfishness coeval with 
 her existence has attained an alarming 
 growth ; and all the other passions and pro- 
 pensities inherent in her nature, taking their 
 natural course, have strengthened with her 
 
 advance towards maturity, and are ready to 
 assume an aspect too formidable to afford 
 any prospect of their being easily brought 
 into subjection. | 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding this difference, the 
 whole machinery of education is brought to 
 bear upon the intellectual part of her nature, 
 and her moral feelings are left to the training 
 of the play-ground, where personal influ- 
 ence, rather than right feeling, too frequently 
 decides her disputes, and places her either 
 high or low in the ranks of her companions. 
 
 It is true, she is very seriously and proper- 
 ly corrected when convicted of having done 
 wrong, and an admirable system of morals is 
 promulgated in the school; but the subject I 
 would complain of is, that no means have 
 yet been adopted for making the practice of 
 this system the object of highest importance 
 in our schools. No adequate means have 
 been adopted for testing the generosity, the 
 high-mindedness, the integrity of the chil- 
 dren who pursue their education at school, 
 until they leave it at the age of sixteen, when 
 their moral faculties, either for good or for 
 evil, must have attained considerable growth. 
 
 Let us single out from any particular semi- 
 nary a child who has been there from the 
 years of ten to fifteen, and reckon, if it can 
 be reckoned, the pains that have been spent 
 in making that child a proficient in Latin. 
 Have the same pains been spent in making 
 her disinterestedly kind? And yet what 
 man is there in existence who would not 
 rather his wife should be free from selfish- 
 ness, than be able to read Virgil without the 
 use of a dictionary. 
 
 There is no reason, however, why both 
 these desirable ends should not be aimed at, 
 and as the child progresses in self-denial, for- 
 bearance, generosity, and disinterested kind- 
 ness, it might be her reward to advance in 
 the acquisition of languages, or of whatever 
 accomplishments it might be thought most 
 desirable for her to attain. If Iam told there 
 
 would not be time for all the discipline requi- 
 site for the practice of morals, I ask in reply, 
 —how much do most young ladies learn at 
 school for which they never find any use in 
 
 ; 
 
eee ————S——S———— awa 
 ee 
 
 24 
 
 after life, and for which it is not probable, 
 from their circumstances, that they ever 
 should. Let the hours spent upon music by 
 those who have no ear—upon drawing, by 
 those who might almost be said to have no 
 eye—upon languages, by those who never 
 afterwards speak any other than their mother 
 tongue—be added together year after year ; 
 and an aggregate of wasted time will present 
 
 itself, sufficient to alarm those who are sen-_ 
 
 sible of its value, and of the awful responsi- 
 bility of using it aright. 
 
 ' It is impossible that the teachers, or even 
 the parents themselves, should always know 
 the future destiny of the child; but there is 
 an appropriate sphere for women to move in, 
 frony which those of the middle class in Eng- 
 land seldom deviate very widely. This 
 sphere has duties and occupations of its 
 own, from which no woman can shrink with- 
 out culpability and disgrace; and the ques- 
 tion is, are women prepared for these duties 
 and occupations by what they learn at 
 school ? 
 
 For my own part, | know not how educa- 
 tion deserves the name, if it does not prepare 
 the individual whom it influences for filling 
 her appointed station in the best possible 
 manner. What, for instance, should we 
 think of a school for sailors, in which no- 
 thing was taught but the fine arts; or for 
 musicians, in which the students were only 
 instructed in the theory of sound ? 
 
 With regard to. the women of England, I 
 have already ventured to assert that the 
 quality for which, above all others, they are 
 esteemed and valued, is their disinterested 
 kindness. A selfish woman may not im- 
 properly be regarded as a monster, especially 
 in that sphere of life where there is a con- 
 stant demand made upon her services. But 
 how are women taught at school to forget 
 themselves, and to cultivate that high tone 
 of generous feeling to which the world is so 
 much indebted for the hope and the joy, the 
 peace and the consolation, which the influ- 
 ence and companionship of woman is able to 
 diffuse throughout its very deserts, visiting, 
 as with blessed sunshine, the abodes of the 
 
 MODERN EDUCATION OF 
 
 wretched and the poor, and sharing cheer- 
 
 fully the lot of the afflicted ? 
 
 In what school, or under what system of 
 modern education, can it be said that the 
 chief aim of the teachers, the object to which 
 their laborious exertions are mainly directed, 
 is to correct the evil of selfishness in the 
 hearts of their pupils? Improved methods 
 of charging and surcharging the memory 
 are eagerly sought out, and pursued, at any 
 cost of time and patience, if not of health 
 itself ; but who ever thinks of establishing a 
 selfish class among the girls of her establish- 
 ment, or of awarding the honors and distinc- 
 tions of the school to such as have exhibited 
 the most meritorious instances of self-denial 
 for the benefit of others 2? 
 
 It may be objected to this plan, that virtue - 
 
 ought to be its own reward, and that honors 
 
 and rewards adjudged to the most meritorious | 
 
 in a moral point of view, would be likely to 
 induce a degree of self-complacency wholly 
 inconsistent with Christian meekness. I am 
 aware that, in our imperfect state, no plan 
 can be laid down for the promotion of good, 
 with which evil will not be liable to mix. 
 I contend for is, that the same system of dis- 
 cipline, with the same end in view, should be 
 begun and carried on at school, as that to 
 which the scholar will necessarily be subject 
 ed in after life; and that throughout the 
 training of her early years, the same stand- 
 ard of merit should be adopted, as she will 
 find herself compelled to look up to, when 
 released from that training, and sent forth 
 into the world to think and act for herself. 
 At school it has been the business of every 
 day to raise herself above her companions by 
 attainments greater than theirs ; in after life 
 it will be the business of every day to give 
 place to others, to think of their happiness, 
 and to make sacrifices of her own to pro- 
 mote it. If such acts of self-denial, when 
 practised at school, should endanger the 
 equanimity of her mind by the approbation 
 they obtain, what will they do in the world 
 she is about to enter, where the unanimous 
 opinion of mankind, both in this and in past 
 ages, is in their favor, and where she must 
 
 All | 
 
ai 
 
 ees eens ee 
 —_——_————— 
 — 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 20 
 
 perpetually hear woman spoken of in terms 
 of the highest commendation, not for her 
 learning, but for her disinterested kindness, 
 her earnest zeal in promoting the happiness 
 of her fellow-creatures, and the patience and 
 forbearance with which she studies to miti- 
 gate affliction and relieve distress ? ~ 
 
 Would it not be safer, then, to begin at a 
 very early age to make the practice of these 
 virtues the chief object of their lives, guard- 
 ing at the same time against any self-com- 
 placency that might attach to the perform- 
 ance of them, by keeping always before their 
 view higher and nobler instances of virtue in 
 others ; and especially by a strict and con- 
 stant reference to the utter worthlessness of 
 all human merit, in comparison with the 
 mercy and forgiveness that must ever impose 
 a debt of gratitude upon our own souls? 
 
 Taking into consideration the various ex- 
 cellences and peculiarities of woman, I am 
 inclined to think that the sphere which of all 
 others admits of the highest development of 
 her character, is the chamber of sickness ; and 
 how frequently and mournfully familiar are 
 the scenes in which she is thus called to act 
 and feel, let the private history of every fam- 
 ily declare. 
 
 There is but a very small proportion of the 
 daughters of farmers, manufacturers, and 
 trades-people, in England, who are ever call- 
 ed upon for their Latin, their Italian, or even 
 for their French; but all women in this 
 sphere of life are liable to be called upon to 
 visit and care for the sick ; and if in the hour 
 of weakness and of suffering, they prove to 
 be unacquainted with any probable means of 
 alleviation, and wholly ignorant of the most 
 judicious and suitable mode of offering relief 
 and consolation, they are indeed deficient in 
 one of the highest attainments in the way of 
 usefulness, to which a woman can aspire. 
 
 To obviate the serious difficulties which 
 many women experience from this cause, I 
 would propose, as a substitute for some 
 useless accomplishments, that English girls 
 should be made acquainted with the most 
 striking phenomena of some of the familiar, 
 and frequently recurring maladies to which 
 
 the human frame is liable, with the most ap- 
 proved methods of treatment. And by culti- 
 vating this knowledge so far as relates to 
 general principles, I have little doubt but it 
 might be made an interesting and highly use- 
 ful branch of education. 
 
 I am far from wishing them to interfere 
 with the province of the physician. The 
 more they know, the less likely they will be 
 to do this. The office of a judicious nurse 
 is all] would recommend them to aspire to; 
 and to the same department of instruction 
 should be added the whole science of that 
 delicate and difficult cookery which forms so 
 important a part of the attendant’s duty. 
 
 Nor let these observations call forth a smile 
 
 upon the rosy lips that are yet unparched by 
 fever, untainted by consumption. Fair read- 
 er, there have been those who would have 
 given at the moment almost half their world- 
 ly wealth, to have been able to provide a pa- 
 latable morsel for a beloved sufferer; who 
 have met the inquiring eye, that asked for it 
 knew not what, and that expressed by its 
 anxious look an almost childish longing for 
 what they were unable to supply, not because 
 the means were denied, but simply because 
 they were too ignorant of the nature and 
 necessities of illness to form any practical 
 idea of what would be most suitable and most 
 approved. Perhaps, in their well-meant offi- 
 ciousness, they mentioned the only thing 
 they were acquainted with, and that was just 
 the most repulsive. What then have they 
 done? Allowed the faint and feeble sufferer 
 to go pining on, wishing it had been her lot 
 to fall under the care of any other nurse. 
 How invaluable at such a time is the al- 
 most endless catalogue of good and suitable 
 preparations with which the really clever wo- 
 man is supplied, any one of which she is 
 able to prepare with her own hands; choos- 
 ing, with the skill of the doctor, what is best 
 adapted for the occasion, and converting diet 
 into medicine of the most agreeable descrip- 
 tion, which she brings silently into the sick- 
 room without previous mention, and thus 
 
 exhilarates the spirits of the patient by an 
 
 agreeable surprise! 
 
 Se eaten eaten 
 
 SS | 
 ee ee RS z 
 
 LO TS Se 
 
; 
 i 
 
 as a hand beloved; and that the most deli- 
 
 26 
 
 MODERN EDUCATION OF 
 
 III 
 
 It is customary with young ladies of the 
 present day to think that nurses and hired 
 attendants ought to do these things; and 
 well and faithfully they sometimes do them, 
 ta the shame of those connected by nearer 
 ties. But are they ignorant that a hired hand 
 can never impart such sweetness to a cordial 
 
 cate and most effectual means of proving 
 the strength of their affection, is to choose to 
 do, what might by possibility have been ac- 
 complished by another? 
 
 When we meet in society with that speech- 
 less, inanimate, ignorant, and useless being 
 called “a young lady just come from school,” 
 it is thought a sufficient apology for all her 
 deficiencies, that she has, poor thing! but 
 just come home from school. Thus imply- 
 ing that nothing in the way of domestic use- 
 fulness, social intercourse, or adaptation to 
 circumstances, can be expected from her 
 until she has had time to learn it. 
 
 If, during the four or five years spent at 
 school, she had been establishing herself upon 
 the foundation of her future character, and 
 learning to practise what would afterwards 
 be the business of her life, she would, when 
 her education was considered as complete, 
 be in the highest possible state of perfection 
 which her nature, at that season of life, would 
 admit of. This is what she ought to be. I 
 need not advert to what she is. The case is 
 too pitiful to justify any further description. 
 The popular and familiar remark, “ Poor 
 thing ! she has just come home from school ; 
 what can you expect ?”’ is the best commen- 
 tary I can offer. 
 
 There is another point of difference be- 
 tween the training of the intellect, and that 
 of the moral feelings, of more serious import- 
 ance than any we have yet considered. 
 
 We all know that the occupation of teach- 
 ing, as it relates to the common branches of 
 instruction, is one of such Herculean labor, 
 that few persons are found equal to it for any 
 protracted length of time; and even with 
 such, it is necessary that they should bend 
 their minds to it with a determined effort, 
 and make each day a renewal of that effort, 
 
 not to be baffled by difficulties, nor defeated 
 by want of success. We all know, too, what it 
 is to the learned to be dragged on day by day 
 through the dull routine of exercises in which 
 she feels no particular interest, except what 
 arises from getting in advance of her fellows, 
 obtaining a prize, or suffering a punishment. 
 We all can remember the atmosphere of 
 the school-room, so uncongenial to the fresh 
 and buoyant spirits of youth—the clatter of 
 slates, the dull point of the pencil, and the 
 white cloud where the wrong figure, the fig- 
 ure that would prove the incorrectness of the 
 whole, had so often been rubbed out. ‘T'o 
 say nothing of the morning lessons, before the 
 dust from the desks and the floor had been 
 put in motion, we all can remember the af- 
 ternoon sensations with which we took our 
 places, perhaps between companions the most 
 unloved by us of any in the school; and how, 
 while the summer’s sun was shining in 
 
 through the high windows, we pored with ' 
 
 aching head over some dry dull words, that 
 would not transmit themselves to the tablet 
 of our memories, though repeated with inde- 
 fatigable industry, repeated until they seemed 
 to have no identity, no distinctness, but were 
 mingled with the universal hum and buzz of 
 the close, heated room; where the heart, if 
 it did not forget itself to stone, at least for- 
 got itself to sleep, and lost all power of feel- 
 ing any thing but weariness, aud occasional 
 pining for relief. Class after class were then 
 called up from this hot-bed of intellect. The 
 tones of the teacher’s voice, though not al- 
 ways the most musical, might easily have 
 been pricked down in notes, they were so 
 uniform in their cadences of interrogation, 
 rejection, and reproof. ‘These, blending with 
 
 the slow, dull answers of the scholars, and 
 
 occasionally the quick guess of one ambitious 
 to attain the highest place, all mingled with 
 the general monotony, and increased the 
 general stupor that weighed down every eye, 
 and deadened every pulse. 
 
 There are, unquestionably, quick children, 
 who may easily be made fond of learning, if 
 judiciously treated ; and it no doubt happens 
 to all, that there are portions of their daily 
 
 — 
 
 ert | 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 i | 
 duty not absolutely disagreeable; but that 
 weariness is the prevalent sensation both with 
 the teachers and the taught, is.a fact that few 
 
 will attempt to deny; nor is it a libel upon 
 individuals thus engaged, or upon human 
 nature in general, that it should be so. We 
 are so constituted that we cannot spend all 
 our time in the exercise of our intellect, with- 
 out absolute pain, especially while young; 
 and when, in after life, we rise with exhaust- 
 ed patience from three hours of writing or 
 reading, we cannot look back with wonder 
 that at school we suffered severely from the 
 labor of six. 
 
 It is not my province to describe how much 
 the bodily constitution is impaired by this in- 
 cessant application tostudy. Philanthropical 
 means are devised for relieving the young 
 student as much as possible, by varying the 
 subjects of attention, and allowing short in- 
 tervals of bodily exercise: but still the high- 
 pressure system goes on; and, with all their 
 attainments in the way of learning, few of the 
 young ladies who return home after a highly 
 finished education, are possessed of health 
 
 and energy sufficient to make use of their at- 
 tainments, even if they occupied a field more 
 suited to their display. 
 
 I know not how it may affect others, but 
 the number of languid, listless, and inert young 
 ladies, who now recline upon our sofas, mur- 
 muring and repining at every claim upon their 
 personal exertions, is to me a truly melancholy 
 spectacle, and one which demands the atten- 
 tion of a benevolent and enlightened public, 
 even more, perhaps, than some of those great 
 national schemes in which the people and the 
 government are alike interested. It is but 
 rarely now that we meet witha really healthy 
 woman: and, highly as intellectual attain- 
 ments may be prized, I think all will allow 
 that no qualifications can be of much value 
 without the power of bringing them into use. 
 
 The difference I would point out, between 
 ‘the exercise of the intellect and that of the 
 moral feelings is this. It has so pleased the 
 all-wise Disposer of our lives, that the duties 
 he has laid down for the right government of 
 . the human family, have in their very nature 
 
 | 
 
 27 
 
 something that expands and invigorates the 
 soul; so that instead of being weary of well- 
 doing, the character becomes strengthened, 
 the energies enlivened, and the whole sphere 
 of capability enlarged. 
 
 Who has not felt, after a long conflict be- 
 tween duty and inclination, when at last the 
 determination has been formed and duty has 
 been submitted to, not grudgingly, but from 
 very love to the Father of mercies, who alone 
 can judge what will eventually promote the 
 good of his weak, erring, and short-sighted 
 creatures—from reverence for his holy laws, 
 and from gratitude to the Saviour of man- 
 kind ;—who has not felt a sudden impulse 
 of thanksgiving and delight as they were en- 
 abled to make this decision, a springing up, 
 as it were, of the soul from the low cares and 
 entanglements of this world, to a higher and 
 purer state of existence, where the motives 
 and feelings under which the choice has been 
 made, will be appreciated and approved, but 
 where every inducement that could have been 
 brought forward to vindicate a different choice, 
 
 - would have been rejected at the bar of eternal 
 
 justice ? 
 
 It is not the applause of man that can reach 
 the heart under such circumstances. No hu- 
 man eye is wished for, to look in upon our 
 self-denial, or to witness the sacrifice we make. 
 The good we have attempted to do may even 
 fail in its effect. We know that the result is 
 not with us, but with Him who seeth in se- 
 cret, and who has left us in possession of this 
 encouraging assurance, Inasmuch as ye do it 
 unto one of these, ye do tt unto me. 
 
 Was the human mind ever enfeebled, or 
 the human frame exhausted, by feelings of 
 kindness? No! The hour of true refresh- 
 ment and invigoration, is that in which we 
 do our duty, whatever it may be, cheerfully 
 and humbly, as in the sight of God; not 
 pluming ourselves upon our own merit, or 
 anticipating great results, but with a child-like 
 dependence upon his promises, and devout 
 aspirations to be ever employed in working 
 out his holy will. 
 
 In the pursuit of intellectual attainments, 
 we cannot encourage ourselves throughout 
 
 lS 
 : ooo 
 
28 
 
 the day, nor revive our wearied energies at 
 
 night, by saying, “It is for the love of my 
 heavenly Father that I do this.” But, as a 
 very little child may be taught, for the love 
 of a lost parent, to avoid what that parent 
 would have disapproved; so the young may 
 be cheered and led onward in the path of duty 
 by the same principle, connecting every action 
 of their lives in which good and evil may be 
 blended, with the condemnation or approval 
 of their Father who is in heaven. 
 
 There is no principle in our nature which 
 at the same time softens and ennobles, sub- 
 dues and exalts, so much as the principle of 
 gratitude ; and it ought ever to be remember- 
 ed, in numbering our blessings, that gratitude 
 has been made the foundation of Christian 
 morality. ‘The ancient philosophers had their 
 system of morals, and a beautiful one it was. 
 But it had this defect—it had no sure foun- 
 dation ; sometimes shifting from expediency 
 to the rights of man, and thus having no fixed 
 and determinate character. The happier sys- 
 tem under which we are privileged to live, 
 has all the advantages acknowledged by the 
 philosophers of old, with this great and mer- 
 ciful addition, that it is peculiarly calculated 
 to wind itself in with our affections, by being 
 founded upon gratitude, and thus to excite, 
 in connection with the practice of all it enjoins, 
 those emotions of mind which are most con- 
 ducive to our happiness. 
 
 Let us imagine a little community of young 
 women, among whom, to do an act of disin- 
 terested kindness should be an object of the 
 highest ambition, and where to do any act of 
 pure selfishness, tending, however remotely, 
 to the injury of another, should be regarded 
 as the deepest disgrace; where they should 
 
 | be accustomed to consider their time not as 
 their own, but tent them solely for the pur- 
 pose of benefiting their fellow-creatures; and 
 where those who were known to exercise the 
 greatest charity and forbearance, should be 
 looked upon as the most exalted individuals 
 in the whole community. Would these girls 
 be weary? Would they be discontented, list- 
 less, and inanimate? The experiment re- 
 mains to be tried. 
 
 MODERN EDUCATION OF 
 
 has injured no one by her bad example, ex- 
 
 she has not sinned beyond her own tempta- 
 
 It is a frequent and popular remark, that 
 girls are less trouble to manage in families 
 than boys; and so unquestionably they are. 
 But when their parents go on to say that girls 
 awaken less anxiety, are safer and more easily 
 brought up, I am disposed to think such pa- 
 rents look with too superficial a view to the 
 conduct of their children before the world, 
 rather than the state of their hearts before 
 God. 
 
 It is true that girls have little temptation, 
 generally speaking, to vice. They are so 
 hemmed in and guarded by the rules of so- 
 ciety, that they must be destitute almost of 
 the common feelings of human nature, to be 
 willing, for any consideration, to sacrifice 
 their good name. But do such parents ever 
 ask, how much of evil may be cherished and 
 indulged in, and the good name retained? I 
 am aware that among the generality of wo- 
 men there is more religious feeling than among 
 men, more observance of the ordinances of 
 religion, more reading of the scriptures, and 
 more attention to the means of religious in- 
 formation. But let not the woman who sits 
 in peace, and unassailed by temptation, in the 
 retirement of her own parlor, look down with 
 self-complacency and contempt upon the open 
 transgressions of her erring brother. Rather 
 let her weigh in the scale his strong passions, 
 and strong inducements to evil, and, it may 
 be, strong compunctions too, against her own 
 little envyings, bickerings, secret spite, and 
 soul-cherished idolatry of self; and then ask 
 of her conscience which is the furthest in ad- 
 vance towards the kingdom of heaven. 
 
 It is true, she has uttered no profane ex- |; 
 pression, but she has set afloat upon a winged 
 whisper the transgression of her neighbor. 
 She has polluted her lips with no intoxicating 
 draught, but she has drunk of the Circean 
 cup of flattery, and acted from vanity and 
 selflove, when she was professing to act : 
 from higher motives. She has run into no | 
 excesses, but the excess of display ; and she 
 
 cept:in the practice of petty faults. In short, 
 
 tions. 
 
One of the most striking features in the 
 character of the young ladies of the present 
 day, is the absence of contentment. They 
 are lively when excited, but no sooner does 
 the excitement cease, than they fall back into 
 their habitual listlessness, under which they 
 so often complain of their fate, and speak of 
 themselves as unfortunate and afflicted, that 
 one would suppose them to be the victims of 
 adversity, did not a more intimate acquaint- 
 ance with their actual circumstances, convince 
 us that they were surrounded by every thing 
 conducive to rational comfort. For the sake 
 of the poetry of the matter, one would 
 searcely deny to every young lady her little 
 canker-worm to nurse in her bosom, since 
 all must have their pets. But when they add 
 selfishness to melancholy, and trouble their 
 friends with their idle and fruitless com- 
 plaints, the case becomes too, serious for a 
 jest. Indeed, I am not sure that the professing 
 Christian, who rises every morning with a 
 cherished distaste for the duties of the day, 
 who turns away when they present them- 
 selves, under a belief that they are more diffi- 
 cult or more disgusting than the duties of 
 other people, who regards her own allotment 
 in the world as peculiarly hard, and never 
 pours forth her soul in devout thanksgiving 
 for the blessings she enjoys, is not in reality 
 as culpable in the sight of God, and living as 
 much at variance with the spirit of true re- 
 ligion, as the individual who spends. the 
 same portion of time in the practice of more 
 open and palpable sin. 
 
 It is an undeniable improvement in modern 
 education, that religious instruction is becom- 
 ing more general, that pupils are questioned 
 in the knowledge of the Scriptures, instruct- 
 ed in the truths of religion, and sent forth 
 into the world prepared to give an answer 
 respecting the general outlines of Christian- 
 ity. So long, however, as the discontent 
 above alluded to remains so prevalent, we 
 must question the sufficiency of this method 
 of instruction; and it is under a strong 
 conviction, that to teach young people to 
 talk about religion is but a small part of what 
 is necessary to the establishment of their 
 
 FRIMHET PIERRE TE! 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Christian characters, that I have ventured 
 to put forth what may be regarded as crude 
 remarks upon this important subject. | 
 I still cling fondly to the hope, that, ere 
 long, some system of female instruction will 
 be discovered, by which the young women of 
 England may be sent home from school pre- 
 pared for the stations appointed them: by 
 Providence to fill in after life, and prepared 
 to fill them well. Then indeed may this fa- 
 vored country boast of her privileges, when 
 her young women return to their homes and 
 their parents, habituated to be on the watch 
 for every opportunity of doing good to 
 others; making it the first and the last in- 
 quiry of every day, “ What can I do to make 
 my parents, my brothers, or my sisters, more 
 happy? lam but a feeble instrument in the 
 hands of Providence, to work out any of his 
 benevolent designs; but as he will give me 
 strength, I hope to pursue the plan to. which 
 I have been accustomed, of seeking my own 
 happiness only in the happiness of others. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DRESS AND MANNERS. 
 
 Tuat the extent of woman’s influence is 
 not always commensurate with the cultiva- 
 tion of her intellectual powers, is a truth 
 which the experience and observation of 
 every day tend to confirm; for how often do 
 we find that a lavish expenditure upon the 
 means of acquiring knowledge is productive 
 of no adequate result in the way of lessening 
 the sum of hurnan misery! 
 
 When. we examine the real state of society, 
 and single out the individuals whose habits, 
 conversation, and character produce the hap-: 
 piest effect upon their fellow-creatures, we in- 
 variably find them persons who are morally, 
 rather than intellectually, great; and conse- 
 quently the profession of genius is, to a: wo- 
 man, a birthright of very questionable value. 
 It isa remark, not always charitably made, 
 but unfortunately too true, that the most tal- 
 
30 
 
 DRESS AND MANNERS OF 
 
 = 
 
 ented women are not the most agreeable in 
 their domestic capacity: and frequent and 
 unsparing are the batteries of sarcasm and 
 wit, which consequently open upon our un- 
 fortunate blues! It should be remembered, 
 however, that the evil is not in the presence 
 of one quality, but in the absence of an- 
 other; and we ought never: to forget the re- 
 deeming excellence of those signal instances, 
 in which the moral worth of the female 
 character is increased and supported by in- 
 tellectual power. If in order to maintain a 
 
 beneficial influence in society, superior talent, 
 
 or even a high degree of learning, were re- 
 
 quired, solitary and insignificant would be 
 
 the lot of some of the most social, benevo- 
 lent, and noble-hearted women, who now oc- 
 cupy the very centre of attraction within their 
 respective circles, and claim from all around 
 them a just and appropriate tribute of affec- 
 tion and esteem. 
 
 It need scarcely be repeated, that although 
 great intellectual attainments are by no means 
 the highest recommendation that a woman 
 can possess, the opposite extreme of igno- 
 rance, or natural imbecility of mind, are ef- 
 fectual barriers to the exercise of any con- 
 siderable degree of influence in society. An 
 ignorant woman who has not the good sense 
 to keep silent, or a weak woman pleased 
 with her own prattle, are scarcely less an- 
 noying than humiliating to those who, from 
 acquaintance or family connection, have the 
 misfortune to be identified with them: yet it 
 is surprising how far a small measure of tal- 
 ent, or of mental cultivation, may be made 
 to extend in the way of giving pleasure, 
 when accompanied with good taste, good 
 sense, and good feeling, especially with that 
 feeling which leads the mind from self and 
 selfish motives, into an habitual regard to the 
 good and happiness of others. 
 
 The more we reflect upon the subject, the 
 more we must be convinced, that there is a 
 system of discipline required for women, 
 totally distinct from what is called the learn- 
 ing of the schools, and that, unless they can 
 be prepared for their allotment in life by 
 some process calculated to fit them for per- 
 
 ee seas SSeS a “ 
 
 forming its domestic duties, the time bestow- 
 
 ed upon their education will be found, in af- || 
 
 ter life, to have been wholly inadequate to 
 procure for them either habits of usefulness, 
 or a healthy tone of mind. 
 
 It would appear from a superficial obser- 
 vation of the views of domestic and social 
 
 duty about to be presented, that, in the esti- | 
 
 mation of the writer, the great business of a 
 woman’s life was to make herself agreeable ; 
 for so minute are some of the points which 
 properly engage her attention, that they 
 scarcely seem to bear upon the great ob- 
 ject of doing good. Yet when we reflect 
 that by giving pleasure in an innocent and 
 unostentatious manner, innumerable chan- 
 nels are opened for administering instruction, 
 assistance, or consolation, we cease to regard 
 as insignificant the smallest of those means 
 by which a woman can render herself an ob- 
 ject either of affection or disgust. 
 
 First, then, and most familiar to common 
 observation, is her personal appearance ; and 
 in this case, vanity, more potent in woman’s 
 heart than selfishness, renders it an object of 
 general solicitude to be so adorned as best to 
 meet and gratify the public taste. Without 
 inquiring too minutely into the motive, the 
 custom, as such, must be commended : for, 
 like many of the minor virtues of women, 
 though scarcely taken note of in its immedi- 
 ate presence, it is sorely missed when absent. 
 A careless or slatternly woman, for instance, 
 is one of the most repulsive objects in crea- 
 tion; and such is the force of public opinion 
 in favor of the delicacies of taste and feeling 
 in the female sex, that no power of intellect, 
 or display of learning, can compensate to 
 men, for the want of nicety or neatness in 
 the women with whom they associate in do- 
 mestic life. In vain to them might the wreath 
 or laurel wave in glorious triumph over locks 
 uncombed ; and wo betide the heroine, whose 
 stocking, even of the deepest blue, betrayed 
 a lurking hole! 
 
 It is, however, a subject too serious for 
 jest, and ought to be regarded by all women 
 with earnest solicitude, that they may con- 
 stantly maintain in their own persons that 
 
 ——- 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 strict attention to good taste and delicacy of 
 feeling, which affords the surest evidence of 
 ‘delicacy of mind; a quality without which 
 no woman ever was, or ever will be, charm- 
 ing. Let her appear in company with what 
 accomplishments she may, let her charm by 
 her musical talents, attract by her beauty, or 
 enliven by her wit, if there steal from under- 
 neath her graceful drapery, the soiled hem, 
 the tattered frill, or even the coarse garment 
 out of keeping with her external finery, im- 
 agination naturally carries the observer to 
 her dressing-room, her private. habits, and 
 even to her inner mind, where it is almost 
 impossible to believe that the same want of 
 order and purity does not prevail. 
 
 It is a prevalent but most injurious mis- 
 take, to suppose that all women must be 
 splendidly and expensively dressed, to re- 
 commend themselves to general approbation. 
 In order to do this, how many, in the sphere 
 of life to which these remarks apply, are lit- 
 erally destitute of comfort, both in their hearts 
 and in their homes; for the struggle between 
 parents and children, to raise the means on 
 one hand, and to obtain them either by argu- 
 ment or subterfuge on the other, is.but one 
 among the many sources of family discord 
 and individual suffering, which mark out the 
 excess of artificial wants, as the great evil of 
 the present times. | 
 
 A very slight acquaintance with the sen- 
 timents and tone of conversation familiar 
 among men, might convince all whose minds 
 are open to conviction, that thetr admiration 
 is not to be obtained by the display of any 
 kind of extravagance in dress. There may 
 be occasional instances of the contrary, but 
 the praise most liberally and uniformly be- 
 stowed by men upon the dress of women, is, 
 that it is neat, becoming, or in good taste. 
 
 The human mind is often influenced by 
 association, while immediate impression is all 
 that it takes cognizance of at the moment. 
 Thus a splendidly dressed woman entering 
 the parlor of a farm-house, or a tradesman’s 
 drawing-room, bursts upon the sight as an 
 astounding and almost monstrous spectacle ; 
 and we are scarcely aware that the repulsion 
 
 we instantaneously experience, arises from a 
 secret conviction of how much the gorgeous 
 fabric must have cost the wearer, in time, 
 and thought, and money; especially when 
 we known that the same individual is under 
 the necessity of spending her morning hours 
 in culinary operations, and is, or ought to 
 be, the sharer of her husband’s daily toil. 
 
 There is scarcely any object in art or na- 
 ture, calculated to excite our admiration, 
 which may not, from being ill-placed, excite 
 our ridicule or disgust. Each individual 
 article of clothing worn by this woman, may 
 be superb in itself, but there is a want of fit- 
 ness and harmony in the whole, from which 
 we turn away. 
 
 Perhaps there are no single objects in 
 themselves so beautiful as flowers, and it 
 might seem difficult to find a situation in 
 which they could be otherwise; yet I have 
 seen—and seen with a feeling almost like 
 pity—at the conclusion of a feast, fair rose- 
 leaves and sweet jessamine floating amidst 
 such inappropriate elements, that all their 
 beauty was despoiled, and they were fit only 
 to be cast away with the refuse of gross 
 matter in which they were involved. 
 
 Admiration of a beautiful object, how in- 
 tense soever it may be, cannot impart that 
 high tone of intellectual enjoyment which 
 arises from our aumiration of fitness and 
 beauty combined ; and thus the richest silk, 
 and the finest lace, when inappropriately 
 worn, are beautifully manufactured articles, 
 but nothing more. While, therefore, on the 
 one hand, there is.a-moral degradation in the 
 consciousness of wearing soiled or disreputa- 
 ble garments, or being in any way below the 
 average of personal decency, there is, on the 
 other, a gross violation of good taste, in as- 
 suming for the middle classes of society, 
 whose occupations are closely connected 
 with the means of bodily subsistence, the 
 same description of personal ornament as 
 belongs with more propriety to those who 
 enjoy the luxury of giving orders, without 
 any necessity for further occupation of time 
 and thought. 
 
 The most frequently recurring perplexities 
 
 Oe ee 
 
 : 
 
 al 
 
 ! 
 
32 
 
 of woman’s life arise from cases which re- 
 ligion does not immediately reach, and’ in 
 which she is still expected to decide properly 
 and act agreeably, without any other law 
 than that of good taste for her guide. Good 
 taste is therefore most essential to the regula- 
 tion of her dress and general appearance ; 
 and wherever any striking violation of this 
 principle appears, the beholder is immediate- 
 ly impressed with the idea that a very im- 
 portant rule of her life and conduct is want- 
 ing. It is not all who possess this guide 
 within themselves ; but an attentive observa- 
 tion of human life and character, especially 
 a due regard to the beauty of fitness, would 
 enable all to avoid giving offence in this par- 
 ticular way. 
 
 The regard to fitness here recommended, 
 is a. duty of much more serious importance 
 than would at first sight appear, since it in- 
 volves a consideration which cannot too often 
 be presented to the mind, of what, and who 
 we are !—what is the station we are appoint- 
 ed to fill, and what the objects for which we 
 are living? 
 
 Behold yon gorgeous fabric in the distance, 
 with its rainbow hues, and gems, and shining 
 drapery, 
 
 “And flowers the fairest, that might feast the bee.”’ 
 
 A coronet of beauty crowns the whole, and 
 feathery ornaments, on frail silvery threads, 
 glitter and wave, and tremble at every mov- 
 ing breath. Surely the countenance of Flora 
 blooms below, and Zephyrus suspends his 
 gentle wings at her approach. The spectacle 
 advances. It is not health, nor youth, nor 
 beauty that we see; but poor, decrepit, help- 
 less, miserable old age. We gaze, and a 
 shudder comes over us, for Death is grinning 
 in the background, and we hear his voice 
 triumphantly exclaiming, ‘This is mine !” 
 Look at that moving garden, and those 
 waving plumes, as they pass along the aisle 
 of the church or the chapel. They form the 
 adornment of a professedly Christian woman, 
 the mother of a family; and this is the day 
 appointed for partaking of that ordinance to 
 which Christians are invited to come in meek- 
 
 DRESS AND MANNERS OF 
 
 ‘maintain what they believe to be a fashion- 
 
 ness and lowliness of spirit, to commemorate 
 the love of their Redeemer, who, though he 
 was rich, for their sakes became poor—who 
 humbled himself, and became obedient unto 
 death, to purchase their exemption from the 
 penalty of sin, and the bondage of the world. 
 
 We would earnestly hope that, in the 
 greater number of such cases as these, the 
 error is in the judgment-— the mockery 
 thoughtlessly assumed: but would not the 
 habit of self-examination, followed up by seri- 
 ous inquiry respecting our real and individ- 
 ual position in society, as moral agents, and | 
 immortal beings, be a likely means of avert- 
 ing the ridicule that age is ill prepared to 
 bear; and, what is of infinitely more conse- 
 quence, of preventing the scandal that reli- 
 gion has too much cause to charge upon her 
 friends ? 
 
 It frequently happens that women in the 
 middle class of society are not entirely free 
 from provincialisms in their manner of speak- 
 ing, as well as other peculiarities, by which 
 it may easily be discovered that their interests | 
 are local, and their means of information of 
 limited extent; in short, that they are persons 
 who have but little acquaintance with the 
 polite or fashionable world, and yet they may 
 be persons highly estimable and important in 
 their own sphere. Very little either of esteem 
 or importance, however, attaches to their 
 characters, where their ingenuity is taxed to 
 
 able or elegant exterior, and which, in con- 
 nection with their unpolished dialect and 
 homely occupations, renders them but too 
 much like the chimney-sweeper’s queen 
 decked out for a May-day exhibition. The 
 invidious question unavoidably occurs to the 
 beholder—for what or for whom has such a 
 person mistaken herself? while, had she 
 been dressed in a plain substantial costume, 
 corresponding with her mind and habits, she 
 might have been known at once, and re- 
 spected for what she really was,—a rational, 
 independent, and valuable member of society. 
 
 It is not, by any means, the smallest of the 
 services required by Christian charity, to 
 point out to our fellow-countrywomen how 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | 
 
 they may avoid being ridiculous. Perhaps 
 
 a higher degree of intellectual dignity would 
 
 raise us all above the weakness of being 
 
 moved to laughter by so slight a cause. But 
 
 such is the constitution of the general order 
 
 of minds, that they are less entertained by 
 
 | the most pointed witticisms, than by those 
 
 1 striking contrasts and discrepancies, which 
 | seem to imply that rusticity has mistaken 
 
 itself for elegance, deformity for beauty, age 
 | for youth. I pretend not to defend this pro- 
 
 pensity to turn so serious a mistake into jest. 
 | I merely say that such a propensity does 
 exist, and, what is among the anomalies of 
 our nature, that it sometimes exhibits itself 
 most unreservedly in the very individuals 
 who in their turn are furnishing food for 
 merriment to others. 
 
 The laughing philosopher might have rea- 
 soned thus, “ Let them all laugh on, they will 
 cure each other.” But the question is—does 
 ridicule correct the evil? Most assuredly it 
 does not. It does something more, however. 
 It rankles like a poison in the bosom where 
 it falls, and destroys the peace of many an 
 amiable but ill-judging candidate for public 
 admiration. Women, especially, are its vic- 
 tims and its prey; and well do they learn, 
 under the secret tutelage of envy, jealousy, 
 and pride, how to make this engine of discord 
 play upon each other. 
 
 When we listen to the familiar conversa- 
 tion of women, especially of those whose 
 minds are tainted by vulgarity, and unen- 
 lightened by the higher principles of religion, 
 we find that a very large portion of their time 
 and attention is bestowed upon the subject 
 of dress—not of their own dress merely, but 
 of that of their neighbors; and looking fur- 
 ther, we find, what is more astonishing, that 
 there exists in connection with the same 
 subject, a degree of rivalry and ambition 
 which call forth many of the evil passions 
 that are ever ready to spring into action, and 
 _marthe pleasant pictures of social life. In 
 awakening these, the ridicule already alluded 
 to is a powerful agent; for, like the most in- 
 jurious of libels, it adheres so nearly to the 
 truth, as to set contradiction at defiance. 
 
 i 
 
 33 
 
 Thus, there are few persons who would not 
 rather be maligned than ridiculed ; and thus 
 the wounds inflicted by ridicule are the most 
 difficult to heal, and the last to be forgiven. 
 
 Surely, then, it is worth paying regard to 
 the principles of fitness and consistency, in 
 order to avoid the consequences necessarily 
 resulting from every striking deviation from 
 these rules ; and the women of England pos- 
 sess many advantages in the cultivation of 
 their natural powers of discrimination and 
 reason, for enabling them to ascertain the pre- 
 cise position of this line of conduct, which it 
 is so important to them to observe. They 
 are free from many of the national prejudices 
 entertained by the women of other countries, 
 and they enjoy the inestimable privilege of 
 being taught to look up to a higher standard 
 of morals, for the right guidance of their con- 
 duct. Itis to them, therefore, that we look 
 for what rational and useful women ought to 
 be, not only in the essentials of Christian 
 character, but in the minor points of social, 
 domestic, and individual duty. 
 
 Much that has been said on the subject of 
 dress, is equally applicable to that of manners. 
 Fitness and adaptation, are here, as well as in 
 the former instance, the general rule; for of 
 what value is elegance in a cottage, or the 
 display of animal strength at a European 
 court 4 
 
 In the middle walks of life, an easy man- 
 ner, free from affectation on the one hand, 
 and grossness on the other, is all that is re- 
 quired; and such are, or ought to be, the oc- 
 cupations of all women of this class, as most 
 happily to induce such habits of activity and 
 free-agency, as would effectually preserve 
 them from the two extremes of coldness and 
 frivolous absurdity. 
 
 The grand error of the day seems to be, 
 that of calling themselves ladies, when it 
 ought to be their ambition to be women,— 
 women who fill a place, and occupy a post— 
 members of the commonwealth—supporters 
 of the fabric of society,—the minor wheels 
 
 and secret springs of the great machine of | 
 
 human life and action, which cannot move 
 harmoniously, nor with full effect to the ac- 
 
 a EY 
 
34 
 
 complishment of any great or noble purpose, 
 while clogged with the lovely burdens, and 
 impeded by the still-life attitudes of those 
 useless members of the community, who cast 
 themselves about on every hand, in the vain 
 hope of being valued and admired for doing 
 nothing. 
 
 Among the changes introduced by modern 
 taste, it is not the least striking, that all the 
 daughters of trades-people, when sent to 
 school, are no longer girls, but young ladies. 
 The linen-draper whose worthy consort oc- 
 cupies her daily post behind the counter, re- 
 ceives her child from Mrs. Montague’s estab- 
 lishment—a young lady. At the same ele- 
 gant and expensive seminary, music and 
 Italian are taught to Hannah Smith, whose 
 father deals in Yarmouth herrings; and there 
 is the butcher’s daughter, too, perhaps the 
 most lady-like of them all. The manners of 
 these young ladies naturally take their tone 
 and character from the ridiculous assump- 
 tions of modern refinement. The butcher’s 
 daughter is seized with nausea at the spec- 
 tacle of raw meat—Hannah Smith is incapa- 
 ble of existing within the atmosphere of her 
 father’s home—and the child of the linen- 
 draper elopes with a. merchant’s clerk, to 
 avoid the dire necessity of assisting in her 
 father’s shop. 
 
 What a catalogue of miseries might be 
 made out, as the consequence of this mis- 
 taken ambition of the women of England to 
 be ladies! Gentlewomen they may be, and 
 refined women too; for when did either gen- 
 tleness or true refinement disqualify a woman 
 for her proper duties? But that assumption 
 of delicacy which unfits, them for the real 
 business of life, is more to be dreaded in its 
 fatal influence upon their happiness, than the 
 most agonizing disease with which they could 
 be afflicted. 
 
 It is needless to say that women of this 
 morbid, imbecile character have no influence. 
 They are so occupied with the minutiz of 
 their own. personal. miseries, that they have 
 no time to think of the sin and the sorrow 
 existing in the world around them. What- 
 ever is proposed to them in the way of doing 
 
 a 
 
 DRESS AND MANNERS OF 
 
 good, is sure to meet with a listless, weary, 
 
 murmuring denial; for if the hundred-and- 
 
 one objections, arising out of other fancied 
 causes, should be obviated, there are their 
 endless and inexhaustible nerves. Alas, alas! 
 that English women should ever have found 
 themselves out to be possessed of nerves! 
 Not the most exquisite creation of the poet’s 
 fancy was ever supposed to be more suscep- 
 tible of pain than is now the highly-educated 
 young lady, who reclines upon a couch in an 
 apartment slightly separated from that in 
 which her father sells his goods, and but one 
 remove from the sphere of her mother’s cu- 
 linary toil. | 
 
 How different from this feeble, discontent- 
 ed, helpless thing, is the woman who shows 
 by her noble bearing that she knows her true 
 position in society; and who knows also, 
 that the virtue and the value attaching to 
 her character must be in exact proportion to 
 the benefit she confers upon her fellow-crea- 
 tures ;—above all, who feels that the only 
 Being who is capable of knowing what is 
 ultimately best, has seen meet to place her 
 exactly where the powers of her mind and 
 the purposes of her life may be made most 
 conducive to his merciful and wise designs! 
 Not the meanest habiliments, nor the most 
 homely personal aspect, can conceal the 
 worth and the dignity of such a woman; 
 and whatever that position with which she 
 has made herself so well acquainted may be, 
 she will find that her influence extends to its 
 remotest circle. 
 
 It is impossible to say what the manners 
 of such a woman are. In the cottage, in the 
 court, in the daily and hourly performance 
 of social services, they are, and must be, 
 characterized by the same attributes—gene- 
 ral adaptation supported by dignity, a high 
 sense of duty predominating over every ten- 
 dency to selfish indulgence, and prompting 
 to the performance of every kind of practical 
 good, a degree of self-respect, without which 
 no talent can be matured, and no purpose 
 
 rendered firm; yet, along with this, a far |} 
 
 higher degree of respect for others, exhibited 
 in modes of deference, and acts of considera. 
 
‘ 
 a ep tc lp ee eae epee a a aa ion open aeoce anata Se 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 35 
 
 tion as various as the different characters 
 whose good or whose happiness are the sub- 
 jects of her care ; and, lastly, that sweet sis- 
 ter of benevolence, charity, without which no 
 woman ever yet could make herself a desira- 
 ble companion or friend. 
 
 It may be said that these are virtues, not 
 modes of conduct; but how much of virtue, 
 particularly that of charity, may be implied 
 and understood by what is commonly called 
 manner! 'That which in the present day is 
 considered the highest attainment in this 
 branch of conduct, is a lady-like manner, and 
 itis one that well deserves the attention of 
 all who wish to recommend themselves— 
 who wish, as all must do, to ward off insult- 
 ing familiarity, and court respectful consider- 
 ation. ‘There are, however, many impres- 
 sions conveyed to the minds of others by 
 mere manner, far exceeding this in interest 
 and importance. What, for instance, is so 
 consoling to the afflicted as a sympathizing 
 manner? ‘The direct expression of sympathy 
 might possibly give pain; but there isa man- 
 ner, and happy are they who possess it, 
 which conveys a silent invitation to the sor- 
 sowing soul to unburden its griefs, with an 
 assurance that it may do so without fear of 
 treachery or unkindness. There seems to 
 be an instinct in our nature by which this 
 mode of expressing syrnpathy is rendered 
 intelligible; and who that ,has any thing to 
 do with sorrow or suffering, or any wish to 
 alleviate the pressure of either, would not 
 desire that their manner should be so fraught 
 with sympathy as to impart the consolation 
 they may be unable to express in words? 
 
 Who, on the other hand, in a world which 
 all the afflicted are disposed to consider cold 
 and unfeeling, has not felt what it was, to 
 meet with that peculiar tone of voice, that 
 long, earnest gaze of the eye, and that watch- 
 fulness of personal comfort, which belong to 
 a degree of interest deeper than can be told, 
 and which gonvince beyond the power of 
 language, that we are not—we cannot be 
 overlooked or forgotten? How many an 
 
 alien has been invited to return by a look, a 
 tone, a gesture, when no power of speech 
 
 -and obscure. 
 
 would have conveyed the same impression 
 
 of a welcome! How many a prejudice has 
 been overcome—how many a dangerous res- 
 olution broken—-how many a dark design 
 defeated by a conciliating and confiding: man- 
 ner? And may it not also be asked, how 
 many an insult has been repelled by a man- 
 ner fraught with dignity ; how many an in- 
 jury has been returned into the bosom where 
 it originated, by a manner which conveyed 
 all the bitterness of cherished and determined 
 revenge ? 
 
 To those who make the human mind their 
 study, the mode of acting is of more import- 
 ance than the action itself; and to women it 
 is especially so, because the sphere in which 
 they actually move is comparatively limited 
 It is seldom regarded as con- 
 sistent with that delicacy which forms so 
 great a charm in their nature, that they 
 should act out to their full extent all the deep 
 feelings of which they are capable. Thus 
 there is no other channel for their perpetual 
 overflow, than that of their manners; and 
 thus a sensitive and ingenuous woman can 
 exhibit much of her own character, and lead 
 others out into the display of much of theirs, 
 simply by the instrumentality of her manners; 
 and, upon the same principle, that good breed- 
 ing which obtains the highest applause in 
 society, is but an imitation or assumption of 
 every moral excellence, depicted on a minor 
 scale. 
 
 Good manners are the small-coin of virtue, 
 distributed abroad as an earnest—we will not 
 ask how fallacious—of the greater and better 
 things that lie beyond. The women of Eng- 
 land are becoming increasingly solicitous 
 about their manners, that they may in all 
 points resemble such as prevail in a higher 
 circle of society, and be, consequently, the 
 best. But would it not be more advantage- 
 ous to them, to bestow the same increase of 
 solicitude upon what constitutes the true 
 foundation of all that is amiable and excel- 
 lent in life and conduct? Would it not be 
 more advantageous to them to remember, 
 that in the sphere of life appointed for them 
 to fill, stronger and inore efficient traits of 
 
 cael 
 
36 
 
 character are required, than can possibly be 
 classed under the epithet of lady-like? Not 
 that coarseness or vulgarity of manner could 
 ever be tolerated in those delicate intimacies, 
 and intellectual associations, which properly 
 belong to the class of women of whom Eng- 
 land had once a right to boast—intimacies 
 and associations, intervening like gleams of 
 sunshine, between their seasons of perplex- 
 ity and care; but the manners I would earn- 
 estly recommend to my countrywomen, are 
 of a character calcujated to convey an idea 
 of much more than refinement; they are man- 
 ‘ners to which a high degree of moral influence 
 belongs, inasmuch as they inspire confidence, 
 command esteem, and contribute to the gene- 
 ral sum of human happiness. 
 
 Adaptation is the leading feature in this 
 class of manners—adaptation not only to the 
 circumstances of the person who acts and 
 speaks, but also to the circumstances of those 
 upon whom such speech or action operates. 
 A light, careless, sportive manner is some- 
 times thought exceedingly charming; and 
 when it emanates from youth and innocence, 
 can scarcely fail to please ; but when such a 
 manner is affected by a woman of ponderous 
 personal weight, of naturally grave coun- 
 tenance, and responsible station in society, 
 none can avoid being struck with the obvious 
 anomaly, and few can avoid being moved to 
 laughter or contempt. 
 
 In English society it frequently happens 
 that persons of humble parentage, and homely 
 station, in early life, are raised, by the acqui- 
 sition of wealth, to the enjoyment of luxu- 
 rious indulgence. How absurd in such cases, 
 is that assumption of delicacy and of aristo- 
 ‘cratic dignity which we too often see, and 
 which is sure to give rise to every variety 
 of uncharitable remark upon what they and 
 their families have been ! 
 
 Self-importance, or rather a_ prevailing 
 consciousness of self, is the most universal 
 hindrance to the attainment of agreeable 
 manners. A woman of delicate feelings and 
 cultivated mind, who goes into company de- 
 termined to be interested, rather than to in- 
 terest, can scarcely fail to please. We are 
 
 Seco RED ST ae SEIS 
 
 DRESS AND MANNERS OF 
 
 assured, however, that in this respect there 
 is something very defective in the present 
 state of society. All desire to make an im- 
 
 pression, none to be impressed ; and thus |} 
 
 the social intercourse of every day is ren- 
 dered wearisome, if not disgusting, by the 
 constant struggle of each contending party 
 to assume the same relative position. 
 
 An instance relating immediately to an an- 
 imal of inferior grade in the creation to man, 
 but bearing some affinity to the case in point, 
 is told by a traveller, whose party having 
 shot several old monkeys, took home their 
 young ones to the camp where he was sta- 
 tioned. He amused himself in the evening 
 by watching these little animals, which had 
 been so accustomed to be caressed and car- 
 ried about by their parents, that they ex- 
 pected the same services from each other, 
 and by their persevering efforts to obtain as- 
 sistance from those who in an equal degree 
 required it from them, formed themselves 
 into a tumultuous heap, and nearly worried 
 each other to death. 
 
 It might be invidious to compare the tu- 
 mult of feeling, the weariness, and the fatality 
 to happiness experienced by these animals, 
 to that which is produced by the general de- 
 sire to make an impression, in modern so- 
 ciety ; but none can be blind to the fact, that 
 a determination to be pleased in company, is 
 the surest means of giving pleasure, as well 
 as of receiving it. 
 
 A young lady who has not had an oppor- 
 tunity of conversing, of playing, or of show- 
 ing off in any other way, is almost sure to 
 return from an evening party complaining of 
 its dulness, and discontented with herseif, as 
 well as with every one besides. Ask her if 
 such and such agreeable and intelligent per- 
 sons were not present; and she answers, 
 “Yes”? Ask her if they did not converse, 
 and converse pleasantly ; and still she an- 
 swers, “Yes.”” What then? The fact is, 
 she has herself made no impression, charmed 
 nobody, and therefore, as a necessary conse- 
 quence, she is not charmed. 
 
 How much more happiness does that wo- 
 man experience, who, when in company, di- 
 
 aa a ee I OI ER OT ADEE AED IOLA RETAIL GE POLL POET TC TRB LEE LIED EEG LLLP BOA ELIE IOLA SE TODO IIT ESF EE TEPID LE DEBATE LD I ELE GSES SIO AT REN ILE 
 
 | 
 
a = a 
 
 THE WOMEN 
 
 rects her attention to her nearest neighbor ; 
 and, beholding a cheerful countenance, or 
 || hearing a pleasant voice, is encouraged to 
 proceed in cultivating an acquaintance, which 
 may ultimately ripen into friendship, may 
 teach her some useful lesson, or raise her 
 estimate of her fellow-creatures. Even where 
 no such agreeable results are experienced, 
 where the party attempted proves wholly 
 impracticable, there is still a satisfaction in 
 having made the trial, far beyond what can 
 be experienced by any defeated attempt to 
 be agreeable. Indeed the disappointment of 
 having failed to make a pleasing impression 
 merely for the purpose of gratifying our own 
 vanity, without reference to the hdppiness 
 of others, is adapted in an especial man- 
 ner to sour the temper, and depress the 
 mind ; because we feel along with the disap- 
 pointment, a mortifying consciousness that 
 our ambition has been of an undignified and 
 selfish kind; while, if our endeavor has 
 been to contribute to the general sum of so- 
 cial enjoyment, by encouraging the diffident, 
 cultivating the acquaintance of the amiable, 
 and stimulating latent talent, we cannot feel 
 depressed by such a failure, nor mortified at 
 our want of success. 
 
 The great question with regard to modern 
 education is, which of these two classes of 
 feeling does it instil into the mind—does it 
 inspire the young women of the present day 
 with an amiable desire to make everybody 
 happy around them? or does it teach them 
 only to sing, and play, and speak in foreign 
 languages, and consequently leave them to 
 be the prey of their own disappointed feel- 
 ings, whenever they find it impossible to 
 make any of these qualifications tell upon 
 society. — : 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 CONVERSATION OF THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 It may not, perhaps, be asking too much 
 of the reader, to request that gentle person- 
 
 t— 
 
 age to bear in mind, that in speaking both of 
 the characteristics and the influence of a cer- 
 tain class of females, strict reference has 
 been maintained, throughout the four pre- 
 ceding chapters, to such as may with justice 
 be denominated true English women. With 
 puerile exotics, bending from their own fee- 
 bleness, and wandering, like weeds, about 
 the British garden to the hindrance of the 
 growth of all useful plants, this work has 
 little to do, except to point out how they 
 might have been cultivated to better purpose. 
 
 I have said of English women, that they 
 are the best fireside companions; but Iam | 
 afraid that my remark must apply to a very 
 small portion of the community at large. 
 The number of those who are wholly desti- 
 tute of the highest charm belonging to social 
 companionship, is lamentably great: and 
 these pages would never have been obtruded 
 upon the notice of the public, if there were 
 not strong symptoms of the number becom- 
 ing greater still. 
 
 Women have-the choice of many means 
 of bringing their principles into exercise, and 
 of obtaining influence, both in their own do- 
 mestic sphere, and in society at large. Among 
 the most important of these is conversation ; 
 an engine so powerful upon the minds and 
 characters of mankind in general, that beauty 
 fades before it, and wealth in comparison is 
 but as leaden coin. If match-making were 
 indeed the great object of human life, I 
 should scarcely dare to make this assertion, 
 since few men choose women for their con- 
 versation, Where wealth or beauty are to be 
 had. I must, however, think more nobly 
 of the female sex, and believe them more so- 
 licitous to maintain affection after the match 
 is made, than simply to be led to the altar, as 
 wives whose influence will that day be laid 
 aside with their wreaths of white roses, and 
 laid aside forever. 
 
 If beauty or wealth have been the bait in 
 this connection, the bride may gather up her 
 wreath of roses, and place them again upon 
 her polished brow ; nay, she may bestow the 
 treasures of her wealth without reserve, and 
 permit the husband of her choice to 
 
ee eR AEE CC IC TE LT 
 
 a 
 
 De ee 
 
 38 
 
 * spoil her goodly lands to gild his waste ;” 
 she may do what she will—dress, bloom, or 
 descend from affluence to poverty; but if 
 she has no intellectual hold upon her hus- 
 band’s heart, she must inevitably become 
 that most helpless and pitiable of earthly ob- 
 jects—a slighted wife. 
 
 Conversation, understood in its proper 
 character, as distinct from mere talk, might 
 rescue her from this. Not conversation up- 
 on books, if her husband happens to be a 
 fox-hunter ; nor upon fox-hunting, if he is a 
 book-worm ; but exactly that kind of conver- 
 
 , sation which is best adapted to his tastes and 
 habits, yet at the same time capable of lead- 
 ing him a little out of both into a wider field 
 of observation, and subjects he may never 
 
 | have derived amusement from before, simply 
 
 from the fact of their never having been pre- 
 sented to his notice. . 
 How pleasantly the evening hours may be 
 made to pass, when a woman who really can 
 converse, will thus beguile the time! But, on 
 the other hand, how wretched is the portion 
 of that man who dreads the dulness of his 
 own fireside—who sees the clog of his exist- 
 ence ever seated there—the same, in the 
 deadening influence she has upon his spirits, 
 to-day, as yesterday, to-morrow, and the next 
 day, and the next! Welcome, thrice wel- 
 come, is the often-invited visiter, who breaks 
 the dismal dual of this scene. 
 Married women are often spoken of in 
 high terms of commendation for their per- 
 sonal services, their handiwork, and their do- 
 mestic management; but I am inclined to 
 think that a married woman, possessing all 
 these, and even beauty too, yet wanting con- 
 
 | versation, might become “ weary, stale, flat, 
 
 and unprofitable,” in the estimation of her 
 husband ; and, finally, might drive him from 
 
 | his home by the leaden weight of her uncom- 
 | panionable society. 
 
 I know not whether other minds have felt | 
 
 | the same as mine under the pressure of some 
 
 | personal presence without fellowship of feel- 
 | ing. Innocent and harmless the individual 
 | may be who thus inflicts the grievance, yet 
 | there is an irksomeness in their mere bodily 
 
 CONVERSATION OF 
 
 presence almost intolerable to be borne ; and 
 in proportion to the estimate we form of real 
 society, and companionship, and sympathy 
 of feeling, is the dread we entertain of asso- 
 ciation with mere animal life in its human | 
 form, while nothing of this fellowship of feel- | 
 ing is experienced. | 
 
 There cannot, however, be a greater mis- | 
 take in the science of being agreeable, than 
 to suppose that conversation must be made | 
 a business of. Oh! the misery of being pit- 
 ted against a professional converser !—one | 
 who looks from side to side until a vacant | 
 ear is found, and commences a battery of | 
 declamation if you will not answer, and of | 
 argument if you will. Indeed, the immense | 
 variety of annoyances deducible from ill- | 
 
 managed conversation, are a sufficient proof | 
 
 of its importance in society; and any one | 
 disposed to dispute this fact, need only recall | 
 the many familiar instances of disappoint- 
 ment and chagrin which all who mix in any 
 manner with what is called the world, must 
 have experienced, from mistaken views of 
 what is agreeable in conversation. 
 
 It would be vain to attempt an enumera- | 
 tion of the different aspects under which this 
 peculiar kind of annoyance presents itself. 
 A few heads will be sufficient, under which 
 to range the different classes of injudicious 
 talkers. First, then, we naturatly think of 
 those who have obtained the conventional 
 appellation of bores, or, to describe them 
 more politely, the class of talkers whose 
 over-solicitude is proportioned to their diffi- 
 culty in obtaining patient hearers. These, 
 again, may be subdivided into endless varie- 
 ties, of which a few specimens will suffice. 
 Yet among all these, even the most inveter- 
 ate, may be found worthy individuals, whose 
 qualifications for imparting both instruction 
 and amusement are by no means contempti- 
 ble. 
 
 Entitled to distinction in the art of annoy- | 
 ance are the hobby-riders—those who not |} 
 only ride a favorite hobby themselves, but | 
 expect every one they meet with to mount | 
 and ride the same. Jt matters not whether | 
 their ruling subject be painting or politics, |; 
 
= , — 
 a Le 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | except that minds devoted to the fine arts 
 | have generally about them some delicacy as 
 | to the reception of their favorites, and are 
 | too shrinkingly alive to the slights it may re- 
 | ceive, to risk its introduction without some 
 | indication of a welcome. 
 | ceptions even to this rule, and nothing can 
 | be more wearisome to the uninitiated, or 
 | more unintelligible to the unpractised ear, 
 | than the jargon poured forth by an amateur 
 painter without regard to the tastes or the 
 
 Still there are ex- 
 
 understandings of those around him. 
 Perhaps his fellow-traveller is seated on 
 some gentle eminence, drinking in the deep 
 quiet of a summer’s evening, not merely 
 from sight, but sound, and blending all with 
 treasured memories of the past, in which no 
 stranger could intermeddle, when the painter 
 bursts upon him with his technicalities, and 
 the illusion is gone. He raves about the 
 breadth of the coloring. His companion sees 
 the long tall shadows of the trees reflected 
 on the sloping green, with the golden sunset 
 gleaming in between the stems, and through 
 the interstices of the foliage, and he knows 
 not where the poetry or even the truth of 
 this wonderful property of breadth can be. 
 The painter descants upon the bringing out 
 of the distant cottage from the wood. His 
 companion is of opinion it would be better to 
 let it remain where it is—half hid in the re- 
 tirement of the forest, and sending up, as it 
 seems, from the very bosom of the silent 
 shade, its wreath of curling smoke, to indi- 
 cate the social scene beneath its rustic roof, 
 prepared for by the lighting of the wood- 
 man’s fire. But the painter is not satisfied. 
 He calls upon his friend to observe the 
 grouping of the whole. He must have the 
 outline broken. The thing is done. His 
 sketch is exhibited in triumph, and he raves 
 on with accelerated delight; for he has cleft 
 the hills in twain, and placed a group of rob- 
 bers on the broken ground. Alas! how 
 should his companion believe or understand ! 
 His thoughts are expatiating upon that scene, 
 because its sloping hills, and cultivated fields, 
 and gardens and orchards and village church- 
 yard, are like the spot where he was born, 
 
 _— 
 
 and where his. father died ; and he sees no 
 mountain gorge, nor bandit chief; nor hears 
 the rush of torrents on the breeze; but his 
 eye dwells again upon the apple-tree in its 
 spring bloom, and the lambs upon the lea, 
 and his ear is open to the cooing of the wood- 
 pigeon on the chestnut boughs, and the sound 
 of voices—than all other sounds more sweet 
 —the voices that spoke kindly of his child. 
 hood. 
 
 It might be supposed that, if under any cir- 
 cumstances the society of a painter could be 
 always welcome, it would be among the vari- 
 ed scents of a picturesque tour. But even 
 here the mind has pictures of its own, and he 
 who is perpetually telling you what to see, 
 might as well force upon you at every view, 
 the use of his camera lucida, and neither al- 
 low you to gaze upon nature as you wish to 
 behold it, nor as it really is. 
 
 Women are, perhaps, less addicted than 
 men to annoy others with their pet subjects ; 
 because they have less opportunity of follow- 
 ing out any particular branch of art or study, 
 
 to the exclusion of others ; and politics, that | 
 
 most prevalent and unceasing absorbent of 
 conversation, is seldom a favorite theme with 
 
 them. They have, however, their houses and | 
 
 their servants, and, what is infinitely worse— 
 they have themselves. 
 Perhaps accustomed to a little private ad- 
 
 miration in a remote corner of the world, they | 
 
 obtain a false estimate of their own impor- 
 
 tance, and act as if they thought no subject so | 
 
 interesting as that which turns upon their own 
 experience, their own peculiarities, or even 
 their own faults. It does not always follow 
 that such women admire themselves so much 
 as the prevalence of self in their conversation 
 would at first lead us to suppose, for in expa- 
 tiating upon the good qualities of others, they 
 often exclaim—and why should we doubt 
 their sincerity ’—how much they wish they 
 were like the beings they extol! They will 
 even speak disparagingly of themselves, and 
 tell of their own faults without occasion ; but 
 even while they do this with an air of humil- 
 ity, they seldom fail to leave an impression on 
 
 39 | 
 
 the minds of their hearers, that in reality they | 
 
40 
 
 CONVERSATION OF 
 
 like their own faults better than the virtues 
 of others. 
 
 It is not of much consequence what is the 
 nature of the subject proposed to the attention 
 of this class of talkers. Ifthe weather: “It 
 does not agree with me, J like the wind from 
 the west.” If the politics of the country in 
 which they live : “ J have not given much at- 
 tention to politics, nor do I think that women 
 should.” If any moral quality in the abstract 
 is discussed: “ Oh, that is just my fault !” or, 
 “If I possess any virtue, I do think it is that.” 
 If an anecdote is related: “ That is like [or 
 not like] me. I should [or should not] have 
 done the same.” If the beauty of any distant 
 place is described: “J never was there, but 
 my uncle once was within ten miles of it: 
 and had it not been for the miscarriage of a 
 letter, 1 should have been his companion on 
 that journey. My uncle was always fond of 
 taking me with him. Dear good man, I was 
 a great pet of his.” If the lapse of time is 
 the subject of conversation : “ The character 
 undergoes many changes ina few years. I 
 wonder whether, or in what way, mine will 
 be altered two years hence.” If the moon: 
 “ How many people write sonnets to the 
 moon! J never did.” 
 
 And thus sun, moon, and stars—the whole 
 created universe—are but links in that con- 
 tinuous chain which vibrates with perpetual 
 music to the egotist, connecting all things in 
 heaven and earth, however discordant or 
 heterogeneous, by a perfect and harmonious 
 union with self. 
 
 A very slight degree of observation would 
 enable such individuals to perceive that as 
 soon as self is put in the place of any of the 
 subjects in question, conversation necessarily 
 flags, as this topic, to say the least of it, can- 
 not be familiar to both parties. On one side, 
 therefore, nothing further remains to be said ; 
 for, however lovely the egotist may be in her 
 own person, no man, or woman either, is pre- 
 pared to have her substituted for the world in 
 general, though it seems more than probable 
 that the individual herself might not object to 
 such a transposition. 
 
 Another class of annoying talkers, whose 
 
 claims to eminence in this line Iam in no way 
 disposed to contest, consists of the talkers of || 
 mere common-place—those who say nothing 
 but what we could have said ourselves, had 
 we deemed it worth our while, and who never 
 on any occasion, or by any chance, give ut- 
 terance toa new idea. Such people will talk. 
 They seem to consider it their especial duty to 
 talk, and no symptoms of inattention in their 
 hearers, no impatient answer nor averted ear, 
 nor even the interminable monotony of their 
 own prattle, has the power to hush them into 
 silence. If they fail in one thing, they try an- 
 other; but, unfortunately for them, there is a 
 transmuting medium in their own discourse, 
 that would turn to dust the golden opinions 
 of the wisest of men. 
 
 We naturally ask in what consists that ob- 
 jectionable common-place of which we com- 
 plain, since the tenor of their conversation is 
 not unlike the conversation of others. It is 
 in reality too like, too much composed of the 
 fillings-up of conversation in general. It has 
 nothing distinctive in it, and, like certain let- 
 ters we have seen, would answer the pur- 
 pose as well if addressed to one individual as 
 another. 
 
 The talker of common-place is always in- 
 terested in the weather, which forms an all- 
 sufficient resource when other subjects fail. 
 One would think, from the frequency with 
 which the individual remarks upon the rising of 
 clouds, and the falling of rain, she was perpet- 
 ually on the point of setting out on a journey. 
 But she treats the seasons with the same re- 
 spect, and loses no opportunity of telling the 
 farmer who is silently suffering from a wet 
 harvest, that the autumn has been unusually 
 unpropitious. If you cough, she hopes you 
 have not taken cold, but really colds are ex- 
 tremely prevalent. If you bring out your 
 work, she admires both your industry and 
 your taste, and assures you that rich colors 
 are well thrown off by a dark ground. Ifbooks 
 are the subject of conversation, she inquires 
 whether you have read one that has just had 
 a twelvemonth’s run of popularity. She 
 
 thinks that authors sometimes go a little too 
 far, but concludes, with what appears in her 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 41 
 
 opinion tobe a universal case, that much may | has been at a world of pains to make every- 
 
 be said on both sides. From books she pro- 
 ceeds to authors; expatiates upon the ima- 
 gination of Shakspeare, and the strength of 
 mind possessed by Hannah More; and de- 
 liberately inquires whether you do not agree 
 with her in her sentiments respecting both. 
 | Nay, so far does reality exceed imagination, 
 | that I once heard a very sweet and amiable 
 woman, whose desire to be at the same time 
 both edifying and agreeable, somewhat out- 
 | ran her originality of thought, exclaim, in one 
 | of those pauses incident to conversation— 
 | “What an excellent book the Bible is!” 
 | Now, there is no gainsaying such an asser- 
 | tion, and it is almost equally impossible to as- 
 sent. Conversation, therefore, always flags 
 | where common-place exists, because it elicits 
 
 nothing, touches no answering chord, nor con- 
 | veys any other idea than that of bare sound 
 to the ear of the reluctant listener. 
 
 Another and most prolific source of annoy- 
 ance is found among that class of persons 
 
 who choose to converse on subjects interest- 
 | ing to themselves, without regard to time, or 
 place, or general appropriateness. Whatever 
 they take up, either as their ruling topic, or 
 | as one of momentary interest, is forced upon 
 society, whether in season or out of season ; 
 | and they often feel surprised and mortified 
 | that their favorite subjects, in themselves not 
 unfrequently well chosen, are received by oth- 
 | ers withso cold a welcome. How many wor- 
 | thy individuals, whose minds are richly stored, 
 | and whose laudable desiré is to disseminate 
 useful knowledge, entirely defeat their own 
 ends by this want of adaptation; and many 
 whose conversation might be both amusing 
 and instructive, from this cause seldom meet 
 | with a patient hearer. 
 
 Old people are peculiarly liable to this er- 
 ror; and it would be well to provide against 
 the garrulity and wearisomeness of advanced 
 age, by cultivating such powers of discrimi- 
 nation as would enable us habitually to dis- 
 cover what is acceptable, or otherwise, in 
 
 conversation. 
 |. It occasionally happens that the "mistress of 
 | a house, the kind hospitable mistress, who 
 
 body comfortable, is the very last person at 
 the table, beside whom any of her guests 
 would desire to be placed ; because they know 
 that being once linked in with her intermina- |] 
 ble chain of prattle, they will have no chance | 
 of escape until the ladies rise to withdraw ; | 
 and there are few who would not prefer 
 quietly partaking of her soups and sauces, to 
 hearing them described. Women of this de- | 
 scription, having tired out everybody at home, 
 and taught every ear to turn away, are vora- 
 cious of attention when they can command 
 it, or even that appearance of it which the 
 visitor politely puts on. Charmed with the 
 novelty of her situation in having caught a 
 hearer, she makes the most of him. Warm- 
 ing with her subject, and describing still more 
 copiously, she looks into his face with an ex- | 
 pression bordering on ecstasy ; and were it 
 not that she considerately spares him the task 
 of a rejoinder, his situation would be as in- 
 tolerable as the common routine of table-talk 
 could make it. 
 
 In about the same class of agreeables with 
 this good lady, might be placed the profuse 
 teller of tales, whose natural flow of language 
 and fertility of ideas leads her so far away 
 from the original story, that neither the nar- 
 rator nor the listener would be able to answer 
 if suddenly inquired of—what the story was 
 about. This is a very common fault among 
 female talkers, whose versatility of mind and 
 sensibility of feeling, render them peculiarly 
 liable to be diverted from any definite object. 
 It is only wonderful that the same quickness 
 of apprehension does not teach them the im- 
 possibility of obtaining hearers on such terms. 
 
 Nor must we forget, among the abuses of 
 conversation, the random talkers,—those who 
 talk from impulse only, and rush upon you 
 with whatever happens to be uppermost in | 
 their own minds, or most pleasing to their | 
 fancy at the time, without waiting to ascer- | 
 tain whether the individual they address is | 
 sad or merry,—at liberty to listen, or pre-oc- 
 cupied with some weightier and more inter- | 
 esting subject. | 
 
 Whatever the topic of conversation, thus 
 
42 
 
 obtruded upon society, may be, it is evident 
 there must be a native obtuseness and vul- 
 garity in the mind of the individual who thus 
 offends, or she would wait before she spoke, 
 to tune her voice to some degree of harmony 
 with the feelings of those around her. 
 
 Thus far we have noticed only the trifling 
 abuses of conversation, and of such we have, 
 perhaps already, had more than enough; 
 though the catalogue might easily be contin- 
 ued through as many volumes as it occupies 
 pages here. There are other aspects more 
 serious, under which the abuse of conversa- 
 tion must be contemplated; and the first of 
 these is—as it relates to carelessness or design 
 in exercising its power to give pain. 
 
 It is difficult to conceive that a deliberate 
 desire to give pain could exist in any but the 
 most malignant bosom; but habitual want of 
 regard to what is painful to others, may easi- 
 ly be the cause of inflicting upon them real 
 misery. 
 
 We have all observed—perhaps some of 
 us felt, the sting of a taunting or an ill-timed 
 jest ; and never is the suffering it occasions, 
 or the effect it produces, so much to be re- 
 gretted, as when it wrings sharp tears from 
 the gentle eyes of childhood. Ye know not 
 what ye do, might well be said to those who 
 thus burn up the blossoms of youth, and send 
 back the fresh, warm current of feeling to stag- 
 nate at the heart. 
 
 It would be impossible, even if such were 
 our object, always to discover exactly when 
 we did give pain; but surely it would bea 
 study well worthy of a benevolent and en- 
 lightened mind, to ascertain the fact with as 
 much precision as we are capable of. What, 
 for instance, do we feel on being called upon to 
 sympathize with a young lady who is at the 
 same moment pointed out to as one whose fa- 
 ther a short time before had put an end to his 
 existence, when the recollection simultaneous- 
 ly flashes upon us, that during the whole of the 
 past evening, we engaged the attention of the 
 very same young lady with a detailed account 
 of the melancholy scenes we had sometimes 
 witnessed in an insane asylum? Yet, neither 
 the pain inflicted by such conversation is 
 
 CONVERSATION OF 
 
 greater, nor is its carelessness more culpable 
 in us, than is that of a large portion of the ill- 
 judged, random speeches we give utterance to 
 every day. 
 
 Nor is it in c@mmon conversation that care- 
 lessness of giving pain is felt so much, as in 
 the necessary duties of advising and finding 
 fault. Iam inclined to think no very agree- 
 able way of telling people of their faults has 
 ever yet been discovered ; but certainly there 
 is a difference, as great as that which sepa- 
 rates light from darkness, between reproof ju- 
 diciously and injudiciously administered. By 
 carelessness in not regulating our tones and 
 looks and manner when reproving others, we 
 may convey either too much or too little 
 meaning, and thus defeat our own purposes ; 
 we may even convey an impression the exact 
 opposite of that designed, and awaken feel- 
 ings of bitterness, revenge, and malignity in 
 the mind of the individual we are solicitous 
 to serve. 
 
 Let no one therefore presume to do good, 
 either by instruction or advice, unless they 
 have learned something of the human heart. 
 It may appear, on the first view of the sub- 
 ject, a difficult and arduous study, but it is 
 one that never can be begun too early or pur- 
 sued too long. It is one also, in the pursuit 
 of which women never need despair, as they 
 possess the universal key of sympathy, by | 
 which all hearts may be unlocked,—some, it 
 is true, with considerable difficulty, and some 
 but partially at last; yet, if the key be applied 
 by a delicate and skilful hand, there is little 
 doubt but some measure of success will re- | 
 ward the endeavor. ; 
 
 We have said before, and we again repeat, 
 it is scarcely possible to believe that beings 
 constituted as women are—kindly affectioned, 
 and tenderly susceptible of pain themselves— 
 should be capable of wantonly and designedly 
 inflicting. pain upon others. Nature revolts 
 from the thought. We look at the smile of 
 beauty, and exclaim, “Impossible!” We 
 pursue the benevolent visitant of the sick in 
 her errands of mercy, and say, “It cannot 
 be.” Yet, after all, we fear it must be charged 
 upon the female sex, that they do assist occa. ||. 
 
 re a tf 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 sionally in the circulation of petty scandal, and 
 that it is not always from carelessness that they 
 let slip the envenomed shaft, or speak dag- 
 gers where they dare not usethem. Nor are 
 the speakers alone to blame. The hearers 
 ought at least to participate, for if the habit 
 of depreciating character were discountenan- 
 ced in society, it would soon cease to exist, or 
 exist only in occasional attempts, to be defeat- 
 ed as soon as made. 
 
 Few women have the hardihood to confess 
 that they delight in this kind of conversation. 
 But let the experiment be made in mixed so- 
 ciety, of course not under the influence of 
 true religious feeling, though perhaps the 
 party might be such as would feel a little 
 scandalized at being told they were not. Let 
 a clever and sarcastic woman take the field, 
 not, professedly, to talk against her neighbors 
 on her own authority, but to throw in the 
 hearsay of the day, by way of spice to the 
 general conversation; giving to a public man 
 his private stigma—to an author his unsale- 
 able book—to the rich man his trading ances- 
 try—to the poor, his unquestionable impru- 
 dence—to the beau, his borrowed plumes— 
 and to the belle, her artificial bloom. We 
 grant that this mass of poisoning matter 
 thrown in at once, would be likely to offend 
 the taste. It must, therefore, be skilfully pro- 
 portioned, distributed with nice distinction, 
 and dressed up with care. Will there not 
 then be a large proportion of attentive listen- 
 ers gathered round the speaker, smiling a 
 ready assent to what they had themselves not 
 dared to utter, and nodding as if in silent recog- 
 nition of some fact they had previously been 
 made acquainted with in a more private way? 
 
 Now all this while there may be seated in 
 another part of the room, a person whose 
 sole business is to tell the good she knows, 
 believes, or has heard of others. She is not 
 a mere relater of facts, but equally talented, 
 shrewd, and discriminating with the opposite 
 party, only she is restricted to the detail of 
 what is good. I simply ask, for I wish not 
 to pursue the subject further, Which of these 
 talkers will be likely to obtain the largest 
 group of listeners ? 
 
 43 
 
 It is not, after all, by any consistent or de- 
 termined attack upon character, that so much 
 mischief is done, as by interlarding otherwise 
 agreeable conversation with the sly hope of 
 pretended charity—that certain things are 
 not as they have been reported; or the kind 
 wish that apparent merit was real, or might 
 last. | 
 
 English society is so happily constituted, 
 that women have little temptation to any 
 open vice. They must lose all respect for 
 themselves, before they would venture so far 
 to forget their respectability. But they have 
 temptations as powerful to them, as open 
 vice to others, and not the less so for being 
 insidious. Who would believe that the pas- 
 sions of envy, hatred, and revenge could lurk 
 within the gentle bosom over which those 
 folds of dove-colored drapery are falling? 
 The lady has been prevailed upon to sing for 
 the amusement of the company. Blushing 
 and hesitating, she is just about to be led to 
 the place of exhibition, when another move- 
 ment, in a distant part of the room, where 
 her own advance was not observed, has 
 placed upon the seat of honor, a younger, 
 and perhaps more lovely woman; and she 
 lays open the very piece of music which the 
 lady in the dove-like color had believed her- 
 self the only person present who could sing. 
 The musician charms the company. The 
 next day, our dove hears of nothing but this 
 exquisite performance ; and at last she is pro- 
 voked to say, “ No wonder she plays so well, 
 for I understand she does nothing else. Her 
 mamma was ill the other day with a dreadful 
 headache, and she played on, the whole after- 
 noon, because she was going to a party in 
 the evening, and wished to keep herself in 
 practice.” 
 
 Now, there is little in this single speech. 
 It is almost too trifling for remark ; but it 
 may serve as a specimen of thousands, which 
 are no determined falsehoods, nay, possibly, 
 no falsehoods at all, and yet originate in feel- 
 ings as diametrically opposed to Christian 
 meekness, love, and charity, as are the ma- 
 lignant passions. of envy, hatred, and re- 
 venge. 
 
44 CONVERSATION OF 
 
 I must again repeat, that I know the. evil 
 exists not in this individual act, but in the 
 state of the heart where it originates; yet I 
 write thus earnestly about seeming trifles, 
 because I believe few young persons are suf- 
 ficiently alive to their importance: because 
 I know that the minor morals of domestic 
 life exercise a vital influence over the well- 
 being of society; and because the peace of 
 whole families is sometimes destroyed by the 
 outward observance of religious duty not be- 
 ing supported by an equally strenuous ob- 
 servance of these delicate but essential points. 
 
 In studying the art, or rather the duty of 
 
 being agreeable—a duty which all kindly-— 
 | disposed persons will be anxious to observe— 
 it is of importance to inquire, from whence | 
 originate the errors here specified, with the 
 long catalogue that might follow in their 
 
 train? So far as they are confined to mis- 
 
 apprehension of what is really agreeable, they | 
 may be said to originate in the innate selfish- 
 ness of our nature gaining the mastery over 
 
 our judgment; beyond this, they originate in 
 the evil propensities of the human heart, 
 which when the influence of popular feeling 
 
 operates against their exhibition in any gross — 
 
 and palpable form, infuse themselves, as it 
 
 were, into the very current of our existence, 
 
 and poison all our secret springs of feeling. 
 In order to correct the former, it is neces- 
 
 sary that the judgment should be awakened. | 
 
 But as habits of selfishness, long indulged, 
 involve the understanding in a cloud too 
 dense to be altogether dispelled, it is the more 
 important that youth should be so trained as 
 to acquire habits of constant and unremitting 
 mental reference to the feelings and charac- 
 ters of others; so that a quickness of percep- 
 tion, almost like intuitive knowledge, shall 
 enable them to carry out the kindly purposes 
 they are taught to cherish, into the delicate 
 and minute affairs of life, and thus render 
 them the means not only of giving pleasure, 
 but of warding off pain. 
 
 It may appear a harsh conclusion to come 
 to, that the little errors of conversation to 
 which allusion has been made, and which 
 are often conspicuous in what are called good 
 
 sort of people, really owe their existence to 
 selfishness; but it should be remembered, 
 that to this assertion the writer is far from 
 adding, that those who act with more tact, 
 and avoid such errors, are necessarily free 
 from the same fault. There may be a refined |, 
 as well as a gross selfishness, and both may 
 be equal in their intensity and power. 
 
 But let us go back to the cases already 
 specified. If the artist were not habitually 
 more intent upon his own gratification than 
 upon that of his companions, he would keep 
 his hobby in the background, and allow him- 
 self time to perceive that the attention of his 
 companion was pre-occupied by subjects | 
 more agreeable to him. The same may cer- 
 tainly be said of the more common fault of 
 making se/f the ruling topic of conversation ; |{ 
 and this applies with equal truth to self-de- | 
 preciation as to self-praise. 
 
 The case is too clear and simple to need || 
 further argument. It must be the habit of | 
 acting from that first and most powerful im- | 
 pulse of our nature, and just pouring forth | 
 the fulness of our own hearts, discharging | 
 our own imagination of its load, and empty- |; 
 ing the storehouse of our own memory, with- 
 out regard to fitness or preparation in the 
 soil upon which the seed may fall, or the 
 harvest it is likely to produce, that renders | 
 conversation sometimes tasteless and vapid, | 
 and sometimes inexpressibly annoying. 
 
 The weightier responsibilities which attach | 
 to the talent of conversation, do not appear |} 
 to fall directly within the compass of a work | 
 expressly devoted to the morals of domestic | 
 life. It is, however, a fact of great import- 
 ance to establish, that a woman’s private con- | 
 versation—for in public they converse too | 
 much alike—is the surest evidence of her | 
 mind being imbued or not imbued with just | 
 and religious principles ; that where it is uni- 
 formly trifling, there can be no predominating | 
 desire to promote the interests of religion in | 
 the world; and where, on the other hand, it 
 is uniformly solemn and sedate, it is ill-calcu- 
 lated to recommend the course it would ad-— 
 vocate with effect; that where it abounds in 
 sarcasm, invective, and abuse, even of wha‘ is | 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 45 
 
 evil, it never emanates from a mind in per- 
 fect unison with what is good; and that 
 where it is always smooth, and sweet, and 
 
 ' complacent, it must be deficient in one of the 
 grand uses of conversation—its correction 
 and reproof: finally, that where it is carried 
 on in public or in private, without the least 
 desire to elicit truth, to correct mistakes in 
 relation or opinion, to establish principle, to 
 disseminate useful knowledge, to warn of’ 
 danger, or to perform that most difficult but 
 most important of all duties—to correct the 
 faults of friends—there must be something 
 wrong at the heart’s core, from whence this 
 waste of words is flowing: and sad will be 
 the final account, if, for each day of a length- 
 ened existence upon earth, this great engine 
 of moral good and evil has been thus per- 
 forming its fruitless labor—for time, without 
 an object; for eternity, without reward. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Ir may appear somewhat paradoxical to 
 commence a chapter on the uses of conver- 
 sation, by pointing out the uses of being silent; 
 yet such is the importance to a woman, of 
 knowing exactly when to cease from conver- 
 sation, and when to withhold it altogether, 
 that the silence of the female sex seems to 
 have become proverbially synonymous with 
 a degree of merit almost too great to be be- 
 lieved in asafact. There could be no agree- 
 able conversation carried on, if there were no 
 good listeners ; and from her position in socie- 
 ty, it is the peculiar province of a woman, 
 rather to lead others out into animated and 
 intelligent communication, than to be intent 
 upon making communications from the re- 
 sources of her own mind. 
 
 Besides this, there are times when men, 
 especially if they are of moody temperament, 
 are more offended, and annoyed by being 
 talked to, than they could be by the greatest 
 
 personal affront from the same quarter; and 
 a woman of taste will readily detect the for- 
 bidding frown, the close-shut lips, and the 
 averted eye, which indicate a determination 
 not to be drawn out. She will then find op- 
 portunity for the indulgence of those secret 
 trains of thought and feeling which naturally 
 arise in every human mind; and while she 
 plies her busy needle, and sists quietly mus- 
 ing by the side of her husband, her father, or 
 her brother, she may be adding fresh mate- 
 rials from the world of thought to that fund 
 of conversational amusement, which she is 
 ever ready to bring forward for their use. 
 
 By the art of conversation, therefore, as I 
 am about to treat the subject in the present 
 chapter, I would by no means be understood 
 to mean the mere act of talking, but that cul- 
 tivation and exercise of the conversational 
 powers which is most conducive to social 
 enjoyment, and most productive of beneficial 
 influence upon our fellow-creatures. 
 
 I have already asserted of conversation, 
 that it is a fruitful source of human happi- 
 ness and misery, a powerful engine of moral 
 good and evil, and few, 1 should suppose, 
 would deny the truth of this assertion. Yet, 
 notwithstanding the prevalence of this con- 
 viction, the art of conversation is seldom or 
 never cultivated as a branch of modern edu- 
 cation. It is true, the youthful mind is stim- 
 ulated into early and immature expansion ; 
 and the youthful memory is stored with facts, 
 but the young student, released from the 
 trammels of school discipline, is thrown upon 
 society in a state of total ignorance of the 
 means of imparting her knowledge so as to 
 render it available in raising the general tone 
 of conversation ; and the consequence most- 
 ly is, she is so engrossed by the new life into 
 which she is suddenly introduced, and so oc- 
 cupied in learning what must be acquired 
 before she can make any respectable figure 
 in what is called society, that she closes the 
 door upon the storehouse she has spent so 
 many years of her life in filling ; and finding 
 little use for the materials accumulated there, 
 is only known in after years to have hada 
 good education, by hearing her occasionally 
 
 a 
 a en 
 
 - AR RR A RR A A NS A A SE SS Gt RR 
 
| 46 
 
 CONVERSATION OF 
 
 exclaim—*I learned all about that at school, | 
 but have entirely forgotten it since.” 
 
 The English woman, whose peculiar part 
 it is to blend all that is productive of benefit 
 in her intellectual powers, with all that is 
 conducive to happiness in her affections, 
 would do well to give her attention as early 
 as possible to the uses of conversation; and 
 if a system could be formed for teaching 
 some of the simple rules of conversation as 
 an art, it would be found more advantageous 
 to women in their social capacity, than many 
 of the branches of learning which they now 
 spend years in acquiring. 
 
 To converse by rule has indeed a startling 
 sound, and few, we are apt to conclude, ona 
 slight consideration of the subject, would re- 
 commend themselves by such a_ process. 
 The same conclusion, however, is always 
 rushed upon by the young genius who first 
 begins to try her skill in the sister arts of 
 painting and poetry, yet, in proceeding, she 
 finds at every step, that there must bea rule, a 
 plan, a system, or that genius, with all her pro- 
 fusion of materials, willbe unable to form them 
 into such a whole as will afford pleasure even 
 to the most uninitiated. 
 
 I am aware I incur some risk of being 
 charged both with ignorance and enthusiasm, 
 when I express my belief that the art of con- 
 versation might in some measure be reduced 
 to a system taught in our schools, and render- 
 ed an important part of female education ; 
 but Tam not aware that my belief can be 
 proved to be ill-founded until the experiment 
 has been fairly tried. 
 
 Let an individual who has never heard of 
 botany go forth into one of our English mead- 
 ows in the month of June, and gaze upon 
 the luxuriance of flowers, and leaves, and 
 shooting stems, which there would meet his 
 eye. Tell him that all these distinct and sep- 
 arate plants have been classed, and resolved 
 into their appropriate orders, and he will ex- 
 claim, “ Impossible ! it cannot be.” 
 
 I must allow that the case is not, strictly 
 speaking, a similar one. There are difficul- 
 ties of no trifling magnitude in reducing the 
 faculties of the human mind to any thing 
 
 Se ra arn pn REnnnieenemeee ene =e ee 
 
 like order, and in laying down rules for the | 
 promotion of human happiness, except on the — 
 
 broad scale of moral philosophy. But let the 
 two cases be fairly tried, and I am still un- 
 convinced that the most apparently imprac- 
 ticable would not be attended with a measure 
 of success. 
 
 If we consider the number of books that 
 have been written on the subject of botany, 
 the number of lectures that have been deliv- 
 ered, the number of years it has been taught, 
 and the number of wise men who have made 
 it their chief study; and if in comparison 
 with a subject upon which such vast machi- 
 nery of mind has been brought to operate, 
 we do but mention that of Conversation, to 
 which no one entire volume has, perhaps, 
 ever yet been devoted, a smile of derision 
 will most probably be the only notice our ob- 
 servation will excite. 
 
 I would not be understood to speak lightly 
 of a knowledge of botany, or to depreciate 
 the value of any other science. All I would 
 maintain is this, that to know every thing that 
 can be known in art and nature, is of little 
 value to a woman, if she has not at the same 
 time learned to communicate her knowledge 
 in such a manner as to render it agreeable 
 and serviceable to others. | 
 
 A woman does not converse more agreea- |} 
 bly, because she is able to define botanically |} 
 the difference between a rose and a butter- | 
 cup, though it may be desirable to be able to | 
 
 do so when asked; but because she has a 
 quick insight into character, has tact to select 
 the subjects of conversation best suited to her 
 
 auditors, and to pursue them just so long as |} 
 
 they excite interest, and engage attention. 
 With regard to the art of conversation, 
 therefore, adaptation may be laid down as 
 the primary rule—vivacity, or rather fresh- 
 ness, the second—and the establishment of a 
 fact, or the deduction of a moral, the third. 
 Why should not the leisure hours at school 
 be filled up by the practice of these rules, 
 not only asa recreation, but as a pleasing art, 
 in which it would be much to the advantage 
 of every woman to excel? Why should not 
 the mistress of the school devote her time 
 
 | 
 
 ——— \ 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | occasionally to the exercise of this art in the 
 | midst of her pupils, who might by her win- 
 | ning manners be invited in their turn to prac- 
 
 tise upon her? And why should not some 
 | plan be invented for encouraging the same 
 exercise among the junior members of the 
 establishment? Each girl, for instance, might 
 be appointed for a day or a week, the con- 
 verser with, or entertainer of, one of her fel- 
 low-students, taking all in rotation ; so that 
 in their hours of leisure it should be her busi- 
 ness to devote herself to her companion, as 
 it is that of a host to a guest. A report 
 should then be given in at the expiration of 
 the day or week, by the girl whose part it 
 was to be conversed with, and by encourag- 
 ing her to state whether she has been annoy- 
 ed or interested, wearied or amused, in the 
 presence of her companion, who should in 
 her turn have the liberty of commending or 
 complaining of her as an attentive or inat- 
 tentive listener, a good or bad responder, 
 such habits of candor and sincerity would 
 be cultivated, as are of essential service in 
 the formation of the moral character. 
 
 The practice of this art, as here recom- 
 mended, would not necessarily be restricted 
 in its operation to any particular number. 
 Those who attained the greatest proficiency 
 might extend their conversational powers to 
 other members of the establishment; and 
 thus might be constituted little amicable socie- 
 ties, in which all the faculties most likely to 
 recommend the young students in their future 
 association with the world, would be called 
 into exercise, and rendered conducive to the 
 general good. 
 
 To the class of women chiefly referred to 
 in this work, it is perhaps most important 
 that they should be able to converse with in- 
 terest and effect. A large portion of their 
 time is spent in the useful labor of the needle, 
 an. occupation which of all others requires 
 something to vary its monotony, and render 
 less irksome its seemingly interminable dura- 
 tion; they are frequently employed in nursing 
 the sick, when appropriate and well-timed 
 conversation may occasionally beguile the 
 sufferer into forgetfulness of pain; and they 
 
 AT 
 
 are also much at home—at their humble, 
 quiet homes—where excitement from extra~ 
 neous causes seldom comes, and where, if 
 they are unacquainted with the art, and un- 
 initiated in the practice of conversation, their 
 days are indeed heavy, and their evenings 
 worse than dull. 
 
 The women of England are not only pe- 
 culiarly in need of ‘this delightful relaxation | 
 to blend with their daily cares; but, until the 
 late rapid increase of superficial refinement, 
 they were adapted, by their habits and mode 
 of. life, for cultivating their conversational 
 powers in a very high degree. Their time 
 was not occupied by the artificial embellish- 
 
 ments of polished life, they were thrown di- 
 
 rectly upon their own resources for substan- 
 tial comfort, and thus they acquired a founda- 
 tion of character which rendered their con- 
 versation sensible, original, and full of point. 
 It is greatly to be apprehended that the in- 
 creased facilities for imparting instruction in 
 the present day, have not produced a pro- 
 portionate increase in the facilities of con- 
 versing ; and it is well worthy the attention 
 of those who give their time and thoughts to 
 the invention of improved means of dissem- 
 inating knowledge, to inquire what is the best 
 method of doing this by conversation as. well 
 as_ by books. 
 
 It is not, however, strictly speaking, in 
 imparting a knowledge of general facts, that 
 the highest use of conversation consists. 
 General facts may be recorded in books, and 
 books may be circulated to the remotest range 
 of civilized society; but there are delicate 
 touches of feeling too evanescent to bear the | 
 impress of any tangible character ; there are 
 mental and spiritual appliances, that must 
 be immediate to be available; and who has 
 not known the time when they would have 
 given the wealth of worlds for the power to 
 unburden their full hearts before the moment 
 of acceptance should be gone, or the atten- 
 tive ear be closed for ever ? 
 
 The difficulty is seldom so great in know- 
 ing what ought to be said, as in knowing 
 how to speak, what mode of expression 
 would be most acceptable, or what turn the 
 
| 48 
 
 CONVERSATION OF 
 
 conversation ought to take, so as best to in- 
 troduce the point in question. 
 Nor is the management of the voice an 
 
 unimportant branch of this art. There are 
 
 never-to-be-forgotten tones, with which some . 
 
 cruel word has been accompanied, that have 
 impressed themselves upon every heart; 
 and there are also tones of kindness equally 
 indelible, which had, perhaps, more influence 
 at the time they were heard, than the lan- 
 guage they were employed to convey. “It 
 was not what she said, but the tone of voice 
 in which she spoke,” is the complaint of 
 many a wounded spirit; and welcome and 
 soothing to the listening ear is every tone 
 that tells of hope and gladness. 
 
 There is scarcely any source of enjoyment 
 more immediately connected at once with 
 the heart and with the mind, than that of 
 listening to a sensible and amiable woman 
 when she converses in a melodious and well- 
 regulated voice, when her language and pro- 
 nunciation are easy and correct, and when 
 she knows how to adapt her conversation to 
 the characters and habits of those around 
 her. 
 
 Women, considered in their distinct and 
 abstract nature, as isolated beings, must lose 
 more than half their worth. They are, in 
 fact, from their own constitution, and from 
 the station they occupy in the world, strictly 
 speaking, relative creatures. If, therefore, 
 they are endowed only with such faculties, 
 as render them striking and distinguished in 
 themselves, without the faculty of instru- 
 mentality, they are only as dead letters in 
 the volume of human life, filling what would 
 otherwise be a blank space, but doing nothing 
 more. 
 
 All the knowledge in the world, therefore, 
 without an easy and felicitous method of con- 
 veying it to others, would be but a profitless 
 possession to a woman; while a very infe- 
 rior portion of knowledge, with this method, 
 might render her an interesting and delight- 
 ful companion. 
 
 None need despair, then, if shut out by 
 homely avocations, by straitened means, or 
 by other unavoidable causes, from learning 
 
 es 
 
 all the lessons taught at school; for there 
 are lessons to be learned at home, around 
 the domestic hearth, and even in the ob- 
 scurity of rural life, perhaps of more im- 
 portance, in the summing-up of human hap- 
 piness. 
 
 One of the popular uses of conversation 
 is, to pass away time without being conscious 
 of its duration; and, unworthy as this object 
 unquestionably is, the fact that conversation 
 is employed more than any other means for 
 such a purpose, is a convincing proof of its 
 importance and its power. 
 
 It is so natural to converse, that one of the 
 severest punishments inflicted upon degraded 
 human nature, is that of being denied the 
 liberty of speech. How desirable is it, then, 
 that what is done every hour in all classes of 
 society, and under almost every variety of 
 circumstance, should be done for some good 
 purpose, and done in the best possible man- 
 ner ly 
 
 To converse well in company, is a point of 
 ambition with many women, and few are in- 
 sensible to the homage paid by the most sin- 
 cere of all flatterers—a group of attentive 
 listeners. So far as this talent enables a wo- 
 man of elevated mind to give a higher tone 
 to conversation in general, it is indeed a val- 
 uable gift; but that of being able to converse 
 in an agreeable and appropriate manner in a 
 sick-room, with an aged parent or distressed 
 relative, or with a friend in delicate and try- 
 ing circumstances, is a gift of far higher and 
 more ennobling character. 
 
 I have already remarked, that attendance | 
 upon the sick is one of the most frequent and 
 familiar, at the same time that it is one of the 
 most sacred, of the duties devolving upon 
 the class of women here described. It is 
 much to be able, gently and skilfully, to 
 smooth the pillow for the aching head, to ad- 
 minister the cordial draught, to guide the fee- 
 ble steps, and to watch through the sleepless 
 and protracted hours of night. But these are 
 services rendered only to the suffering body. 
 The mind—the unextinguishable mind, may 
 all the while be sorely in need of the oil with 
 which its waning lamp should still be trim- 
 
Y Vi: LH. 
 
 ye Me 
 
 7 
 
 Mh. 
 
 Z 
 
 Md. 
 
 4 
 oA 
 
 a WH Lb 
 
 # 
 
 os 
 ne 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 med. And how shall this be administered ? 
 The practised nurses hired for the occasion 
 make rude and ill-advised attempts to raise 
 the drooping spirits of the patient by their 
 vulgar pleasantry ; books are too wearisome, 
 and tell only of far-off and by-gone things, 
 when the whcle interest of the sufferer is 
 concentrated into the present moment, and 
 fixed upon himeelf. | 
 
 It happens more frequently and more hap- 
 pily among the middle classes in England, 
 that nurses and domestics cannot well be 
 hired, and that the chief attention required 
 by the patient devolves upon the females of 
 the family. How differently in this case is 
 the sufferer dealt with! There is no appear- 
 ance of coming in expressly to converse with 
 him; but while a gentle and kind-hearted 
 woman steals with noiseless tread about the 
 room, arranging every article of comfort, and 
 giving to the whole apartment an air of re- 
 freshment or repose, she is watching every 
 indication of an opening for conversation, 
 that may beguile the lingering hours of their 
 tediousness, and lead the sufferer to forget 
 his pain. There are moments, even in sea- 
 sons of sickness, when a little well-timed 
 pleasantry is far from being unacceptable. 
 She watches for these, and turns them to ac- 
 count, by going just so far in her playfulness, 
 as the exhausted frame can bear without in- 
 jury. «When sympathy is called for, as it is 
 on such occasions almost unceasingly, she 
 yields it freely and fully, though not to any 
 prolonged extent, as regards the case imme- 
 diately under her care; but continuing the 
 same tone and manner, and with evidently 
 the same feeling, she speaks of other cases of 
 suffering, of some friend or neighbor; and 
 the more recent and immediate the instances, 
 the more likely they will be to divert the 
 mind of the patient from himself. These, of 
 course, are not breught forward with any 
 thing like a taunting insinuation that the pa- 
 tient is not worse than others, but simply as 
 if her own mind was full of the impression 
 they are calulated to excite; and by these 
 means, suiting her voice and her counte- 
 nance to the facts she is relating, she invests 
 
 49 
 
 them with an interest which even to the sel- 
 fish invalid is irresistible. 
 
 Varying with every change in the temper 
 and mood of the patient, her conversation 
 assumes every variety that is calculated to 
 please, always subdued and kept under by 
 such delicate touches of feeling, such intense 
 watchfuiness, and such lively sensibility, that 
 the faintest shadow cannot pass across the 
 aching brow, nor the slightest indication of a 
 smile across the lips, but it serves as an in- 
 dex for her either to change the subject of 
 her discourse, to be silent or to proceed. 
 There is along with all this a kindness in her 
 voice which no pen was ever so eloquent as 
 to describe ; and there are moments of ap- 
 pealing weakness on the part of the invalid,. 
 when she pours forth the full tide of her af- 
 fection in language that prosperity and health 
 would never have taught her how to use. 
 
 Beyond these seasons of intercourse, how- 
 ever, and of far deeper value, are those in 
 which the burdened soul of him who feels 
 
 himself to be fast hastening to the confines 
 
 of eternity, will sometimes seek a human ear 
 for the utterance of its anxieties and fears, 
 and appeal to a human heart for counsel in 
 its hours of need. It may be that the indi- 
 vidual has never been accustomed to con- 
 verse on these subjects—knows not how to 
 begin—and is ashamed to condemn, as he 
 feels that he must do, the whole of his past 
 life. Who then, but the friend who has been 
 near him in all his recent humiliations and 
 trials, who has shared them both to her very 
 utmost, and thus obtained his confidence,— 
 who but his patient and untiring nurse can 
 mark and understand the struggle of his 
 feelings, and lead them forth by partial an- 
 ticipations, so gently that he is neither pained 
 nor humbled by the whole confession. 
 Perchance it is at the hour of midnight, 
 when fever gives him strength, and darkness 
 hides his countenance, and he hears the 
 sweet tones of that encouraging voice now 
 modulated to the expression of a sympathy 
 the most intense, and a love that. many wa- 
 ters could not quench. There is no surprise 
 in her rejoinder, when at last his lips have 
 
spoken what he could not utter by the light 
 of day, but a few simple words, more like 
 those of recognition of what she had known 
 before, and of what it is the lot of many to 
 experience ; and then, if ever, is the golden 
 moment when the power to speak without 
 wounding, and yet to speak home, is indeed 
 an inestimable gift. 
 
 It is true that suitable and salutary words 
 might be written out for some such occa- 
 sion; but so differently constituted are hu- 
 man minds, that the same words would 
 scarcely prove suitable and salutary to any 
 two individuals, out of the countless myriads 
 who throng the peopled earth. 
 
 Nor is the chamber of sickness the only 
 situation in which the power of conversing 
 easily and appropriately is of inestimable 
 value. There are other cases of trial, of 
 suffering, and of anxious solicitude, in which 
 the mind would prey upon itself, even to the 
 injury of the bodily frame, if not diverted 
 from its object, and beguiled by pleasant con- 
 versation. 
 
 In seasons of protracted endurance, when 
 some anticipated crisis, of immeasurable good 
 or evil, comes not at the expected time, and 
 every fresh disappointment only adds to the 
 feverish restlessness which no human consti- 
 tution is strong enough to sustain unharmed ; 
 what amusement could be devised for such a 
 time, at all comparable to interesting and ju- 
 dicious conversation, gently touching upon 
 the exciting theme, and then leading off by 
 some of those innumerable channels which 
 woman’s ingenuity is so quick to discover, 
 and so apt to make use of for purposes of 
 generosity and kindness? 
 
 There are fireside scenes, too, of frequent 
 and familiar occurrence, in which this femi- 
 nine faculty may be rendered more service- 
 able than all other accomplishments—scenes 
 that derive no sadness from acute or lively 
 suffering, but are yet characterized by an in- 
 expressible kind of melancholy, arising from 
 the moodiness of man, or the perverseness 
 of woman, or, perhaps, from a combination 
 of domestic disagreeables attaching to every 
 member of the family, and forming over their 
 
 50 CONVERSATION OF 
 
 better feelings a sort of incrustation, that must 
 be dissolved or broken through before any 
 thing like cheerfulness can shine forth. 
 
 There is, perhaps, more real sadness aris- 
 ing from causes like this, than from the more 
 definite misfortunes with which we are visit- 
 ed; and not sadness only, but a kind of re- 
 sentment bordering on secret malignity, as if 
 each member of the family had poisoned the 
 happiness of the others; and looks are di- 
 rected askance, books are opened, and their 
 leaves are methodically folded over; and yet 
 the long dull evening will not wear away. 
 
 How like a ministering angel then is the |, 
 woman, who, looking off from her work, di- 
 rects her conversation to that member of the 
 family who appears most accessible, and 
 having gained his attention, gives the sub- 
 ject such a turn as to draw the attention of 
 another, and perhaps a third, until all at last, 
 without being aware of it, have joined in con- 
 versing on the same topic, and the close of 
 the evening finds them mutually agreeable to 
 each other. On such occasions, it is by no 
 means an insignificant attainment to be able 
 to awaken a laugh; for if two or three can 
 be brought to laugh together, the incrustation 
 is effectually broken, and they will be good 
 friends without further effort. 
 
 I know it would be fruitless to lay down 
 any minute and specific rules for conversa- 
 tion, because none could be acted upon safely 
 without strict reference to the object upon 
 which they might be brought to bear. Yet || 
 it may be said to be a rule almost without 
 exception, that all persons are pleased to be 
 talked about themselves, their own affairs, 
 and their own connections, provided only it 
 is done with judgment, delicacy and tact. 
 When all other topics have been tried with- 
 out effect, this will seldom be found to fail. 
 Not, certainly, pursued upon what is de- 
 scribed as the American plan, of decided in- 
 quisitiveness, but by remote allusions, and 
 frequent recurrence to what has already been 
 drawn forth, making it the foundation for 
 greater confidence, and more definite com- 
 munication. 
 
 That species of universal politeness, which 
 
THE WOMEN 
 
 prompts inquiry after the relations of the 
 stranger or the guest, appears to be founded 
 upon this principle, occurring, as it so fre- 
 quently does, where there can be no possible 
 interest on the part of the inquirer. 
 
 It is not, however, for the purpose of pre- 
 tending to that which does not really exist, 
 that conversation can be recommended as an 
 art, but simply for facilitating the, expression 
 of feelings which could not be so well ex- 
 plained by a more direct assurance of their 
 nature and existence. 
 
 When a stranger from a distance—perhaps 
 an orphan, or one who is compelled by ad- 
 verse circumstances to seek the means of 
 pecuniary support—comes to take up her 
 abode in a family, no member of which she 
 has ever seen before, by what means can the 
 mother or the mistress of it make her feel 
 that she is at home? She may tell her in 
 plain words that she is disposed to make her 
 comfortable, but it will touch with infinitely 
 more force the heart of the stranger, if, with 
 
 ; a countenance of kindly interest, she makes 
 
 frequent and delicate mention of her friends, 
 of her brothers or sisters, or other near rela- 
 tions, or even of the part of the world in 
 which she has been accustomed to reside. 
 This kind of mention, frequently bestowed 
 with gentleness, and evident regard to the 
 facts it elicits or the confidence it draws forth, 
 will be much more effectual in gaining the 
 desired end, than the warmest expressions of 
 affectionate solicitude for the stranger herself. 
 
 I know \that conversation, simply studied 
 as an art, without right motives for its exer- 
 cise, will be found of little benefit, either to 
 society, or to the individuals who practise it. 
 All I would maintain is, that it may be made 
 the medium of conferring happiness—the in- 
 strument of doing good—and that to a great- 
 er extent than any other accomplishment in 
 which woman can excel. For want of facility 
 in speaking appropriately, how much good 
 feeling is lost to the world, buried in the bo- 
 som where it originates, and where it be- 
 comes a burden and a load, from the very 
 consciousness of inability to make it under- 
 stood and felt! 
 
 OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ol 
 
 How often do we hear the bitterest lamen- 
 tations to this effect—“If I could but have 
 told her what I felt—if I could but have ad- 
 dressed her appropriately at the time—if I 
 had but known how to make the conversa- 
 tion lead to the point ; but now the time has 
 passed, and I may never have so suitable an 
 opportunity again.” 
 
 Besides the cases already described, there 
 are some darker passages in human life, 
 when women are thrown upon the actual 
 charm of their conversation, for rendering 
 more alluring the home that is not valued as 
 it should be. Perhapsa husband has learned 
 before his marriage the fatal habit of seeking 
 recreation in_scenes of excitement and con- 
 vivial mirth. It is but natural that such 
 habits should with difficulty be broken off, 
 and that he should look with something like 
 weariness upon the quiet and monotony of 
 his own fireside. Music cannot always 
 please, and books to such a man are a taste- 
 less substitute for the evening party. He 
 may possibly admire his wife, consider her 
 extremely good-looking, and, for a woman, 
 think her very pleasant; but the sobriety of 
 matrimony palls upon his vitiated taste, and 
 he longs to feel himself a free man again 
 among his old associates. 
 
 Nothing would disgust this man so much, 
 or drive him away so effectually, as any as- | 
 sumption on the part of his wife, of a right 
 to detain him. The next most injudicious 
 thing she could do, would be to exhibit symp- 
 toms of grief—of real sorrow and distress at 
 his leaving her; for whatever may be said in 
 novels on the subject of beauty in tears, 
 seems to be rendered null and void by the 
 
 circumstance of marriage having taken place 
 
 between the parties. 
 
 The rational woman, whose conversation 
 on this occasion is to serve her purpose more 
 effectually than tears, knows better than to 
 speak of what her husband would probably 
 consider a most unreasonable subject of com- 
 plaint. She tries to recollect some incident, 
 
 some trait of character, or some anecdote of 
 what has lately occurred within her know- 
 ledge, and relates it in her most lively and 
 
| CONVERSATION OF 
 
 If conscious of beauty, she 
 
 piquant manner. 
 tries a little raillery, and plays gently upon 
 some of her husband’s not unpleasing pecu- 
 liarities, looking all the while as disengaged 
 
 and unsuspecting as she can. If his atten- 
 tion becomes fixed, she gives her conversa- 
 tion a more serious turn, and plunges at once 
 into some theme of deep and absorbing in- 
 terest. If her companion grows restless, she 
 changes the subject, and again recollects 
 something laughable to relate to him. Yet 
 all the while her own poor heart is aching 
 with the feverish anxiety that vacillates be- 
 tween the extremes of hope and fear. She 
 gains courage, however, as time steals on, for 
 her husband is by her side; and with her 
 increasing courage her spirits become exhila- 
 rated, and she is indeed the happy woman 
 she has hitherto but appeared—for at last 
 her husband looks at his watch, is astonished 
 to find it is too late to join his friends, and, 
 while the evening closes in, he wonders 
 whether any other man has a wife so de- 
 lightful and entertaining as his own. 
 
 Again, there is a class of beings, unfortu- 
 nately for themselves, not always welcomed 
 into good society, and yet severely blamed 
 for seeking bad—a nondescript species of 
 humanity, not properly called boys nor worth- 
 ily called men, who are, above all other crea- 
 tures, the most difficult to converse with. 
 They seem, in fact, to be discarded from so- 
 ciety; for old women are afraid of them, 
 while young ones pronounce them bores,— 
 and old men seem uniformly inclined to put 
 them down, while young ones do little to 
 raise them up. Yet in these very individu- 
 als, during this season of incipient manhood, 
 the character of the future statesman or citi- 
 zen, father or friend, is undergoing the pro- 
 cess of formation ; and all the while, the step 
 that owes half its fleetness to the hope of 
 leaving care and sorrow in the distance, 
 
 bounds on with triumphant recklessness, be- 
 
 cause there is no friendly voice to arrest its 
 progress or direct its course. 
 Who takes the trouble to converse with a 
 
 | youth of this description, for we confess it is 
 a trouble, except where. personal affection | tempt to make a figure in it if she did. Her 
 
 prompts the act? Is there not one who will 
 kindly endeavor to make the young heart 
 confess itself,—for a heart there must be un- 
 der all this rude and turbulent exterior? 
 Yes, there is one. The reckless boy, after 
 receiving a thousand insults—after having 
 been elbowed off by one, pushed away bya 
 second, and made game of by a third, comes 
 home to his mother, and finds that his own 
 fireside is indeed the happiest place on earth 
 to him. His mother does what no one else 
 will condescend to do: she converses with 
 him—she treats him like a rational being. 
 Interested in his amusements because they 
 are his, she talks to him about his sports, his 
 companions, and all the minutie that fill up 
 his daily life, anticipating all the while such 
 feelings and sentiments as she believes him 
 to possess, or at least gives him credit for, 
 and thus leads. him to confess; while the 
 boy, feeling within himself the dawning of a 
 brighter epoch in his existence, the stirring 
 up of half-formed thoughts ahout to be ma- 
 tured, is happy and grateful to be thus en- 
 couraged to speak freely, and to be his better 
 self. 
 
 Of evenings spent in this manner, who 
 shall estimate the value, remembered as they 
 often are in after life, and blended as they 
 safely may be with that portion of self-re- 
 spect which is always found to support the 
 persevering, the upright, and the truly great? 
 
 The cases already mentioned, serve but as 
 specimens of the mass of evidence that might 
 be brought forward in favor of the utility of 
 conversation judiciously carried on: what, 
 then, must be said of the responsibility of 
 those who possess this talent in its highest 
 perfection, and either neglect to use it for any 
 laudable purpose, or devote it to a bad one? 
 
 It seems to be too much the opinion of 
 people in general, that agreeable conversa- 
 tion, like many other agreeable things, is only 
 to be used for the benefit of guests and 
 strangers. The truly English, domestic, and 
 fireside companion has a higher estimate of 
 this talent. She knows little of what is called 
 the world, and would be too diffident to at- 
 
 © 
 
 ———— 
 = f 
 
 = 
 
world is her home; and here, on days of la- 
 
 | borious duty, as well as on days of pleasure, 
 
 —when the family circle are met around 
 
 their homely hearth, as well as when the dis- 
 
 tinguished guest is with them—it is her chief 
 
 delight to beguile what might otherwise be to 
 
 them heavy hours, with cheerful conversa- 
 
 tion. It is to her parents, her husband, her 
 
 brothers, and her sisters, as well as to her in- 
 
 timate friends, that she is the entertaining 
 
 and instructive companion, adapting herself 
 
 to their different moods and temperaments, 
 
 leading forth their thoughts beyond them- 
 
 | selves, and raising them above the sordid 
 
 and vexatious cares of every-day existence, 
 
 until her voice becomes the music of her 
 
 home, and her presence the charm that unites 
 
 the different members of her household in a 
 sacred bond of fellowship and peace. 
 
 The power of conversing well, presents a 
 great temptation to a vain woman to use it 
 for the gratification of her self-complacency. 
 As there are few of the minor circumstances 
 of life more mortifying than to find, that 
 when you speak, no one listens to the end 
 of your story or remark ; so there is no kind 
 of flattery more irresistible than to find that 
 your conversation gathers hearers, more and 
 more; and women are but too quick to de- 
 tect the interest they excite depicted upon 
 every face. 
 
 There is, however, a wide difference be- 
 tween the moral state of the woman who 
 converses well in company, solely for the 
 sake of obtaining admiration, and of her who 
 converses well for the sake of making the 
 time pass pleasantly or profitably to others. 
 The former will be sure to be found among 
 the gentlemen, especially if she be pleasing in 
 her appearance, and she will have wholly 
 
 overlooked the neglected or insignificant in- 
 dividuals of her own sex, who may happen 
 to have been present. The other will have 
 sought out the silent stranger—the poor rela- 
 tion—the plain woman—and all the most in- 
 significant or unnoticed persons in the party. 
 Especially she will have devoted herself to 
 her own sex, and afforded to the company 
 
 that rare, but noble illustration of female be- 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 53 
 
 nevolence—a fascinating Woman in company 
 choosing to make herself agreeable to women. 
 
 If any action arising from vanity could be 
 either commendable or great, I am disposed 
 to think it would be so, for a woman to show 
 that she could afford to tear herself away 
 from. the attentions of men, and devote her 
 powers of pleasing to her own sex. The 
 woman we have described, however, has 
 feelings of a higher order. Her object is to 
 use every gift she possesses for the happiness 
 or the benefit of her fellow-creatures, and 
 her benevolence prompts her to seek out 
 those who are most in need of kindness and 
 consideration. Forgetful of herself, she re- 
 gards her ability to please as one of the tal- 
 ents committed to her trust, for the employ- 
 ment of which she must render an account 
 at that awful tribunal where no selfish plea 
 will be admitted. And thus she cultivates 
 the art of conversation for the sake of in- 
 
 creasing her usefulness, of consoling the dis- 
 
 tressed, of instructing the ignorant, and of 
 beguiling of half their heaviness the neces- 
 sary cares of life. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS,—CONSIDERATION AND KIND- 
 NESS. 
 
 On entering upon the subject of the do- 
 mestic habits of the women of England, I 
 feel the necessity of bearing in mind that all 
 individuals in the middle class of society, 
 and even all who are connected with trade, 
 are by no means under the same obligations 
 to regard their own personal exertions asa 
 duty. So far from this, there are unques- 
 tionably many in this class who would be 
 entirely out of their province, were they to 
 engage in the manual occupations of their 
 families and households. The possession of 
 wealth has placed them, in these respects, on 
 the same footing with the nobility, and they 
 have, without doubt, an equal right to enjoy 
 the luxuries which wealth can procure. I 
 
54 
 
 am, however, no less convinced that the ab- 
 sence of all necessity for personal exertion is 
 a disadvantage to them, and that their hap- 
 piness would be increased, if their situations 
 in life were such as to present more impera- 
 tive claims upon their individual services. 
 
 The virtue of considerateness refers strictly 
 to the characters and circumstances of those 
 around us. From the mistress of half a dozen 
 servants, therefore, the same kind of consid- 
 eration can never be required, as from the 
 mistress of one: nor can the lady of a man- 
 sion, even though her husband should be en- 
 gaged in trade, feel herself called to the same 
 duties as the farmer’s wife. 
 
 The considerateness I shall attempt to de- 
 fine is one of the highest recommendations 
 the female character can possess ; because it 
 combines an habitual examination of our own 
 situation and responsibilities, with a quick 
 discernment of the character and feelings of 
 those around us, and a benevolent desire to 
 afford them as much pleasure, and spare 
 them as much pain, as we can. A consider- 
 ate woman therefore, whether surrounded 
 by all appliances and means of personal en- 
 joyment, or depending upon the use of her 
 own hands for the daily comforts of life, will 
 look around her, and consider what is due to 
 those whom Providence has placed within 
 the sphere of her influence. 
 
 The man who voluntarily undertakes a 
 difficult and responsible business, first in- 
 quires how it is to be conducted so as best 
 to ensure success: so the serious and 
 thoughtful woman, on entering upon the du- 
 ties of domestic life, ascertains, by reflection 
 and observation, in what manner they may 
 be performed so as to render them most con- 
 ducive to the great end she has in view, the 
 promotion of the happiness of others; and 
 as the man engaged in business does not run 
 hither and thither, simply to make a show of 
 alacrity, neither does the woman engaged in 
 a higher and more important work, allow 
 herself to be satisfied with her own willing- 
 | ness to do her duty without a diligent and 
 persevering investigation of what are the 
 most effectual means by which it can be done. 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 Me ssh ei hs ake acetate a eS 
 
 Women arealmost universally admonished 
 of their duties in general terms, and hence 
 they labor under great disadvautages. They 
 are told to be virtuous; and in order to be 
 so, they are advised to be kind and modest, 
 orderly and discreet. But few teachers, and 
 fewer writers, condescend to take up the mi- 
 nutie of every-day existence, so far as to ex- 
 plain in what distinct and individual actions 
 such kindness, modesty, order, and discretion 
 consist. Indeed, the cases themselves upon 
 which these principles of right conduct are 
 generally brought to. bear, are so minute, and 
 so apparently insignificant, that the writer 
 who takes up this subject must not only be 
 content to sacrifice all the dignity of author- 
 ship, but must submit occasionally to a smile 
 of contempt for having filled a book with 
 trifles. 
 
 In order, however, to ascertain the real im- 
 portance of any point of merit, we should take 
 into consideration its direct opposite. We 
 never know the value of true kindness, so 
 much as when contrasted with unkindness ; 
 and lest any one should think lightly of the 
 virtue of consideration as a moral faculty, let 
 us turn our attention to the character and 
 habits of a woman who is without it. Such 
 are not difficult to find, and we find them often 
 in the lovely, and the seemingly amiable crea- 
 tures of impulse, who rush about, with the 
 impetus of the moment operating as their 
 plea, uncontrollable affection their excuse, and 
 selfishness, unknown to them, the moving 
 spring at the bottom of their hearts. ‘These 
 individuals believe themselves to be so entirely 
 governed by amiable feelings, that they not 
 unfrequently boast of being kind—nay, too, 
 
 kind-hearted: but upon whom does their 
 
 kindness tell, except upon themselves? It is 
 true, they feel the impulse to be kind, and 
 this impulse they gratify by allowing it to 
 operate in any way that circumstances, or 
 their own caprice, may point out. Yet, after 
 all, how often is their kindness, for want of 
 consideration, rendered wholly unavailable 
 towards the promotion of any laudable or 
 useful purpose ! 
 
 Nor is this all. Want of consideration is, 
 
THE WOMEN 
 
 often the occasion of absolute pain: and those 
 who, because they deem it a recommendation 
 to act from the impulse of the moment, will 
 not take the trouble to reflect, are always, in a 
 greater or less degree, liable to inflict misery 
 upon others. 
 
 I remember walking home on a beautiful 
 summer’s evening, with one of these lovely 
 and impetuous creatures, who was then just 
 entering upon all the rights and privileges of 
 a belle, and, to my great surprise, observing 
 
 | that she trod indiscriminately upon all the 
 
 creeping things which the damp and the dew 
 had tempted forth in our path, I remonstra- 
 ted with her, of course; but she turned to me 
 with her bewitching air of naivete, and said— 
 
 | “And pray, why may I not tread upon the 
 |} snails ?’—Further remonstrance was unne- 
 
 cessary, for the mind which had attained ma- 
 
 | turity without feeling enough to prevent this 
 | reckless and disgusting waste of life, must of 
 
 “necessity have been impervious to reason. 
 
 And thus it is with considerateness in gen- 
 eral. If the season of youth glides over be- 
 fore habits of consideration are acquired, they 
 will come tardily, and with little grace, in 
 after life. Want of consideration for those of 
 our fellow-creatures whose love is of import- 
 ance to us, is not, however, a subject upon 
 which we have so much cause for complaint. 
 It is towards those to whom we are connect- 
 ed by social ties, without affection—and under 
 
 | this head, the situation of our servants and 
 
 domestics claims the greatest care. 
 
 Servants are generally looked upon, by 
 thoughtless young ladies, as a sort of house- 
 hold machinery, and when that machinery is 
 of sufficient extent to operate upon every 
 
 . branch of the establishment, there can be no 
 
 reason why it should not be brought into ex- 
 ercise, and kept in motion to any extent that 
 may not be injurious. This machinery, how- 
 ever, is composed of individuals possessing 
 hearts as susceptible of certain kinds of feel- 
 ing, as those of the more privileged beings to 
 whose comfort and convenience it is their 
 daily business to minister. They know and 
 feel that their lot in this world is compara- 
 
 | tively hard: and if they are happily free from 
 
 OF ENGLAND. 
 
 —_—_— Orme — 
 
 all presumptuous questionings of the wisdom 
 and justice of Providence in placing them 
 where they are, they are alive to the convic- 
 tion that the burden of each day is suffi- 
 cient, and often more than sufficient for their 
 strength. 
 
 In speaking of the obligation we are under 
 to our domestics for their faithful services, it 
 is no uncommon thing to be answered by this 
 unmeaning remark; “They are well paid for 
 what they do:” as if the bare fact of receiv- 
 ing food and clothing for their daily labor, 
 placed them on the same footing with regard 
 to comfort, as those who receive their food 
 and clothing for doing nothing. 
 
 There is also another point of view in which 
 this class of our fellow-creatures is very un- 
 fairly judged. Servants are required to have 
 no faults. Itis by no means uncommon to 
 find the mistress of a family, who has enjoy- 
 ed all the advantages of moral and even re- 
 ligious education, allowing herself to exhibit 
 the most unqualified excess of indignation at 
 the petty faults of a servant, who has never 
 enjoyed either ; and to hear her speak as if 
 she was injured, imposed upon, insulted be- 
 fore her family, because the servant, who was 
 
 engaged to work for her, had been betrayed > 
 
 into impertinence by a system of reproof as 
 much at variance with Christian meekness, 
 as the retort it was so well calculated to pro- 
 voke. 
 
 Women of such habits, would perhaps be 
 a little surprised, if told, that when a lady de- 
 scends from her own proper station, to speak 
 in an irritating or injurious manner to a ser- 
 vant, she is herself guilty of impertinence, and 
 that no domestic of honest and upright spirit 
 will feel that such treatment ought to be sub- 
 mitted to. 
 
 On the other hand, there is a degree of 
 kindness blended with dignity, which servants, 
 who are not absolutely depraved, are able to 
 appreciate ; and the slight effort required to 
 obtain their confidence, is almost invariably 
 repaid by a double share of affectionate and 
 faithful service. 
 
 The situation of living unloved by their do- 
 mestics is one which I should hope there are 
 
 lige 
 
a 
 56 
 
 ee 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 few women capable of enduring with indiffer- 
 ence. ‘The cold attentions rendered without 
 affection, and curtailed by every allowable 
 means, the short unqualified reply to every 
 question, the averted look, the privilege stolen 
 rather than solicited, the secret murmur that 
 is able to make itself understood without the 
 use of words—all these are parts of a system 
 of behavior that chills the very soul, and forces 
 upon the mind the unwelcome conviction, 
 that a stranger who partakes not in our com- 
 mon lot, is within our domestic circle ; or that 
 an alien who enters not into the sphere of our 
 home associations, attends upon our social 
 board ; nay, so forcible is the impression, as 
 almost to extend to a feeling that an enemy 
 is among the members of our own house- 
 hold. 
 
 How different is the impression produced 
 by a manner calculated both to win their 
 confidence and inspire their respect! The 
 kind welcome after absence, the watchful eye, 
 the anticipation of every wish, the thousand 
 little attentions and acts of service beyond 
 what are noted in the bond—who can resist 
 the influence of these upon the heart, and not 
 desire to pay them back—not certainly in their 
 own kind and measure, but in the only way 
 they can be returned consistenly with the rel- 
 ative duties of both parties—in kindness and 
 consideration ? 
 
 It is not, however, in seasons of health and 
 prosperity, that this bond between the differ- 
 ent members of a family can be felt in its full 
 force. There is no woman so happily cir- 
 cumstanced, but that she finds some link bro- 
 ken in the charm which binds her to this 
 world—some shadow cast upon her earthly 
 pictures. The best beloved are not always 
 those who love the best; and expectation 
 will exceed reality, even in the most favored 
 lot. There are hours of sadness that will 
 steal in, even upon the sunny prime of life; 
 and they are not felt the less, because it is 
 sometimes impossible to communicate the rea- 
 son for such sadness to those who are them- 
 selves the cause. In such cases, and while 
 the heart is in some degree estranged from 
 natural and familiar fellowship, we are thrown 
 
 more especially upon the kindness and affec- 
 tion of our domestics for the consolation we 
 feel it impossible to live without. They may 
 be, and they ought to be, wholly unacquainted 
 with the cause of our disquietude; but a 
 faithfully attached servant, without presuming 
 beyond her proper sphere, is quick to discern 
 the tearful eye, the gloomy brow, the coun- 
 tenance depressed; and it is at such times 
 that their kindness, solicitude, and delicate 
 attentions, might often put to shame the higher 
 pretensions of superior refinement. 
 
 In cases of illness or death, it is perhaps 
 more especially their merit to prove, by their 
 indefatigable and unrequited assiduities, how 
 much they make the interest of the family 
 their own, and how great is their anxiety to 
 remove all lighter causes of annoyance from 
 interference with the greater affliction in 
 which those around them are involved. 
 There is scarcely a more pitiable object in 
 creation than a helpless invalid left entirely to 
 the care of domestics whose affection never |} 
 has been sought or won. But, on the other 
 hand, the readiness with which they will some- 
 times sacrifice their needful rest, and that, 
 night after night, to watch the feverish slum- 
 bers of a fretful invalid, is one of those re- 
 deeming features in the aspect of human na- 
 ture which it is impossible to regard without 
 feelings of admiration and gratitude. 
 
 The question necessarily follows,—how are 
 our domestics to be won over to this confi- 
 dence and affection? It comes not by na- 
 ture, for no tie, except what necessarily im- 
 plies authority and subjection, exists between 
 us. It cannot come by mutual acts of service, 
 because the relation between us is of such a 
 nature as to place the services almost entire- 
 ly on their side, the benefits derived from 
 such services, on ours. It comes, then, by 
 instances of consideration, showing that we 
 have their interests at heart in the same de- 
 gree that we expect them to have ours. We 
 cannot actually do much for them, because it 
 would be out of our province, and a means 
 of removing them out of theirs; but we can 
 think and feel for them, and thus lighten or 
 add weight to their burdens, by the manner 
 
 rn 
 - 
 
ra a a A ay SE mere 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 in which our most trifling and familiar actions 
 are performed. 
 
 In a foregoing chapter, I have ventured a 
 few hints on the subject of manners, chiefly 
 as regards their influence among those who 
 meet us upon equal terms in the social affairs 
 of life. The influence of the manner we 
 choose to adopt in our intercourse with ser- 
 vants, is of such importance as to deserve fur- 
 ther notice than the nature of this work will 
 allow. 
 
 There isa phenomenon sometimes witness- 
 ed at the head of a well-appointed table, from 
 which many besides myself have no doubt 
 started with astonishment and disgust. A 
 well-dressed, well-educated lady, attired in the 
 most becoming and fashionable costume, is 
 eugaged in conversing with her friends, press- 
 ing them to partake of her well-flavored vi- 
 ands, and looking and speaking with the 
 blandest smiles; when suddenly one of the 
 servants is beckoned towards her, and with 
 an instantaneous expression of countenance, 
 in which is concealed the passion and the im- 
 periousness of a whole lifetime, he is admon- 
 ished of his duty in sharp whispers that seem 
 to hiss, like lightning in his ears. .The lady 
 them turns round to her guests, is again array- 
 ed in smiles, and prepared again to talk 
 sweetly of the sympathies and amiabilities of 
 our common nature. 
 
 There is, it must be confessed, a most ob- 
 jectionable manner which blends familiarity 
 wiih confidence; and this ought to be guard- 
 ed against as much in reproof as in commen- 
 dation ; for it cannot be expected that a mis- 
 tress who \reproves her servant with coarse- 
 ness and vulgarity, will be treated with much 
 delicacy in return. The consideration I would 
 
 ‘recommend, so far from inviting familiarity, 
 
 is necessarily connected with true dignity, be- 
 cause it implies in the most undeviating man- 
 ner, a strict regard to the relative position of 
 both parties. Let us see then in what it con- 
 
 sists, or rather let us place it in a stronger 
 light by pointing out instances in which the 
 absence of it is most generally felt. 
 
 There are many young ladies, and some old 
 ones, with whom the patronage of pets appears 
 
 57 
 
 to be an essential part ofhappiness; and these 
 pets, as various as the tastes they gratify, are 
 all alike in one particular—they are all trouble- 
 some. Ifa lady engages her servants with 
 an understanding that they are to wait upon 
 her domestic animals, no one can accuse her 
 of injustice. But if, with barely a sufficient 
 number of domestics to perform the necessa- 
 ry labor of her household, she establishes a 
 menagerie, and expects the hard-working ser- 
 vants to undertake the additional duty of 
 Waiting upon her pets—perhaps the most re- 
 pulsive creatures in existence to them—such 
 additional service ought at least to be solicit- 
 ed as a favor ; and she will have no right to 
 feel indignant, should the favor be sometimes 
 granted in a manner neither gracious nor con- 
 ciliating. 
 
 When a servant who has been all day la- 
 boring hard to give an aspect of comfort and 
 cleanliness ta the particular department com- 
 mitted to her care, sees the young ladies of 
 the family come home from their daily walk, 
 and, never dreaming of her, or her hard la- 
 bor, trample over the hall and stairs without 
 stopping to rid themselves of that encum- 
 brance of clay, which a fanciful writer has 
 classed among the “ miseries of human life,” 
 is it to be expected that the servant who sees 
 this should be so far uninfluenced by the pas- 
 sions of humanity, as not to feel the stirrings 
 of rage and resentment in her bosom? And 
 when this particular act is repeated every 
 day, and followed up by others of the same 
 description, the frequently recurring sensa- 
 tions of rage and resentment, so naturally ex- 
 cited, will strengthen into those of habitual dis- 
 like, and produce that cold serviceand grudg- 
 ing kindness which has already been described. 
 
 There are thousands of little acts of this de- 
 scription, such as ordering the tired servants 
 at an unseasonable hour to prepare an early 
 
 SS eee 
 
 breakfast, and then not being ready yourself || 
 
 before the usual time—being habitually too 
 late for dinner, without any sufficient reason, 
 and having a second dinner served up—ring- 
 ing the bell for the servant to leave her washing, 
 cooking, or cleaning, and come up to you to re- 
 ceive orders to fetch your thimble or scissors, 
 
———__——- - 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 from the highest apartment in the house—all 
 which need no comment; and surely those 
 servants must be more than human who can 
 experience the effects of such a system of 
 behavior, carried on for days, months, and 
 years, and not feel, and feel bitterly, that they 
 are themselves regarded as mere machines, 
 while their comfort and convenience is as 
 much left out of calculation, as if they were 
 nothing more. 
 
 It is an easy thing, on entering a family, to 
 ascertain whether the female members of it 
 are, or are not, considerate. Where they are 
 not, there exists, as a necessary consequence, 
 a constant series of murmurings, pleadings, 
 remonstrances, and attempted justifications» 
 which sadly mar the happiness of the house- 
 hold. On the other hand, where the female 
 members of the family are considerate, there 
 is a secret spring of sympathy linking all 
 hearts together, as if they were moved by a 
 simultaneous impulse of kindness on one side, 
 and gratitude onthe other. Few words have 
 need to be spoken, few professions to be made, 
 for each is hourly discovering that they have 
 been the subject of affectionate solicitude, and 
 they are consequently on the watch for every 
 opportunity to make an adequate return. If 
 the brother comes home sad or weary, the 
 sister to whom he has pledged himself to 
 some exertion, detects the languor of his eye, 
 and refrains from pressing upon him a. fulfil- 
 ment of his promise; if the sister is laboring 
 under depression, the brother feels himself es- 
 pecially called upon to stand forward as her 
 friend; and if one of the family be suffering 
 even slightly from indisposition, there are 
 watchful eyes around, and the excursioa is 
 cheerfully given up by one, the party by an- 
 other, and a quiet socia] evening is unani- 
 mously agreed upon to be spent at home, and 
 agreed upon in such a way as that the inva- 
 lid shall never suspect it has been done at 
 the cost of any pleasure. 
 
 There is no proof of affection more kindly 
 | prompted and more gratefully received, than 
 that of easily detecting uncomplained-of in- 
 disposition. We might almost single out this 
 faculty as the surest test of love—for who 
 
 a EY 
 
 observes the incipient wrinkle on a stranger’s 
 brow, or marks the gradually increasing pale- 
 ness of an unloved cheek? Or what can 
 convince us more effectually that we are in 
 a world of strangers, to whom our interests 
 are as nothing, than to be pressed on every 
 hand to do what our bodily strength is une- 
 qual to. 
 
 There are points of consideration in which 
 we often practice great self-deception. “ Don’t 
 you think it would do you good, my dear?’ 
 asks the young lady of her sickly sister, when 
 the day of promised pleasure is at hand, and 
 she begins to fear her sister’s cough will ren- 
 der it impossible to go from home. “The 
 pain in your foot, my love, is considerably 
 better,” says the wife to her husband, when 
 she thinks the fashionables are about leaving || 
 Rath. 
 says the niece to her aged uncle, who has 
 promised to take her to Paris; “I think I 
 never saw you look so well.’ But all this is 
 not love. It does not feel like love to the 
 parties addressed; for nature is true to her- 
 self, and she <will betray the secrets of art. } 
 How different are the workings of that deep 
 and earnest affection that sees with one 
 glance how unreasonable it would be to drag 
 forth the invalid to any participation in the 
 enjoyments of health; and how welcome is 
 the gentle whisper which assures us that one 
 watchful eye perceives our suffering, one 
 sympathizing ear participates in our weak- 
 ness and distress; for it zs distress to be 
 compelled to complain that we are unequal 
 to do what the happiness of others depends 
 upon our doing; and never is the voice of 
 friendship employed in a more kindly office, 
 than when pleading the cause of our in- 
 firmity. 
 
 It is chiefly with regard to the two sister 
 virtues of consideration and kindness, that I 
 look upon the women of England as so highly 
 privileged ; because the nature of their social 
 and domestic circumstances is such, as to 
 afford them constantly-recurring opportuni- 
 ties of proving that they think often and 
 kindly of others, without any departure from 
 the wonted routine of their conduct, that 
 
 en 
 
 “You are looking extremely well,” 
 
might wear the character of a pointed appli- 
 cation of such feelings. 
 
 It has a startling, and by no means an 
 agreeable effect upon the mind, when a wo- 
 man who is not habitually accustomed to any 
 sort of practical kindness, so far deviates from 
 her usual line of conduct, as to perform any 
 personal service solely for ourselves. We 
 feel that she has been troubled, and suspect 
 that she has been annoyed. But women ac- 
 customed to practical duties are able to turn 
 the whole tide of their affectionate solicitude 
 into’ channels so wholesome and salutary, 
 that our pride is not wounded by the obliga- 
 tion under which we are placed, nor is our 
 sense of gratitude impaired by the pain of 
 being singled out as the object of unwonted 
 and elaborate attentions. 
 
 In order to illustrate the subject by a fa- 
 miliar instance, let us imagine one of those 
 events experienced by all who have lived to 
 years of maturity, and experienced in such 
 a way as to have thrown them ina peculiar 
 manner upon the domestic comforts of the 
 circle to which they were introduced—the 
 arrival, after long travel, on a visit to an early 
 and highly valued friend. 
 
 It is not necessary to this picture, that park 
 gates should be thrown open, and footmen 
 stationed on the steps of the hall ; it will bet- 
 ter serve our purpose, that the mistress of 
 the house should herself be the first to meet 
 her guest, with that genuine welcome in her 
 looks and manner that leaves nothing to be 
 expressed by words. We will suppose that 
 ‘with her own hand she displaces all the en- 
 cumbrance of extra wrappings, rendered ne- 
 cessary by the winter’s journey, and having 
 quietly dismissed the expectant chaise-driver 
 or porter, she leads her friend into the neatly 
 furnished parlor, where another and a more 
 familiar welcome seems at once to throw 
 open her heart and her house for her recep- 
 tion. A fire that has been designedly built 
 up, is then most energetically stirred, until a 
 bright and genial blaze diffuses its light around 
 the room, and the guest begins to glow with 
 the two-fold warmth of a welcome and a 
 winter’s fire. 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ELST ESAS See 
 a 
 
 59 
 
 In the mean time, the servant, well taught 
 in the mysteries of hospitality, conveys the 
 luggage up stairs unseen, and the guest is 
 led to the chamber appointed for her nightly 
 rest. There, most especially, is both seen 
 and felt the kind feeling that has taken into 
 account her peculiar tastes, and anticipated 
 all her well-remembered wishes. The east 
 or the west apartment has been chosen, ac- 
 cording to the preference she has been known 
 to express in days long since gone by, when 
 she and her friend were girls together; and 
 thus the chain of fond and cherished recol- 
 lections is made-to appear again unbroken 
 after the lapse of years, and a conviction is 
 silently impressed upon the mind of the trav- 
 eller—perhaps the most welcome of all earthly 
 sources of assurances—that we have been 
 remembered, not merely in the abstract—but 
 that through long, long years of change and 
 separation, time has not obliterated from the 
 mind of a dear friend, the slightest trace of 
 our individuality. 
 
 Perhaps none can tell until they have ar- | 
 rived at middle age, what is in reality the 
 essential sweetness of this conviction. In our | 
 association with the world, we may have ob-. 
 tained for our industry, our usefulness, or it 
 may be for our talents, a measure of approval 
 at least commensurate with our deserts; but 
 give back to the worn and the weary in this 
 world’s warfare, the friends of their early | 
 youth—the friends who loved them, faults | 
 and all—the friends who could note down || 
 their very follies without contempt, and who 
 attached a degree of interest and importance 
 to the trifling peculiarities of their temper | 
 and feelings, which rendered them indelible 
 memorials of an attachment, such as never 
 can be formed in after life. | 
 
 To return from this digression. The Eng- 
 lish woman, in the unsophisticated beauty of 
 her character, has a power far peo 
 what can be attained by the most scrupulous 
 observance of the rules of art, of thus invest- 
 ing her familiar and social actions with a 
 charm that goes directly to the heart. 
 
 We have traced the traveller to the cham- 
 ber of her rest, and it is not in the choice of 
 
 ee 
 
| 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 60 DOMESTIC 
 
 this room alone, but in its furniture and gen- 
 eral aspect, that she reads the cheering truth 
 of a superintending care having been exer- 
 cised over all it contains, in strict reference 
 to herself, not merely as an honored guest, 
 but as a lover of this or that small article of 
 comfort or convenience, which in the world 
 of comparative strangers among whom she 
 has been living, she has seldom thought it 
 worth her while to stipulate for, and still less 
 frequently has had referred to her:choice. 
 
 Now, it is evident that the mistress of the 
 house herself must have been here. 
 her own hand she must have placed upon 
 the table the favorite toilet-cushion, worked 
 by a friend who was alike dear to herself and 
 her guest. With her own hand she must 
 have selected the snow-white linen, and laid 
 out, not in conspicuous obtrusiveness, a few 
 volumes calculated for the hours of silent 
 meditation, when her friend shall be alone. 
 
 It is impossible that the services of the 
 most faithful domestic should be able to con- 
 vey half the heartfelt meaning indicated by 
 these few familiar acts, so richly worth their 
 cost. It is not from the circumstance of 
 having all our wants supplied, that the most 
 lively satisfaction is derived ; it is from the 
 cheering fact that we ourselves, in our indi- 
 vidual capacity, have been the object of so 
 much faithful recollection and untiring love. 
 
 Instead therefore of regarding it as a sub- 
 ject for murmuring and complaint, that her 
 means of personal indulgence do not supply 
 her with a greater number of domestics, the 
 true English woman ought rather to esteem 
 it a privilege that her station in life is such as 
 to place her in the way of imparting this ra- 
 tional and refined enjoyment. 
 
 We cannot imagine the first day of hospi- 
 table welcome complete without our visitor 
 being introduced to that concatenation of 
 comforts—an early tea. On descending from 
 her chamber, then, she finds all things in 
 readiness for this grateful and refreshing 
 meal. Her attention is not distracted by 
 apologies for what is not there, but what, on 
 such occasions, frequently might have been, 
 at the cost of half the effort required for an 
 
 With . 
 
 HABITS OF 
 
 elaborate excuse. As ifthe fairy order had 
 been at work, the table is spread with all 
 things most agreeable after weary travel; 
 and the guest, instead of being pressed to eat 
 with such assiduity that she begins to think 
 her visit has no other object, is only inter- 
 rupted by kind inquiries relating to home as- 
 sociations, and is beguiled into a prolonga- 
 tion of her meal, by being drawn out into a 
 detail of the events of her journey. 
 
 As the evening passes on, their conversa- 
 tion becomes more intimate, and while it 
 deepens in interest, that full expansion of the 
 soul takes place, under which, whatever 
 English women may be in the superficial in- 
 tercourse of polished life, I have no scruple 
 in saying, that as fireside companions, they 
 are the most delightful upon earth. There 
 are such-vivid imaginings, and such touches 
 of native humor, such deep well-springs of 
 feeling, beyond their placid exterior; that 
 when they dare to come forth, and throw 
 themselves upon the charity or affection of 
 
 their hearers, one is beguiled into a fascina- ' 
 tion the more intense, because it combines | 
 
 originality of thought with gentle manners, 
 and in a peculiar and forcible way invests 
 the cherished recollections of the past, with 
 the fresh warm coloring of the present hour. 
 
 It is not amidst congregated masses of 
 society, that the true English woman can ex- 
 hibit her native powers of conversation. It 
 It is when two are met together, with per- 
 haps a husband or a brother for a third, and 
 the midnight hour steals on, and yet they 
 take no note of time, for they are opening out 
 their separate store of treasures from the 
 deep of memory, sharing them with each 
 
 other, and blending all with such bright an- | 
 
 ticipations of the future, as none but a wo- 
 man’s imagination can enjoy, with faith in 
 their reality. 
 
 Or, perhaps, they are consulting upon some 
 difficult point of duty, or sympathizing with 
 each other in affliction; and then, where 
 
 shall we look but to the English woman for | 
 
 the patient listener, the faithful counsellor, 
 the stanch supporter of each virtuous pur- 
 pose, the keen discerner in points of doubtful 
 
 SE pe 
 
 a 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 merit, and the untiring comforter in every 
 hour of need. 
 
 It would be too tedious, and might to some 
 appear too trifling, were I to trace out the 
 conduct of the being here described, through 
 more of the familiar scenes presented by do- 
 mestic life. It may also be thought by some 
 who know little of women in this capacity, 
 that I am drawing merely from imagination ; 
 others will know that my coloring is true— 
 that human life, in some of its obscurest 
 passages, has secrets of moral excellence in 
 the female character, presenting objects as 
 lovely as ever were revealed to the poet’s 
 fancy. Alas! for those whose memory alone 
 supplies them with the materials for this pic- 
 ture—who now can only feel that “such 
 things were.” 
 
 The charge of trifling is one I should be 
 sorry to incur in writing on a subject so seri- 
 ous as the domestic morals of women; yet 
 how to enter into a detail sufficiently minnte 
 without, I confess I do not clearly see. I 
 must, therefore, again pause, and ask the 
 reader, in my own defence, of what the ordi- 
 nary life of a woman of the middle class of 
 society is composed, but a mass of trifles, out 
 of which arises the happiness or the misery 
 of a numerous and important portion of the 
 human race? I would also ask, What is a 
 | woman who despises trifles? She may pos- 
 sibly enjoy, with undisputed dignity, a niche 
 in the temple of fame, but she ought never to 
 descend from her marble pedestal, to mingle 
 with the social circle around the living blaze 
 of the domestic hearth. ‘Those quiet, unob- 
 trusive virtues, which are ever the most love- 
 ly in the female character, must necessarily 
 be the most difficult to define. They are so 
 much more felt than seen—so much better 
 understood than described—that to give them 
 
 a name would be impossible, and even to 
 | portray them in an ideal picture might not 
 perhaps convey to the mind of the beholder 
 any adequate idea of their importance. But, 
 as in painting a finished picture, the skill of 
 the artist is not only required in the general 
 outline, but is equally requisite in the jfilling- 
 up, so the perfection of the female character 
 
 61 
 
 is not sufficiently indicated by saying she is 
 possessed of every virtue, unless we point 
 out the individual instances upon which those 
 virtues are brought to bear; and the more 
 minute and delicate their aspect, if they are 
 but frequently presented to our notice, the 
 stronger is our conviction that virtuous prin- 
 ciple is the ground-work of the whole. 
 
 With regard to the particular instance al- 
 ready described, the case may perhaps be 
 more clearly illustrated by adding a picture 
 of an opposite description, in order to ascer- 
 tain in what particular points the two cases || 
 differ. 
 
 For this purpose, we will imagine a wo- 
 man distinguished by no extreme of charac- 
 ter, receiving her guest under precisely the 
 same circumstances as the one already de- 
 scribed. In this case, the visitor is permitted || 
 to see that her hostess has reluctantly laid 
 down her book at the latest possible period 
 of time which politeness would allow; or, 
 after her guest has remained twenty minutes 
 in a vacant, and by no means inviting par- 
 lor, she comes toiling up from the kitchen, 
 with a countenance that makes it dreadful 
 to be adding to her daily fatigues by placing 
 one’s self at her table ; and she answers the 
 usual inquiries of her friend, as to her state 
 of health, with a minute detail of the vari- 
 ous phenomena of a headache with which 
 she has that morning been attacked. The 
 one domestic is then called up—and wo be- 
 tide that family, whose daily services, un- 
 practised by its individual members towards 
 each other, all emanate from one domestic. 
 
 The one domestic then is ordered, in the 
 hearing of the guest, to take all the luggage 
 up stairs, to bring hot water, towels, soap— 
 to turn the carpets—run for the best looking- 
 glass—and see that tea is ready by the time 
 the friend comes down. The party then as- 
 cend, accompanied by the panting servant, 
 into a room, upon which no kind of care has 
 been bestowed. It may possibly be neat—so 
 neat that the guest supposes it never has 
 been, and is not yet intended to be, used. 
 Yes, every thing is in its place; but a gene- 
 ral blank pervades the whole, and it is not 
 
——<—$>—< $$ —————————— 
 a pee eS Ste er nna Ses 
 
 62 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 the least of the disappointments experienced 
 by our guest, that she finds no water to re- 
 fresh her aching temples. The mistress of the 
 house is angry at this neglect, and rings the 
 bell. The servant ascends from the kitchen 
 to the highest room, to learn that she must 
 go down again, and return, before half the 
 catalogue of her faults has been told. 
 
 On such errands as this, she is employed 
 until the party descend to the parlor, where 
 the bell is again rung more imperatively, and 
 the tea is ordered to be brought instanter. 
 In the mean time, the fire has dwindled to 
 the lowest bar. The mistress looks for coals, 
 but the usual receptacle isempty. She feels 
 as if there were a conspiracy against her. 
 There is—there can be no one to blame but 
 the servant; and thus her chagrin is allevi- 
 ated by complaints against servants in gene- 
 ral, and her own in particular. With these 
 complaints, and often-repeated apologies, the 
 time is occupied until the appearance of the 
 long-expected meal, when the guest is press- 
 ed to partake of a repast not sweetened by 
 the comments of her hostess, or the harassed 
 and forlorn appearance of an over-worked 
 domestic. 
 
 The mistress of this house may all the 
 while be glad to see her guest, and may really 
 regard her as an intimate and valued friend ; 
 but never. having made it an object to prac- 
 tise the domestic virtue of making others 
 happy, she knows not how to convey any 
 better idea of a welcome than by words. 
 She, therefore, sets deliberately to work to 
 describe how happy she esteems herself in 
 receiving so dear a friend—wishes some third 
 party were at home—hopes to be able to 
 amuse her—tells of the parties she has en- 
 gaged for each successive evening—brings 
 out a pile of engravings—fears her guest is 
 weary—and lastly, at a very early hour, rings 
 for the chamber-candlesticks, presuming that 
 her visitor would like to retire. 
 
 It is needless to observe that the generality 
 of visitors do retire upon this hint; and it is 
 equally needless to add, that the individual 
 here described. fails to exhibit the character 
 ‘of the true English woman, whose peculiar 
 
 charm is that of diffusing happiness, without 
 appearing conspicuously as the agent in its 
 diffusion. It is from the unseen, but active 
 principle of disinterested love, ever working 
 at her heart, that she enters, with a percep- 
 tion as delicate as might be supposed to be- 
 long to a ministering angel, into the peculiar 
 feelings and tones of character influencing 
 those around her, applying the magical key 
 of sympathy to all they suffer or enjoy, to all 
 they fear or hope, until she becomes identified 
 as it were with their very being, blends her 
 own existence with theirs, and makes her 
 society essential to their highest earthly en- 
 joyment. 
 
 Ifa heightened degree of earthly enjoyment 
 were all we could expect to obtain, by this 
 line of conduct, I should still be disposed to 
 think the effect produced would be richly 
 worth our pains. But I must again repeat, 
 that the great aim of a Christian woman will 
 always be, so to make others happy, that 
 their feelings shall be attuned to the recep- 
 tion of better thoughts than those which re- 
 late to mere personal enjoyment—so to make 
 others happy, as to win them over to a full 
 perception of the loveliness of those Chris- 
 tian virtues, which her own life and conduct 
 consistently show forth. 
 
 CHAPTER Vill. 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS—-CONSIDERATON AND KIND- 
 NESS. 
 
 TuE subject of consideration might be con- 
 tinued to almost any extent, since it seems 
 either to comprehend, or to be closely con- 
 nected with, all that is morally excellent in 
 woman. We shall, however, confine our 
 attention to only a few more of those import- 
 ant branches in which this fertile theme de- 
 mands our serious thought—towards those 
 who are beneath us in pecuniary circum- 
 stances, and towards those with whom we 
 are associated in the nearest domestic rela- 
 tions. 
 
 The young and inexperienced having never 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 themselves tasted the cup of adversity, are, 
 in a great measure, excusable for not know- 
 ing how to treat the morbid and susceptible 
 | feelings, which the fact of having drank deep- 
 ly of that cup often produces; nor is it easy 
 to communicate to their minds any idea of 
 the extreme of suffering to which this tone 
 of feeling may extend. Much may be done, 
 | however, by cultivating habits of considera- 
 tion, by endeavoring sometimes to identify 
 themselves with those who suffer, by asking 
 how it would be with them if their parents 
 had fallen below what, by the world, is called 
 respectability—if they were obliged to seek 
 the means of maintaining themselves—if they 
 were admitted into families by sufferance, 
 and only on condition that they should re- 
 main until another home could be found, in 
 which their own hands might minister to their 
 necessities. 
 
 There is no class of beings whose circum- 
 stances altogether are more calculated to call 
 forth our tenderest sympathies, than those 
 delicate females whose fireside comforts are 
 broken up by the adverse turn of their pecu- 
 niary affairs, and who are consequently sent 
 forth to share the lot of families unknown to 
 them, and to throw themselves upon the 
 kindness and consideration of strangers. It 
 is in cases of this kind, especially, that we see 
 
 the importance of having cultivated the moral 
 
 faculties, of having instilled into the mind 
 those sound principles of integrity, useful- 
 ness, and moral responsibility, which, in pro- 
 portion as they become the foundation of our 
 familiar and daily conduct, necessarily invest 
 every act of duty with a cheerfulness which 
 cannot fail to be acceptable in the sight of 
 that merciful Creator, who alone is capable 
 of transforming what is irksome or repulsive 
 to the natural feelings, into sources of grati- 
 tude and delight. | 
 
 The frequent occurrence of such changes 
 in the pecuniary affairs of English families, 
 as render it necessary for the female mem- 
 bers to be thus circumstanced is, therefore, 
 one among the many reasons, why the effects 
 of that false refinement which is gradually 
 increasing among the female part of English 
 
 with it the growth of sound principles, and 
 the increase of moral power. 
 
 Persons whoare reduced in their pecuniary 
 circumstances are generally judged of as we 
 judge our servants, and those who are born 
 to humble means; they are required to have 
 no faults, and the public cry is especially di- 
 rected against theth, if they evince the least 
 symptom of pride. Indeed, so great is our 
 abhorrence of this particular fault, that we 
 often make even a slight evidence of its ex- 
 istence a plea for the discontinuance of our 
 bounty and our favor. We forget that the 
 pride of the individuals in question has per- 
 haps been ministered to throughout the whole 
 of their former lives, and that they, no more 
 than we, can renounce their soul-besetting 
 sins, as they give up the luxuries they are 
 no longer able to procure. We forget, also, 
 that their circumstances are calculated, in an 
 especial manner, to rouse the lurking evil, 
 even had it_never been conspicuous in their 
 characters before. 
 
 The man who floats safely upon the 
 stream of worldly prosperity, with his early 
 companions a little lower than himself, can 
 afford to be gracious and conciliating; but 
 when he begins to sink, and feels the same 
 companions struggling to float past him, and 
 finally leaving him to contend with his diffi- 
 culties, his feelings towards them undergo a 
 total change: he accounts himself an injured 
 man, and becomes a prey to envy, disappoint- 
 ment, and wounded pride. The world’s 
 contumely, more grievous than his actual 
 privations, assails his peace of mind; he 
 learns to look for unkindness, and to expect 
 it, even where it does not exist. In the 
 stranger’s eye he reads contempt and neg- 
 lect; he lives, as it were, surrounded by 
 daggers—bleeding at every pore, and wound- 
 ed by every thing with which he comes in | 
 contact. “How absurd!” is the exclama- 
 tion we hear from the prosperous and incon- 
 
 ee ER 
 
 63 
 society, should be counteracted by the strenu- 
 ous efforts of the well-wishers of their coun- 
 try; and high time it is, that all our energies 
 should be roused, not by any means to retard 
 the progress of intellect, but to force along 
 
 LL 
 
64 
 
 siderate—“how worse than absurd for a 
 man to be feeling in this manner, because he 
 has lost a few hundreds!’”’ And yet men do 
 feel to such a degree, that nothing but reli- 
 gion can enable them to bear such vicissitudes 
 with calmness and resignation. And even 
 when supported by religion, it has pleased 
 our heavenly Father to accompany these 
 dispensations of his providence, with a de- 
 gree of suffering to which no human mind 
 is insensible. 
 
 It is generally regarded as the extreme of 
 benevolence, if; in our intercourse with such 
 persons, we treat them exactly as we did in 
 more prosperous days; and few there are 
 who can at all times withhold expressions 
 equivalent to these: “How unreasonable it 
 is to expect so much attention now! It is 
 not likely we can ask that family to meet our 
 friends; we should be willing still to notice 
 them in a private way, if they would but be 
 more grateful—more considerate.’ And thus 
 they are allowed to pass away from our 
 social gatherings, to be called upon perhaps 
 occasionally at their own humble abodes, 
 but by no means to be invited in return, lest 
 some of our wealthier friends should detect 
 us in the act of performing the offices of 
 hospitality to a person in a threadbare coat. 
 And yet this family may have done nothing 
 worse than thousands are doing every day— 
 than even our richest and dearest friends 
 are doing—and we may know it all the 
 while. 
 
 It sickens the heart to think of these 
 things, and to reflect how far—how very far, 
 even the good and the kind, fall short of that 
 beautiful and heart-touching injunction of 
 our blessed Saviour, “ When thou makest a 
 feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, 
 the blind.” 
 
 The wealthy and distinguished man, with 
 whom we have but a slight acquaintance, 
 sends his son into our neighborhood on busi- 
 ness or pleasure. We hear of his coming, 
 and persuade ourselves it is but respectful 
 to invite him to be our guest. It is at the 
 expense of our domestic comfort that we 
 entertain him—but that is nothing. Diffi- 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 culties appear on every hand to vanish as 
 soon as they appear; we even persuade 
 ourselves that a sort of merit attaches to our 
 doing all in our power to accommodate the 
 son of so distinguished a person. 
 
 The poor widow, perhaps our relative, 
 sends her son to town to seek a situation, 
 and we hear of his coming. We knew his 
 mother in more prosperous days. She was 
 a worthy woman then, but her husband died 
 insolvent, and the family necessarily fell 
 away from what they had been. It cannot 
 be at all incumbent upon us to ask such 
 young men as these to our houses. ‘They 
 might come in shoals. Our domestic com- 
 fort would be sacrificed, and it is the duty of 
 every one to maintain the peace and order 
 of their own household. 
 
 Thus the widow’s son is allowed to wan- 
 der up and down the streets, to resort to 
 expensive lodging-houses, and to purchase, 
 with the pittance provided by his mother 
 from her slender means, that accommodation 
 which a little Christian hospitality might 
 have spared him. 
 
 We complain that our streets are thronged 
 on the Sabbath-day with troops of idle young 
 men and women, who afford a painful spec- 
 tacle to those who pass them on their way to 
 public worship. How many of these—ap- 
 prentices, and assistants in business—are 
 actually driven into the streets from very 
 want of any thing like a hospitable or social 
 home ! 
 
 I am by no means prepared to say, how 
 far true Christian benevolence, acted out 
 towards this class of the community, would 
 lead us to give up our domestic comfort for 
 their sakes, and for the sake of preserving 
 them from harm; but I do know it would 
 lead us to adopt a very different treatment 
 of them, from that which generally prevails ; 
 and I consider also, that these duties rest 
 especially with women. 
 
 It is not easy for a man who has to fill the 
 office of master to a number of apprentices 
 and assistants during the hours of business, 
 to unbend before them at his own fireside. 
 But a considerate and high-principled wo- 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 man, may, without loss of dignity, and cer- 
 tainly without loss of respect, make them 
 feel that she regards it as her duty to be 
 their friend as well as their mistress, and 
 that she looks upon herself as under a sa- 
 cred obligation to advise them in difficulties, 
 to guard their welfare, and promote their 
 comfort, simply because the all-wise Disposer 
 of human affairs has seen meet to place 
 them within the sphere of her influence. 
 
 I have devoted a chapter to the influence 
 of English women. Many chapters might 
 be filled with the duties of tradesmen’s 
 wives towards the young people employed 
 in their husbands’ affairs, and the responsi- 
 bility attaching to them, for the tone of moral 
 character which such persons exhibit through 
 the whole of their after lives. Of how little 
 value, in this point of view, is the immense 
 variety of accomplishments generally ac- 
 quired at school, compared with the discrimi- 
 nation and tact that would enable a woman 
 to extend her influence among the class of 
 persons here described, and the principle that 
 would lead her to turn such influence to the 
 best account! How many a mother’s heart 
 would be made glad by finding, when her 
 son returned to his home, that he had expe- 
 rienced something of a mother’s kindness 
 from his master’s wife; and how many a 
 father would rejoice that his child had been 
 preserved from the temptations of a city life, 
 by the good feeling that was cherished and 
 kept alive at his master’s fireside! 
 
 It is for circumstances such as these, that 
 a large proportion of the young women of 
 England, now undergoing the process of 
 education, have to prepare. Not to imitate 
 the heroines they read of; but to plunge into 
 the actual cares, and duties, and responsi- 
 bilities of every-day existence. They will 
 
 probably have little time either for drawing ° 
 
 or music, may seldom be spoken to in a for- 
 eign tongue, and hardly have any opportuni- 
 ty of displaying half the amount of verbal 
 knowledge with which their memories have 
 been stored. But they will, if they are at all 
 intent upon fulfilling the great end of their 
 existence, have to bethink themselves every 
 
 and the happiness of those around them. 
 For this great and laudable purpose, it is of 
 the highest importance that they should cul- | 
 tivate habits of consideration; for how else 
 can they expect to enter into the states of | 
 mind, and modes of feeling of those with 
 
 whom they associate, so as to render the | 
 means they use effectual to the end desired? | 
 
 It happens to almost all families, in the | 
 middle rank of life in England, that they are 
 directly or remotely connected with relatives | 
 whose pecuniary means are much more lim- 
 ited than their own. . To these, as well as to | 
 persons of recently decayed fortune, it is 
 generally thought highly meritorious to ex- 
 tend the common courtesies of society. It | 
 implies no disrespect to this class of individ- 
 uals, to call them poor relations ; since the 
 poor are often brought into a state of whole- 
 some discipline, which eventually places them 
 higher than the rich in the scale of moral 
 worth. The poor relation may possibly have 
 known in very early life what it was to enjoy 
 all the comforts that ample means afford ; 
 but she becomes at last a sort of useful ap- 
 pendage to an uncle’s or a brother’s family, 
 or is invited by her cousins whenever they 
 happen to be in arrears with their plain-work 
 —when one of the family wants nursing 
 through a tedious illness—or when they are 
 going abroad, and require some one to over- 
 look the household in their absence. 
 
 The poor relation, in the first place, is 
 shown up stairs into a kind of tolerable attic, 
 where the walls are white-washed, and where 
 a little bed with blue-check curtains is pre- 
 pared for her accommodation. They hope 
 she will not mind sleeping in the attic—in- 
 deed they are sure she will not, she is such a 
 dear good creature ; besides, they all like the 
 attic for the view it commands, and mamma 
 says it is the most comfortable room in the 
 house: yet, somehow or other, the young 
 ladies never sleep in the attic themselves; 
 and considering it is the most desirable room 
 in the house, and commands so excellent a 
 view, it is astonishingly seldom occupied. 
 
 The poor relation is then introduced to 
 
 hour, what is best to be done for the good | 
 
 | 
 
66 
 
 company without a name—is spoken of as 
 the person staying at Mrs. So and So’s; and, 
 after being told that she need not sit longer 
 than is agreeable to her after meals, is fairly 
 installed into office by being informed, that 
 the south chamber is very warm without a 
 fire, and has a good light too, so that she can 
 see an hour longer there than in any other. 
 Here the different members of the family 
 bring their work for her to do, looking round 
 every time they enter, with a hope that she 
 does not feel cold. From the young lady of 
 twenty years, to the child of three, a demand 
 is made upon her for the supply of all absent 
 buttons, and all broken strings. All the stock- 
 ings hoarded up against her coming are 
 brought to her to be darned—all borders to 
 quill—all linen to be mended: and this inun- 
 dation of work is the natural consequence of 
 her having shown symptoms of a desire to 
 be generally agreeable ; but if no such desire 
 has been exhibited, wo betide the poor rela- 
 tion who proposes a visit to a rich one, where 
 kindly feeling and habits of consideration have 
 never been cultivated. 
 
 I remember it was very startling to me in 
 my youth, and appeared to me at that time 
 a contradiction in human nature, that, while 
 people had comfortable homes, and were sur- 
 | rounded by every thing that could minister 
 to enjoyment, they were often invited out to 
 partake of the enjoyments of their friends, 
 and so pressed to prolong such visits, that it 
 seemed as if their friends could never be 
 weary of their society. But, let the same in- 
 dividuals have no home, let them be placed 
 in circumstances calculated to render an in- 
 | vitation peculiarly acceptable, and it was with 
 difficulty obtained, or not obtained at all. 
 Though in all respects as agreeable as in 
 former days, they were not pressed to stay 
 beyond a very limited period; and some who 
 had been the most solicitous to enjoy the fa- 
 vor of their company, suddenly found their 
 accommodations so exceedingly small, that 
 they could not invite any guest to partake of 
 their hospitality. 
 
 But these, my sisters, are disgraceful ways, 
 for woman—warm-hearted, generous, noble- 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 minded woman, to fall into. From men we 
 expect not all those little niceties of behavior 
 and feeling that would tend to heal the 
 wounds of adversity. ‘Their necessary pur- 
 suits deprive them of many opportunities of 
 making the unfortunate and afflicted feel, 
 that amidst the wreck of their worldly hopes, 
 they have at least retained some moral dig- 
 nity in the estimation of their friends; but 
 from woman we do look for some redeeming 
 charities, some tenderness of heart among 
 the sordid avocations and selfish pursuits of 
 
 this life ; and never do they rise to such true | 
 eminence, as when they bestow these chari- ° 
 
 ties, and apply this tenderness to the broken 
 in spirit, the neglected, and the desolate, who 
 are incapable of rendering them any return. 
 
 Harassed by the cares and perplexities of 
 a sordid world, and disappointed in the high 
 promise of our early youth; neglected, per- 
 haps despised where we had hoped to find 
 
 protection and support in the hour of trial; | 
 driven out from the temples of our soul’s idol- 
 
 atry, it is to woman that we look for the man- 
 tle of charity, to cast over the blighted bosom 
 —for the drop of sweetness to mingle with 
 our bittercup. Westretch our eyes over the 
 wide tumultuous ocean of life, for some spot 
 on which our ark may rest. We send forth 
 the raven, and it returns not; but the gentler 
 dove comes back with the olive-branch, and 
 we hail it as a harbinger of safety and peace. 
 
 Although it must be confessed that women 
 are sometimes too negligent of the tender 
 offices of kindness towards those who have 
 no immediate claim upon their affections, 
 there remains some excuse for this particular 
 species of culpability, in the general usages 
 of society ; and in the example of discreet 
 and prudent persons, who deem it ursafe to 
 deviate in any conspicuous manner from the 
 beaten track of custom. No excuse, how- 
 ever, can be found for those who permut the 
 closer ties of relationship to exist, without 
 endeavoring to weave into the same bond, all 
 
 ‘the tender sympathies of which the human 
 
 heart is capable. 
 Brothers and sisters are so associated in 
 English homes, as materially to promote each 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 67 
 
 other’s happiness, by the habits of kindness 
 and consideration which they cultivate; and 
 when a strong friendship can be formed be- 
 tween such parties, it is perhaps one of the 
 
 ' most faithful and disinterested of any which 
 
 the aspect of human life presents. A young 
 man of kind and social feelings is often glad 
 to find in his sister, a substitute for what he 
 afterwards ensures more permanently in a 
 wife ; and young women are not backward 
 in returning this affection by a love as con- 
 fiding, and almost as tender as they are capa- 
 
 {ble of feeling. Their intercourse has also the 
 
 endearing charm of early association, which 
 no later-formed acquaintance can supply. 
 They have shared the sunny hours of child- 
 hood together; and when the young man 
 goes forth into the world, the love of his sis- 
 ter is like a talisman about his heart. Wo- 
 man, however, must be watchful and studi- 
 
 | ous to establish this intimate connection, and 
 | to keep entire the golden cord by which they 
 
 | 
 
 | trouble to rise and 
 
 ew 
 
 are thus bound. Affection does not come by 
 relationship alone; and never yet was the 
 affection of man fully and lastingly engaged 
 by woman, without some means being adopt- 
 ed on her part to increase or preserve his 
 happiness. The childish and most unsatis- 
 factory fondness that means nothing but “I 
 love you,” goes but a little way to reach the 
 heart of man; but let his home be made 
 more comfortable, let his peculiarities of habit 
 and temper be studiously consulted, and so- 
 cial and familiar gratifications provided for 
 his daily use; and, unless he is ungrateful 
 beyond the common average of mankind, he 
 will be sure to regard the source from whence 
 his comforts flow with extreme complacency, 
 and not unfrequently with affection. 
 
 On the other hand, let the sister possess all 
 that ardor of attachment which young ladies 
 are apt to believe they feel, let her hang 
 about his neck at parting, and bathe his 
 face with her tears; if she has not taken the 
 prepare his early meal, 
 but has allowed him to depend upon the 
 servant, or to prepare it for himself; it is 
 
 very questionable whether that brother could 
 
 be made to believe in her affection; and cer-. 
 
 tainly he would be far from feeling its value. 
 If, again, they read some interesting volume 
 together, if she lends her willing sympathy, 
 and blends her feelings with his, entering in- 
 to all the trains of thought and recollection 
 which two congenial minds are capable of 
 awakening in each other; and if, after the 
 book is closed, he goes up into his chamber 
 late on the Saturday night, and finds his lin- 
 en unaired, buttonless, and unattended to, 
 with the gloves’ he had ten times asked to 
 have mended, remaining untouched, where | 
 he had left them ; he soon loses the impres- 
 sion of the social hour he had been spending, 
 and wishes, that, instead of an idle sister, he 
 had a faithful and industrious wife. He rea- 
 sons, and reasons rightly, that while his sister 
 is willing to share with him all that is most 
 agreeable to herself, she is by no means will- 
 ing to do for his sake what is not agreeable, 
 and he concludes his argument with the con- 
 viction, that notwithstanding her professions, 
 hers is not true affection. 
 
 I do not mean that sisters ought to be the 
 servants of their brothers, or that they should 
 not, where domestics abound, leave the prac- 
 tical part of these duties to them. All that 
 is wanted is stronger evidence of their 
 watchfulness and their solicitude for their 
 brothers’ real comfort. The manner in which 
 this evidence shall be given, must still be left 
 to their judgment, and their circumstances. 
 There are, however, a few simple rules, by 
 which I should suppose all kindly affectioned 
 women would be willing to be guided. No 
 woman in the enjoyment of health should 
 allow her brother to prepare his own meals 
 at any time of the day, if it were possible for 
 her to do it for him. No woman should al- 
 low her brother to put on linen in a state of 
 dilapidation, to wear gloves or stockings in 
 want of mending, or to return home without 
 finding a neat parlor, a place to sit down 
 without asking for it, and a cheerful invita- 
 tion to partake of necessary refreshment. 
 
 All this I believe is often faithfully done, 
 where the brother is a gentlemanly, attract- 
 ive, and prepossessing person—in short, a 
 person to be proud of in company, and 
 
68 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 pleased with in private; but a brother is a 
 brother still, even where these attractions do 
 not exist; where the duty is most irksome, 
 the moral responsibility is precisely the same 
 as where it is most pleasing. Besides, who 
 knows what female influence may not effect? 
 It is scarcely probable that a younger brother, 
 treated by his sisters with perpetual con- 
 tempt, almost bordering upon disgust, re- 
 garded as an intolerable bore, and got rid of 
 by every practicable means, will grow up in- 
 to a companionable, interesting, and social 
 man; or if he should, he would certainly re- 
 serve these qualities for exercise, beyond the 
 circle of his own fireside, and for the benefit 
 of those who could appreciate him better 
 than his sisters. 
 
 The virtue of consideration, in the inter- 
 course of sisters with brothers, is never more 
 felt than in the sacred duty of warning them 
 of moral evil, and encouraging them in moral 
 good. Here we see in an especial manner 
 the advantages arising from habits of per- 
 sonal attention and kindness. A woman 
 who stands aloof from the common offices of 
 domestic usefulness, may very properly ex- 
 tend her advice to a husband, a brother, or a 
 son ; but when she has faithfully pointed out 
 the fault she would correct, she must leave 
 the object of her solicitude, with his wounded 
 self-love unhealed, and his irritated feelings 
 unrelieved. She has done her duty, and the 
 impression most frequently remaining upon 
 the mind of the other party is, either that she 
 has done it in anger, or that it is impossible 
 she can love a being of whom she entertains 
 such hard thoughts. 
 
 The sister, who is accustomed to employ 
 
 ‘her hands in the services of domestic life, is, 
 on these occasions, rich in resources. She 
 feels the pain she has been compelled to give, 
 and calculates how much she has to make 
 up. It is a time for tenfold effort; but it 
 must be effort without display. In a gentle 
 and unobtrusive manner, she does some ex- 
 tra service for her brother, choosing what 
 would otherwise be degrading in its own na- 
 ture, in order to prove in the most delicate 
 manner, that though she can see a fault in 
 
 _this world affords. 
 
 him, she still esteems herself his inferior, and |} 
 though she is cruel enough to point it out, 
 her love is yet so deep and pure as to sweet- 
 en every service she can render him. 
 
 It is impossible for the hugan heart to re- 
 sist this kind of evidence, and hence arises 
 the strong influence that women possess 
 over the moral feelings of those with whom 
 they are intimately associated. 
 
 If such, then, be the effect of kindness and 
 consideration upon the heart of man, what 
 must we expect when it operates in all its 
 force and all its sweetness upon that of wo- 
 man. In her intercourse with man, it is im- 
 possible but that woman should feel her own 
 inferiority ; and it is right that it should be 
 so. Yet, feeling this, it is also impossible but 
 that the weight of social and moral duties 
 she is called upon to perform, must, to an 
 unsanctified spirit, at times appear oppres- 
 sive. She has innumerable sources of dis- 
 quietude, too, in which no man can partake ; 
 and from the very weakness and suscepti- 
 bility of her own nature, she has need of 
 sympathies which it would be impossible for 
 him to render. She does not. meet him 
 upon equal terms. Her part is to make sac- 
 rifices, in order that his enjoyment may be 
 enhanced. She does this with a willing 
 spirit; but from error of judgment, or want 
 of consideration, she does it so often without 
 producing any adequate result, and so often 
 without grateful acknowledgment, that her 
 spirit sometimes sinks within her, and she 
 shrinks back from the cares and anxieties of 
 every day, with a feeling that the burden of 
 life is too heavy to be borne. 
 
 Nor is the man to be blamed for this. He 
 knows not half the foolish fears that agitate 
 her breast. He could not be made to know, 
 still less to understand, the intensity of her 
 capability of suffering, from slight, and what 
 to him would appear inadequate causes. 
 But women do know what their sex is formed 
 to suffer; and for this very, reason, there is 
 sometimes a bond existing between sisters, 
 the most endearing, the most pure and disin- 
 terested of any description of affection which 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 69 
 
 Iam the more inclined to think that the 
 strength of this bond arises chiefly out of 
 their mutual knowledge of each other’s ca- 
 pability of receiving pain ; because, in fami- 
 lies whose circumstances are uniformly easy, 
 and who have never known the visitation of 
 any deep affliction, we often see the painful 
 spectacle of sisters forming obstacles to each 
 other in their progress both to temporal and 
 eternal happiness. They seem to think the 
 hey-day of life so unlikely to be clouded, 
 that they can afford, wantonly and perversely, 
 to intercept the sunshine that would other- 
 wise fall upon each other’s path ; or to cal- 
 culate so confidently upon the continued 
 smoothness of the stream of time, that they 
 sportively drive each other upon the rocks 
 and the quicksands, which, even in the glad 
 season of youth, will occasionally appear ; 
 while the very fact of knowing each other’s 
 weak points of character, while it ought to 
 excite their utmost tenderness, only affords 
 them subjects for tormenting sarcasm, and 
 biting scorn. 
 
 I have heard of hackney-coachmen in a 
 certain highly civilized metropolis, who adopt 
 the cruel practice of lashing a galled or 
 wounded part, if they can find one in the 
 wretched animals they drive; but I hardly 
 think the practice, abhorrent as it is, de- 
 mands our condemnation more than that of 
 the women who are thus false and cruel to 
 each other—who, because they know exactly 
 where to wound, apply the instrument of tor- 
 ture to the mind, unsparingly, and with the 
 worst effect. 
 
 Let us glance hastily over the humiliating 
 supposition that such a propensity does ac- 
 tually exist among women. Let us glance 
 hastily, too, over the long train of minute and 
 irremediable evils which the exercise of such 
 a propensity is calculated to produce—the 
 wounded feeling, the imagined injury, the 
 suspicious dread, the bitter retort, and the 
 secretly-cherished revenge. It is not enough 
 for those who practise such habits to say, “I 
 mean no harm: I love my sister, and would 
 do her any signal service in my power.” 
 Opportunities of performing signal services 
 
 do not often fall in our way; but while we 
 wait.for these, we have opportunities innu- 
 merable of soothing or irritating the feelings 
 of others, as our own dispositions prompt— 
 of repelling or attacking—of weaning affec- 
 tion, or of inspiring confidence; and these 
 ends are easily obtained, by the manner in 
 which we conduct ourselves towards those 
 whom Providence has placed immediately 
 around us. Le 
 
 So many young women, however, escape 
 the censure here implied, by their self-com- 
 placency on the score of general kindness, 
 that it may, perhaps, be as well to speak 
 more explicitly on this important subject. It 
 is not, then, to direct unkindness that I refer, 
 but to that general absence of kind consider- 
 ation, which produces the same effect. Per- 
 haps one sister is unreasonably elated at the 
 success of some of her plans: and in the 
 midst of her ecstatic joy she finds herself 
 mimicked with all the air of ineffable con- 
 tempt, by another. Perhaps one sister is 
 rather unusually depressed in spirits from 
 some incommunicable cause: the others pre- 
 tend to weep, and make her gravity the sub- 
 ject of their merriment. Perhaps, in a mo- 
 ment of extreme embarrassment, she has 
 committed some breach of good breeding, or 
 looked awkward, or spoken foolishly: she 
 finds afterwards that watchful eyes have been 
 upon her, and that her every tone and move- 
 ment have been the subject of ridicule in a little 
 coterie of her sisters and her friends. Above 
 
 all, perhaps she has gone a little too far in 
 
 meeting the attentions of the other sex, and 
 a merciless outcry is raised against her, with 
 her sisters at its head. 
 
 Besides all this, there are often the strong 
 wills of both parties set in opposition to each 
 other, with a pertinacity that time itself is 
 unable to subdue. For if, from the necessity 
 of circumstances, one sister has on one occa- 
 sion been compelled to give way, she is only 
 fortified with fresh resolution for the next 
 point of dispute, that she may enjoy her turn 
 of victory and triumph. These disputes are 
 often about the merest trifles in the world, 
 things so entirely worthless and unimportant 
 
 LL ae Ie eR RR a eee 
 
 nn i LES 
 Or RR RR A A RSE YR AG AR aN EE ER EE 
 
rg 
 
 ——_. 
 
 70 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 in themselves, that to find they have been 
 the cause of angry words or bitter feelings, 
 may well excite our astonishment, at the 
 same time that it ought to teach us fresh 
 lessons of distrust of ourselves, of humility, 
 and watchful care. ' 
 
 It is in this manner that sisters will some- 
 times embitter their early days, and make 
 what ought to be the bower of repose, a scene 
 of rivalry and strife. But let us change this 
 harsh picture, and turn to the sunnier hours 
 of youthful love, when sisters who have 
 shared one home in childhood, then separa- 
 ted by adverse circumstances, return, after 
 the lapse of years, to enjoy a few brief days 
 of heart-communings beneath the same roof 
 again. How lovely then are the morning 
 hours, when they rise with the sun to length- 
 en out the day! They seat themselves in 
 the old window, where their little childish 
 hands were wont to pluck the tendrils of the 
 rambling vine. They look out upon the 
 lawn, and it is arrayed in the same green as 
 when they gambolled there. The summer- 
 apple tree, from whence they shook the rosy 
 fruit, has moss upon its boughs; and the 
 spreading ash reminds them they are no 
 longer able to climb its topmost branch. 
 What vicissitudes have they known—what 
 change of place and circumstance have they 
 experienced—since they planted the small 
 osier that now stands a stately willow by the 
 stream! We will not ask what cruel neces- 
 sity first drove them separately from this 
 peaceful abode—what blight fell on their 
 prospects—what ruin on their hopes. Are 
 they not sisters unchanged in their affec- 
 tion?—and in this very consciousness they 
 
 have a world of wealth. Where is the keen, _ 
 
 contemptuous gaze of satire now? Where 
 are the bickerings, the envyings, the words 
 of provocation? They would esteem it sac- 
 rilege to profane that place and hour with 
 other thoughts than those of kindness. The 
 mote and the beam have vanished from their 
 eyes; they know each other’s faults, but 
 they behold them only to pity and forgive, or 
 speak of them only to correct. Each heart 
 is laid bare before the others, and the oil and 
 
 wine are poured in to heal the wounds which 
 the stranger has made. Each has her own 
 store of painful experience to unfold; and 
 she weeps to find her sister’s greater than 
 her own. Each has had her share of insult, 
 coldness, and neglect; and she is roused to 
 indignation by hearing that her sister has had 
 the same. Self becomes as nothing in com- 
 parison with the intense interest excited by a 
 sister’s experience; and as the secret anxie- 
 ties of each bosom are revealed, fresh floods 
 of tenderness are called forth, and the early 
 bond of childhood, strengthened by vicissi- 
 tudes and matured by time, is woven yet: 
 more closely around the hearts of all. Thus 
 they go forth into the world again, strong in 
 the confidence of that unshaken love which 
 formed the sunshine of their childhood, and 
 is now the solace of their riper years. They 
 may weep the tears of the alien in the stran- 
 ger’s home, but they look forward to the 
 summer-days of heart-warm confidence, when 
 they shall meet again with the loveliest and 
 the most beloved of all earth’s treasures, and 
 the wintry hours pass over them bereft of 
 half their power to blight. 
 
 If such be the experience, and such the 
 enjoyments of sisters separated by affliction, 
 what must be the privileged lot of those, 
 who, without any change of fortune, any fall- 
 ing off from the golden promise of early life, 
 or any heart-rending bereavement, learn the 
 happy art of finding their enjoyment in each 
 other, by studying what will make each other 
 happy? There may be faithful friendships 
 formed in after years; but where a sister is 
 a sister’s friend, there can be none so tender, 
 and none so true. For a brother, she may 
 possibly entertain a more romantic attach- 
 ment, because the difference in their circum- 
 stances may afford more to interest their 
 feelings; but there is one universal point of 
 failure in the friendship that exists between 
 brothers and sisters—when a man marries, 
 he finds in his wife all that he valued in his 
 sister, with a more endearing sense of cer- 
 tainty in its possession; and when a woman 
 marries, she finds all that she needed in the 
 way of friendship and protection, with more 
 
of tenderness, of interest, and identity, than 
 it was possible for her to experience in the 
 affection of her brother. Hence there arises, 
 even in the uncalculating breast of youth, a 
 suspicion that this friendship cannot last: 
 and the breaking up of those establishments 
 in which the sister has regulated the domes- 
 tic affairs of her brother, is often a melancholy 
 proof that the termination of their intimacy 
 ought to have been calculated upon with 
 more certainty than it generally is. 
 
 With sisters the case is widely different. 
 They may seek in vain, through all the high 
 and noble attributes of man, for that which 
 is to be found alone in the true heart of wo- 
 man; and, weak themselves, susceptible, de- 
 pendent, and holding their happiness as it 
 were with a sword suspended above their 
 | heads, they have need to be faithful to each 
 other. 
 
 No friend in after life can know so well as 
 a sister what is the peculiar and natural bias 
 of the character. Education may change the 
 manners, and circumstances may call new 
 faculties to light ; but the old leaven remains 
 at the heart’s core, and a sister knows it well. 
 
 Women often share with other friends en- 
 {| joyments in which their sisters take no part ; 
 but they have not roamed together over that 
 garden whose very weeds are lovely—the 
 fertile and luxuriant garden of childhood; 
 they have not drank together at that foun- 
 tain whose bubbling waters are ever bright 
 and pure—the early fountain of domestic joy ; 
 and the absence of this one charm in their 
 friendship, must necessarily shut them out 
 from participation in a world of associations, 
 more dear, more beautiful, and more endur- 
 ing than the longest after life can supply. I 
 know not how it is with others, but it seems 
 to me, that there never is—there never can 
 be, amusement so original, so piquant, and so 
 fraught with glee, as that which is enjoyed 
 among happy sisters at their own fireside, 
 or in their chamber, where one hardly would 
 deny them ail their idle hours of laughter 
 and delight. The very circumstances which 
 to one alone would have been a burden of 
 _heavy care, when participated in, are nothing ; 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 71 
 
 and the mere fact of talking over all their 
 daily trials, sets every bosom free to beat and 
 bound with a new life. 
 
 We must not however forget, it is in sea- 
 sons of affliction that we prove the real value 
 of the deep well-spring of a sister’s love. 
 Other hands, and hands perhaps as skilful, 
 may smooth our couch in sickness. Other 
 voices may speak words of kindness in our 
 hour of need, and other eyes may beam upon 
 us with tenderness and love; but can they 
 ever be like the hands that joined with ours 
 in twining the rosy wreaths of infancy—the 
 voices that spoke sweetly to us in the tones 
 of childhood—the eyes that gazed with ours, 
 in all the wonder of first dawning thought, 
 abroad upon the beautiful creation, over the 
 earth and sea, the green hills, and the waving 
 woods, and up to the starry heavens, that 
 
 page of glory too bright for human eye to 
 
 read ? 
 
 No; there is something in the home-fel- 
 lowship of early life, that we cannot, if we 
 would, shake off in the days of darkness and 
 distress, when sickness clouds the brow, and |} 
 grief sits heavily upon the heart. It is then 
 that we pine for the faithful hand, the voice 
 that was an echo to our own, and the kin- 
 dred countenance so familiar in our childhood; 
 and sisters who are kindly affectioned one 
 towards another, are not slow to answer this 
 appeal of nature. Tender and delicate wo- 
 men are not backward to make sacrifices in 
 such a cause. They will hasten upon diffi- 
 cult and dangerous journeys, without feeling 
 the perils they undergo. The anticipated 
 accidents of time and chance have no weight 
 with them, for self is annihilated by the over- 
 whelming power of their affection. Obsta- 
 cles cannot hinder, nor persuasion retard 
 their purpose: a sister suffers, and, they es- 
 teem it their highest privilege to assert, in 
 defiance of all opposition, the indisputable 
 claims of a sister’s love. They have an in- 
 
 alienable right to share in her calamity, what- 
 ever it may be, and this right they will not 
 resign to another. 
 
 But what shall stay my pen, when I touch 
 upon this fertile and inexhaustible theme? 
 
72 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 Sisters who have never known the deepest, 
 holiest influence of a sister’s love, will not be 
 enabled, from any definition I can offer, to 
 understand the purity, and the refreshing 
 power of this well-spring of human happiness. 
 Sisters who have known this, will also know 
 that its height and its depth are beyond the 
 power of language to describe ; that it is, in- 
 deed, the love which many waters cannot 
 quench, neither can the floods drown it. 
 
 Is it not, then, worth all the cost of the 
 most studious consideration, the most care- 
 ful kindness, to win this treasure, and to make 
 it ours? to purchase this gem, and to wear 
 it next our hearts? I have pointed out some 
 of the means by which it may be lost or won: 
 I will now point out the most important rea- 
 sons why it should be cherished with un- 
 ceasing assiduity. 
 
 _ Sisters have an almost unbounded influ- 
 ence over each other; and all influence im- 
 plies a proportionate degree of moral respon- 
 sibility. The tone and temper of the human 
 mind must be closely watched, and intimate- 
 .ly studied, in order to apply with effect the 
 means of benefit. The most zealous endea- 
 vors to do good, may fail for want of oppor- 
 tunity ; but opportunity never can be want- 
 ing to those who share the same domestic 
 hearth, who sit at the same board, and oc- 
 cupy the same chamber of rest. There must, 
 with such, be unveilings of the heart before 
 each other. There must be seasons for ad- 
 ministering advice, and for imparting instruc- 
 tion, which the stranger never can command. 
 But without the practice of those habits of 
 kindness and consideration, so earnestly re- 
 commended here, the nearest relative, even 
 the sister, may be placed on the same footing 
 as the stranger, and have no more familiar 
 access to. the heart than the mere acquaint- 
 ance. . 
 
 It is therefore most important to the true 
 Christian, whose desire is to invite others to 
 a participation in the blessings she enjoys, 
 that she should seek to promote the happi- 
 ness of those around her, in such a way as 
 to render them easy and familiar in her pres- 
 ence, and to convince them that she is in 
 
 word and deed their friend. Until this object 
 is attained, little good can be done in the way 
 of influence ; but this secured, innumerable 
 channels are opened, by which an enlighten- 
 ed mind may operate beneficially upon others. 
 
 We will imagine the case of a sister, whose 
 feelings have been recently impressed with 
 the importance of some hitherto unpractised 
 duty, and who, at a loss how to begin with 
 that improvement in her daily conduct which 
 conscience points out as necessary to her 
 peace, shrinks from the notice of the world, 
 abashed at the idea of assuming more than 
 she has been accustomed to maintain. With 
 what fear and trembling will such a one, in 
 her closet or her chamber, at the close of the 
 summer’s evening, or by the last glimmer of 
 the winter’s fire, when she and her sister 
 share the silent hours of night together, un- 
 fold the burden of her spirit, and reveal the 
 inner workings of her troubled mind! What 
 should we say of a sister who treated this 
 confidence with treachery, with ridicule or 
 spleen? What should we say, but that she 
 deserved to find the heart she has thus in- 
 sulted a sealed book to her forever? What 
 should we say, on the other hand, of her 
 who met this confidence with tenderness and 
 respect? T’hat she enjoyed one of the great- 
 est privileges permitted usin this our imperfect 
 and degraded state, the privilege of imparting 
 consolation and instruction at the same time, 
 and of binding to her bosom the fond affec- 
 tion of a sister, as her comfort and support 
 through all her after years. 
 
 It isa common remark for sisters to make 
 upon each other, that they would have paid 
 some deference to the religious scruple, or the 
 pious wish, had it originated with a more 
 consistent person. ‘They should remember, 
 that there must be a dawning of imperfect 
 light, to usher in the perfect day; and that 
 he who crushes the first germ of vegetation, 
 commits an act equivalent to that of him who 
 fells the stately tree. They should remem- 
 ber also it is not only the great and public ef- 
 forts of Christian benevolence and charity, 
 that are owned of God, and blessed with his 
 approval; but that at the hour of midnight, | 
 | 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 73 
 
 in the secret chamber, when the world takes 
 no cognizance of our actions, His eye beholds 
 them, and his ear is open to detect the slight- 
 est whisper that conveys its blessing or its 
 bane to the heart of a familiar friend. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS,—CONSIDERATION AND 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 THERE yet remain some aspects of human 
 life, which it is impossible to pass over with- 
 out the most earnest solicitude, that even if 
 in all other capacities woman should forget 
 her responsibilities, she might remember what 
 is due from her in these. It is, then, to the 
 sacred and inalienable bond between a daugh- 
 ter and her parents, that our attention must 
 now be given. sh 
 
 It’would seem but reasonable to suppose, 
 that as soon as an amiable young woman of 
 even partially enlightened mind, attained that 
 stage of maturity when most rational beings 
 begin to make use of their own powers of 
 observation, she would naturally be led to 
 reflect upon the situation of her mother, to 
 contemplate her character and habits, and to 
 regard with sympathy at least, the daily and 
 hourly fatigues and anxieties which the na- 
 ture of her domestic circumstances renders 
 it necessary for her to undergo. If the young 
 person has brothers or sisters less advanced 
 in life than herself, she cannot fail to observe 
 the assiduity, with which all their wants are 
 provided for by maternal care, as well as the 
 self-denial and disinterested love, by which 
 their safety is guarded, and their happiness 
 preserved. 
 
 It is equalty reasonable to suppose, that 
 having such interesting subjects of grateful 
 and affectionate consideration continually 
 present to her eye, and to her mind, the 
 young person would reason thus: “In this 
 manner my mother has watched over me. 
 Through long nights of weariness and ex- 
 haustion she has rocked me in her arms, and 
 
 stilled the sighs of her own bosom, from the 
 fear of disturbing my repose. Not only has 
 she denied herself every amusement and 
 every gratification that would have drawn 
 her away from the sphere of my childish pas- 
 times, but also the wonted recreations neces- 
 sary for the preservation of her health; until 
 her cheek grew pale, and her step feeble in 
 my service. I was then unable to make any 
 other return than by my infantine caresses; 
 and often when she was the most weary, or 
 the most enfeebled, my pampered selfishness 
 was the most requiring. Thus I have in- 
 curred a debt of gratitude, for the repayment 
 of which the limit of a natural life will .scarce- 
 ly be sufficient. The summer of her exist- 
 ence is waning, mine is yet to come. I will 
 so cultivate my feelings, and regulate my 
 habits, as to enjoy the happiness of sharing 
 her domestic burdens, and thus prove to her 
 that 1am not unmindful of the benefit I have 
 myself derived from the long-suffering of a 
 mother’s love.” 
 
 Do we find this to be the prevailing feel- 
 ing among the young ladies of the present 
 day? Do we find the respected and vener- 
 ated mother so carefully cherished, that she 
 is permitted to sit in perfect peace, the pre- 
 siding genius, as she ought to be, over every 
 department of domestic comfort—her cares 
 lightened by participation with her affection- 
 ate daughters, her mind relieved of its bur- 
 dens by their watchful love, herself arrayed 
 in the best attire, as a-badge of her retirement | 
 from active duty, and smiling as the steps of 
 time glide past her, because she knows that 
 younger feet are walking in her own sweet 
 ways of pleasantness and peace ? 
 
 Is this the picture presented in the present 
 day by the far-famed homes of England? 
 Do we not rather find the mother, the faith- 
 ful and time-worn mother of the family, not 
 only the moving spring of all domestic man- 
 agement, but the actual working power, by 
 which every household plan is carried into 
 practical effect? I refer of course to cases 
 where domestics are few, and pecuniary 
 means not over abundant, where we see the 
 mother hastening with anxious solicitude to 
 
ES 
 
 a Se ce ta Saipan aoe 
 
 74 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 answer every call from every member of the 
 family ; as if her part in the duties of life was 
 not only to have waited upon her children in 
 infancy, but to conduct them to an easy and 
 luxurious old age; in short, to spare their 
 feet from walking, their hands from labor, and 
 their heads from thought. 
 
 I know that it is mistaken kindness in the 
 mother to allow herself thus to become a 
 household drudge. I know also that young 
 ladies are easily satisfied with what appears 
 to them a reasonable excuse, that “ mamma 
 prefers doing all these things herself,” that 
 “she is such a dear kind soul, they would 
 not rob her even of the merit of mending 
 their own garments.” But let me ask how 
 often she prefers doing these things herself, 
 simply because of their unwillingness to do 
 them; and how their ungracious manner, 
 when they have been asked to relieve her, 
 has wounded her patient spirit, and rendered 
 it less irksome to her to do the hardest man- 
 ual labor, than to ask them again? Let me 
 remind them also, that there is a habit of 
 doing things so awkwardly, that you will not 
 be likely to be called upon for your services 
 a second time; and whether by accident or 
 design, I will not presume to say, but some 
 young ladies certainly appear to be great 
 adepts in this method of performing their 
 duties. 
 
 It is a most painful spectacle in families 
 where the mother is the drudge, to see the 
 daughters elegantly dressed, reclining at 
 their ease, with their drawing, their music, 
 their fancy-work, and their light reading ; be- 
 guiling themselves of the lapse of hours, 
 days, and weeks, and never dreaming of 
 their responsibilities; but, as a necessary 
 consequence of the neglect of duty, growing 
 weary of their useless lives, laying hold of 
 every newly invented stimulant to rouse their 
 drooping energies, and blaming their fate 
 when they dare not blame their God, for 
 having placed them where they are. 
 
 These individuals will often tell you with 
 ‘an air of affected compassion—for who can 
 believe it real’—that “ poor dear mamma is 
 
 working herself to death.” Yet no sooner 
 
 emer 
 
 Se eS ee ee ee 
 
 do you propose that they should assist her, |] 
 than they declare she is quite in her element 
 —in short, that she would never be happy if 
 she had only half as much to do. 
 
 I have before observed, that it is not diffi- 
 cult to ascertain, on entering a family, whether 
 the female members of it are, or are not ac- 
 tuated by habits of kindness and considera- 
 tion; and in no instance is it more easily 
 detected than in the behavior of the daugh- 
 ters to their mother. We have probably all 
 seen elegant and accomplished young ladies 
 doing the honors of the house to their guests, 
 by spreading before them that lavish profu- 
 sion of books and pictures, with which every 
 table of every drawing-room is, in these mod- 
 ern times, adorned. We have heard them 
 expatiate with taste and enthusiasm upon the 
 works of art, upon the beauties of foreign 
 scenery, and the delights of travelling abroad ; 
 while the mother is simultaneously engaged 
 in superintending the management of the 
 viands about to be spread before the com- 
 pany, or in placing the last leaf of garniture 
 around the dessert, upon which her daugh- 
 ters have never condescended to bestow a 
 thought. 
 
 It is easy, in these cases, to see by the anx- 
 ious and perturbed appearance of the mistress 
 of the house, when she does at last appear, 
 that she has no assistance, but that which a 
 very limited number of domestics could ren- 
 der, behind the scenes; that every variety of 
 the repast which her guests are pressed to 
 partake of, has cost her both trouble to invent 
 and labor to prepare; and we feel that we 
 are regaling ourselves too much at her ex- 
 pense. 
 
 There is a painful contrast between the 
 care and anxiety depicted on her brow, and 
 the indifference—the real or pretended igno- 
 rance with which the young ladies speak, 
 when it is absolutely necessary, of any of | 
 those culinary compositions which they re- 
 gard as belonging exclusively to the depart- | 
 ment of mothers and servants. If by any | 
 possible mischance, the good woman alludes 
 to the flavor of her compounds, wishing, 
 purely for the sake of her guests, that she | 
 
== 
 
 had added a little more of the salt, or the 
 | cinnamon,—indications of nausea, accompa- 
 nied by symptoms of indignation and disgust, 
 immediately manifest themselves among the 
 young ladies, and they really wonder what 
 mamma will be absurd enough to say next. 
 
 It is in such families as this, that, not only 
 on days of leisure, but on days when extra 
 services are sure to be wanted in the home 
 department, the daughters always find some 
 pressing call upon their attention out of doors. 
 They have their morning calls to make; and 
 there is that mysterious shopping to attend 
 to, that never hasan end. Indeed, one would 
 
 - || almost think, from the frequency with which 
 I) they resort to some of the most fashionable 
 shops in town, that each of these young 
 ladies had: a peculiar taste for the mode of 
 life prevailing in this particular sphere of 
 exertion, were it not for the indignation she 
 manifests at the remotest hint upon the duty 
 
 of assisting her father in his. 
 
 It is astonishing how duties out of doors 
 accumulate upon persons who are glad of 
 any excuse to escape from those at home. 
 No one can deny the necessity they are un- 
 der of pursuing that course of mental im- 
 provement begun at school; and there are 
 lectures on every science to be attended, bor- 
 rowed books to be returned, and little coter- 
 ies of studious young people to join in their 
 morning classes. 
 
 It is also curious to observe that these 
 young ladies who can with difficulty be in- 
 
 duced to move about in their own homes, 
 even to spare their mother’s weary feet, who 
 esteem it an act of oppression in her to send 
 them to the highest apartment of the house, 
 and of degradation in themselves to descend | 
 to the lowest,—it is curious to observe how 
 these regard themselves as under an abso- 
 lute necessity to walk out every day for their 
 health, and how they choose that precise 
 time for walking when their mothers are 
 most busy, and their domestic peace, by a 
 natural consequence, most likely to be in- 
 vaded. 
 
 I would touch, with extreme delicacy, upon 
 another branch of public occupation, because 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ee ay 
 75 
 
 I believe it to be entered upon, in innumera- 
 ble instances, with feelings which do honor 
 to humanity, and to that religion, under 
 whose influence alone, such avocations can 
 be faithfully carried on. But I must confess, 
 there appears to me some. ground to fear, 
 that the amusement of doing public good, the 
 excitement it produces, and especially the 
 exemption it purchases from domestic re- 
 quirements, has something to do with the 
 zeal evinced by some young females to be 
 employed as instruments in the dissemination 
 of religious knowledge, and the augmentation 
 of funds appropriated to benevolent uses. 
 
 Fearing, however, lest what might assume 
 even the faintest coloring of uncharitableness, 
 should fall from my pen on this delicate but 
 most important subject, I will leave it with 
 the individuals thus engaged, as fitter for 
 their consideration, than for my remark. 
 The world takes cognizance of their actions, 
 and it is perhaps occasionally too lavish in 
 its bestowment of their praises. But the 
 world is a false friend, for it can applaud 
 where there is little real merit, and condemn 
 where there ought to be no blame. 
 
 Let not the really faithful and sincere be || 
 hurt by these insinuations. Their cause is 
 beyond the penetration of man, and their real 
 springs of action are known, where alone they 
 can be truly estimated,—where alone they can 
 meet with their just reward. 
 
 How different from the feelings called forth 
 by habits such as I have just described, are 
 those with which we take up our abode in a 
 family, where we know that the morning sun 
 has risen upon daughters, who meet its early 
 beams with the cheerful determination, that 
 whatever may be the business of the day, 
 their hands, and not their mother’s, shall do 
 the actual work! Her experience, and her 
 ever-guiding judgment, may direct their la- 
 bors; but she who has so often toiled and 
 watched for them, shall at least enjoy another 
 opportunity of seeing how gladly and how 
 richly they can repay the debt. 'The first 
 thought that occupies their minds, is, how to 
 guard her precious health. They meet her 
 in the morning with affectionate solicitude, 
 
and look to see if her cheek has become less 
 pale; whether her smile is languid, or cheer- 
 ful—her step, weary or light. 
 
 I must again repeat, that one of the surest 
 tests of true disinterested love is this readi- 
 ness to detect indisposition. Persons who 
 are in theshabit of cherishing antipathies, 
 seldom believe in the minor ailments of those 
 they dislike. These facts render it the more 
 surprising, that daughters should not always 
 see the symptoms of exhausted strength, 
 which too frequently manifest themselves in 
 industrious and care-taking mothers; that 
 they should not watch with the tenderest 
 anxiety the slightest indication of their Valu- 
 able health being liable to decay. Yet so it 
 is, that the mother of a family, who cares for 
 every ailment in her household, is the last to 
 be cared for herself, except in cases affording 
 those beautiful exemplifications of filial duty 
 to which allusion has just been made. 
 
 With daughters who are sensible of the 
 strong claims of a mother’s love, no care can 
 be too great, no solicitude too tender, to be- 
 stow upon that beloved parent. ‘They know 
 that if deprived of this friend of their infancy 
 —this guide of their erring feet—the world 
 will be comparatively poor to them: and as 
 the miser guards his hoarded treasure, they 
 guard the life, for which that world would be 
 incapable of supplying a substitute. 
 
 There are few subjects of contemplation 
 more melancholy, than the waste of human 
 love which the aspect of this world presents 
 —of deep, tender, untiring, disinterested love, 
 bestowed in such a manner as tu meet no ade- 
 quate return: and what must be the harvest 
 gathered in, to a mother’s faithful bosom, 
 when she finds that she has reared up chil- 
 dren who are too refined to share her humble 
 cares, too learned and too clever to waste 
 their talents on a sphere of thought and ac- 
 tion like her own, and too much engaged in 
 the pursuit of intellectual attainments, even 
 to think of her! 
 
 Yet to whom do we look for consolation 
 when the blight of sickness or sorrow falls 
 upon our earthly peace, but to a mother! 
 And who but a mother is invited to partake 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 Sn nn ett nItyaIE Inna SE NNER ereenereeeeee ere eeenEEREIEES 
 
 of our afflictions or our trials? Ifthe stigma 
 of worldly degradation falls upon us, we fly 
 to a mother’s love, for that mantle of charity 
 which is denied elsewhere. With more hon- 
 ored and distinguished associates, we may. 
 have smiled away the golden hours of life’s 
 young prime; but the bitter tears of experi- 
 ence are wept upon a mother’s bosom. We 
 keep for our summer friends the amusing 
 story, the brilliant witticism, or the intellectual | 
 discourse; but we tell to a mother’s ear the 
 tale of our distress, and the history of our 
 wrongs. For all that belongs to the weak- 
 ness and the wants of humanity, a mother’s 
 affection is sorely taxed; why then should 
 not daughters have the noble feeling to say 
 before the world, and to let their actions speak 
 the same language,—* This is my earliest and 
 my best friend ?” 
 
 It is true, the mother may be far behind the | 
 daughter in the accomplishments of modern | 
 education; she may, perhaps, occasionally | 
 betray her ignorance of polite literature, or’ 
 her want of acquaintance with the customs 
 of polished society. But how can this in 
 any way affect the debt of obligation exist- 
 ing between her daughter and herself? or 
 how can it lessen the validity of her claim to 
 gratitude for services received, and esteem 
 for the faithfulness with which those services 
 have been performed? 
 
 Let us not believe of the young ladies of 
 the present day that they can for any length- 
 ened period, allow the march of mind to out- 
 run the growth of their kindly feelings. Let 
 us rather hope the time is coming when they 
 will exhibit to the world that beautiful exem- 
 plification of true dignity—a high degree of 
 intellectual culture rendered conducive to the 
 happiness of those who claim their deepest 
 gratitude, and their tenderest affection. 
 
 The next view we propose to take of the 
 domestic habits of the women of this favored 
 country, is that of their behavior in the rela- 
 tion between daughters and fathers. 
 
 The affection existing between fathers and 
 daughters, is a favorite theme with writers 
 both of romance and reality ; and the familiar 
 walks of life, we doubt not, are rich in in- 
 
ae Mit CHR Ge MAR 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 77 
 
 stances of this peculiar kind of affection ex- 
 isting-in a lovely, and most unquestionable 
 form. Still there are points of view in which 
 this subject, as illustrated by the customs of 
 society in the present day, cannot be con- 
 templated without pain. 
 
 I have often had occasion to speak of the 
 duties of women towards their fathers, broth- 
 ers, husbands, and sons, when engaged in 
 the active pursuits of trade; and there is an 
 anomaly presented by society of this class in 
 England, which I am particularly anxious to 
 point out to the rising generation. 
 
 There are vast numbers of worthy and in- 
 dustrious men, not only of the young and the 
 ‘middle-aged, but of those who are sinking 
 into the vale of years, who spend almost the 
 whole of their waking lives in scenes and 
 occupations, from which almost every thing 
 in the shape of enjoyment must necessarily 
 | be shut out. 
 
 In looking into the shops, the warehouses, 
 the offices, and the counting-houses, of our 
 commercial and manufacturing towns, we 
 are struck with the destitution of comfort 
 | which everywhere prevails, and we ask,— 
 “Are these the abodes of free-born, indepen- 
 ; dent men ?”’ 
 
 I should be sorry to be weak enough to 
 suppose that an honest and industrious man 
 may not be just as happy when he treads on 
 boards, as when he treads on Turkey carpets; 
 yet again, when we begin the early day with 
 such individuals, and see what their occupa- 
 tions actually are, from nine in the morning, 
 often until late in the afternoon or evening, 
 for weeks, and months, and years, with 
 scarcely any respite or relaxation, we natu- 
 rally ask how are the wives and daughters of 
 these men employed? For surely if there be 
 | a necessity for the father of the family to be 
 situated thus, the kinder and more disinter- 
 ested members of his household must be 
 dwelling in abodes even more uncongenial 
 and revolting than these. It is but reasona- 
 ble to expect that we should find them in 
 apartments less luxurious in their furniture, 
 with windows less pervious to the light of 
 day, their persons perched upon harder stools, 
 
 and altogether accommodated in an inferior 
 manner. And this we are led to expect, 
 simply because it is difficult to believe of 
 generous-hearted women, that they would 
 be willing to enjoy indulgences purchased at 
 the sacrifice of the comfort of those they love, 
 and by the degradation of those whom they 
 look up to as their superiors. 
 
 Perhaps we are told that to man it is no 
 sacrifice to spend his life in these dungeon- 
 like apartments, shut in from the pure air, 
 and compelled to deal with the extreme mi- 
 nutiee of what is neither interesting nor dig- 
 nified in itself{—that he regards not these tri- 
 fling inconveniences, that he is accustomed 
 to them, and that they are what the world 
 esteems as manly and befitting; yet on being 
 invited to pay our respects to the ladies of 
 the family, we find ourselves transported into 
 a scene so entirely different from that of his 
 daily toil, that we are led to exclaim,—* How | 
 opposite must be the tastes of men and wo- | 
 men in this sphere of life, in England!” <A 
 little more acquaintance with their domestic 
 habits, however, enables us to discover that 
 their tastes are not so different as their cir- 
 cumstances, and that the cares, the anxieties, 
 and the actual Jabor, which the man is under- 
 going every day, are placing him on a very 
 different footing, with-regard to personal com- 
 fort, from the females of his household. — 
 
 And how do the women strive to soothe 
 these cares, to relieve these anxieties, and to 
 lighten these labors? Do they not often make 
 their own personal expenses extend to the 
 extreme limit that his means will afford? Do 
 they not dress, and visit, receive visitors, and 
 practise all those elegant accomplishments, 
 which their father’s exertions have been tax- 
 ed to pay for. 
 
 I know that the blame does not always rest 
 with the female members of the family, but 
 that men, especially when they first marry, 
 are often pleased to behold their wives array- 
 ed in the most costly habiliments which their 
 means can procure: in addition to this, they 
 believe that their interest in the world is ad- || 
 vanced by keeping up a certain degree of 
 costly display, both in dress and furniture. | 
 
78 
 
 As time advances, however, and their spirits 
 grow less buoyant under the pressure of ac- 
 cumulated cares, especially if these cares have 
 been unproductive of so golden a harvest as 
 they had anticipated, and when daughters are 
 growing up to double—nay, to treble their 
 mother’s expenditure, by adding all the ima- 
 gined essentials of modern refinement; the 
 father then perceives, perhaps too late to re- 
 trieve his ruined circumstances, the error into 
 which he has been led; and fain would he 
 then, in the midst of his bitter regrets, per- 
 suade his daughters to begin to think and act 
 upon different principles from those which he 
 has himself so thoughtlessly instilled. 
 
 Perhaps the father is sinking into the vale 
 of years, his spirit broken, and some of the 
 growing infirmities of age stealing insidiously 
 upon him. His manly figure begins to stoop, 
 his eye grows dim, and he comes home weary 
 from his daily labor. What a melancholy 
 picture is presented by the image of such a 
 man going forth in public, with his gaily and 
 expensively dressed daughters fluttering by 
 his side! 
 
 Nor is this all. Let us follow them home. 
 He rises early, wearied and worn as he is, 
 and, snatching a hasty breakfast before his 
 daughters have come down, goes forth to his 
 daily avocations, leaving them to their morn- 
 ing calls, light reading, and fancy-work, until 
 his return. At the close of the day, his step 
 is again heard on the threshold. He has be- 
 gun to feel that the walk is too much for him. 
 Conveyances, in countless numbers, have 
 passed him on his way, but these are not 
 times for him to afford the luxury of riding, 
 for a rival tradesman has just opened a tempt- 
 ing establishment in the neighborhood of his 
 own, and the evils of competition are destroy- 
 ing half his gains. With a jaded look and 
 feeble step, then, he enters his home. He 
 wipes the gathering dew from his wrinkled 
 forehead, sits down with a sigh almost 
 amounting to a groan of despondency, and 
 then looks round upon the well- furnished par- 
 lor, where the ladies of his family spend their 
 idle hours. 
 
 We will not libel the daughters so far as to 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 say, they are guilty of neglect in not inviting 
 him to partake of his evening meal. "They 
 may even press their kisses on his cheek, and 
 express their welcome in the warmest terms. 
 Supposing they have done all this, and that 
 he is beginning to feel invigorated and re- 
 freshed, perhaps revived a little in his spirit 
 by this evidence of their affection, at length 
 he smiles ; and that smile has been eagerly 
 watched for, as the indication that his heart is 
 warming into generosity. 
 
 Now is the auspicious time: “ Papa, dear, 
 have you ever thought again of the silk cloaks 
 you promised us, as soon as Mr. Moody’s bill 
 was paid?) And Emma wants a velvet bon- |} 
 net this winter. And papa, dear, where did || 
 you say we could get the best satin shoes | 
 “My love,” says the wife, in a graver, and 
 more important tone, “These poor girls are |} 
 sadly in want of drawing-paper—indeed, of |} 
 pencils, and of every thing belonging to. their 
 drawing ; for you know it is of no use having 
 a master to teach them, unless we provide 
 them with the necessary materials. And Isa- 
 bella’s music—I was positively ashamed to 
 hear her play those old pieces again at Mrs. 
 Melburn’s last night.” 
 
 We have seen pictures of birds of prey 
 hovering about their dying victim; but I |{ 
 doubt whether a still more repulsive and mel- |} 
 ancholy picture might not be made, of a man 
 of business in the decline of life, when he 
 naturally asks for repose, spurred and goaded 
 into fresh exertions, by the artificial wants and 
 insatiable demands of his wife and daugh- 
 ters. 
 The root of the evil, I grant to be, not so 
 much in the hard hearts of the individuals 
 here ‘described, as in the system of false re- 
 finement which prevails in this country. But 
 whatever the cause or the remedy may be, 
 those will be happy days for England, when 
 her noble-minded women, despite the preju- 
 dices of early education, shall stand forth be- 
 fore the world, and show that they dare be ||. 
 dutiful daughters rather than ladies of fash- || 
 ion; and that the principles of integrity, gen- 
 erdsity, and natural feeling, have taught them 
 never to wish for enjoyment purchased by 
 
the sacrifice of a father’s health, or a hus- 
 band’s peace. 
 
 I know not whether it often occurs to the 
 young, or only to those whose experience has 
 been of longer duration, to make this obser- 
 vation upon human nature—that it is not 7n- 
 tentional offence, or intentional injury, which 
 always inflicts the severest pain. A mother 
 who, by her ill-judged indulgence, fosters in 
 her child a selfish and domineering temper, 
 and thus renders such evil dispositions iden- 
 tified with the very nature of that child, so 
 that it is a stranger to any other principles of 
 action, is as much hurt when, in after life, 
 her child is selfish and domineering towards 
 herself, as if he actually departed from his ac- 
 customed line of conduct, for the purpose of 
 being pointedly unkind fo her. In the same 
 way, the father who has brought up his fam- 
 ily in habits of extravagance, when he feels 
 the tide of prosperity turning against him, for- 
 gets that those habits are necessarily stronger 
 than his reasoning, and is wounded to the 
 soul to think that his daughters are not more 
 considerate. Upon the same principle of 
 groundless expectation, we often seé well- 
 meaning but injudicious parents taking ex- 
 treme pains to guard their children against 
 one particular error in conduct, or one spe- 
 cies of vice, yet neglecting to lay that only sure 
 foundation of moral conduct which is to be 
 found in religious principle ; and these, again, 
 are shocked to find, as their children advance 
 ‘in life, that all their endeavors have been un- 
 produetive of the desired result. Nor must 
 I, while pointing out errors in the behavior 
 of children towards their parents, omit to ob- 
 serve, that if parents would be more solicit- 
 ous to instil into their minds the importance 
 of relative and social duties faithfully per- 
 formed, instead of captiously reproving them 
 for every deviation from the strict line of these 
 duties, they would find themselves more hap- 
 py in their families, more tenderly watched 
 over in sickness and sorrow—more cherished 
 and revered in the decline of life. 
 
 Still, though the fault may, in some cases, 
 have been originally with the parents, there 
 is little excuse for daughters, who are of age 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 to think and act for themselves. Habit, we | 
 know, is proverbially accounted second na- | 
 ture ; but we know also, that even our first ! 
 nature is capable of being changed. 
 
 He who has become subject to a painful 
 and dangerous disease, through the neglect 
 or mismanagement of those who had _ the 
 care of him in early life, does not content 
 himself with saying it was the maltreatment 
 of his nurse that brought upon him this ca- 
 lamity. If the disease admits of remedy— 
 if it even admits of alleviation—he is as earn- 
 est in seeking out and applying the proper 
 means of relief; as if he had been the sole 
 cause of his own affliction. And shall we 
 confine our powers of reasoning rightly, and 
 acting promptly, to the promotion of the ben- 
 efit of the body, and leave the immortal mind 
 to suffer for eternity, without applying such 
 remedies as are provided for its use? 
 
 Whether the evil be in the original taint 
 of our nature, or in the same nature inherent 
 in another form, and operating upon us 
 through the medium of injudicious treat- 
 ment, we stand in precisely the same posi- 
 tion with regard to moral responsibility, and 
 accountability to the Searcher of all human 
 hearts. 
 
 It is right the tender sympathy of our | 
 friends should be excited, when we tell them | 
 that the faults for which they blame us were 
 fostered and encouraged by the mistaken 
 judgment of our parents in early life ; but 
 there is a tribunal at which this plea will be 
 of little avail, if, while the means of reforma- 
 tion are yet within our reach, we suffer such 
 habits to strengthen and establish themselves 
 as part of our character; and I would earn- 
 estly recommend to the young women of 
 England, that they should rouse themselves, 
 and act upon the first conviction, that the 
 advantages resulting from what is called a 
 finished education, are but so many addition- 
 al talents lent them, for employment in the 
 service of that gracious Father, who has 
 charged his children with the keeping of 
 each other’s happiness, and who, when he | 
 instituted the parental bond, and filled the 
 mother’s heart with love, and touched with | 
 
 ea 
 
 a 
 
80 
 
 tenderness the father’s firmer soul, was 
 pleased to appoint them after-years of weak- 
 ness, suffering, and infirmity, when their chil- 
 dren would be able to enjoy the holy privilege 
 of conducting their feeble steps in peace and 
 safety towards the close of their earthly pil- 
 grimage. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS,—CONSIDERATION AND KIND- 
 NESS. 
 
 Tuat branch of the subject upon which I 
 am now entering being one of so much im- 
 portance in the sum of human happiness as 
 scarcely to admit of comparison with any 
 other, it might be expected that I should es- 
 pecially direct the attention of the reader to 
 the duties of consideration and kindness in 
 the married state, by entering into the minu- 
 tie of its especial requirements, and recom- 
 mending them with all the earnestness of 
 emphatic detail, to the serious consideration 
 of the women of England. Happy indeed 
 should I be to do this, did I not feel that, at 
 the same time, I should be touching upon a 
 theme too delicate for the handling of an or- 
 dinary pen, and venturing beyond that veil 
 which the sacredness of such a connection 
 is calculated to draw over all that is ex- 
 treme in the happiness or misery of human 
 life. / 
 
 I shall therefore glance only upon those 
 points which are most obvious to the eye of 
 a third party ;-and in doing this, it will be 
 found, that many of the remarks I have 
 made upon the behavior of daughters to 
 their fathers, are equally applicable to that of 
 wives towards their husbands. There is, 
 however, this great difference—the connec- 
 tion existing between married people is al- 
 most invariably a matter of choice. A daugh- 
 | ter may, sometimes, imagine herself excused, 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 She may think his manners vulgar, and be- 
 lieve that if she had a father who was a gen- 
 tleman, she would be more attentive and 
 considerate to him. But her husband cannot 
 have married her without her own consent ; 
 and therefore the engagement she has volun- 
 tarily entered into, must be to fulfil the duties 
 of a wife to him as he is, and not as she 
 could have wished or imagined him to be. 
 
 These considerations lead me to a view of 
 the subject which I have often been com-. 
 pelled to take with deep regret, but which J 
 fear no human pen, and still less mine, will 
 be able to change: it is the false system of 
 behavior kept up between those who are 
 about to enter into the relation of marriage ; 
 so that when they settle down upon the true 
 basis of their own characters, and appear to || 
 each other what they actually are, the differ- I} 
 ence is sometimes so great, as almost to justi- 
 fy the inquiry whether the individual can re- 
 ally be the same. 
 
 I presume not to expatiate upon that pro- | 
 cess denominated courtship, as it is frequent- || 
 ly carried on by men. I venture not to ac- 
 cuse. them of injustice, in cherishing, in their 
 early intercourse with the object of their 
 choice, the very faults which they afterwards 
 complain of in the wife. My chief solicitude 
 is for my own sex, that they should not only 
 be faithful after marriage, but upright and 
 sincere before ; and that they should scorn 
 to engage a lover, by little acts of considera- 
 tion and kindness which they are not pre- 
 pared to practise even more willingly to- 
 wards the husband. 
 
 I have known cases in which a kind- 
 hearted woman would have esteemed her- 
 self robbed of a privilege, if her lover had 
 asked any other person than herself, so much 
 as to mend his glove. Yet is it not possible 
 for the same woman, two years after mar- 
 riage, to say— My sister, or my cousin, will 
 do that for you. I am too busy now.” 
 
 Nor is it the act alone, but the manner in 
 which the act is done, that conveys a false 
 
 {| by supposing that her father is too uncon- 
 || genial in mind and character, for her to owe 
 
 | him much in the way of companionship. 
 
 impression of what will be the manner of 
 that woman after marriage. 
 with intentional deception. 
 
 I charge no one 
 The very ex- 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 pression of the countenance is that of real 
 and intense enjoyment, while the act of kind- 
 ness is performed. All I regret is, that the 
 same expressions of countenance should not 
 always accompany the same performance in 
 the wife. All women of acute sensibility 
 must feel the loss of personal attractions, 
 when time begins to tell upon their youthful 
 charms. But, oh! that they would learn by 
 the warning of others, rather than by their 
 own experience, that it is most frequently the 
 want of this expression of cheerful, genuine, 
 disinterested kindness, than the want of 
 youthful beauty, that alienates their hus- 
 bands’ love, and makes them objects of in- 
 difference, or worse. 
 
 The cultivation of acquaintance before 
 marriage, with a view to that connection 
 
 | taking place, for the most part goes but a 
 
 very little way towards the knowledge of 
 
 | real character. The parties usually meet 
 in the hey-day of inexpérienced youth; and 
 while they exult in the unclouded sunshine 
 of life, their mutual endeavors to please 
 are rewarded by an equal willingness to be 
 pleased. The woman, especially, is placed 
 in a situation highly calculated to excite the 
 greatest possible degree of complacency. She 
 is treated by a being upon whom she depends, 
 and he most probably her superior, as if she 
 was incapable of error, and guiltless of a 
 single fault. Perhaps she warns him of his 
 mistake, speaks of her own defects, and as- 
 sures him that she is not the angelic creature 
 he supposes her to be; but she does all this 
 with so sweet a grace, and looks all the while 
 so pleased to be contradicted, that her infor- 
 mation goes for nothing ; and we are by no 
 means assured that she is not better satsified 
 it should be so. 
 
 If, for instance, she really wishes him to 
 know that her temper is naturally bad, why is 
 she invariably so mild, and bland, and con- 
 ciliating in his presence? Ifshe wishes him 
 to believe that she has a mind not capable of 
 entering fully into the interest of his favorite 
 books, and the subjects of his favorite dis- 
 course, why does she appear to listen so at- 
 tentively when he reads, and ask so many 
 
 SS 
 
 ee 
 
 81 
 
 questions calculated to draw him out into 
 conversation? I?fshe wishes him to suppose 
 that she is not always a lively and agreeable 
 companion, why does she not occasionally 
 assume the tone and manner so familiar to 
 her family at home—answer him shortly, 
 hang down her head, and mope away the 
 evening when he is near her? If she really 
 wishes him to believe her, when she tells him 
 that she is but ill-informed, and wanting in 
 judgment; why, when he talks with her, 
 does she take so much pains to express opin- 
 ions generally believed to be correct, and 
 especially such as coincide with his own? 
 If she occasionally acts from caprice, and 
 really wishes him to know that she does so, 
 to the injury of the comfort of those around 
 her; why, whenever she practises in this 
 way upon him, does she win him back again, 
 and soothe his feelings with redoubled kind- 
 ness, and additional solicitude to please ? 
 
 Perhaps she will tell me she acts in this 
 manner, because it would be unamiable and 
 ungenerous to do otherwise. ‘To which I 
 answer, If it be unamiable and ungenerous 
 to the lover, how much more so must it be to 
 the husband? I find no fault with the sweet- 
 ness, the irresistible charm of her behavior 
 before marriage. It is no more than we 
 ought to practise towards those whose hap- 
 piness is bound up with ours. The falling 
 off afterwards, is what I regard as so much 
 to be deplored in the character of woman; 
 for wherever this is observed, it seems to indi- 
 cate that her mind has been low enough to 
 be influenced by a desire of establishing her- 
 self in an eligible home, and escaping the 
 stigma foolishly attached to the situation of 
 an old maid. 
 
 I have devoted an earlier chapter in this 
 work to the consideration of dress and man- 
 ners; but I have omitted one of the most 
 striking points of view in which these sub- 
 jects can be regarded,—the different charac- 
 ters they sometimes assume before, and after, 
 marriage. 
 
 When a young lady dresses with a view 
 to general approbation, she is studiously so- 
 licitous to observe, what she believes to be, 
 
 ' 
 
 Se ee ee 
 
82 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 values, evinces any decided symptoms of 
 | becoming her admirer. She then meets him 
 with her hair arranged in the most becoming 
 style; with the neat shoe, and pure-white 
 gloves, which she has heard him commend 
 in others; with the pale scarf, the quiet-color- 
 ed robe, and with the general aspect of her 
 costume accommodated to his taste. 
 not but observe this regard to his wishes, 
 and he notes it down as a proof of amiable 
 temperament, as well as sympathy of ha- 
 bitual feeling. Auguring well for his future 
 happiness with a woman, who even in mat- 
 ters of such trifling moment is willing to 
 make his wish her law, he prevails upon her 
 at last to crown that happiness by the be- 
 stowment of her hand. 
 
 In the course of three years, we look in 
 upon this couple in the home they are shar- 
 ing together. We suppose the lady to be 
 the same, yet cannot feel quite sure, her 
 whole appearance is so changed. The hair 
 that used to be so carefully braided, or so 
 gracefully curled, is now allowed to wander 
 in dishevelled tresses, or swept away from 
 a brow, whose defects it was wont to cover. 
 There is a forlornness in her whole appear- 
 ance, as if she had not, as formerly, any 
 worthy object for which to study these sec- 
 ondary points of beauty; and we inwardly 
 exclaim, How the taste of her husband must 
 have changed, to allow him to be pleased 
 with what is so entirely the opposite of his 
 original choice! On a second observation, 
 however, we ask whether he actually is 
 pleased, for there is nothing like satisfaction 
 in the look with which he turns away from 
 | the unbecoming cap, the soiled kerchief, and 
 the neglected aspect of the partner of his 
 life. 
 
 If married women, 4) allow themselves 
 to fall into that State of moral degradation, 
 which ‘such an appearance indicates, feel 
 pained at symptoms of estrangement in their 
 husbands’ affections, they must at least be 
 satisfied to endure the consequences of their 
 | own want of consideration, without sympa- 
 
 | the rules of good taste ; and more especially, 
 | ifa gentleman, whose favorable opinion she 
 
 He can- | 
 
 thy or commiseration. They may, perhaps, 
 feel disposed to say their punishment is too 
 severe for such a fault. They love their 
 husbands as faithfully as ever, and expected 
 from them a love that would have been more 
 faithful in return, than to be shaken by any 
 change in mere personal appearance. But 
 let me tell them, that the change which owes 
 its existence to our own fault, has a totally || 
 different effect upon the feelings of a friend, 
 from that which is the consequence of our 
 misfortune ; and one of the most bitter and 
 repulsive thoughts that can be made to rankle 
 in a husband’s bosom, is, that his wife should 
 only have deemed it necessary to charm his 
 eye, until she had obtained his hand; and 
 that, through the whole of his after life he 
 must look in vain for the exercise of that 
 kind consideration in consulting his tastes 
 and wishes, that used to lend so sweet a 
 charm to the season of youthful intercourse. 
 
 It is a subject well calculated to inspire the 
 most serious regret, that men should practise 
 throughout the season of courtship, that sys- 
 tem of indiscriminate flattery which lulls the 
 better judgment of a woman into a belief 
 that she must of necessity be delightful to 
 him—delightful, faults and all—nay, what is 
 infinitely worse than this, into a secret suspi- 
 cion, that the faults which her female friends 
 have been accustomed to point out, have no 
 existence in reality, and that to one who 
 knows and loves her better, she must appear 
 in her naturally amiable and attractive char- 
 acter. 
 
 Could she be persuaded, on that import- || 
 ant. day, when she is led home from tie |} 
 altar, adorned, attended upon, and almost lg 
 worshipped—could she be persuaded to cast |} 
 one impartial glance into her own heart, she 
 would see that the treasure she was bestow-_ 
 ing, had many drawbacks from its value, 
 and that all the happiness it was in her pow- 
 er to confer, must necessarily, from the 
 nature of that heart, be pea peracied with 
 some alloy. 
 
 “ Alas!’ she would say, after this exami- 
 nation, “he knows me not. Time will reveal 
 to him my secretly cherished faults.” And | 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 when this conviction was confirmed through 
 the days and years of her after life, she 
 would esteem it but a small sacrifice of time 
 and patience to endeavor to render herself 
 personally attractive to him. Nay, so grate- 
 ful would she feel for his charitable forgive- 
 ness, that when the evil dispositions inherent 
 in her nature were thrown into more glaring 
 light, she would esteem it a privilege to be 
 able by the simplest means to convince him, 
 that, with all her faults, she was not so guilty 
 of a disregard to his wishes, as to refuse in 
 these minor points to conform her habits to 
 his taste. 
 
 Many of the remarks into which I have 
 been led by a consideration of the subject of 
 dress, are equally applicable to that of man- 
 ner, as relates to its connection with social 
 
 and domestic happiness before and after 
 
 marriage. We are all aware that neither 
 beauty, nor personal adornment, nor the 
 most brilliant conversation, can be rendered 
 | altogether charming to any individual, with- 
 out the accompaniment of a peculiar kind of 
 {| manner, by which that individual is made to 
 | feel that he partakes in the pleasant thoughts 
 | and kind feelings of the party whose object 
 it is to please. 
 
 Women who possess the tact to know ex- 
 actly how to give pleasure, are peculiarly 
 skilled in those earnest Jooks, and cheerful 
 smiles, and animated responses, which con- 
 stitute more than half the charm of society. 
 We sometimes see, in social evening circles, 
 the countenance of an intelligent young lady 
 lighted up with such a look of deep and 
 glowing interest as to render her perfectly 
 beautiful, during the time she is addressed 
 by a distinguished friend, or even an attract- 
 ive stranger. 
 
 I will not say that the same expression is 
 not always worn by the same individual at 
 the domestic hearth, when she listens to the 
 conversation of her husband. I will not so 
 far libel my countrywomen, because I know 
 that there are noble and admirable instances 
 of women who are too diffident and too 
 
 simple-hearted to study how to shine in 
 | public, who yet, from the intensity of their 
 
 83 
 
 own feelings, the brilliance of their own 
 powers of perception, and the deep delight 
 of listening to the gentle tones of a beloved 
 voice, when it speaks at once to their under- 
 standing and their hearts,—I know that such 
 women do wear an aspect of almost spiritual 
 beauty, and speak and act with an almost 
 superhuman grace, when no eye beholds 
 them but that which is most familiar, and 
 which is destined to look upon the same 
 path of life with theirs. 
 
 After acknowledging these instances, I 
 must suppose a case; and for the sake of 
 argument imagine what would be the feel- 
 ings of a husband, who, in mixed society, 
 should see his wife the centre of an anima- 
 ted group—pleased herself, and giving pleas- 
 ure to all around her—the expression of 
 intense interest depicted on her countenance, 
 and mingled with an apprehension so lively 
 and vivid, as almost to amount to presenti- 
 ment of every probable turn in the dis- 
 course ; her eyes lighted up with animation, 
 
 and her cheeks dimpled over with the play | 
 
 of sunny smiles—what would be the feelings || ° 
 
 of a husband who should have marked all 
 this, and when at his own fireside he felt 
 the want of pleasant converse to beguile the 
 winter’s evening of its length, should be an- 
 swered by that peculiar tone of voice, that 
 depression of countenance, and that forbid- 
 ding manner, Which are more powerful in 
 imposing silence than the most imperative 
 command ? 
 
 In fact, there is a manner all-powerful in 
 its influence upon domestic happiness, in 
 which there seems to be imbodied a spirit of 
 evil too subtile for detection, and too indefi- 
 nite to be described by any name. It is not 
 precisely a sullen manner, nor, in its strictest 
 sense, a repulsive manner ; for the individu- 
 al who adopts it may be perfectly civil all 
 the while. It does not consist in pointed 
 insult, or, indeed, in any thing pointed. It 
 conveys no reproach, nor suffers the party 
 upon whom it operates to suppose that re- 
 dress is the thing desired. It invites no 
 explanation, and makes no complaint. Its 
 only visible characteristic is, that the eye is 
 
| 84 
 
 never raised to gaze upon its object, but in- 
 variably directed past it, as if that object had 
 no ubiquity—in short, had no existence, and 
 was not required to have any. 
 
 This is the manner I should describe as 
 most expressive of natural antipathy without 
 the energy of active dislike; and yet this 
 manner, as before stated, is so potent in its 
 influence, that it seems to lay, as it were, an 
 unseen axe at the root of all domestic confi- 
 dence; and difficult as it must necessarily 
 be, for a woman to maintain this manner, 
 there have been instances in which it has 
 destroyed a husband’s peace, without afford- 
 ing him even the satisfaction of any definite 
 cause of complaint. There are degrees of 
 the same manner practised every day in all 
 classes of society, but never without a bane- 
 ful effect, in poisoning our kindly feelings, 
 | and decreasing the sum of human happi- 
 NESS. 
 
 We are all too much disposed to put on 
 what I would describe as company manners. 
 Not only are our best dresses reserved for our 
 visitors, but our best behavior too. I have 
 often been struck with the bland smiles that 
 have been put on in welcoming guests, and 
 the appearance of extreme interest with 
 which such guests have been listened to; 
 when, five minutes after their departure, the 
 same subject, having been taken up by some 
 unfortunate member of the family, no inter- 
 est whatever has been elicited, no smile 
 awakened, and scarcely so much as a pa- 
 tient and respectful answer drawn forth. I 
 have observed, also, with what forbearance 
 the absurdities of a stranger have been en- 
 dured: the twice-told tale, when begun again 
 in company, has apparently been as fresh 
 and entertaining as the first time it was 
 heard. The folly of ignorance has then had 
 no power to disgust, nor the impertinence of 
 curiosity to offend. 
 
 When I have marked all this, I have 
 thought, If we could but carry away our 
 company-smiles, to the home fireside, speak 
 always in the gentle and persuasive tones 
 made use of in the evening party, and move 
 along the domestic walk with that suavity of 
 
 ——. 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 manner which characterizes our intercourse 
 with what is called society,—how pleasant 
 would those homes become to the friends 
 who look for their hours of refreshment and 
 relaxation there; and how seldom should 
 we have to complain of our companionship 
 being neglected for that of more brilliant cir- 
 cles and more interesting scenes ! 
 
 In writing on the subject of consideration 
 and kindness before and after marriage, I 
 purposely confined my remarks to a very 
 slight and superficial view of the subject. 
 The world that lies beyond, I cannot regard 
 as within the province of my pen—I might 
 almost say, within the province of any pen: 
 for such is the difference in human character, 
 and in the circumstances by which character 
 is developed, that it would scarcely be possi- 
 ble to speak definitely of a line of conduct by 
 which the lives of any two married women 
 could properly be regulated, because such 
 conduct must bear strict reference to the 
 habits and temperament of the husband, 
 whose peculiarities of character would have 
 to be taken into account. 
 
 I must therefore be satisfied to recommend 
 this wide and important field of contempia- 
 tion to the serious attention and earnest soli- 
 citude of my country women; reminding them, 
 only, before we leave this subject, that if, in 
 the first instance, they are induced by selfish 
 feeling to consult their immediate interest or 
 convenience, they are, in a secondary man- 
 ner, undermining their own happiness by fail- 
 ing to consult that of the being whose destiny 
 is linked with theirs. 
 
 What pen can describe the wretchedness 
 of that woman, who finds herself doomed to 
 live unloved ; and to whom can she look for 
 confidence and affection, if shut out from the 
 natural sources of enjoyment at home ?— 
 There is no loneliness—there can be ncne-— 
 in all the waste or peopled deserts of this 
 world, bearing the slightest comparison with 
 that of an unloved wife. She stands amidst 
 her family like a living statue among the 
 marble memorials of the dead—instinct with 
 life, yet paralyzed with death—the burning 
 tide of natural feeling circling round her 
 
 SST 
 —<—— a eS 
 
heart—the thousand channels frozen, through 
 | which that feeling ought to flow. 
 | So pitiable, so utterly destitute of consola- 
 | tion is this state, to which many women have 
 | reduced themselves by mere carelessness of 
 the common and familiar means of giving 
 pleasure, that I must be pardoned for writing 
 | on this subject with more earnestness than 
 | the minuteness of its detail would seem to 
 warrant. We may set off in life with high 
 notions of loving, and of being loved, in exact 
 proportion to meritorious desert, as exempli- 
 fied in great and noble deeds. But on a 
 ; closer and more experimental view of human 
 | life, we find that affection is more dependent 
 upon the minutie of every-day existence ; 
 | and that there is a greater sum of affection 
 really lost by filtering away through the fail- 
 ure of seeming trifles, than by the shock of 
 |; great events. 
 | We are apt also to deceive ourselves with 
 | regard to the revival of affection after its de- 
 | cay. Much may be done to restore equanim- 
 | ity of mind, to obtain forgiveness, and to be 
 | reinstated in esteem; but I am inclined to 
 think, that when once the bloom of love is 
 gone—when it has been brushed away by too 
 } rude or too careless a hand, it would be as 
 vain to attempt to restore it, as to raise again 
 | the blighted flower, or give wings to the but- 
 | terfly which the storm had beaten down. 
 How important is it, then, that women 
 | should guard, with the most scrupulous at- 
 | tention, this treasure of their hearts,—this 
 blessing of their homes; and since we are so 
 | constituted, that trifles make the sum of hu- 
 man happiness, that they should lose no op- 
 portunity of turning these trifles to the best 
 account ! 
 
 Besides these considerations, there is one 
 awful and alarming fact connected with this 
 subject, which ought to be indelibly impress- 
 ed upon our minds; it is, that we have but 
 a short time, it may be but a very short time, 
 allowed us for promoting the comfort or the 
 || happiness of our fellow-creatures. Even if 
 || we ourselves are spared to reach the widest 
 range of human existence, how few of those 
 we love will number half that length of years ! 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 85 
 
 upon to share the burdens of a weary bosom, 
 
 ~ 
 
 Even the hand that is clasped in ours, the 
 eyes that reflect the intelligence of our souls, 
 and the heart that beats an echo to every 
 pulse we feel, may be cold and motionless 
 before to-morrow’s sun has.set! 
 
 Were the secrets of every human bosom 
 laid open, I believe we should behold no 
 darker passage in the page of experience, 
 than that which has noted down our want 
 of kindness and consideration to those who 
 are gone before us to another world. 
 
 When we realize the agonizing sensation 
 of bending over the feeble frame of a beloved 
 friend, when the mortal conflict is approach- 
 ing, and the fluttering spirit is about to leave 
 its earthly tenement; and looking back upon 
 a long, dark past, all blotted over with in- 
 stances of our unkindness or neglect, and 
 forward unto that little span of life, into which 
 we would fain concentrate the deep affection, 
 that, in spite of inconsistencies in our past 
 conduct, has all the while been cherished in 
 our hearts,—with what impassioned earnest- 
 ness would we arrest the pale messenger in 
 his career, and stay the wings of time, and 
 call upon the impatient spirit to return, to 
 see, and feel, and understand our love! 
 
 Perhaps we have been negligent in former 
 seasons of bodily affliction ; have not listened 
 patiently to the outpouring of natural feel- 
 ing, and have held ourselves excused from 
 attendance in the sick-chamber; and there 
 has gone forth that awful sentence, “It is the 
 last time !’”-—the last time we can offer the 
 cordial draught, or smooth the restless pillow, 
 or bathe the feverish brow ! And now, though 
 we would search all the treasures of the earth 
 for healing medicine, and rob ourselves of 
 sleep, and rest, and sustenance, to purchase 
 for the sufferer one hour of quiet slumber, 
 and pour out tears upon that aching brow, 
 until its burning heat was quenched ;—it is 
 in vain, for the eye is glazed, the lips are 
 paralyzed, the head begins to droop, and ex- 
 piring nature tells us it is all too late! 
 
 Perhaps we have not been sympathizing, 
 kind, or tender, in those by-gone years of 
 familiar confidence, when we were called 
 
86 
 
 A 
 
 whose inner feelings were revealed to us, and 
 
 { us alone. Yes, we can remember, in the sun- 
 ny days of youth, and through the trials of 
 maturer life, when the appeals of affection 
 were answered with fretfulness or captious 
 spleen, when estrangement followed, and we 
 could not, if we had desired it, then draw 
 back the love we had repulsed. And now 
 we hear again that awful sentence—‘It is the 
 last time !’”’—the last time we can ever weep 
 upon that bosom, or lay our hand upon that 
 head, or press a fond, fond kiss upon those 
 closing lips. Fain would we then throw open 
 the floodgates of our hidden feeling, and pour 
 forth words of more than tenderness. Alas! 
 the once wished-for tide would flow, like the 
 rising surf around a shattered wreck—top 
 late! 
 
 Perhaps we have been guilty of a deeper 
 sin against our heavenly Father, and the hu- 
 man family whose happiness he has in some 
 measure committed to our trust. And, oh! 
 
 let the young ask diligently of the more ex- 
 | periehced, how they can escape the aching 
 | consciousness that may pursue them to the 
 grave, and only then commence the reality 
 of its eternal torment—the consciousness of 
 having wasted all our influence, and neglect- 
 ed all our means of assisting those who were 
 associated with us by the closest ties, in pre- 
 paring for another and a better world. 
 Perhaps they once sought our society for 
 || the benefit of spiritual communion. Perhaps 
 || they would have consulted us in cases of 
 moral difficulty, had we been more gracious 
 and conciliating. Perhaps we have treated 
 lightly the serious scruples they have laid be- 
 fore us, or, what is still more probable, per- 
 haps the whole tenor of our inconsistent lives 
 has been the means of drawing them away 
 from the altar, on which they saw such un- 
 holy incense burning. And now, “it is the 
 last time !”—the last time we can ever speak 
 to them of eternity, of the state of their trem- 
 bling souls before the eye of a just and holy 
 God, or raise their fainting hopes to the 
 | mercy still offered to their acceptance, through 
 Him who is able to save to the uttermost. 
 Oh! for the trumpet of an archangel, to 
 
 DOMESTIC HABITS OF 
 
 awake them from the increasing torpor of 
 bodily and spiritual death! Oh! for a voice 
 that would imbody, in one deep, awful, and 
 tremendous word, all—all for which our 
 wasted life was insufficient! It is in vain 
 that we would call upon the attributes of na- 
 ture and of Deity to aid us. They are gone! 
 It was the final struggle; and never more 
 will that pale marble form be roused to life | 
 by words of hope or consolation. ‘They are 
 gone. The portals of eternity are closed—It 
 as too late! 
 
 Let it be a subject of grateful acknowledg- 
 ment with the young, that to them this fear- 
 ful sentence has not yet gone forth—that op- 
 portunity may still be offered them to redeem 
 the time. They know not, however, how | 
 much of this time remains at their disposal ; 
 and it might occasionally be some assistance || 
 to them in their duties, would they cultivate | 
 the habit of thinking, not only of their own | 
 death, but of the death of their companions. 
 
 There are few subjects more calculated for | 
 solemn and affecting thought, than the fact | 
 that we can scarcely meet a blooming circle 
 around a cheerful hearth, but one individual 
 at least, in that circle, will be cherishing in 
 her bosom the seeds of some fatal malady. 
 
 It is recorded of the Egyptians, that among 
 their ancient customs they endeavored to | 
 preserve the salutary remembrance that they 
 were liable to death, by placing at their festal 
 boards, a human skeleton; so that while 
 they feasted, and enjoyed the luxuries of this | 
 life, they should find it impossible to beguile 
 themselves into a belief in its perpetual dura- | 
 tion. | 
 
 It is not necessary that we should resort 
 to means so unnatural and repulsive ; though 
 the end is still more desirable for us, who are 
 trusting in a better hope, to keep in view. 
 Neither is it necessary that the idea should 
 be invested with melancholy, and associated 
 with depression. It is but looking at the 
 truth. And let us deceive ourselves as we 
 may, the green church-yard with its freshly 
 covered graves—the passing-bell—the slowly- 
 moving hearse—the shutters closed upon the 
 apartment where the sound of merriment 
 
| was lately heard—the visitations of disease 
 | within our homes—even the hectic flush of 
 | beauty—all remind us that the portion of time 
 | allotted for the exercise of kindly feeling to- 
 || wards our fellow-creatures, is fleeting fast 
 | away; and that to-day, if ever, we must 
 | prove to the great Shepherd of the Chris- 
 | tian fold, that we are not regardless of that 
 | memorable injunction—By this shall all men 
 | know that ye are my disciples, If ye have love 
 one to another. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF THE WOMEN OF ENG- 
 LAND—CAPRICE—-AFFECTATION—-LOVE OF AD- 
 MIRATION. 
 
 Tae higher admiration we bestow upon 
 the nature and attributes of any subject of 
 contemplation, the more painful and acute is 
 our perception of its defects. And thus 
 when we think of woman in her most eleva- 
 ted character, consider the extent of her ca- 
 pabilities, and her wonderful and almost un- 
 failing power of being great on great occa- 
 ; sions, we are the more disposed to regret 
 that she has a power equally unlimited, of 
 making herself little; and that, when indo- 
 lence or selfishness is allowed to prevail over 
 her better feelings, this power is often exer- 
 cised to the annoyance of society, and to her 
 own disgrace. 
 
 Those who understand the construction 
 of wonian’s mind, however, will find some 
 excuse for this, in the natural versatility of 
 her mental faculties, in the multiplicity of her 
 floating ideas, in the play of her fancy, and 
 in the constant overflow of her feelings, 
 which must expend themselves upon some 
 object, either worthy or unworthy; and 
 which censequently demand the utmost at- 
 tention to what is really important, in order 
 that this waste of energy, of feeling, and 
 emotion, may be avoided. 
 
 The word caprice, in: its familiar accepta- 
 tion, is one of very indefinite signification. I 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 87 
 
 shall endeavor to confine my use of it to 
 those cases in which the whim of the mo- 
 ment is made the rule of action, without any 
 reference to right reason, or even to the 
 gratification or annoyance of others; and I 
 shall endeavor to show, that with regard to 
 this feminine fault, as well as many others, 
 women are not fairly dealt with by society. 
 
 How often do we see, for instance, a beau- 
 tiful and fascinating girl expressing the most 
 absurd antipathies, or sympathies, and acting 
 in the most self-willed'and irrational manner ; 
 in short, performing a part, which, in a plain 
 woman, would be regarded not only as repul- 
 sive, but unamiable in the utmost degree! 
 yet because she is beautiful, her admirers ap- 
 pear to think all these little freaks of fancy 
 highly becoming, and captivating in the ex- 
 treme. If she chooses to find. fault with 
 what all the rest of the company are admir- 
 ing—how delightfully peculiar are her tastes ! 
 If she will walk out when others are not dis- 
 posed for walking—what obsequious attend- 
 ants she immediately finds, all ready to say 
 the evening is fine, the air inviting, and the 
 general aspect of nature exactly what she 
 chooses it should be! If she persists in re- 
 fusing to play a favorite air—what a dear ca- 
 pricious creature she always is! and inthis, 
 as well as other whims, she must be humor- 
 ed to the extent of her selfishness. 
 
 I will not pretend to say that beauty alone 
 can command this influence, though it un- 
 questionably has a power beyond all calcula- 
 tion. The being who thus assumes the right 
 to tyrannize, must have obtained the suffrages 
 of society by the exercise of some particular 
 powers of fascination, which she wants the 
 judgment and good feeling to use for better 
 purposes. 
 
 We have seen her, then, a sort of idol in 
 society, the centre of an admiring circle, en- 
 dowed with the royal privilege of incapability 
 of doing wrong. We have seen her admired, 
 apparently beloved ; and we turn to the little 
 coteries of dissentients who are sure to be 
 formed in all companies where a being of this 
 description is found. Among these we find 
 that her character is treated, not with justice, 
 
 a 
 
 I 
 SS 
 
88 
 
 though that had been enough, but with the 
 sharp inspection of keen and envious eyes ; 
 and we are soon convinced, that if in public 
 she is raised to the distinction of an idol, she 
 isin private most unscrupulously deprived of 
 the honors she was but too willing to assume. 
 
 I speak not of this instance, in order to 
 bring forward the want of charity and kindly 
 feeling prevailing in the world. I simply 
 state that such things are,—in order to show 
 that the deference paid to the caprices of 
 women by a few partial admirers, is no real 
 test of the favor they obtain in general so- 
 ciety. And if, in such instances where youth 
 and beauty cast their lovely mantle over 
 every defect, woman’s faults are still brought 
 to light, what must be her situation—what 
 her treatment by the world, where she has 
 nothing of this kind to palliate her weakness, 
 or recommend her to the charity and forbear- 
 ance of her fellow-creatures ? 
 
 Caprice, like many other feminine faults, 
 appears almost too trifling in its minutie— 
 too insignificant in its detail, to deserve our 
 serious condemnation; yet, if caprice has 
 the power to make enemies, and to destroy 
 happiness, it ought not to be regarded as un- 
 important in itself. With regard to many 
 other subjects of consideration connected 
 with the virtues or the érrors of woman, we 
 have had to observe, that each individual act 
 | may be almost beneath our notice in itself, 
 and yet may form a part of such a whole, as 
 the utmost capabilities of human intellect 
 would be unable to treat with justice and ef- 
 fect. 
 
 The case is precisely the same with femi- 
 nine caprice. It is but a slight deviation 
 either from sense or propriety, to choose to 
 differ from the majority of opinions, to choose 
 to do, and to make others do, what is not 
 agreeable to them, or to refuse to do what 
 would give them pleasure. But, when this 
 mode of conduct becomes habitual, when 
 beauty fades, and the idol of society is cast 
 into the shade, when disappointment irritates 
 the temper, and “sickness rends the brow,” 
 and grief sits heavily upon the soul—in these 
 seasons of nature’s weakness, when woman’s 
 
 the dignity of moral duty. 
 
 SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF 
 
 trembling heart is apt to sink within her, to 
 
 what loneliness and bitterness of experience 
 must she be consigned, if her own indulgence 
 of caprice has driven from her all the friends 
 who might have administered to her conso- 
 lation in this hour of need ! 
 
 This view of the subject, however, she is 
 certainly at liberty to take, and counting the 
 cost, to indulge her momentary wishes at the 
 expense of her future peace. The question 
 of most serious importance; is, how far we 
 
 are justified in trifling with the happiness, |} 
 the comfort, or even the convenience of others, | 
 
 for the sake of indulging our own caprices? 
 
 I have before stated, that in acting from |}. 
 
 caprice, we act without reference to common 
 sense, or right feeling. 
 
 If, therefore, a wo- | 
 
 man chooses to be capricious, there is no help } 
 
 for it. Argument has no power to convince 
 her that she is wrong, and opposition only 
 strengthens her determination: no matter 
 how many are made to suffer annoyance 
 from her folly, or grief from her perverse- 
 ness. It is her choice to be capricious, and 
 
 they must abide by the consequences. Thus. 
 
 she exemplifies—it may be said in actions 
 extremely minute and unimportant—but still 
 she does exemplify, how much mischief may 
 
 be done by a weak judgment, a selfish tem- |} 
 
 per, and an unenlightened mind. 
 
 The domestic habits and social intercourse 
 of the women of England, are peculiarly 
 favorable to the counteraction of the natural 
 tendency to caprice in the female character, 
 because they afford a supply of constant oc- 
 cupation, and invest that occupation with 
 When, therefore, 
 we find individuals acting from caprice, in 
 the middle classes of English society, we 
 know that it exists in spite of circumstances; 
 and we consequently regard with proportion- 
 ate condemnation, those who are so far defi- 
 cient in good taste and good feeling, as to 
 prefer such a mode of exhibiting their follies 
 to the world. 
 
 It might require some degree of philoso- 
 phical examination, accurately to define the 
 nature and origin of caprice; yet so far as 
 I have been able to ascertain by observations 
 
ee ldicrentesg 
 
 2 
 oe meet 
 
 fe 
 
 —s } 
 
 a/ 
 
 AMI TA 
 
 L. 
 
 Ci 
 
 S oh ST hee AA 
 
 d 
 rd 
 a 
 =) 
 
 Tisher- Son. 
 
 wie 
 
1 of that which is assumed. 
 | it is often the accompaniment of extreme 
 | bashfulness and diffidence of self; but this 
 
 upon society in general, I should be inclined 
 to describe it as arising from the same cause 
 as affectation ; and both to owe their exist- 
 ence to a desire to attract attention, or a belief 
 that attention is attracted by what is said or 
 done. Caprice refers more to a weak and 
 vain desire to be important; affectation, to a 
 desire to make ourselves admired. Both are 
 contemptible in the extreme. Yet one is so 
 powerful in provoking the temper, the other 
 in exciting ridicule and disgust, that both are 
 worthy of our careful examination, in order 
 
 | that we may detect the lurking evil wherever 
 | it exists in our own conduct. 
 
 Affectation is in practice a species of mi- 
 nute deception ; in effect, ap alpable mockery 
 Iam aware that 
 
 is seldom or never the case, except where 
 
 | there is a secret, yet strong desire, if it were 
 ! possible, to be the object of admiration to 
 || others. 
 | erally a prevailing impression of being the 
 
 Along with affectation, there is gen- 
 
 object upon which all, or at least many, eyes 
 
 | are fixed. For who would be at the trouble 
 | of all those distortions of countenance, in- 
 
 flexions of voice, and manceuvrings of body 
 
 | and limb, which we often observe in compa- 
 
 ny, did they not believe themselves to be 
 “The observed of all observers ?”’ 
 
 If by thinking too meanly of ourselves, we 
 are overwhelmed with humiliation in public, 
 and tormented with dissatisfaction in private, 
 it is clear that there is as much vanity and 
 selfishness\in this depreciation of our own 
 character, as in the more exalted and com- 
 fortable inflation of conceit. The only differ- 
 ence is,—in one case we are piqued and 
 wounded that we cannot be admired; in the 
 other, we believe ourselves to be admired 
 when we are not. 
 
 The suffering produced by this kind of 
 vanity, is generally accompanied both with 
 affectation and bashfulness; but we must 
 not suppose, because a blush suffuses the 
 countenance, and the outstretched hand is 
 seen to tremble, that the individual who is 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | 
 
 } 
 
 guilty of this breach of fashionable indiffer- 
 ence, is necessarily free from vanity, or guilt- 
 less of a desire to be admired. 
 
 Those who have travelled much, and seen 
 much of the world, are generally cured both 
 of bashfulness and affectation, by one of these 
 two causes,—either they have been so often 
 in company without making any impression, 
 that they have learned of how little import- 
 ance it is to society in what manner they be- 
 have, or how they look ; or they have learn- 
 ed a still more useful lesson, that the admira- 
 tion of man, even in its fullest sense, goes 
 but a little way towards satisfying the heart. 
 
 The affectation most frequently detected 
 in the behavior of women, is that which 
 arises from an inordinate desire of being 
 agreeable. A certain degree of this desire is, 
 unquestionably, of great service in preserving 
 them from the moral degradation which I 
 have before alluded to, as attaching to per- 
 sonal neglect—as indicating a low state of 
 mind wherever it exists, and procuring a low 
 degree of estimation for the individual who 
 thus allows her negligence to gain the ascen- 
 dancy over her good taste. 
 
 On the other hand, what may with pro- 
 priety be called an inordinate desire to be 
 admired, when it takes the place of higher 
 motives and principles of action, is, perhaps, 
 a more fertile source both of folly and of suf- 
 fering than any other which operates upon | 
 the life and conduct of woman. As exhibit- 
 ed through the single medium of affectation, 
 it is so varied in its character, and so un- 
 bounded in its sphere of operation, that to 
 attempt to describe it in detail would require 
 volumes, rather than pages; I shall therefore 
 confine my remarks to that specivis of affecta- 
 tion which is the most prevalent in the pres- 
 ent day. 
 
 As the peculiar kind of merit assumed by 
 the hypocrite is, in some measure, a test of 
 what is most popular and most approved in 
 society, so the prevailing affectation of the 
 day is an indication of the taste of the times 
 —of the general tone of public feeling, and 
 of the tendency of private habits. That 
 which most recommends itself to the accept- 
 
SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF 
 
 Sc kes hfe ea ec inp AE TO ATES ON TS Tg eT et nee ee NIE iT ie A EL cE eee, 
 
 ance and adoption of the young ladies of 
 the present day, is an affectation of refine- 
 ment—not refinement of feeling as relates to 
 the means possessed by every human being, 
 of increasing pleasure and alleviating pain, 
 in the circle of friends or relatives by which 
 they are surrounded ; but refinement of self, 
 so that the individual who has attained to 
 this degree of elevation shall be exempt from 
 all personal obligations, particularly such as 
 would render her instrumental in the perform- 
 ance of social and domestic services among 
 her fellow-creatures. Women who affect 
 this kind of refinement, are extremely fas- 
 tidious in all that relates to manual employ- 
 ment. They cannot touch the coarse material 
 that supplies our bodily wants, or constitutes 
 our personal comfort. They loathe the very 
 mention of those culinary compounds, which, 
 nevertheless, their fair lips condescend to 
 admit ; and they shrink with horror from the 
 vulgar notion that the old grandmother-du- 
 ties of preparing a clean hearth, and a com- 
 fortable fireside, for a husband or a brother, 
 could by any possibility devolve upon them. 
 
 For this kind of affectation, however, there 
 is some excuse in our natural indolence ; and 
 in the exemption it procures from personal 
 exertion; but when we see the absolute pains 
 which some of the same individuals will take 
 to make themselves appear dependent, use- 
 less, and wholly inadequate to self-preserva- 
 tion, we are startled with a new idea, and 
 entirely at a loss to account for this pheno- 
 menon in human nature. 
 
 It is with difficulty I admit the belief that 
 women are in reality the victims of all those 
 foolish fears with which they profess to be 
 annoyed, and with which they unquestion- 
 ably are very successful in annoying others. 
 It is with difficulty I admit this belief, because 
 I see, and see with admiration, that some of 
 the most delicate women, the most sensitively 
 alive to impression, and the most susceptible 
 both of pleasure and pain, can, when called 
 upon by duty, and actuated by principle, set 
 all these idle fears aside, and dare to do what 
 man would almost shrink from. J cannot, 
 therefore, divest myself of all suspicion, that 
 
 EEE — ee 
 
 a little of this feminine timidity is sometimes 
 assumed, and a great deal of it encouraged, 
 for the sake of effect—for the sake of making |}. 
 it appear to society that the individual who |} 
 acts this part is too refined to have ever been 
 accustomed to the rough usages of common 
 life. 
 
 I say this with all charity, and with much 
 compassion for those whose bodily and men- 
 tal conformation does really render them the 
 victims of causeless fear; and when we see 
 such persons endeavoring to subdue their 
 timidity, ashamed of it as a weakness, and 
 especially solicitous for it not to interfere with 
 the comfort or convenience of others, they {| 
 justly claim, not only our sympathy, but our | 
 admiration. It is the display of terror that I 
 would speak of in terms which can scarcely 
 be too contemptuous; the becoming start, 
 the modulated shriek, the studied appeal for |{ 
 manly protection, and all that elaboration of |{ 
 feminine delicacy which it sometimes ap- | 
 pears to be the business of a life to exhibit. 
 
 Besides this kind of affectation, J will men- 
 tion another species, if possible, still more } 
 unnaccountable in its nature and cause. It 
 is the affectation of ignorance respecting 
 common things. It is by no means unusual 
 with young ladies to appear to plume them- 
 selves upon not knowing how any familiar 
 or ordinary thing is made or done. They 
 refuse to understand any thing about machi- |} 
 nery, and bring into their conversation what 
 they seem to regard as the most entertaining 
 blunders, whenever conversation turns upon |} 
 the occupations of the laboring classes. The || 
 same individuals seldom know the way toany || 
 place, are incapable of discovering whether 
 their faces are turned to the north or the |} 
 south; and if you ask them, with any idea |} 
 of receiving an answer, from what quarter 
 the wind is blowing, you might as well ex- 
 pect them to tell you whether the tide is at 
 that moment rising in Nootka Sound. 
 
 If any of these confessions of ignorance, 
 when forced upon them, were attended with 
 embarrassment or shame, they would claim 
 our sisterly compassion ; and sorry should I 
 
 be to make their blushes the subject of public t 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 remark. But when we find this ignorance 
 persisted in, made conspicuous on every pos- 
 sible occasion, and attended with 
 
 “* Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,” 
 
 as if it were sure to meet with a favorable 
 reception in society, we cannot withhold the 
 exclamation of our patriot poet, that from our 
 souls we “loathe all affectation.” 
 
 It is evident that this helplessness, and this 
 ignorance, where they are assumed, must be 
 
 so for the purpose of attracting attention,. 
 
 claiming assistance, it may be, from the other 
 sex, and establishing an unquestionable claim 
 to refinement, by giving forth to society an 
 idea of habits of exclusion from all vulgar or 
 degrading association. 
 
 It is difficult to imagine a mode of life, or 
 a combination of circumstances, less advan- 
 tageous to the cultivation of such false no- 
 tions of refinement, than those which are 
 ‘presented by the real situation of the women 
 of England ; and it is impossible not to look, 
 with gloomy anticipations for the future wel- 
 fare of our country, upon the increasing 
 prevalence of these erroneous ideas of what 
 is really excellent and admirable in the female 
 
 character. 
 | The view we have taken of the subjects at 
 present under consideration, naturally leads 
 us to that great root of more than half the 
 folly and the misery existing among women— 
 the love of admiration. | 
 
 The extreme case of a woman totally in- 
 different to the good opinion of her fellow- 
 creatures, would fail to recommend itself to 
 our regard, inasmuch as it would argue a 
 deficiency in her nature, of those feelings 
 which have been given her as a means of 
 happiness to herself and benefit to others. 
 She would stand amid her fellow-creatures a 
 lonely and isolated being, living and acting 
 without reference to the existence of any 
 other being ; and if she escaped the thousand 
 disappointments of those who act from oppo- 
 site motives, she would be equally exempt 
 from any claim upon their affection. 
 
 Such individuals, however, are so rare, that 
 the consideration of their peculiarities would 
 
 91 
 
 be a fruitless waste of time and thought. 
 tis to the opposite extreme of character that 
 And here 
 I would request the reader to bear In mind, 
 that my remarks refer strictly to the love of 
 admiration, not to the love of approbation, 
 which I take to be a natural and lawful stim- 
 ulus to all that is excellent iu female conduct. 
 
 When we look upon human life with “ crit- 
 ical inspection,” 
 
 our attention must now be given. 
 
 we find that a vast propor- 
 tion of the apparent motives acted upon before 
 the world, are not the rea] motives by which 
 the individual actors are influenced; and 
 that this system of deception is often carried 
 on unconsciously to them, because they are 
 themselves betrayed by the deceitfulness of 
 their own hearts. In no instance is this more 
 strikingly the case than in our love of admi- 
 ration. ‘To gratify this desire, what suffering 
 are we not willing to endure, what pains do 
 we not take, what patience can we not exer- 
 cise! and all under the most plausible pre- 
 tences—pretences that impose upon others 
 less effectually than ourselves, that we are 
 acting upon higher and more praiseworthy 
 principles. ‘There is this difference, however, 
 to be observed between acting from worthy 
 and unworthy motives: when our endeavors 
 are unsuccessful and our motives correct, we 
 seldom give way to the fretfulness of disap- 
 pointment; but when our endeavors are in- 
 effectual, and we look back into our own 
 hearts, and find them unsupported by any 
 laudable object, our fretfulness is often exas- 
 perated into bitterness and spleen. 
 Observation and experience have taught 
 me to believe, that many of the secret sor- 
 rows of woman’s life owe half their poign- 
 ancy to the disappointment of not being able 
 to obtain the degree of admiration which has 
 been studiously sought. A popular and ele- 
 gant writer has said— How offen dp the 
 wounds of our vanity form the secret of our 
 pathos!” And to the situation, and the feel- 
 ings of woman, this observation is more espe- 
 cially applicable. Still there is much to be 
 said for woman in this respect. By the na- 
 ture of her own feelings, as well as by the 
 established rules of polished life, she is thrown, 
 
 ee ee 
 
92 
 
 as it were, upon the good-will of society. Un- 
 able to assert her own claims to protection, 
 she must endeavor to ensure it by secondary 
 means, and she knows that the protection of 
 man is best ensured by recommending her- 
 \| self to his admiration. : ! 
 
 Nor is this all. There is but a faint line 
 
 of demarkation between admiration and love. 
 Though essentially different in their nature, 
 and not always called forth by the same indi- 
 vidual, their outward aspect is still so much 
 alike, and there is so frequent a transition 
 made from the one to the other, that it re- 
 quires more able reasoning than the general- 
 ity of women are capable of, to know exactly 
 when they are exciting admiration, and when 
 they are inspiring love. There is, however, 
 one infallible test by which the case may be 
 decided, and I cannot too earnestly recom- 
 1 mend to my countrywomen to apply it to 
 | themselves. If they are admired without 
 | being beloved, they may possibly be favorites 
 | in company abroad, but they will be no favor- 
 | ites at home—they may obtain the good-will 
 || of a mere acquaintance, but they will be 
 solitary and neglected at their own fireside. 
 If they are cultivating such habits as are 
 calculated to make them really beloved, espe- 
 cially at home, they may retire from company 
 in which they have been wholly overlooked, 
 ‘to find the warmest welcome of the domestic 
 circle awaiting their return—they may not be 
 able to create any perceptible sensation when 
 they appear in public, but every familiar 
 countenance around their social hearth will 
 be lighted up with smiles when they appear. 
 
 With regard to the love of admiration, it | 
 
 is much to be regretted that all women who 
 make this one of the chief objects of their 
 | lives, do not at the same time evince an 
 equal solicitude to be admired for what is 
 really praiseworthy. Were this the case, 
 they would at least be employed in cultiva- 
 ting useful habits; and as the student who 
 aims at obtaining a prize, even if he fails in 
 that direct object, has obtained what is more 
 desirable, in the power of application which 
 he has made himself master of; so the wo- 
 man who aims at moral excellence, if the 
 
 SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF 
 
 ~ art 
 ee, | 
 
 taste of society is too vitiated to receive with 
 admiration the first inpression her character 
 is calculated to make, has yet acquired such 
 habits as will prove an inestimable treasure 
 throughout the whole of her after life. 
 
 We do ‘not, however, see that this is the | 
 case so much as might be desired in modern | 
 society. There is an appearance among the | 
 women of the present day, of being too eager | 
 for an immediate tribute of admiration, to | 
 wait for the development of moral worth; | 
 and thus they cultivate those more shining | 
 accomplishments, which dazzle and delight | 
 for the moment, but leave no materials for || 
 agreeable reflection behind. Like the con- |} 
 ductor of an exhibition of fireworks, they | 
 play off their splendid combinations of light 
 and color; but the magazine is soon expend- 
 ed, and the scene closes with weariness, and || 
 vacuity, and the darkness of night. 
 
 What a waste of time, and means, and 
 application, for such a result! What an ex- 
 penditure of thought and feeling, to have 
 produced this momentary display! Surely 
 no philanthropist can behold unmoved the 
 pitiful objects for which women, who court 
 the incense of admiration, are spending their 
 lives. Surely none of the patriot sons of 
 Britain can look on, and see with indiffer- 
 ence the sisters, the wives, the mothers, of | 
 our English homes, perpetually employed, 
 even in a world of care and suffering, of 
 anxiety and disappointment, in administering 
 to the momentary gratification of the eye 
 and the ear, while the heart is left unsatisfied, | 
 and the drooping soul uncheered. 
 
 The desire of being beloved is an ambition 
 of a far mote amiable and praiseworthy char- 
 acter. But who shall record the endless va- 
 riety of suffering it entails upon woman? I | 
 will not believe of my sex, that it is the love 
 of admiration only, which gives birth to all 
 those rivalries and mortifications—that envy, , 
 and spleen, and bitterness, which mar the fe- 
 licity of female companionship. It must be 
 some deeper feeling ; and I at least will give 
 them credit for beiag wounded in a tenderer 
 point than their vanity, before they can so 
 far do violence to their gentler nature, as to 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 93 
 
 revenge upon each other the slights and the 
 humiliations they receive. 
 
 Yes: it is to human calculation the most 
 pardonable, and yet it is the most soul-be- 
 setting sin of woman, to be perpetually in- 
 vesting earthly objects with an interest too 
 intense for her own happiness; and asking 
 of some oracle she has herself established, 
 for an answer to the language of her own 
 heart. Let her seek as she may, the admi- 
 ration and applause of the world, it never 
 satisfies the craving of her soul. She must 
 have something to come home to—a shelter 
 even in the brightest sunshine—a bower in 
 the fairest garden—a shrine within the rich- 
 est temple. She cannot mingle with the 
 stream of life, and float securely on, as one 
 among the many. She will not even be ex- 
 alted in solitary distinction. The world has 
 no wealth to offer, that she would possess 
 alone. 
 
 This is the true nature of woman; and 
 the home she seeks is in the hearts of those 
 who are bound to her by affection. She 
 
 knows that het place in this: lure is uvt to 
 be maintained without unceasing care; and 
 hence the solicitude she bestows upon things 
 of trifing moment. She knows also that in 
 some instances she is liable to be supplanted ; 
 she feels, perhaps, that she is not worthy to 
 monopolize so honorable a place; and hence 
 her watchfulness and jealousy. It may be 
 that she is “discarded thence,” for human 
 love is sometimes treacherous; and hence 
 her wounded spirit, and the occasional out- 
 pouring of natural feeling, by which she 
 brings upon herself the odium of bitterness 
 and revenge. 
 
 Thus the darkest faults of woman may 
 often be traced back to those peculiarities of 
 her nature, which, under favoring circum- 
 stances, and with the Divine blessing, may 
 constitute her highest recommendation, and 
 surest source of happiness. How important 
 
 is it, then, since to woman it is essential to be 
 loved, that she should not expect to reap 
 where she has never sown, and thus incur 
 the most painful disappointment to which 
 her suffering nature is liable ! 
 
 With regard to the anxiety to be admired, 
 then, I would propose that approve should be 
 substituted for admire, and just so far as wo- 
 men seek the approval of their friends, under 
 the guidance of religious truth, there is every 
 reason to believe they will reap an abundant 
 reward. With regard to the desire to be 
 beloved, I can only repeat, that the women 
 of England are peculiarly blessed in the 
 means they possess of rendering themselves 
 estimable in society; and the opportunities 
 they enjoy of cultivating the kindest and hap- 
 piest feelings of our nature. They have the 
 homes of England in their keeping; and the 
 hearts within those homes must necessarily 
 be attracted or repelled by the light or the 
 shade which their presence diffuses around 
 them. They cannot complain that circum- 
 stances are against them in the attainment 
 of moral worth. All the natural characteris- 
 tics of their native country are in their favor. 
 The happiness of the whole human family, 
 and especially of man, supplies them with a 
 never-failing motive. Nature and_ religion 
 are hath on their side—the one to pronipt, 
 the other to lure themon. They have the 
 gratitude of their fellow-creatures awaiting 
 their endeavors—and what is more, they 
 have the gracious approval of their heavenly 
 Father, as their encouragement and reward. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PUBLIC OPINION—-PECUNIARY R®SOURCES—IN- 
 TEGRITY. 
 
 Tue respect paid by women to public 
 opinion, and to the conventional rules of 
 seciety, might have been considered with 
 some propriety under the head of love of 
 admiration, did not the immediate connection 
 of this subject with that of integrity, render 
 it more suited to the present chapter. 
 
 To use a popular Germanism, it is but a 
 one-sided view of the subject that we take, 
 when we suppose that the hope of being ad- 
 mired is the strongest stimulus to the female 
 
 el 
 
 —$—$—$—$_$—_$_$__$$_ 
 
94 
 
 character in all cases where her conduct is 
 referred to public opinion. The dread of be- 
 | ing censured or condemned, exercises, Tam 
 inclined to think, a far more extensive influ- 
 ence over her habits and her feelings. Any 
 deviation from the fashionable mode of dress, 
 or from the established usages of polished 
 life, present an appalling difficulty to a wo- 
 “man of ordinary mind, brought up under the 
 tutelage of what is called the world. She 
 cannot— positively cannot—dare not —will 
 not do any thing that the world has pro- 
 nounced unladylike. Nor, while,she lives in 
 the world, and mixes in polished society, is it 
 at all desirable that she should deviate from 
 such universally acknowledged rules, except 
 where absolute duty leads her into a different 
 line of conduct. I should be the last person 
 
 to advise a woman to risk the consequences 
 of such deviations, simpiy for the sake of 
 being singular; because, I regard the as- 
 sumption of singularity for its own sake, as 
 ohe of the most absurd of all the varied spe- 
 
 cimens of affectation which human life affords. 
 
 To choose to be singular without a ouff- 
 cient reason, and to dare to be so in a noble 
 | cause, are so widely different, that I desire to 
 | be clearly understood in the remarks I am 
 about to make, as referring strictly to those 
 cases in which duty renders it necessary for 
 women to deviate from the fashions and 
 established customs of the time or place in 
 which they live. 
 
 While the tide of prosperity bears us 
 smoothly on, and our means are ample, 
 and our luxuries abundant, we suffer little 
 inconvenience from the tyranny of the world 
 in these respects. Indeed, it is rather an 
 agreeable amusement to many ladies to con- 
 sult the fashions of the day, and to be among 
 the first to change their mode of dress—to 
 order costly furniture, and to receive com- 
 pany in the most approved and lady-like style. 
 But as I have before observed, of the class 
 of persons to which this work chiefly relates, 
 the tide of prosperity is apt to ebb, as well as 
 to flow ; and as it recedes from us the whole 
 aspect of the world is not only changed to us, 
 but the aspect of our conduct is changed to 
 
 GENERAL HABITS OF 
 
 the world; so that, what it approved in us 
 before, and honored with its countenance, is 
 now the subject of its extreme and bitter 
 condemnation. 
 
 It is then that we discover, we have been 
 serving a hard master; but unfortunately for 
 thousands of human beings, the discovery 
 brings with it no freedom from that service. 
 We loathe the cruel bondage; but habit is 
 too strong for conviction, and. we continue to 
 wear the galling chain. It is, then, in cases 
 of adverse fortune, that we see the incalcu- 
 lable benefit of having made the moral duties 
 of social and domestic life the rule of our 
 conduct, and of having regarded all outward 
 embellishments as things of very subordinate 
 importance. . 
 
 It isa case of by no means rare occurrence, 
 that the young women of England return 
 home from school more learned in the modes 
 of dress, and habits of conduct prevailing 
 among the fashionable and the wealthy, than 
 inany of those systems of intelectual culture in 
 which they have been instructed. Or, if their 
 huowledge has not oxtcuded to what is done 
 in fashionable life, they have at least learned 
 to despise what is done among the vulgar and |} 
 the poor, to look upon certain kinds of dress |} 
 as impossible to be worn, and to regard with 
 supreme contempt every indication of the ab- | 
 sence of fashionable manners. So faras their | 
 means of information could be made to ex- 
 tend, they have laid down, for the guidance {} 
 of their future lives, the exact rules by which 
 the outward conduct of a lady ought to be 
 regulated, and by these rules they determine 
 to abide. ‘ 
 
 If this determination was applied exclusive- 
 ly to what is delicate, refined, and lovely in 
 the female character, they would unquestion- || 
 
 ably be preparing themselves for being both |] : 
 esteemed and beloved ; but unfortunately for 
 
 them, their attention is too often directed to. || 
 the mode of dress worn by persons much 
 higher than themselves in worldly prosperity, 
 and to all the minutie of look and manner, 
 which they regard as indications of easy cir- 
 cumstances and exemption from vulgar oc- || 
 cupation. ; 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 95 
 
 Nor is the school itself, or the mode of 
 treatment there, to be regarded as the source 
 of these ideas and conclusions. The customs 
 of modern society and the taste of modern 
 times are solely in fault. And wherever 
 young ladies are congregated together with 
 the same means of communication as at 
 school, the same results must follow, until 
 the public taste undergoes a material change, 
 or until the women of England have become 
 learned in a higher school of wisdom. 
 
 With the preparation here alluded to, our 
 young women enter upon social life; and as 
 years roll on, the habits thus acquired of mak- 
 ing custom and fashion the rule of their lives, 
 | strengthen with the establishment of their 
 | character, and become as parts of their very 
 || being. What then is the consequence of such 
 | habits in the day of their adversity, when the 
 | diminution of their pecuniary means leaves 
 them no longer the power of conforming to 
 | the world they have so loved? The conse- 
 | quence is, that along with many real priva- 
 | tions, their ideal sufferings are increased a 
 | hundred-fold by the fact that they must dress 
 | and live in a manner different from what they 
 | have been accustomed to—in short, that they 
 | must lose caste. 
 | How little has the mere circumstance of 
 | relinquishing our luxuries to do with the dis- 
 tress attendant upon the loss of worldly sub- 
 stance! We find every day that persons trav- 
 elling expressly for enjoyment, joining in so- 
 | cial excursions and even seeking the invigo- 
 | ration of their health, and the refreshment of 
 their spirits, from the sea-breezes, or in places 
 of customary resort for the summer months, 
 voluntarily resign more than half their habit- 
 ual indulgences, and subject themselves, with- 
 out a murmur, to the occupation of apart- 
 ments which they would scarcely think possi- 
 ble to be endured for a single day in their 
 native town ; and all the while they are per- 
 haps more happy and more cheerful than in 
 their elegant drawing-rooms at home. 
 
 It is evident, then, that it cannot be their 
 individual ‘share in the gratification of artifi- 
 cial wants, which they find it so heart-break- 
 ing to resign. It must be that a certain num- 
 
 ber of polite and refined individuals having 
 
 combined to attach a high degree of impor- 
 tance to the means of procuring the luxuries 
 of life, all who belong to this class, when com- 
 pelled to exhibit in public a manifest destitu- 
 tion of such means, regard themselves, and 
 expect to be regarded by others, as having 
 become degraded in the sight of their fellow- 
 creatures, and no longer entitled to their fa- 
 vor or regard. 
 
 It is of no use asserting that we all know bet- 
 ter than to come to this conclusion—that man- 
 kind are not so weak, or so unjust—that we 
 appreciate the moral worth of an individual 
 beyond the luxuries of his table, or the costli- 
 ness of his dress. It is easy to say this; but 
 it is not so easy to believe it, because the prac- 
 tical proof of experience is against it. If, for 
 instance, we cared for none of these things, 
 why should the aspect of human life present 
 such a waste of time, and health, and patience, 
 and mental power, and domestic peace, in the 
 pursuit of wealth, when that wealth is expend- 
 ed, as soon as gained, in maintaining an ap- 
 
 pearance of elegance and luxury before the. 
 
 world ? i 
 I am not prepared to argue about the ben- 
 
 ‘efits resulting from the encouragement of ar- 
 
 tificial wants, and the increase of luxuries, on 
 
 the broad scale of national prosperity. There 
 
 are pens more able and more fit for such a 
 purpose. My narrower views are confined 
 to the individual evils resulting from an over- 
 
 strained ambition to keep pace with our - 
 
 wealthier associates in our general habits; 
 and I would write with earnestness on this 
 subject, because I believe that.in England, at 
 the present time, these evils are of rapidly in- 
 creasing extent. 
 
 It may seem unimportant to those who 
 have no experience in these affairs, to speak 
 of the private and domestic disputes arising 
 out of artificial wants, on one side, and in- 
 ability to provide the demanded supply for 
 them, on the other. Yet what family, in mod- 
 erate circumstances, has not some record of 
 scenes, alike humiliating to human nature, 
 and destructive to human happiness, in which 
 the ill-judged request, or the harsh denial— 
 
 | 
 
96 
 
 the importunate appeal, or the agonizing re- 
 ply—the fretful remonstrance, or the bitter re- 
 tort, have not at seasons cast a shade over 
 the domestic hearth, and destroyed the peace 
 of the circle gathered around the social board. 
 
 it may appear still more like trifling, tospeak 
 of the sensations, with which a member of a 
 fallen family regards her dilapidated ward- 
 robe, and looks, and looks in vain for a gar- 
 ment sufficiently respectable to make her ap- 
 pearance in before a rich relation. Perhaps 
 she has but one—a call has to be made upon 
 a person of distinction, and as she proceeds 
 on her way, eyeing with watchful anxiety ev- 
 ery speck and spray that would be likely to 
 reduce her garment below the average of re- 
 spectability, a storm overtakes her. There 
 are carriages for all who can afford to pay 
 
 for them, but none for her: and the agony of 
 
 losing her last claim to gentility takes posses- 
 sion of her soul. 
 
 The reader may possibly smile at the ab- 
 surdity of this case. A half-clad savage from 
 some barbarous island, would probably smile, 
 could he be made to understand it. But 
 nothing can be further from exciting a smile 
 than the real sensations it occasions. Noth- 
 ing can be further from a smile, than the look 
 with which a failing tradesman regards the 
 forlorn condition of his hat, when he dares 
 not brush it, lest he should render its destitu- 
 tion more apparent. Nothing can be further 
 from a smile, than the glance he casts upon 
 his threadbare coat, when he knows of no pos- 
 sible resource in art or nature that can sup- 
 ply him with a new one. And nothing can 
 be further from a smile, than the cold wel- 
 come we give to a guest who presents him- 
 self unexpectedly, and must, perforce, look in 
 upon the scantiness of our half-furnished 
 table. 
 
 It is easy to class these sources of disquie- 
 tude under the head of absurdities, and to call 
 them unworthy of rational beings; but I do 
 believe, there is more real misery existing in 
 the world at the present time, from causes 
 like these, than from all those publicly aknow- 
 ledged calamities which are more uniformly 
 attributed to the dispensations of Providence. 
 
 GENERAL HABITS OF 
 
 I do not mean that these miseries arise di- 
 
 rectly from, or are by any means confined to, 
 our personal appearance, or the furniture of 
 our houses; but when we contemplate the 
 failure of pecuniary means, as it is regarded 
 by the world, and attempt to calculate the im- 
 mense variety of channels through which the 
 suffering it produces is made to flow, in con- 
 sequence of the customs and habits of society, 
 I believe they will be found to extend through 
 every variety of human life, to the utmost 
 range of human feeling. Is it not to escape 
 this suffering that the man of unsound prin- 
 ciples too frequently applies himself to dis- 
 honorable means—that the suicide prepares 
 the deadly draught—and that the emigrant 
 sometimes forsakes his native land, and con- 
 signs himself to the solitude of unpeopled 
 wilds ‘—In short, what more remains within 
 the range of human capability, which man has 
 not done, with the hope of flying from the 
 horrors attendant upon the falling away of his 
 pecuniary means? 
 
 When the reality of this suffering is ac- 
 knowledged, as it must be by all who look 
 upon society as it exists at the present mo- 
 ment; the next subject of importance is, to 
 consider how the suffering can be obviated, 
 and its fatal effects upon the peace and hap- 
 piness of society prevented. 
 
 The most immediate means ‘that could be 
 made to operate upon woman would unques- 
 tionably be by implanting in her mind a deeper 
 and more rational foundation of thought and 
 feeling—to put a stop to that endless variety 
 of ill-natured gossip which relates to the waut 
 of elegance, or fashionable air in certain per- 
 sons’ dress and manner of living; so that 
 there should be no questioning, * What will 
 be thought of my wearing this dress again ?” 
 “What will Miss P., or Mrs. W. say, if they 
 see our old curtains?’ “ What can the John- 
 sons mean by travelling outside?’ “ What 
 will the people at church or chapel say, when 
 they see your shabby veil?’ “I positively 
 don’t believe the Wilsons can afford a new 
 carpet, or they would surely have one; and 
 they have discontinued their subscription to 
 our book-society.” 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 97 | 
 
 It is neither grateful nor profitable to pur- 
 sue these remarks any further than as they 
 serve for specimens of that most contempti- 
 ble of small-talk, which yet exercises a pow- 
 erful influence over the female mind—so much 
 so, that I’: have known the whole fabric of a 
 woman’s philosophy entirely overthrown, and 
 her peace of mind for the moment destroyed, 
 by the simple question, whether she had no 
 other dress than the one she was so often 
 seen to wear. 
 
 There is another instance that occurs to me 
 as illustrating, in a striking manner, the sub- 
 ject immediately under consideration: it is 
 that of wearing mourning for a deceased rel- 
 ative. ‘This custom is so generally acknow- 
 ledged as desirable, that it needs no recom- 
 | mendation from my pen. One would suppose, 
 however, on a superficial view of it, that the 
 wearing of black, as a general costume indi- 
 cative of the absence of festivity or merriment 
 from the bereaved family, was all that had 
 been originally intended by this custom; and 
 that it should thus become an outward testi- 
 mony of respect and sorrow for the dead. 
 
 The fashion of the world, however, has im- 
 | posed upon this custom, as‘applies to females, 
 certain restrictions, and additions so expen- 
 sive in their nature as to render it rather an 
 article of luxury to wear genteel mourning, 
 or that which is indicative of the deepest 
 grief. It interferes but little with the sorrow 
 and seclusion of a recent bereavement, for the 
 mistress of ample means to give orders for an 
 external exemplification of precisely the de- 
 gree of sorrow supposed to attend upon the 
 loss of a parent, or a distant relative. But 
 
 when the means of pecuniary expenditure 
 are extremely small, and the materials for 
 appearing properly in public have to be made 
 up at home, and prepared for use within a 
 very limited time, it is evident that greater 
 regard to the sacredness of sorrow would 
 | suggest the desirableness of a less elaborate 
 style of dress, or perhaps a dress not abso- 
 lutely new for the occasion. Ladies, how- 
 ever, and those who have been accustomed 
 to make gentility the primary rule of their 
 conduct, must mourn genteelly; and, conse- 
 
 quently, there are often scenes of bustling 
 
 preparation, of invention, and studious ar- 
 
 rangement—scenes, upon which, if a stranger 
 
 should look in, he would see an appearance of | 
 activity, and interest, almost amounting to 
 
 amusement, in the very house where the shut- 
 ters are still closed; and which are wholly at 
 
 variance with the silence and_the sanctity of 
 
 a deep and solemn grief. 
 
 Nor is this all. So extremely becoming 
 and lady-like is the fashionable style of mourn- 
 ing, that, under the plea of paying greater re- 
 spect to the memory of the dead, it has _be- 
 come an object of ambition to wear it in its | 
 greatest excellence ; and equally an object of 
 dread, and source of humiliation, to be com- 
 pelled to wear it in an inferior style. Thus, 
 when the loss of a father is attended with the 
 failure of his pecuniary resources, it adds no 
 little to the grief into which his daughters are 
 plunged, to be under the necessity of appear- 
 ing so soon after their twofold loss, under such 
 an outward sign of poverty as is generally 
 understood by the world to be betrayed by 
 cheap and humble mourning. 
 
 Itis evident that if the preparation of mourn- 
 ing had never been reduced to a system—so 
 many folds of crape for a parent—so many 
 for a sister, and so on—the peculiar style in 
 which it might be made up would never have 
 obtained half its present importance, and re- 
 spectable women, of fallen fortunes, might 
 then have appeared in public with the credit | 
 of paying as much honor to the memory of the 
 dead, as the more wealthy ; nay, they might 
 even have been so absorbed in their heart- 
 rending loss, and in all the solemn and affect- 
 ing impressions it was calculated to inspire, 
 as to forget to have any new preparation for 
 the occasion, and might, without loss of re- 
 spectability, appear again in those accustomed. 
 habiliments of darkness and gloom which for- 
 mer instances of family affliction and bereave- 
 ment had been the means of bringing into use. 
 
 I mention the instance of mourning, not be- 
 cause it differs materially from many others, 
 but because it appears to me to illustrate 
 clearly and strikingly the degree of shame, 
 and trouble, and perplexity, in which women | 
 
i 
 
 GENERAL HABITS OF 
 
 are involved by the habit of attaching too 
 
 much importance to the usages of society. I 
 
 know that it is beneficial to the character and 
 
 the morals of women, that their good name 
 
 should be guarded from every breath of re- 
 
 proach ; and that the wholesome restrictions 
 | of society are absolutely necessary to prevent 
 them from sometimes venturing too far under 
 the influence of generous and disinterested 
 feeling. But my remarks apply exclusively 
 to cases where their moral worth would be 
 established, not endangered; and I would 
 earnestly request my countrywomen to bear 
 in mind the immense difference between de- 
 viating from the rules of fashion, and break- 
 ing through the wholesome restrictions of 
 prudence. 
 
 I have spoken in strong terms of the suf- 
 ferings and inconveniences incident to women, 
 from their slavery to the opinion of the world ; 
 but were this consideration all that had to be 
 taken into account, they would unquestiona- 
 bly have a right to adjust the balance, and 
 act according to their own choice. 
 
 There is, however, a far more important 
 question connected with this subject—and 
 that is, the question of integrily. 
 
 If there be one moral quality for which 
 England as a nation is distinguished above 
 all others, I should say it was her integrity : 
 integrity in her intercourse with other na- 
 tions ; integrity in the administration of her 
 government and laws; integrity in the sound 
 hearts and honorable feelings of her patriotic 
 sons. 
 
 And shall her daughters be less solicitous 
 to uphold this high standard of moral worth? 
 They answer “No!” But they are perhaps 
 not all aware of the encroaching and _insidi- 
 ous nature of artificial wants, and tastes, and 
 habits, founded upon the fashion of the times 
 rather than upon any lasting principle of 
 right. ‘They are not all aware, that to dress 
 and live beyond their means, is a species of 
 public robbery; and that even if every law- 
 
 ‘ ful debt is paid, and the balance struck with- 
 out injury to character or credit, there are 
 still the poor, the starving, hungry, helpless 
 
 They have 
 
 we 
 
 | poor, unsatisfied with bread. 
 
 therefore the strong claims both of justice 
 and benevolence to fulfil, before the integrity 
 of their Christian character can be complete. 
 
 With regard to general benevolence, and 
 charity to the poor, we are apt to deceive 
 ourselves to an extent which would be be- 
 yond our belief, were we not convinced by 
 the observation of every day, that few, very 
 few of those even in the middle ranks of 
 life—few even of those tender-hearted fe- 
 males who are so painfully affected by every 
 exhibition of human misery—do any thing at 
 all commensurate with their means, towards 
 alleviating the suffering which is to be found 
 among the poor. 
 
 I am not inclined to attach any high de- 
 gree of merit to the mere act of giving money 
 to the poor, because I esteem it a luxury to 
 be thus instrumental in relieving their press- 
 ing difficulties; and I am also in considera- 
 ble doubt whether this is the best method of 
 relieving them. The point I am about to re- 
 mark upon, however, is the extreme incon- 
 sistency of those longings, so prevalent 
 among ladies, that they could give to the 
 poor, and the lamentations they frequently 
 utter relating to the absolute necessity they 
 are under of not giving more. We find them 
 elegantly dressed, dwelling among costly fur- 
 niture, and denying themselves nothing which 
 their wealthier neighbors enjoy ; eid all the 
 while they do so wish they cou.d give more 
 to the poor! © 
 
 I confess it sickens the heart, and wearies 
 the mind, to listen to absurdities like this. 
 If these individuals would but let the matter 
 rest, and be content to be fashionable without 
 pretending to be generous, half their culpa- 
 bility would cease toexist. But they go on 
 to explain to you how their station in life, 
 and their credit in’ society, require them to 
 dress and live in a certain way, and. how 
 they consider themselves doing a benefit to 
 their country by their encouragement of its 
 manufactures. It would not be inappropriate 
 to ask them, as they enter a fashionable and 
 expensive establishment to purchase some 
 costly articles of dress, whether they are do- 
 ing it in reality for the benefit of their country ? 
 
and there might be seasons when it would be 
 equally appropriate to inquire, whether they 
 prefer their appearance before the world, to 
 the spiritual consolation of having made the 
 injunctions of their blessed Saviour the rule 
 of their conduct. 
 
 The measure of charity which it is our 
 duty to bestow upon the poor, is a point of 
 very difficult adjustment, as well as the man- 
 ner we may choose to adopt in the distribu- 
 tion of our means. We cannot properly 
 
 make ourselves the judge of a brother or a 
 
 sister, in these respects. But if we have 
 sufficient resources for the purchase of luxu- 
 ries, it is in vain to pretend that we cannot 
 give to the ‘poor ; and if we will not spare a 
 little out of our little, we cannot expect to be 
 believed when we. boast of the pleasure it 
 would afford us to be charitable with more. 
 
 There are noble instances afforded by wo- 
 men in the middle classes of society in Eng- 
 land, of what can really be done in the way 
 of benevolence, in a persevering and unob- 
 trusive manner, which it is truly refreshing 
 to the soul to contemplate. And I would 
 earnestly recommend my young countrywo- 
 men to look diligently to these, and to ask 
 whether they cannot go and do likewise, 
 rather than to accustom themselves to the 
 dangerous habit of inquiring whether they 
 cannot afford to purchase what is fashiona- 
 ble and becoming to a lady, even when it is 
 not necessary for comfort or respectability. 
 By this means they would at least be able to 
 attain a degree of merit; for if they did not 
 go to the extent of the truly devoted and 
 praiseworthy, they might avoid involving 
 themselves in that interminable chain of ex- 
 pensive contingencies, which are sure to fol- 
 low, if we set out in life by making it our first 
 object of ambition to stand well with the 
 world, and to accommodate our dress and 
 mode of living to that which is most admired 
 in society. 
 
 The fallacious mode of reasoning induced 
 by too slavish a conformity to the fashions 
 and the customs of the world, creates an 
 endless series of entanglements most fatally 
 seductive to woman’s better feelings. The 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 99 
 
 fact of having, or not having, absolute debts 
 unpaid, seems to be, with most young ladies, 
 
 the boundary-line of their morality, as relates 
 
 to their pecuniary. affairs ; and well would it 
 be if all were strictly scrupulous even to this 
 extent. Within this line, however, there may 
 be deviations from the integrity of a noble, 
 generous, and enlightened mind, which yet 
 the world takes no cognizance of, and which 
 do not materially affect the character, as it is 
 judged of by society in general. 
 
 I have said that the world is an unjust || 
 judge, and in no instance is it more so than 
 in this. The world pays homage to an ex- || 
 pensive, elegant, and lady-like appearance,— |} 
 but it takes little note of the principle that }} 
 would condemn this appearance, if it could 
 not be maintained. without encroachment up- 
 on a parent’s limited means. The restric- 
 tions of civil law refer only to the payment of || 
 pecuniary debts; and when these are dis- 
 charged, we may appear without reproach 
 before society. But happily for us, we have 
 a higher standard of moral duty;. and the |} 
 integrity of the Christian character’ requires || 
 a strict observance of points of conduct un- 
 seen by society, and perhaps known only to 
 ourselves, and to the great Searcher of hu- 
 man hearts, by whose judgment we must 
 stand or fall. : 
 
 Reasoning, then, upon these subjects, from 
 higher principles, we clearly perceive that we 
 have no right to indulge ourselves with luxu- 
 ries, or to purchase the countenance and fa- 
 vor of society, at the expense of a parent’s || 
 peace, or by the sacrifice of the comforts of || 
 his old age. We have no right to encroach 
 upon means not strictly and lawfully our 
 own, even though they should be granted to 
 our necessities, for more than belongs to ac- 
 tual decency of appearance, and sufficiency 
 of subsistence, except in those cases where it 
 is the desire of wealthy friends or relatives 
 that we should be adorned and supplied at || 
 their expense. We have no right, and no 
 woman of good feeling would wish to estab- 
 lish a right, to dress and live at the extreme 
 of expenditure which a father, by nothing less 
 than hourly and incessant toil, can obtain the 
 
HABITS AND CHARACTER OF 
 
 means of affording. We have no right to 
 make presents, and thus obtain the meed of 
 gratitude and admiration for our generosity, 
 with money which is immediately transmit- 
 ted from our father’s hand for that especial 
 purpose, while our own resources remain un- 
 diminished, our own private store of treas- 
 ures undivided, and our circumstances whol- 
 ly unaffected. 
 
 I do not say that to each one of the im- 
 mense variety of daily and familiar actions, 
 which might be classed under this head, there 
 attaches the highest degree of actual culpa- 
 bility. ‘They are rather instances of encroach- 
 ment, than of absolute injustice and wrong. 
 But I do say that the habit of encroaching, 
 just so far as decency will permit, and as oc- 
 casion seems to warrant, upon all that is 
 noble and generous, upright and kind, in hu- 
 man conduct, has a fatal tendency to corrupt 
 the heart, while it produces at the same time 
 a deadening effect upon the highest and ho- 
 liest aspirations of the soul. 
 
 What answer can be made by such a soul 
 to the secret questionings of its internal mon- 
 itor? Or how shall we appeal to the gra- 
 cious and merciful Creator of the universe, 
 who has given us all this glorious world for 
 our enjoyment, and all the elements of nature 
 for our use; who has looked upon us in our 
 degiadation, and pitied our infirmities, and 
 opened the gates of heaven, that his mercy 
 might descend to us in a palpable and hu- 
 man form, and that we might receive the 
 conditions of his offered pardon, be healed, 
 and live’—how shall we appeal to him in 
 our private prayers, or stand before him in 
 the public sanctuary, with this confession on 
 our lips—that just so far as man could ap- 
 prove or condemn our actions, we have 
 deemed it expedient to be just; but that 
 to him, and to the Saviour of our souls, we 
 have grudged the incense of a willing mind; 
 and therefore we have enhanced our pleas- 
 ures, and gratified our pride, and fed our 
 selfishness, by al those trifling, yet forbid- 
 den means, which he has pronounced to be 
 offensive in his sight ? 
 
 Besides these considerations, there is one 
 
 of immeasurable importance, connected with 
 our conduct in the sight of God. No hu- 
 man mind can set a bound, or prescribe a 
 measure, to its voluntary deviations from the | 
 line of duty. We have been supposing a | 
 case in which these deviations are extremely || 
 minute, and yet so numerous as to form as |} 
 it were a circle round the heart—a circle |} 
 of evil. Imagine, then, this circle widening, |} 
 and widening, year after year, through the | 
 seasons of youth and maturity, and the } 
 dreary winter of old age. What an awful 
 and melancholy spectacle does the state of | 
 that heart present, enclosed as it were ina 
 deleterious atmosphere, and growing perpet- 
 ually colder and more callous by exclusion 
 from the blessed light of heaven ! 
 
 Oh! let us not begin to breathe this dead- 
 ly atmosphere! And you who are yet in- 
 experienced in the ways of human life, 
 whose habits are not formed, whose paths |} 
 not chosen, whose line of conduct not decid- | 
 ed, what a blessing would it be to you, both 
 in this world and in the world to come, were 
 you to choose that better part, that would en- 
 able you to look with a single eye to what is 
 most acceptable in the Divine sight, and most 
 in accordance with the will of God; leaving 
 the embellishments of person, the luxuries of 
 taste, and the appropriation of worldly es- 
 teem, to be enjoyed or relinquished with a 
 grateful and contented mind, just as your 
 heavenly Father may permit ; and bearing 
 always about with you, as a talisman against 
 the encroachments of evil, even in the most |} 
 simple or most specious form, the remem- |} 
 brance that none of these things are worthy 
 of a single wish, if they must necessarily be || 
 obtained by the violation of his laws, or ac- 
 companied by the tokens of his displeasure ! 
 
 a ee 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HABITS AND CHARACTER—INTELLECTUAL AT- 
 ' TAINMENTS——-EMPLOYMENT OF TIME—MORAL | 
 COURAGE—RIGHT BALANCE OF MIND. 
 
 To those gentle readers who have been |} 
 kind enough to accompany me through the |} 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 foregoing pages, and who feel inclined to ex- 
 ercise their forbearance towards me through 
 a few more, I feel that some apology, or 
 rather some explanation, is necessary for the 
 manner in which I have so often been com- 
 pelled to speak of the extraordinary ambition 
 manifested by my countrywomen, in the 
 present day, to make themselves mistress of 
 every possible variety of intellectual attain- 
 ment that can be acquired at school; and I 
 cannot help fearing that many of my remarks 
 may appear to have been written with a view 
 to depreciate the value of these treasures of 
 mind, and, as far as my single influence may 
 extend, to deter others from the pursuit of 
 them. 
 
 So far from this, I would repeat, if possi- 
 ble, in words which could not be forgotten, 
 my firm conviction that no human being can 
 learn too much, so that their sphere of intel- 
 ligence does not extend to what is evil. But, 
 while the accumulation of a vast store of 
 knowledge is one of the objects we have in 
 view in the culture of the mind, we must not 
 forget that it is by no means the only one. 
 In rearing an infant, we not only supply its, 
 appetite with food, but also find it necessary 
 to teach it the habit, and assist it in the pow- 
 er, of exercising its limbs; we guide its steps, 
 and, as far as we are able, give it just notions 
 of exercising its bodily functions with the best 
 
 effect. 
 
 To feed the mind, then, is but a small part 
 of our duty. If we leave it helpless and in- 
 ert, without ability to exercise its various 
 powers, and judgment to exercise them 
 aright, the most important portion of that 
 duty is neglected. Thus: far, I believe, all 
 who are employed in teaching the young will 
 go along with me, for their experience must 
 
 afford strong evidence in favor of this state- 
 ment. There are some points, however, in 
 which, it appears to me, they have allowed 
 the fashion of the times to render their sys- 
 tem of instruction extremely defective. But, 
 for this, 1 am by no means prepared to say 
 that they are in any degree to blame; be- 
 cause they have the taste of the times to con- 
 ee and they would obtain little credit for 
 
 a a Ct 
 
 101 
 
 making our young women what they ought 
 to be, if that taste was not correct. 
 
 With regard to moral discipline, or that 
 mode of instruction by which women would 
 be fitted for their domestic and social duties, 
 I have expressed my opinion in an earlier 
 chapter of this work, and, with regard to in- 
 tellectual culture, I hope to be pardoned if I 
 now venture a few remarks. 
 
 It appears to me, in looking abroad upon 
 society, and contemplating the immense va- 
 riety of mental attainments which prevail 
 among the young women of the present day, 
 that they are in imminent danger of suppos- 
 ing, when they have acquired a vast amount 
 of verbal knowledge, that the great work of 
 education is done. They are, in short, in 
 danger of mistaking the means for the end; 
 and of resting satisfied that they are wiser | 
 than the generation before them. 
 
 In the acquirement of languages this is 
 particularly the case. A young lady obtains 
 the reputation of being clever, when she has 
 made herself mistress of several languages; 
 and with this she is generally satisfied ; while 
 she ought to remember that she has but 
 gained possession, as it were, of the keys of 
 vast storehouses of knowledge, for the use of 
 which she is responsible to society. 
 
 Again, in the pursuit of science, there is a 
 technicality that strikes the ear, and gives an 
 idea of vast superiority in the way of attain- 
 ments; and there are facts that may be im- 
 pressed upon the memory, without the mind 
 being in any way enlarged or enlightened by 
 the reception of them. It is easy, for in- 
 stance, to talk of botany, without the thoughts 
 at any time extending themselves to the gen- 
 eral economy of vegetation; and of astrono- 
 my, so as to tell the distances of different 
 planets, without the soul being penetrated by | 
 one ray of illumination from the wisdom 
 which designed, and which controls the star- 
 ry heavens. Itis easy to attend a few scien- 
 tific lectures, and to return home talking of 
 the names of gases, and of some of the most 
 striking phenomena of electricity, the gal- 
 vanic battery, and other popular exhibitions 
 of the lecture-room ; but it requires a totally 
 
Se 
 ee 
 
 ; : sare 
 
 different process of mind to take a general 
 survey of the laws of the universe, and to 
 bow before the conviction that all must have 
 
 | been created by a hand divine. 
 
 From our observations of rural or roman- 
 tic scenery, it is easy to babble about woods 
 and waterfalls, about the ruggedness of 
 mountains, and the grandeur of the raging 
 sea; but it does not follow as a necessary 
 consequence that we have formed any con- 
 ception of the idea of abstract beauty, or of 
 the reverential, but admiring awe, which true 
 sublimity is calculated to inspire. It does 
 
 | not follow that we shall have learned to im- 
 
 body in the elements of nature those subtler 
 essences of spirit and of mind, which, to the 
 poetical and imaginative, people every desert, 
 and render vocal with melody the silence of 
 night. 
 
 It may be said, that in this busy world 
 there is little employment for the imagina- 
 tion—-litile scope for the exercise of poetical 
 associations. I grant—for I am compelled to 
 do so—that poetry should be elbowed out of 
 our working world to make room for ma- 
 chinery ; but I see no reason why the same 
 train of thought, and course of reasoning, 
 should not be carried on. I grant that the 
 materials are different; but why .should we 
 not still endeavor to raise an altar in our 
 minds for a higher, holier worship than that 
 of the mammon of this world?) Why should 
 we fix our attention solely upon the material 
 part of the universe, satisfying ourselves 
 with the names of substantial things, with 
 their variety, classification, and physical 
 properties? Why should we confine our- 
 selves to counting the pillars in the temple 
 of nature, computing its magnitude and 
 measuring its height, without referring all 
 our calculations, through the highest range 
 of imagination, to the wonder-working power 
 of the great Artificer? 
 
 It may be said that we dwell too much in 
 cities, and lead too artificial a life, to be able 
 to perceive the instrumentality of Divine 
 Wisdom in all the events that pass beneath 
 our observation. If this be the case, there is 
 
 || the more need that we should rouse our- 
 
 HABITS AND CHARACTER OF 
 
 t 
 
 selves by fresh efforts, to penetrate beyond 
 the polished surface of the world in which 
 we live, into the deeper mysteries that lie be- 
 yond—there is the more need that we should 
 endeavor to perceive, in the practical affairs 
 of busy life, those great principles by which 
 the laws of nature are governed, and the 
 system of the universe upheld. 
 
 Tf, for instance, we live in the heart of a 
 thickly-peopled city, with the rush of its busy 
 multitudes around us, and the labor of man’s 
 hand, and the efforts of his ingenuity, perpet- 
 ually before our eyes, there is no reason why 
 we should look only at the splendor of its 
 
 manufactured articles, amuse our fancy with 
 
 the outward aspect of its varied exhibitions 
 of art, or regard with disgust the occupations 
 of the mechanic, because he handles the raw 
 material, and touches what is gross. Would 
 it not be more consistent with the exercise of 
 an enlightened mind, to contemplate the won- 
 ders of that power which the Creator has in- 
 trusted to the use of man, so that he lays 
 hold, as it were, of the elements of nature, 
 and makes them submit to his will? Night 
 falls not with stillness and repose upon the 
 city ; but we walk as through a living blaze: 
 and shall we pass on, like children, pleased 
 with the glitter and the show, without reflecting 
 that man has been able to convert the darkest 
 substance from the bowels of the earth into 
 the very source of all this light! Mountains 
 and valleys, tracts of land and floods of wa- 
 ter, intervene between us and our distant 
 friends; but we fly to them with a rapidity 
 which, a few years ago, would have been 
 pronounced, even by philosophers, impossi- 
 ble. And shall we move like senseless mat- 
 ter; even through the very heart of the moun- 
 tain, caleulating only the speed at which we 
 travel, without awaking to the momentous 
 fact, that by the ingenuity of man, mere va- 
 por, proverbial as it is for its weakness, emp- 
 tiness, and nothingness in the creation, has 
 been converted into the master-power by 
 which the mighty operations of men are car- 
 ried on? We take our daily walks through 
 the bustling city, and gaze at the splendid 
 exhibitions of taste, and learn the names of 
 
 ey — Coe cilia Fated, ier Bb. ca 5 5 “ wa 
 
 HL 
 + = a he = see ret a ad ak Ea Fe ote "Seba i Be Bl ae 
 
 a a —*|"" 
 
 { 
 
 Da Ne ae eS Repack aX Sa Hi 
 
 -1y 
 
——, 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 — 
 
 those who are most skilled in music and 
 painting, and all the sister arts; and we 
 speak in the cant terms that are most in 
 vogue, and think we display superiority of 
 mind and intelligence to use them well; but 
 should we not at the same time cultivate the 
 habit of bearing in remembrance the un- 
 changing principles of beauty, and of refer- 
 ring back to them whatever is offered to our 
 admiration in the form of art? 
 
 We speak of the degrading cares and sor- 
 did views that occupy the working world; 
 but how have we endeavored to pass beyond 
 these, and to connect them with the world 
 of thought? We hear of the vast amount 
 
 | of labor carried on, and the relative expenses 
 
 incurred, and the different things that can be 
 made and done within a given time: but why 
 should we not sometimes make a transition 
 of thought from the material, to the means 
 of working it—from the means, to the power 
 —and from the power that is imparted, to 
 the Creator who imparts. To-day the me- 
 chanic plies his busy tools. To-morrow his 
 hand may have become rigid and motionless 
 beneath the stroke of death. Thousands and 
 tens of thousands pass away from the scene 
 of their labors, but the labor still goes on; for 
 
 the laws of nature change not, and the prin-, 
 
 ciples upon which the labor of man is carried 
 into effect, remain the same. 
 
 Weare too apt, because we mingle in popu- 
 lous and busy scenes, and feel the necessity 
 of moving with the tide, to forget that what 
 
 we see and hear, what is obvious to the 
 
 ; senses and palpable to the touch, is not all 
 | that we live for, or even all that we live 
 
 amongst. We should endeavor to find 
 breathing-times even amidst the hurry and 
 the rush of present things. We should 
 sometimes pause among the multitude, and 
 listen mentally, to the beating of the mighty 
 pulse of a tumultuous city, and ask, whether 
 the Creator and Sustainer of this living mass 
 is not beholding the operation of the various 
 powers he has set in motion, marking its de- 
 
 fects, supplying its deficiencies, and sustain- - 
 
 ing the stupendous whole. We should then 
 
 be enabled to perceive something of the 
 
 working of the inner plan, how one class of 
 human beings depends upon another—how 
 the principles of justice establish checks and 
 counter-checks, so that no single power shal 
 be predominant; how poverty and riches al- 
 ternate, and how the vices of the bad are 
 made to call forth the virtues of the good ; 
 and by renewing our conviction that God is 
 indeed here, as well as present to the more 
 peaceful and harmonious portions of his cre- 
 ation, we should renew our faith, and enjev 
 perpetual refreshment for our souls. 
 
 What we most want in education, then, is 
 to invest material ihings with the attributes 
 of mind ; and we want this more and more, as 
 commerce, and artsand manufactures increase 
 in importance and extent. We want it more 
 and more to give interest to our familiar and 
 necessary occupations; and we want it espe- 
 cially, that we may assist in redeeming the 
 character of English men from the mere ani- 
 nial, or rather, the mere mechanical state, into 
 which, from the nature and urgency of their 
 occupations, they are in danger of falling. 
 
 We want it also for ourselves; fora time 
 seems to be approaching, when the middle 
 class of society in England will have to be 
 subdivided ; and when the lower portion of 
 this class will of necessity have to turn their 
 attention to a different style of living, and to 
 different modes of occupation, thought, and 
 feeling. At present all this class are educa- 
 ted nearly upon the same plan. The happi- 
 ness. of society, and our moral necessities, 
 
 will surely, before long, suggest the import- 
 
 ance of females of this class being fitted for 
 something very different from drawing-room 
 exhibitions. 
 
 All that I have written in this volume, irm- 
 perfect as it is, has been stimulated by a de- 
 
 sire to increase the moral worth of my coun-— 
 
 trywomen, and enhance the domestic happi- 
 ness of my native land. In order that this 
 should be done effectually, it seems to me in- 
 dispensably necessary, that women, whose 
 parents are possessed of slender means, or 
 engaged in business, a:d who can with ex- 
 treme difficulty accomplish even so much as 
 what is called “making their way,’—that 
 
MEO 
 
 rs 
 
 Sita 
 
 HABITS AND CHARACTER OF 
 
 women in this class should be educated, not 
 simply for ladies, but for useful and active 
 members of society—and for this purpose, 
 that they also should consider it no degrada- 
 tion to render their activity conducive to the 
 purposes of trade. 
 
 It is a curious anomaly in the structure of 
 modern society, that gentlemen may employ 
 their hours of business in almost any degrad- 
 ing occupation, and if they have but the 
 means of supporting a respectable establish- 
 ment at home, may be gentlemen still; while, 
 if a lady does but touch any article, no mat- 
 ter how delicate, in the way of trade, she 
 loses caste, and ceases to be a lady. 
 
 I say this with all possible respect for those 
 who have the good sense and the moral 
 courage to employ themselves in the business 
 of their fathers and their husbands, ‘rather 
 than to remain idle and dependent; because 
 I know that many of them are ladies in the 
 best acceptation of the word—ladies in the 
 delicacy and propriety of their feelings, and 
 more than ladies in the noble dignity of their 
 general conduct. Still I doubt not they have 
 had their difficulties to encounter from the 
 influence of public opinion, and that their 
 generous feelings have been often wounded 
 by the vulgar prejudices prevailing in socie- 
 ty against their mode of life. 
 
 With the improvements of art, and the in- 
 crease of manufactures, there must be an in- 
 creased demand for mechanics and work- 
 people of every description ; and supposing 
 English society to be divided, as it soon must 
 be, into four classes, there surely can be no 
 reason why the second class of females should 
 not be so trained as to partake in the advan- 
 tages resulting from this extended sphere of 
 active and useful occupation. 
 
 The only field at present open for what is 
 considered lady-like employment, is that of 
 educating the young; and hence the number 
 of accomplished young women, too refined 
 
 | for common usefulness, whose claims to pub- 
 
 lic attention as governesses tend so much to 
 reduce the value of their services in that im- 
 portant sphere. 
 
 There are however, many descriptions of 
 
 occupation connected with business in its va- 
 ried forms, which are by no means polluting 
 to the touch, or degrading to the mind; and 
 it would be an unspeakable advantage to 
 hundreds of young females, if, instead of use- 
 less accomplishments, they could be instructed 
 in these. In addition to all kinds of fancy 
 millinery, the entire monopoly of which they 
 might surely be permitted to enjoy, I would 
 point out especially to their attention, the art 
 of drawing patterns for the muslin and calico 
 printers, an occupation which appears pecu- 
 liarly adapted to the female taste, and which 
 might be carried on without the least en- 
 croachment upon the seclusion of domestic 
 life, and the delicacy of the female character. 
 I have been led to understand that this branch 
 of business is almost exclusively carried on 
 by men; and I cannot but regret, that an 
 employment, which offers a tempting luxury 
 to those who suffer from the combined evils 
 of idleness and scanty means, should not also 
 be rendered productive of pecuniary benefit 
 to women. 
 
 It seems, however, to be from this pecuniary 
 benefit that they shrink ; for when we observe 
 the nature of their daily occupations, their 
 common stitchery, their worsted work, their 
 copied music, their ingeniously-invented arti- 
 cles for bazaars, it would be difficult to say in 
 what sense they are more agreeable, or more 
 dignified, than many branches of art con- 
 nected with trade. It must, therefore, be the 
 fact of receiving money for what they do, 
 which renders the latter so objectionable ; 
 and it is a strange paradox in our daily ex- 
 perience, that ‘this money should all the while 
 be the.very thing of which they are most in 
 want. 
 
 The degradation of what is vulgarly called 
 making their own living, is, I believe, the ob- 
 stacle of paramount difficulty ; and therefore 
 it is to reduce this difficulty, and to render it 
 more easily surmountable, that our solicitude 
 for the well-being of society, with all our 
 influence, and all our talent, ought to be 
 employed. 
 
 It is in vain to argue in such cases, that 
 individuals have no right to think and feel as 
 
they do—that women ought to be wiser than 
 to consider themselves degraded by working 
 for their own subsistence; while such is the 
 constitution of society, and such the early 
 bias of the female mind, that it is almost im- 
 possible they should do otherwise. The great 
 point to be gained, is to penetrate at once to 
 the root of the matter, and to begin by a dif- 
 ferent system of education, to render moral 
 courage—the courage to do what is right— 
 the first principle of female conduct. 
 
 What a world of misery this single prin- 
 
 | ciple of action, thoroughly grafted into the 
 | character, would spare the sons and daugh- 
 ters of men! 
 I am inclined to think the foundation of 
 moral courage must be laid in very early life, 
 | so as to render it effectual in bearing us up 
 | under the trials of maturer age; and it is not 
 | only to elevate the general character of my 
 country women, but to spare them at least 
 half the sufferings they now endure, that | 
 would most earnestly recommend them, in 
 cultivating the mind, to cultivate also the in- 
 | estimable power of exercising moral courage, 
 whenever the claims of duty are set in oppo- 
 sition to the opinions of the world. 
 
 For want of moral courage, how many 
 misunderstandings do we leave unsettled 
 among our friends, until 
 
 “The lightly uttered, careless word,” 
 
 the thoughtless action, or the false report, are 
 allowed to poison the very springs of affec- 
 tion, and to separate the dearest friends! 
 For want of moral courage, how often, and 
 how fatally, do we fail in the sacred duty of 
 reproving what we see amiss, until the evil 
 grows and magnifies, and extends itself, and 
 becomes so obvious to general perception, 
 that we scruple not to join in its condemna- 
 tion, forgetting that our own want of faith- 
 
 existence ! Wilts 
 
 For want of moral courage, how do we 
 sink, and see others sinking every day, un- 
 der the pressure of those pecuniary difficul- 
 ties which I have already described, until we 
 are guilty of almost every species of paltry 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 family. 
 
 105 
 
 meanness, to support an appearance of re- 
 spectability before the world, forgetting that 
 the grand foundation of all respectability of 
 character, is an honorable, independent, and 
 upright mind! For want of moral courage, 
 how often do we stoop and cringe, and sub- 
 mit to contumely, and eat the bread of hu- 
 miliation, and wear the rich garments that 
 ought to cover us with shame, because we 
 are despicable enough to live upon what is 
 not lawfully our own, and what is often || 
 granted without good-will, and received with- || 
 out satisfaction ! 
 
 Oh! that the women of England would 
 rouse themselves with one accord, to break 
 these galling chains !—to exemplify in their 
 own conduct, and to teach their daughters, 
 that there is no earthly enjoyment, no per- 
 sonal, embellishment, no selfish gratification, 
 worth the sacrifice of just and honorable 
 feeling—that the humblest occupation, un- 
 dertaken from a sense of duty, becomes en- 
 nobled in the motive by which it is prompted, 
 and that the severest self-denial may be 
 blessed and honored by the Father of mer- 
 cies, if endured in preference to an infringe- 
 ment upom thosé laws which he has laid 
 down for the government of the human 
 
 e 
 
 There is another point of view, in which it 
 
 appears to me that the present character of 
 | the women of England is extremely defective. 
 It is as regards a right balance of mind; or, 
 in other words, a just estimate of the rela- 
 _ tive importance of things in general. 
 
 From the natural construction of the mind 
 of woman, from the quickness of her per- 
 
 ceptions, and the intensity of her momentary 
 feelings, she is apt to lay hold of every thing 
 
 calculated immediately to strike her fancy, or 
 
 _to excite her emotions, with an earnestness 
 
 that excludes the possibility of -her mind be- 
 
 fulness may possib¥y be chargeable with its ing kept alive to other impressions, even 
 
 more essential to her happiness, and more || 
 
 | important in themselves. 
 
 Hence, we find in society, that women too 
 
 frequently invest the affairs of the moment, |] 
 | the circumstances occurring around them, || 
 } and their own personal experience, with a 
 
106 
 
 degree of interest wholly incomprehensible 
 to strangers, and often utterly contemptible 
 to men. I do not—I will not believe—that 
 women are inferior to what is called the 
 noble sex, in the moral world; but I do be- 
 lieve that from this very cause arises more 
 than half the contumely bestowed upon their 
 littleness of character. It is not that they 
 want capacity or understanding to judge of 
 many things as well as men. It is that they 
 are so occupied with what is obvious on the 
 
 surface of things, that they will not look be-~ 
 
 yond ; and hence their unceasing propensity 
 to trifle, and to render themselves apparently 
 inferior to what they really are. 
 
 This is the great leading defect in woman’s 
 character; and it is the more to be regretted, 
 that it presents to her mind innumerable 
 sources of disquietude, which, with a more 
 correct perception of the relative value of 
 things, she might escape. She is apt, for in- 
 stance, to attach as much importance, for the 
 time, to the failure of her own musical per- 
 formance, as to the failure of a bank; and 
 she appears to care little for the invasion of 
 a foreign country, when injury is threatened 
 to her best attire. It is no trifling humilia- 
 tion to those who mix in society, if they have 
 been accustomed to raise their views a little 
 higher in the contemplation of nature and 
 of human life, to be perpetually persecuted, 
 in the midst of agreeable and intelligent con- 
 versation, with questions about the minutic 
 of dress and conduct in some limited and 
 local sphere of observation. 
 
 I would not speak thus contemptuously of 
 the familiar habits of my sex, if I did not 
 know that they were capable of something 
 better, and if I did not desire—as I desire their 
 good and their happiness—that they would 
 rouse themselves above this paltry littleness, 
 and learn to become, what I am confident 
 they might be, not only equal, but interesting 
 and instructive companions to men. 
 
 I have before remarked, that there is now, 
 more than ever, a demand for the exercise 
 of their highest powers, and their noblest 
 energies, to counteract the effects of unre- 
 mitting toil in obtaining the perishing things 
 
 HABITS AND CHARACTER OF 
 
 of this life. 
 ever upon their capabilities of enhancing so- 
 cial and domestic happiness; and there is 
 an equal demand for the exercise I have 
 already recommended, of the power they 
 possess of investing what is material with 
 the attributes of mind. 
 
 The littleness of character I have just de- 
 scribed is one of the chief causes why they 
 are not so estimable as they might be in their 
 homes, or so interesting as they are capable 
 of being in their conversation with men. 
 And thus their husbands and their brothers 
 are becoming increasingly attracted by the 
 political associations, and the public calls 
 now leading them away from those domestic 
 scenes which offer little to excite the atten- 
 tion, or fascinate the mind. 
 
 It may be said, that English women in the 
 present day are, in this respect at least, su- 
 perior to the generation before them. But 
 
 granting that they are so, the necessity for | 
 
 further improvement remains the same, be- 
 cause the habits of men are progressively 
 involving them more deeply in the interests 
 of public life, so-that unless some strenuous 
 efforts are made on the part of women, the 
 
 far-famed homes of England will lose their: |} 
 
 boasted happiness, and with their happiness, 
 their value in the scale of our country’s 
 moral worth. 
 
 This is a serious subject, and one which 
 ought to appeal to every mother’s bosom 
 throughout our favored land. It ought to 
 be the solemn . inquiry of every woman who 
 has the sacred duty of training up the young 
 committed to her trust, in what manner she 
 may best guard against this growing evil, so 
 as to stem the desolating tide which seems 
 to threaten our domestic peace. 
 
 Let her, then, after this solemn inquiry has 
 been made, endeavor to place herself, in idea, 
 in the situation of a traveller who ascends a 
 mountain, and look upon the varied aspects 
 of human iife as he regards the scene pre- 
 sented to his view. At first he will be struck 
 with the magnitude of the rock he is climb- 
 ing, amused, perhaps, with the plants that 
 creep along its surface, and astonished with 
 
 There is a greater demand than | 
 
THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the opening out of distant valleys, and broad 
 rivers rolling between other hills, amongst 
 which his eye had never penetrated before. 
 He advances a little higher, and sees other 
 views extending far and wide, and the pin- 
 nacle of rock he at first thought so stupen- 
 dous, diminishing beneath his feet—higher 
 still, and the broad river, with its sweeping 
 tide, has shrunk into a silver thread—still 
 higher, and the pinnacle of rock is imper- 
 ceptible, and he feels at last that he has 
 gained the actual summit of the highest 
 mountain, where he can compare the real 
 height and distances of objects, and perceive 
 how limited in comparison was the line 
 which formed the original boundary of his 
 vision—how small and low, and compara- 
 tively contemptible, the highest eminence to 
 which he had then ascended. 
 
 It is in this manner that we ought to ac- 
 custom ourselves to realize those views of 
 human life, and that estimate of sublunary 
 things, that would bring all to the standard 
 of their real worth. 
 
 Judged of by this process, and tried by this 
 rule, how differently should we appreciate 
 the ordinary and familiar affairs of life! 
 How little should we find to occupy our 
 thoughts, or engage our affections, in the 
 trifles that now constitute the actual business 
 of our lives—how much should we find to 
 admire and value in what we now despise ! 
 
 It is to mothers, especially, that I would 
 recommend this method of adjusting the bal- 
 
 107 
 
 ance of the infant mind, because the longer 
 the weights are allowed to remain unequal, 
 and the balance untrue, the more extensive 
 must be the evil resulting from the erroneous 
 data upon which the youthful mind will rea- 
 son. And let them remember, that while the 
 mistakes of their management will probably 
 be exhibited more strikingly in the conduct 
 of their sons, their daughters will extend the 
 evil to a wider range of operation, by in- 
 stilling it again into the minds of another 
 generation. 
 
 It is not through a lifetime only, though 
 that were sufficient for our follies—it may be 
 through the endless ages of eternity, that our 
 good or evil influence shall extend. I have 
 pointed out to my countrywomen, as I pur- 
 sued this work, the high ambition of preserv- 
 ing a nation from the dangers which threaten 
 the destruction of its moral worth; but be- 
 yond this view, wide and exalted as it un- 
 questionably is, there opens out a field of 
 glory, upon which to enter might seem bless- 
 edness enough. Yet, when we contemplate 
 the possibility of being the means of inducing 
 others to enter with us, and those the most 
 beloved of -earth’s treasures, surely it is 
 worthy of our best energies—our most fer- 
 vent zeal—our tears—our prayers—that we 
 may so use our influence, and so employ our 
 means, as that those whose happiness has 
 been committed to our care, may partake 
 with us in the enjoyment of the mansions of 
 eternal rest. 
 
= 2 wi avs 
 % 5 at - } y ee 3 z 
 ' % cis 3 3 
 ; =o i t 
 
 YOK, Maye VALOR LA tee Te 
 
 Ve 
 
 G 3 : See 
 
DEDICATED BY ESPECIAL PERMISSION TO 
 FER MAJESTY THE QUEEN. 
 
 THE 
 
 WIVES OF ENGLAND, 
 
 Pua LYE DUTIES; 
 DOMESTIC INFLUENCE, AND SOCIAL OBLIGATIONS 
 
 BY MRS. ELLIS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF “THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND,” “THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND,” 
 “THE POETRY OF LIFE,” ETC. 
 
 “The greatest difficulty of my task has been the laying bare, as it were, before the public eye, the privacy of married life— 
 of that life whose sorrows the heart alone can know, and with whose joys it is the universal privilege of all who share them, 
 that no stranger shall intermeddle. 
 
 *“But if the principles it has been my simple aim to advocate, should meet the approbation of my countrywomen, I would 
 fondly hope to be associated with their fireside enjoyments, as one whose highest ambition would have been to render their 
 pleasures more enduring, their hopes more elevated, and their happiness more secure.’’— From the Author’s Preface. 
 
 AUTHOR’S EDITION, 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET. 
 1843. 
 
6 
 
 O Garioe 
 
 4 ay 
 Maid, 
 
 he Hotel 
 
 nt pai wilh pa . 
 
 Wola 
 Seria ce 
 A wee. 
 
 huh 
 
 yas at 
 
»TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN, 
 
 IN WHOSE EXALTED STATION 
 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES OF DOMESTIC LIFE PRESENT THE BRIGHTEST EXAMPLE 
 TO HER COUNTRYWOMEN, 
 AND THE SUREST PRESAGE OF HER EMPIRE’S GLORY 5 
 Wife Wolume fs gratefully Preerihen, 
 BY HER MAJESTY’S 
 
 MOST OBEDIENT AND MOST DEVOTED SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR, 
 
In writing on any subject, and particu- 
 larly for the purpose of doing good, there 
 are always two extremes to be avoided— 
 that of being too general, and that of be- 
 ing too minute. 
 
 By generalizing too much, the writer 
 incurs the risk of being considered by the 
 reader as having little actual knowledge 
 of the state of human affairs, and conse- 
 quently little sympathy either with those 
 who enjoy, or with those who suffer. 
 Without saying any thing to disparage in 
 other respects the value of those excellent 
 books on female duty, in many of which 
 are included the duties of married women, 
 I confess they have all appeared to me 
 too general—too much as if the writer 
 had not been personally identified with 
 the subject, had never entered into the 
 minutize of private and domestic life, or 
 did not feel, what the heart of woman 
 must feel, under its peculiar trials. 
 
 But, while endeavoring to avoid this 
 extreme, I am quite alive to the suspicion 
 that I may have fallen into the other; 
 and if the mere ambition of writing a book 
 had been my object, I should have felt 
 painfully that those who read only for 
 amusement might lay aside the volume 
 altogether, as trifling, common-place, and 
 tame. Yet such is my confidence in the 
 power of human sympathy, that I fear- 
 lessly trust the practical hints which 
 occupy these pages to the kindness of my 
 countrywomen, assuring them that I ask 
 for no higher reward, than, that while 
 some of them are reading my homely 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 details of familiar things, they should feel 
 that in the writer they have found a sister 
 and a friend,—one who is bound to the 
 same heritage with themselves, sharing 
 the same lot, and while struggling under 
 much weakness of resolution, and many 
 disadvantages of heart and character, is 
 subject to the same hopes, and the same 
 fears, both as regards this life and the 
 next. 
 
 The greatest difficulty of my task, how- 
 ever, has been to me the laying bare, as it 
 were, before the public eye, the privacy of 
 married life—of that life whose sorrows the 
 heart alone can know, and with whose joys 
 
 it is the universal privilege of all who share: 
 them, that wo strauger sliall WMtesuicddlc. 
 
 This. difficulty, of the extent of which I 
 was not fully aware before commencing the 
 work, has sometimes thrown a hesitancy 
 —TI had almost said a delicacy—in the 
 way of writing with the strength which 
 the occasion demanded; and I could not 
 but feel that the subject itself was one: 
 better calculated for confidential fireside: 
 intercourse, than for a printed volume. 
 But if then the principles it has been 
 my simple aim to advocate, should meet. 
 the approbation of my countrywomen, I 
 would fondly hope to be associated with 
 their fireside enjoyments as one whose 
 highest earthly ambition would have been 
 to render their pleasures more enduring, 
 their hopes more elevated, and their hap- || 
 piness more secure. 
 
 Rose Hirx, February 16th, 1843. 
 
THE 
 
 WIVES OF 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 . THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE, 
 
 In commencing a work addressed particu- 
 larly to married women, it might appear a 
 little out of place to devote a whole chapter 
 to the subject of “thoughts before marriage,” 
 did not the writer suppose it probable, that if 
 married women should deem the following 
 pages worthy of their notice, those who are 
 about to assume the responsibility of wives, 
 might feel equally curious to ascertain the 
 nature of their contents. In this chapter, 
 then, I would venture to recommend a few 
 ‘inquiries to those who have not yet passed 
 the Rubicon, and with whom, therefore, it 
 may not be too late to retract, if they should 
 find they have not correctly calculated the 
 consequences of the step they are about to 
 take ; or, what is still more probable, if they 
 have not coolly and impartially estimated 
 their own capability for rendering it one of 
 prudence and s&fety both to themselves and 
 others. On the other hand, the inquiries I 
 would propose, are such as, where the mind 
 and character are fitly prepared for this im- 
 portant change, will tend to confirm the best 
 resolutions; while they will assist in detect- 
 ing every latent evil which might otherwise 
 
 lie in wait, to rise up after the season of de- 
 
 liberation is past, like clouds in the horizon, 
 which gradually spread their gloom across 
 the sky, and finally obscure the sunshine of 
 every future day. 
 
 The great object to be aimed at by all wo- 
 men about to enter upon the married state, 
 is to examine calmly and dispassionately the 
 
 requirements of this state; to put away all 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 personal feeling; and to be not only willing, 
 but determined, to look the subject fairly in 
 the face, and to see its practical bearing upon 
 the interest and the happiness of those with 
 whom they may be associated. 
 
 Perhaps there never yet was a woman of: 
 warm feelings, or man either, who had not, 
 in early life, some vision of conjugal felicity, 
 which after experience and knowledge of the 
 world have failed to stamp with the impress 
 of reality. Some, believing themselves capa- 
 ble of contributing their share to this measure 
 of earthly happiness, and disappointed in not 
 finding an equal companion, have wisely 
 declined entering upon the married state 
 altogether; while others, more confident of 
 success, have made.the experiment for them- 
 selves, believing, that though all the world 
 may have failed in realizing their dreams of 
 bliss, they and theirs will be fortunate enough 
 to exhibit to the wonder of mankind, an in- 
 stance of perfect connubial happiness. | 
 
 It is needless to decide which of these two 
 parties deserve the highest meed of commen- 
 dation for their prudence and common sense. 
 But it is equally needless to belong to either 
 class of individuals. “ What!” exclaims the 
 young enthusiast, “shall we not even hope to 
 be happy?” Yes. Let us hope as long as 
 we can; but let it be in subservience to rea- 
 son and to truth. Let us hope only to be 
 happy ourselves, so long as we make others 
 happy too; and let us expect no measure of | 
 felicity beyond what this world has afforded || 
 to those who were wiser and better than we 
 are. 
 
 “But why then,” exclaims the same en- 
 thusiast, “all the fine talk we hear about 
 
Co OT rn Mo ee ee os Gere ate eae 
 
 6 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 marriage? and why, in all the stories we 
 ‘read, is marriage made the end of woman’s 
 existence?” Ah! there lies the evil. Mar- 
 riage, like death, is too often looked upon as 
 the end; whereas both are but the beginning 
 of states of existence infinitely more import- 
 ant than that by which they were preceded ; 
 yet each taking from that their tone and 
 character, and each proportioned in their en- 
 joyment to the previous preparation which 
 has been made for their happiness or misery. 
 
 The education of young ladies is too fre- 
 quently such as to lead them naturally to 
 suppose, that all the training, and all the dis- 
 cipline they undergo, has reference only to 
 this end. The first evidence that marriage is 
 thus regarded by many young women, is 
 seen in a petulant rebellion against the re- 
 straints of home, and the requirements of 
 parental authority, accompanied by a threat, 
 not always distinctly uttered, that the first 
 opportunity of escaping from domestic thral- 
 dom shall not be neglected. This species of 
 rebellion against rightful authority, is much 
 cherished by school-companions and sisters ; 
 while the gossip of servants, to whom the 
 indignant sufferers sometimes appeal, and 
 the general tenor of what is called light read- 
 ing, tend to keep up the same kind of spir- 
 ited determination to rush upon the uncer- 
 tainties of marriage, in the hope of escaping 
 from the certainties of home. A polite and 
 flattering lover next presents himself: The 
 persecuted or neglected damsel finds at last 
 that her merits are appreciated, and while 
 the gates of an imaginary Eden are still 
 open, she enters eagerly among its fruits and 
 flowers, never stopping to inquire if 
 
 “The trail of the serpent is over them still.” 
 
 Such is the natural history of one half at 
 least of those early marriages, which fix the 
 doom of women for this world, and some- 
 times for the next. What wonder, then, 
 that a sincere and earnest friend, and an af- 
 fectionate well-wisher of her sex, should 
 deem it necessary, even on the near approach 
 of that day which is generally spoken of as 
 making two human beings happy, to request 
 
 the weaker, and consequently the more easily 
 deluded party, to pause and think again. 
 
 Although Tam one of the last persons who 
 could wish to introduce in any plausible form, 
 to an upright and honorable. mind, the bare 
 idea of the possibility of breaking an engage- 
 ment; yet as there are cases in which an en- 
 gagement of marriage, if literally kept, must 
 necessarily be violated in spirit, I cannot help 
 thinking, that of two evils, it is, in this case, 
 especially desirable to choose the least; and 
 to prefer inflicting a temporary pain, and en- 
 during an inevitable disgrace, to being the 
 means of destroying the happiness of a life- 
 time, with the self-imposed accompaniment 
 of endless remorse. : 
 
 In the first place, then, I would ask, are 
 you about to bring to the altar, and to offer, 
 in the sight of God, a faithful and devoted 
 heart? To answer with a mere expression 
 of belief, is not sufficient here. There must 
 be certainty on this point, if not on any 
 other. There are many tests by which 
 this important fact may be ascertained, and 
 of these I shall particularize a few. 'The 
 first is, whom are you loving !—the man who 
 stands before you with all his “imperfections 
 on his head”’—his faults of temper, follies, in- 
 consistencies, and past misdeeds? Is this 
 the man you love? or is it some ideal and 
 perfect being whom you will fail to recognise 
 in the husband of your after life? If the lat- 
 ter case be yours, go back, and wait, for your || 
 acquaintance has yet to be:formed on the 
 only sure basis—that of honesty and truth; 
 and you might as safely unite yourself with 
 a being you had never seen before, as with 
 one whom you had seen without having 
 known or understood. 
 
 The discovery that you have mistaken the 
 real character of your lover, need not, how- 
 ever, be any barrier to the ultimate fulfilment 
 of your engagement with him. All that you 
 have to do, is to wait until you have studied 
 his real character, and ascertained that you 
 can still love him, though you no longer be- 
 lieve him to be without a fault. 
 
 During the progress of this study, the de- 
 lay it will necessarily occasion, may be made 
 
—_— 
 
 THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE. 7 
 
 to answer two valuable ends; for at the same 
 time that you have been deceived, it is more 
 than probable that you have been deceiving. 
 Not intentionally, perhaps, yet the effect may 
 be as calamitous as if you had designedly 
 practised upon the partial credulity of your 
 lover. It is of the utmost importance, then, 
 that you inquire into the nature of your own 
 conduct, not only towards him, but towards 
 others in his presence. Have you, during 
 the season of courtship, been acting a part 
 which you never before sustained, or which 
 you do not intend to sustain as a wife? 
 Have you been more amiable to your ad- 
 mirer, than you expect to be to your hus- 
 band? If you have, there are two ways of 
 remedying this evil, for an evil it certainly is; 
 and one of these you are bound in common 
 honesty to adopt: you must either defer 
 your marriage until your real character has 
 been brought to light, and clearly understood ; 
 or, you must determine, from this time for- 
 ward, by the Divine blessing on your endeav- 
 ors, that you will be in reality the amiable 
 being you have appeared. 
 
 And now, having learned to see your lover 
 as he is, | would ask again, whether you are 
 quite sure that your affections are entirely 
 and irrevocably his. If on this point there is 
 doubt, there must be danger ; but still there 
 are tests to be applied, which may in some 
 | measure reduce those doubts to certainty. 
 The most important question, in a case of 
 doubt, is, whether your heart lingers after 
 any other object; and this may be best as- 
 certained by asking yourself still further, 
 whether there is any other man in the world, 
 of whom it would give you pain to hear that 
 he was likely to be married. If there is not, 
 you are in all probability safe in this respect, 
 and yet you may not love the man you are 
 about to marry, as he hopes, deserves, and 
 believes himself to be loved. I would ask, 
 then, are you weary of his presence, and re- 
 lieved when he goes away? or are you dis- 
 posed to exercise less charity and forbear- 
 ance towards his faults, than towards the 
 faults of others? for if his failings annoy and 
 | irritate you more than those of men in gen- 
 
 eral, depend upon it, you do not love him as 
 you ought. If, too, you feel ashamed of him 
 before marriage, there is little probability that 
 you will afterwards evince towards him that 
 respect and reverence which is right and 
 seemly in a wife. 
 
 In order to ascertain these points elearly, it 
 is good for every woman before she marries, 
 to see the man of her choice in the company 
 of her friends, and especially to see him as- 
 sociated and compared with those whose 
 opinion she esteems most highly. “We are | 
 all more or less influenced by the secret sym- | 
 pathies of our common nature. In nothing | 
 can we think or feel alone; and few cases — 
 show more plainly the weakness and liability | 
 to delusion under which we labor, than the 
 strong confidence we sometimes entertain in 
 the correctness of our own judgment, until 
 some new trial is made; and then immedi- 
 ately, as if by a kind of instinct, placing our- 
 selves in the situation of others, we see as 
 it were with their eyes, think with their 
 thoughts, and arrive at their conclusions. 
 This tendency of our nature is often discover- 
 edin the reading of books, which we have both 
 enjoyed and admired alone; but no sooner 
 do we read them in company with a critical 
 friend, than we see at once their defects, and 
 can even use against them the same powers 
 of criticism ourselves. Happy is it for those 
 whose judgment, thus influenced, is confined 
 in its exercise to books !—happy for them if 
 they never know what it is to find the talents 
 and the recommendations of a lover disap- 
 pear in a moment, on the approach of an in- 
 teresting and influential friend, and disappear 
 in such a way as never to be recalled again! 
 
 Yet, having stood this test, it is still possi- 
 ble to doubt, and, without sufficient love, 
 your engagement may still be only just drag- | 
 ged on, because you have no sufficient plea 
 for breaking it off’ You may perhaps esteem 
 your lover highly ; you may feel grateful for 
 his kindness, and flattered by his admiration; | 
 
 him the happy man he believes he can be 
 with you, and you alone—you may feel all 
 this, and yet, I repeat, you may not love him 
 
 you may also feel a strong desire to make | 
 
8 
 
 as a woman ought to love her husband. 
 This will be more clearly proved by an in- 
 crease of sadness on your part, as the time 
 of your marriage draws near, an indefinite 
 apprehension that with you the pleasures of 
 life are at an end, and a determination, re- 
 quiring often to be renewed, that at least you 
 will do your duty to one who deserves every 
 thing from you. 
 
 Let me, however, ask what this duty is? 
 It is not merely to serve him ; a hired menial 
 could do that. The duty of a wife is what 
 no woman ever yet was able to render with- 
 out affection; and it is therefore the height 
 of presumption to think that you can coldly 
 fulfil a duty, the very spirit of which is that 
 of love itself. 
 
 It is possible, however, that you may still 
 be mistaken. It is possible that the gradual 
 opening of your eyes from the visions of girl- 
 ish romance, which are apt to flit before the 
 imaginative and inexperienced, may have 
 given you a distaste both for your compan- 
 ion, and your future lot. If this be the case, 
 the difficulty will be easily overcome by the 
 exercise of a little good feeling and common 
 sense. But in order to prove that this is real- 
 ly all, put this question to yourself—if you 
 were quite sure there was some other woman 
 as amiable, or more so, than you, with whom 
 your friend could be equally happy, would 
 you feel pleasure in his cultivating her ac- 
 quaintance instead of yours? 
 
 If you can answer this.question in the 
 negative, you may yet be safe; if not, the 
 case is too decided to admit of a moment’s 
 hesitation. Your own integrity, and a sense 
 of justice towards your friend, equally dictate 
 the propriety of making him acquainted with 
 the painful, the humiliating fact, that you do 
 not love him; and no man, after being con- 
 vinced of this, could desire the fulfilment of 
 a mere nominal engagement. 
 
 Iam aware that the opinion of the world 
 and the general voice of society are against 
 such conduct, even where love is wanting ; 
 and I am equally aware, that no woman 
 ought to venture upon breaking an engage- 
 ment on such grounds, without feeling her- 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 it must naturally engender a servile disposi- 
 
 self humbled to the very dust; but I am not 
 the less convinced, that it is the only safe, 
 the only just line of conduct which remains 
 to her who finds herself thus circumstanced, 
 and that it is in reality more generous to her 
 lover, than if she kept “the word of promise 
 to his ear, and broke it to his hope.” 
 
 But there may be other causes besides this, 
 why an engagement should not be fulfilled. 
 There may be a want of love on the part of 
 your friend, or there may be instancés of 
 unfaithfulness too glaring to be overlooked ; 
 and here let it be observed, that woman’s 
 love may grow after marriage—man’s, never. 
 If, therefore, he is indifferent or unfaithful as 
 a lover, what must be expected of him as a 
 husband ? 
 
 It is one of the greatest misfortunes to 
 which women are liable, that they cannot, 
 consistently with female delicacy, cultivate, 
 before an engagement is made, an acquaint- 
 ance sufficiently intimate to lead to the dis- 
 covery of certain facts which would at once | 
 decide the point, whether it was prudent to | 
 proceed further towards taking that step, 
 which is universally acknowledged to be the 
 most important in a woman’s life. 
 
 One of these facts, which can only be as- 
 certained on a close acquaintance, is the 
 tendency there is in some individuals to 
 overawe, and keep others at a distance. 
 Now, if on the near approach of marriage, 
 a woman finds this tendency in the compan- 
 ion she has chosen, if she cannot open to 
 him her whole heart, or if he does not open 
 his heart to her, but maintains a distant kind 
 of authoritative manner, which shuts her out 
 from sympathy and equality with himself, it 
 is time for her to pause, and think seriously 
 before she binds herself for life to that worst 
 of all slavery, the fear of a husband. I have 
 no scruple in using this expression, because 
 where the connection is so intimate, and the 
 sphere of action necessarily so confined, if 
 fear usurps the place of confidence and love, 
 
 tion to deceive, either by falsehood or eva- 
 sion, wherever blame would attach to a full 
 disclosure of the truth. 
 
THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE. 9 
 
 I have already said that it is a prudent plan 
 for the woman who intends to marry, to try 
 the merits of her lover, or rather her own es- 
 timate of them, by allowing him an opportu- 
 nity of associating with her friends. Such 
 precautionary measures, however, .are not 
 easily carried out, except at some sacrifice of 
 delicate and generous feeling ; and, generally 
 speaking, the less a woman allows her name 
 to be associated with that of her husband be- 
 fore marriage, the better. It is sometimes 
 argued that an engagement entered into with 
 right feelings, is of so binding and sacred a 
 nature, that persons thus related to each 
 other, may be seen together, both in public 
 and private, almost as if they were really 
 married; and to such it may appear a cold 
 kind of caution still to say “beware!” Yet 
 such is the uncertain nature of all human af- 
 fairs, that we need not look far for instances 
 of the most improbable changes taking place, 
 after all possibility of change had been ban- 
 ished from our thoughts. Within a month, 
 a week, nay, even a day, of marriage, there 
 
 liave woo disvuvertes made willul Wave muie 
 ly justified an entire disunion of the parties 
 thus associated; and then how much better 
 has it been, where their names had not been 
 previously united, and where their appearance 
 together had not impressed the idea of indis- 
 soluble connection upon the minds of others! 
 
 One of the most justifiable, and at the same 
 time one of the most melancholy causes for 
 such disunion, is the discovery of symptoms 
 of insanity. Even a highly excited and dis- 
 ordered state of the nervous system, will 
 operate with a prudent woman against an 
 alliance of this nature. Yet here again, it is 
 particularly unfortunate, that in cases of ner- 
 vous derangement, the discovery is seldom 
 fully made except in the progress of that 
 close intimacy which immediately precedes 
 marriage, and which consequently assumes 
 the character of an indissoluble engagement. 
 Symptoms of this nature, however, when ex- 
 hibited in the conduct of a man, are of the 
 most serious and alarming character. A wo- 
 man laboring under such maladies, in their 
 milder form, may be so influenced by authori- 
 
 ty as to be kept from doing any very exten- 
 sive harm; but when a man, with the reins 
 of government in his hand, loses the power 
 to guide them, when his mind becomes the 
 victim of morbid feeling, and his energies 
 sink under imaginary burdens, there is no 
 calculating the extent of calamity which may 
 result to the woman who would be rash 
 enough to link her destiny with his. 
 
 Another justifiable reason for setting aside 
 an engagement of marriage, or protracting 
 the fulfilment of it, is a failure of health, es- 
 pecially when either this, or the kind of mala- 
 dy already noticed, induces an incapacity for 
 business, and for the duties which generally 
 devolve upon the master of a household. It 
 is true, that in cases where the individual 
 thus afflicted does not himself see the pro- 
 priety of withdrawing from the engagement, 
 the hard, and apparently selfish part a wo- || 
 man has to act on these occasions is such as, 
 in addition to her own sufferings, will proba- 
 bly bring upon her the blame of many who 
 do not, and who cannot, understand the case; 
 
 QIU tlie LTITVULO MoMvuatc IL LOUIE aio tuWwalus 
 the friend she is thus compelled to treat with 
 apparent harshness, the less likely she will 
 be to exculpate herself by an exposure to the 
 world of his inconsistency, or his weakness. 
 Thus, as in many of the acts of woman’s life, 
 she has to be the sufferer every way; but 
 still that suffering is less to every one con- 
 cerned, than if she plunged herself into all 
 the lamentable consequences of a union with 
 a man who wanted either the mental or the 
 physical capacity to keep her and hers from 
 poverty and distress. In the former case, 
 she will have the dictates of prudence and of 
 conscience in her favor. In both, the world 
 will be lavish of its blame; but in the latter 
 only, could her portion be that of self-con- 
 demnation, added to irremediable misery. 
 
 After all these considerations have been 
 duly weighed, and every test of truth and 
 constancy applied to your affection for the 
 object of your choice, there may yet remain | 
 considerations of infinite moment as they re- | 
 late to your own fitness for entering upon the 
 married state. 
 
Fy) eae yuu TLUOWAIiy wiiipty ary 
 
 10 
 
 In the first place, what is it you are ex- 
 pecting?—to be always flattered? Depend 
 | upon it, if your faults were never brought to 
 | light before, they will be so now. Are you 
 expecting to be always indulged? Depend 
 upon it, if your temper was never tried be- 
 fore, it will be so now. Are you expecting 
 to be always admired? Depend upon it, if 
 you were never humble and insignificant be- 
 fore, you will have to be sonow. Yes, you 
 had better make up your mind at once to be 
 uninteresting as long as you live, to all ex- 
 cept the companion of your home; and well 
 will it be for you, if you can always be inter- 
 esting to him. You had better settle it in 
 your calculations, that you will have to be 
 crossed oftener than the day; and the part 
 of wisdom will dictate, that if you persist in 
 your determination to be married, you shall 
 not only be satisfied, but cheerful to have 
 these things so. 
 
 One important truth sufficiently impressed 
 upon your mind will materially assist in this 
 desirable consummation—it is the superiority 
 
 Eu ie 
 quite possible you may have more talent, 
 with higher attainments, and you may also 
 have been generally more admired; but this 
 has nothing whatever to do with your posi- 
 tion as a woman, which is, and must be, 
 inferior to his as a man. For want of a 
 satisfactory settlement of this point before 
 marriage, how many disputes and misunder- 
 standings have ensued, filling, as with the 
 elements of discord and strife, that world of 
 existence which ought to be a smiling Eden 
 of perpetual flowers—not of flowers which 
 never fade; but of flowers which, if they 
 must die, neither droop nor wither from the 
 canker in their own bosoms, or the worm 
 which lies at their own roots. 
 
 It is a favorite argument with untried 
 youth, that all things will come right in the 
 end, where there is a sufficiency of love; but 
 is it enough for the subjection of a woman’s 
 will, that she should love her husband ? 
 Alas! observation and experience alike con- 
 vince us, that love has been well represented 
 as a wayward boy; and the alternate ex- 
 
 ue SisCriie 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 hibitions of contradiction and fondness which 
 are dictated by affection alone, though inter- 
 esting enough before the nuptial knot is tied, 
 are certainly not those features in the aspect 
 of his domestic affairs, whose combination a 
 prudent man would most desire. 
 
 It is to sound judgment then, and right 
 principle, that we must look, with the bless- 
 ing of the Bestower of these good gifts, for 
 ability to make a husband happy—sound 
 judgment to discern what is the place de- 
 signed for him and for us, in the arrange- 
 ments of an all-wise Providence—and right 
 principle to bring down every selfish desire, 
 arid every rebellious thought, to a due sub- 
 serviency in the general estimate we form 
 of individual duty. 
 
 But supposing this point satisfactorily set- | 
 
 tled, and an earnest and prayerful determina- 
 tion entered into to be but a secondary being 
 in the great business of conducting the gen- 
 eral affairs of social life, there are a few 
 things yet to be thought of, a few duties yet 
 to be discharged, before the final step can 
 
 poopeol be tabean 
 thusiasm of youthful feeling, few women 
 
 look much beyond themselves in the caleu- 
 lations they make. upon their married future. 
 To be loved, and cherished, is all they ap- 
 pear solicitous to stipulate for, forgetting the 
 many wants and wishes that will necessarily 
 arise out of the connection they are about to 
 form. It may not be out of place then to 
 remind them, how essential it is to comfort 
 in the married state, that there should have 
 been beforehand a clear understanding, and 
 a strict agreement, with regard both to the 
 general style of living, and the friendships 
 and associations to be afterwards maintained. 
 All secret wishes and intentions on these 
 subjects, concealed by one party from the 
 fear of their being displeasing to the other, 
 are ominous of future disaster; and, indeed, 
 I would almost venture so far as to advise, 
 that unless such preliminaries can be satis- 
 factorily adjusted, the parties had better make 
 up their minds to separate; for these causes of 
 difference will be of such frequent occurrence, 
 as to leave little prospect of domestic peace. 
 
 . 
 
 Tn tha wrarmth and an. 
 
If, however, the companion of your future 
 home should not be disposed to candor on 
 these points, you will probably have oppor- 
 tunities of judging for yourself; and such 
 means of forming your conclusions ought on 
 no account to be neglected. You will pro- 
 bably, for instance, have opportunies of as- 
 certaining whether he is one of those who 
 place their chief happiness in what is called 
 good living, or, in other words, in the pleas- 
 ures of the table; and if in his estimation 
 wine forms a prominent part of these enjoy- 
 ments, let not the fear of the world’s censure 
 operate for one moment against your sepa- 
 rating yourself from such a man. If this 
 should seem a harsh and hasty conclusion, 
 remember that the evils of a gross and self- 
 indulgent habit are such as generally increase 
 with the advance of years, and, as the natu- 
 ral spirits fail, and health becomes impaired, 
 are liable to give rise to the most fatal mala- 
 
 | dies both of mind and body. If, then, there 
 
 | of abstinence to the man she loves. 
 
 is danger and disgust to apprehend on the 
 side of indulgence, it is on the other hand a 
 hard and unthankful duty for the wife to be 
 perpetually restraining the appetite of her 
 husband, and preaching up the advantages 
 Nor is 
 
 | it improbable, or of rare occurrence, that un- 
 
 der such circumstances she should actually 
 lose his affection, for men like not the con- 
 stant imposition of restraint upon their wish- 
 es; and so much happier—so much more 
 privileged is the situation of her who can 
 safely minister to the desires of her husband, 
 that I would recommend to every woman to 
 choose the man who can with propriety be in- 
 dulged, rather than him whose habits of self- 
 gratification already require restraint. 
 
 As the time of your marriage draws near, 
 you will naturally be led with ease and pleas- 
 ure into that kind of unlimited confidence 
 with the companion of your future lot, which 
 forms in reality the great charm of married 
 
 | life. But even here a caution is required, 
 
 for though all the future, as connected with 
 your own experience, must belong to him, 
 all the past must belong to others. Never, 
 
 therefore, make it the subject of your confi- 
 
 THOUGHTS BEFORE = 00 
 
 dential intercourse to relate the history of 
 your former love affairs, if you have had 
 any. It is bad taste to allude to them at all, 
 but especially so under such circumstances ; 
 
 and although such details might serve to , 
 
 amuse for the moment, they would in all 
 probability be remembered against you at 
 sonse future time, when each day will be 
 
 sufficientiy darkened by its own passing | 
 
 clouds. 
 
 With regard to all your other love affairs 
 then, let “ by-gones be by-gones.” It could 
 do no good-whatever for you to remember 
 
 them; and the more you are dissociated | 
 from every other being of his own sex, the || 
 
 more will the mind of your husband dwell 
 upon you with unalloyed satisfaction. On 
 the other hand, let no ill-advised curiosity 
 induce you to pry too narrowly into his past 
 life as regards affairs of this nature. How- 
 
 ever close your inquiries, they may still be , 
 bafHled by evasion ;.and if it be an important | 
 
 point with you, as many women profess to 
 make it, to occupy an unsullied page in the 
 affections of your husband, it is wiser and 
 safer to take for granted this flattering fact, 
 than to ask whether any other name has 
 been written on that:page before. In this 
 case, as well as your own, both honor and 
 delicacy would suggest the propriety of draw- 
 ing a veil over the past. It is sufficient for 
 the happiness of married life that you share 
 together the present and the future. 
 
 With such a field for the interchange of 
 mutual thought, there can surely be no want 
 of interest in your conversation, for the ar- 
 rangements to be made are so new to both, 
 and consequenily so fraught with importance, 
 
 that parties thus circumstanced, are pro- | 
 
 verbially good company only to each other. 
 
 Amongst these arrangements, if the choice 
 of a residence be permitted you, and espe- 
 cially if your own temper is not good, or your 
 manners not conciliating, avoid, as far as 
 you can do so with prudence, and without 
 thwarting your husband’s wishes, any very 
 close contact with his nearest relatives. 
 There are not wanting numerous instances 
 in which the greatest intimacy and most fa- 
 
i ge 
 
 ll 
 I 
 
 12 THE WIVES 
 
 OF ENGLAND. 
 
 miliar associations of this kind have been 
 kept up with mutual benefit and satisfaction ; 
 but generally speaking it is a risk, and you 
 may not yourself be sufficiently amiable to 
 bear, with a meek and quiet spirit, the general 
 oversight, and well-meant interference, which 
 mothers and sisters naturally expect to main- 
 tain in the household of a son and a brother. 
 These considerations, however, must of 
 course give way to the wishes of the hus- 
 band and his family, as it is of the utmost 
 importance not to offend his relatives in the 
 outset by any appearance of contradiction or 
 self-will; and besides which, he and his 
 friends will be better judges than you can be, 
 of the general reasons for fixing your future 
 residence. 
 
 And now, as the time draws near, are you 
 quite sure that your means are sufficient to 
 enable you to begin the world with indepen- 
 dence and respectability? Perhaps you are 
 not a judge, and if not, you have no right to 
 think of becoming a wife; for young men in 
 
 general have little opportunity of making 
 
 themselves acquainted with household econ- 
 omy ; and who then is to make those innu- 
 merable calculations upon which will depend, 
 not only the right government of your estab- 
 lishment, but also your peace of mind, your 
 integrity of character, and your influence for 
 time and for eternity ? 
 
 Oh! what a happy day would that be for 
 Britain, whose morning should smile upon 
 the making of a law for allowing no woman 
 to marry until she had become an economist, 
 thoroughly acquainted with the necessary ex- 
 penses of a respectable mode of living, and 
 able to calculate the requirements of comfort, 
 in connection with all the probable contin- 
 gencies of actual life. If such a law should 
 be so cruel as to suspend for a year or more 
 every approach to the hymeneal altar, it 
 would, at least, be equally effectual in avert- 
 ing that bitter repentance with which so 
 many look back to the hurried and thought- 
 less manner in which they rushed blindfold 
 upon an untried fate, and only opened their 
 eyes to behold their madness and folly, when 
 it was too late to avert the fatal consequences. 
 
 Asa proof how little young men in gene- 
 ral are acquainted with these matters, f have 
 heard many who fully calculated upon living 
 
 .iIn a genteel and comfortable style, declare 
 that a hundred pounds was sufiicient for the 
 furnishing of a house. ‘Thus a hundred 
 pounds on one side, either saved, borrowed, 
 or begged, and fifty on the other, are not un- 
 frequently deemed an ample provision, with 
 a salary of two hundred, to begin the world 
 with. It is true the young man finds that 
 salary barely sufficient for himself; but then, 
 he hears and reads how much is saved un- 
 der good female management, and he doubts 
 not but his deficiencies will be more than 
 made up by his wife. It is true the young 
 lady, with her ill health, and music lessons, 
 and change of air, costs her father at least 
 
 fifty pounds per annum, but she does not. 
 
 see how she shall cost her husband any thing 
 at all! Sweet soul! She needs so little, and 
 really would be content with any thing in the 
 world, so that she might but live with him. 
 Nay, she who has never learned to wait upon 
 
 herself, would almost do without a servant, | 
 
 so self-denying, so devoted is her love. 
 
 Thus the two hopeful parties reason, and 
 should a parent or a friend advise delay, the 
 simple fact of their having been engaged, 
 having expected to be married, and having 
 made up their minds, appear to furnish suffi- 
 cient arguments why they should proceed in 
 their career of rashness and of folly. Parents 
 who are kindly disposed, will hardly see 
 their children rush upon absolute want at 
 the commencement of their married life. 
 The mother therefore pleads, the father cal- 
 culates, and by deferring some of his own 
 payments, or by borrowing from a friend, he 
 is enabled to spare a little more than was at 
 first promised, though only as a loan. 
 
 And how is this small additional sum too 
 frequently appropriated? ‘'T'o the purchase 
 of luxuries which the parents of the newly 
 married pair waited ten or twenty years be- 
 fore they thought of indulging themselves 
 with ; and those who have tried every expe- 
 dient, and drained every creditable source, 
 to gratify the wishes of their imprudent chil- 
 
: 
 
 THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE. 13 
 
 dren, have to contemplate the heart-sicken- 
 ing spectacle of beholding them begin the 
 he in a style superior to that which their 
 own industry and exertion, persevered in 
 through half a lifetime, has alone enabled 
 them to attain. 
 
 Now, though the delicate young lady may 
 think she has little to do with these things, 
 the honest-hearted Englishwoman, especially 
 the practical Christian, will find that it be- 
 longs peculiarly to her province to see that 
 just and right principles are made the foun- 
 dation of her character as the mistress of a 
 house ; and in order to carry out these prin- 
 ciples so as to make them effectual in their 
 operation upon her fellow-beings, and accept- 
 able in the sight of God, she must begin in 
 
 || time, and while the choice remains to her, to 
 
 practise self-denial, even in that act which is 
 most intimately connected with her present 
 and future happiness. 
 
 If the attention to economy, and the right 
 feeling with regard to integrity, which I have 
 so earnestly recornmended in the “ Women,” 
 and the “ Daughters of England,” have been 
 studied in early youth, she will need no cau- 
 tion on the subject of delaying her marriage 
 until prudence shall point out the proper time 
 
 {| for her settlement in life. She will know a 
 
 holier, deeper kind of love than that which 
 would plunge the object of it in irremediable 
 difficulties for her sake ; and though he may 
 be inexperienced and imprudent, she will feel 
 it a sacred trust, to have committed to her 
 the care of his character and circumstances 
 in these important and momentous concerns. 
 
 Serious and right views on subjects. of 
 this nature, are so intimately connected with 
 the reality of the Christian character, that it 
 is difficult to imagine how a high profession 
 
 | of religion can exist in connection with the 
 \| kind of wilful and selfish imprudence above 
 || described. One thing, however, is certain, 
 
 that let a woman’s religious profession be 
 what it may, ifshe be rash and inconsiderate 
 on the subject of marriage, consulting only 
 her own gratification, and mistaking mere 
 fondness for deep and enduring affection, she 
 has need to go back to the school of mental 
 
 SN SS EER ne rane nenoreeneemaN 
 
 discipline, in which she is yet but a novice; 
 and instead of taking upon herself the honor- 
 able title of wife, to set in humility and self- 
 abasement in the lowest seat, seeking those 
 essential .endowments of mind and of heart, 
 without which, the blessing of her heavenly 
 Father must be expected in vain. 
 
 Above all other considerations then, as the 
 bridal day draws near, this thought will sug- 
 gest itself to the serious and enlightened 
 mind—What am I seeking in the great 
 change Iam about to make? Am I seek- 
 Ing anescape from duty to enjoyment, from 
 restraint to indulgence, from wholesome dis- 
 cipline to perfect ease ? 
 
 Let us hope that these questions may be 
 answered satisfactorily, and that the young 
 woman now about to take upon herself the 
 charge of new duties, has thoroughly weigh- 
 ed the responsibility these duties will bring 
 along with them; and that in an humble 
 and prayerful spirit she is inquiring, in what 
 way she may conduct herself; so that all the 
 members of her household shall be united 
 
 as a Christian family, strengthening and en- || 
 
 couraging each other in the service of the 
 Lord. 
 
 In so important an undertaking, it cannot 
 be deemed presumptuous to determine, with 
 the Divine blessing, to begin with a high 
 standard of moral excellence. Whatever 
 our standard is, we never rise above it; 
 and so great are the miscalculations usually 
 made in a prospective view of married life, 
 that one half at least of its trials, tempta- 
 tions, and hindrances to spiritual advance- 
 ment are entirely overlooked. Besides which, 
 so much of the moral and religious charac- 
 ter of a household depends upon the female 
 who controls its domestic regulations, that 
 the woman who should rush heedlessly into 
 this situation, expecting to find it easier to 
 act conscientiously than she had ever done 
 before, would most likely be punished for 
 her presumption by discovering, when it was 
 too late, that instead of religious helps on 
 
 every hand, she was in reality plunged into 
 new difficulties, and placed in the midst of 
 
 hindrances to her spiritual improvement, 
 
ae ee eS Te ea 
 
 14 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 greater and more appalling than it had ever 
 entered into her imagination to conceive. 
 But still there is no need to be cast down 
 even while suffering under the natural con- 
 sequénces of this fearful mistake, for He who 
 has said commit thy way unio the Lord, will 
 assuredly be near in the time of trouble, when 
 the child of sorrow, sincerely repenting of 
 
 her blindness and her folly, shall meekly — 
 
 and fervently implore his promised aid. She 
 will then have learned to feel, that let her 
 confidence in the companion of her choice 
 be what it may; let him be to her as the fa- 
 ther she has forsaken, the brothers she has 
 left, and the friends whose sweet fellowship 
 she will never more enjoy; there will still be 
 trials in her lot, in which he cannot partici- 
 pate, and depths in her soul which he can- 
 not fathom. He may take her to his bosom 
 as the shepherd takes the lamb; but the 
 
 green pastures and the refreshing dew will | 
 
 not be his to give. He may guard her safe- 
 ty as the soldier guards the camp; but her 
 
 | enemies may be too subtle for his eye, and 
 
 too powerful for his arm. He may be to her 
 as the morning to the opening flower; but 
 the sun which gives that morning all its light, 
 will be high in the heavens, and if he shines 
 not, there will be no real brightness in her 
 day. And all this insufficiency may still be 
 felt without a shadow being cast upon her 
 earthly love. Indeed, we never err more 
 fatally, or do greater injustice to the nature 
 and attributes both of religion and of love, 
 than when we blend them together, and ex- 
 pect from one what the other only can be- 
 stow. If love sometimes assists us by ren- 
 dering certain portions of the path of duty 
 more alluring, in how many instances does 
 it throw all its allurements on the opposite 
 side; and in such cases, how hard it is that 
 religion should be charged with the sad con- 
 sequences which are liable to follow! 
 
 I speak not here of love as what it might 
 be, but as what it is. I speak not of that holy 
 and seraphie ardor, which a guardian angel 
 might be supposed to feel for the welfare of 
 the being whose earthly course it watched 
 with unceasing care; nor yet of that pure 
 
 —— 
 
 sentiment, scarcely less earthly in its ten- 
 dency, the chastened and subordinate attach- 
 ment of a redeemed and regenerated soul ; 
 I speak of love as a fitful and capricious 
 passion, asserting unreasonable mastery over 
 the human mind, rejecting all control, mixing 
 itself with all motives, assuming all forms so 
 as to work out its own purposes, and never 
 failing to promise an earthly paradise to its 
 blind followers. 
 
 It is of such love, I repeat, that it must be 
 
 kept apart from that great work which reli- | 
 gion has to do alone, because the strivings | 
 
 of the spirit in its religious exercises can only 
 be fully Known and appreciated by Him who 
 was in all points tempted as we are; and 
 
 because these groanings, which cannot be | 
 
 uttered to any human ear, are mercifully 
 listened to by Him who is touched with a 
 feeling of our infirmities. 
 
 It is highly important, therefore, that the 
 woman who ventures to become a_ wife, 
 should not be leaning upon the frail reed 
 of human love for her support. Indeed, it 
 is more than probable that her husband will 
 himself require assistance ; and, excellent as 
 he may have hitherto appeared to herself 
 and others, it is equally probable that on a 
 nearer inspection there will be ‘found in his 
 religious character defects and inconsisten- 
 
 cies, which will present insuperable cbstacles | 
 
 in the way of her whose dependence has been 
 solely upon him. If, however, her depend- 
 ence has been rightly placed upon a higher 
 foundation than that of hisnan excellence 
 or human love, these defects of character 
 will neither hinder nor discourage her. 'To 
 work out her own salvation with fear and 
 trembling, will be the great object of her life ; 
 and while engaged with all her energies in 
 this first duty, she will be more occupied with 
 anxiety to draw others along with her, than 
 with disappointment at their being less per- 
 fect than she had imagined them. 
 
 As we must all die alone, so must we live 
 in our spiritual experience. 
 
 ‘‘ Not even the tenderest heart, and next our own, 
 Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh. 
 
 Se en 
 
THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 15 
 
 Each in his hidden sphere of joy or wo 
 
 Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart ; 
 
 Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow, 
 
 Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.” 
 
 Human sympathy may do much to com- 
 fort, human advice to guide, and human ex- 
 ample to encourage ; but whether married or 
 single, whether associated with others, or 
 separate and alone; we must all bear our 
 own burdens, perform our own duties, an- 
 swer to our Own consciences, reap our own 
 rewards, and receive our own sentence at the 
 bar of eternal judgment. 
 
 If this be an awful, and in some respects 
 a gloomy thought, in others it is most con- 
 soling; for we need in reality but one Friend 
 in our religious experience. All others are 
 liable to fail us in the hour of need, and at 
 best they can do little for us. But with this 
 Friend on our side, no one can hurt or hinder 
 us. Under his protection, whatever wounds 
 we receive from any mortal foe, our immor- 
 tal nature will remain uninjured. This 
 Friend then is all-sufficient, and, blessed be 
 his holy name, he ever liveth io make interces- 
 sion for us. 
 
 ——_— 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 One great fault which the writer of these 
 pages has already presumed to find with fe- 
 male education, as conducted in the present 
 day, is, that it fails to prepare the character, 
 and to form, the habits, for those after duties, 
 which are as rigorously exacted, as if the 
 whole training of youth had been strictly in 
 accordance with the requirements of middle 
 life. 'The tone of common conversation, and 
 the moral atmosphere of general society, are 
 strongly tinctured with the same fault—a 
 tendency to encourage thoughts and feelings, 
 wholly at variance with the line of conduct 
 pointed out by religion, and even by common 
 sense, as that which is most likely to be con- 
 ducive to ultimate happiness. 
 
 But in no other circumstance of life is this 
 
 a 
 
 want of prospective discipline at once so ob- 
 vious, and so lamentable, as in the whole 
 progress of that system of self-recommenda- 
 tion which men call courtship, and which 
 unquestionably deserves that name, if to win 
 the partial favor of an inexperienced, and 
 perhaps a vain woman, be the only object 
 they have in view. It is true, that the man 
 who wishes to gain the affections of a woman, 
 must first endeavor to render himself agreea- 
 ble to her; but all I would ask is, that while 
 endeavoring to gain her love, he should at 
 the same time take some pains to make her 
 worthy of his own, by treating her at deast’ 
 with the faithfulness and sincerity of a friend. 
 Nor need he fear that he shall be a loser in 
 the end by this mode of treatment, for how 
 much greater is the flattery of being loved in 
 spite of our faults, than of being supposed to 
 have none! | . 
 
 If men would, then, in common honesty, 
 state what points they object to in the woman 
 they admire, and what they really do require 
 in a wife, they would not only find their in- 
 fluence, during the season of courtship, pro- 
 ductive of the most beneficial consequences, | 
 but they would themselves escape a world of 
 disappointment afterwards, while they would 
 save the object of their affections all that as- 
 tonishment, and wounded feeling, which nat- 
 urally arise out of finding herself convicted 
 of innumerable faults which were never so 
 much as hinted at before. 
 
 Instead of the candid and generous treat- 
 ment here recommended, how often is the 
 progress of courtship no better than a system 
 of fulsome adulation, and consequently of 
 falsehood, carried on exactly as if marriage 
 was indeed the end, instead of the beginning, 
 of their mutual existence. And thus the 
 affair goes on—nay, it becomes even worse, 
 until the near approach of that day which is 
 to make them one; for friends and relatives 
 now take the same tone, and the bride elect 
 is set apart from all domestic discipline, the 
 recipient of flattering attentions, the object of 
 universal interest, and the centre towards 
 which all calculations and all expressions of 
 kindness equally tend. 
 
16 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Persons sometimes appear least selfish 
 when their self-love is fully and freely grati- 
 fied ; because they have then nothing left to 
 require or to complain of. Thus the bride 
 elect always appears amiable, because every- 
 body waits upon her, everybody flatters her, 
 and everybody promotes the gratification of 
 her wishes to the utmost of their power. 
 There is now no self-denial, no giving place 
 to others, no privation of the expected means 
 of enjoyment-—or, to sum up all in one word, 
 there is no neglect to try her selfishness, or 
 put her meekness to the test. How should 
 she. be otherwise than amiable ? 
 
 In this manner time passes on, self being 
 made daily more and more the object of uni- 
 versal attention, until at last, the bride be- 
 comes personally almost an idol, so lavish is 
 the expenditure bestowed upon her now, 
 compared with what it has ever been before; 
 so attractive, so becoming, is every ornament 
 she wears ; and so lively is the interest, so 
 ‘profound the respect, with which she is 
 treated on that eventful day, which dawns 
 upon her departure from her parents’ home. 
 
 Far be it from me to attempt to divest that 
 day of its solemn and important character, 
 or to lower the tone of feeling with which it 
 ought to be regarded ; but as a lover of truth, 
 and a somewhat studious observer of the 
 days which follow, I own I should like to see 
 the preparation of a bride consist more of 
 mental discipline than of personal adorn- 
 ment—more of the resources of a well-stored 
 understanding, already thoroughly informed 
 on the subjects of relative position and prac- 
 tical duty ; and with these, the still higher or- 
 nament of a chastened spirit, already imbued 
 with a lively consciousness of the deep re- 
 sponsibilities devolving upon a married wo- 
 man. After such a preparation, there would 
 be no unwelcome truth to reveal, no unex- 
 pected reproof to endure. To fall short of 
 the high standard of excellence in almost 
 every act, and not always to be graciously 
 forgiven, would be a matter of calculation, 
 which, with true Christian meekness, she 
 would be prepared to meet; while to set 
 aside all selfish considerations, and to look 
 
 almost exclusively to the happiness of others 
 for her own, would already have become so 
 habitual as to require no new effort to carry 
 out through the intercourse of daily life. 
 
 Happy, and wise as well as happy, would 
 that man be, who should make himself con- 
 tent to wait for the dawning of his bridal day, 
 until the woman of his choice should have 
 been thus prepared. But instead of this, | 
 man eagerly secures his prize; and, like the 
 training of a snared bird, that discipline must 
 all come afterwards, which is to end in do- 
 mestic harmony, or domestic strife. 
 
 But let us turn the page, and after wel- 
 coming home the happy couple from the 
 wedding tour, let us venture to whisper into 
 the ear of the bride a few sage words, from 
 which, whether properly prepared or not, she 
 may possibly, from the simple fact of her in- 
 experience, be able to gather something for 
 her future good. | 
 
 If ever, in the course of human life, inde-. 
 cision may be accounted a merit rather than 
 a defect, it is so in the conduct of a young 
 and newly married woman. While every 
 circumstance around her is new and untried, 
 the voice of prudence dictates caution before 
 any important step is taken, either with re- 
 gard to the formation of intimacies, or the 
 general style and order of living. A warm- 
 hearted, dependent, and affectionate young 
 woman, ardently attached to her husband, 
 will be predisposed to lean upon the kindness 
 of his relatives, and even to enter rashly into 
 the most intimate and familiar intercourse 
 with them. But even this amiable impulse 
 should be checked by the remembrance, that 
 in all such intimacies, it is much more diffi- 
 cult to recedé than to advance, and that when 
 familiar intimacy is once established, there is 
 no such thing as drawing back without per- 
 sonal affront. It will happen, too, unless the 
 husband’s relatives are something more than 
 human, that among themselves there will not 
 be perfect unanimity of feeling. They will 
 probably be divided into little parties, in which 
 individuals on one side will look with partial 
 or censorious eyes upon the sayings and do- 
 ings of those on the other. Such partial 
 
THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 A Mee bs 
 
 views, when they give a tone to general con- 
 versation, are very infectious, and a sensitive 
 mind much interested, and keenly alive to 
 impressions from such a quarter, will be but 
 too likely to become suddenly and powerfully 
 biased by the same prejudices which pervade 
 the circle into which the youthful bride is 
 introduced. 
 
 Nothing, however, can be more injudicious 
 
 | than for her to take part in these family 
 
 matters. If possible, she ought to wait and 
 see for herself, before her opinion is formed 
 upon any of the subjects in question. And 
 this, by great care, may be done without any 
 violation of that respectful behavior which 
 she ought to lay down for herself as a rule, 
 in associating with her husband’s relatives, 
 and from which she ought never to deviate, 
 let her opinion of their merits and attractions 
 be what it may. 
 
 It is sometimes supposed that the main- 
 tenance of personal dignity is incompatible 
 with this exercise of respect towards others. 
 But on no subject do young people make 
 greater mistakes, than on that of dignity. 
 True dignity must always be founded upon 
 a right understanding of our own position in 
 society; for the presumption which would 
 assume what properly belongs to another, 
 and what in no way appertains to the indi- 
 vidual who makes this lamentable mistake, 
 is as far removed from dignity, as from right 
 feeling and common sense. As a wife, then, 
 a woman may be always dignified, though, 
 simply as a woman, she may:at the same 
 time be humble, and as a Christian self. 
 abased. As a wife—as the chosen companion 
 of an honorable and upright man, it is her 
 duty so to regulate her whole conduct, that 
 she shall neither offend others, nor bring of- 
 fence upon herself; and this is never more 
 effectually done, than by standing aloof from 
 family disputes, and taking no part either in 
 the partialities or the prejudices of those 
 with whom she is associated. 
 
 It is perfectly consistent with personal dig- 
 
 | nity, that a wife should in all respects be the 
 | mistress of her own house. 
 | husband’s relations have been accustomed to 
 
 If, therefore, the 
 
 SS 
 
 take part in his domestic concerns, it is high- 
 ly important that they should do so no long- 
 er. Correct-minded persons will need no 
 hint of this kind from the wife herself. Such 
 persons will be sufficiently aware, that the 
 interior of her establishment must be kept 
 sacred to her alone; and that, while the 
 greatest freedom is maintained both in ask- 
 ing and in granting favors, there must be no 
 intrusion on their part into the mysteries of 
 the kitchen, the store-room, or the pantry, 
 without an invitation from the mistress, ei- 
 ther expressed or implied. 
 
 Should there be wanting in the husband’s 
 relatives this peculiar kind of delicacy of feel- 
 ing, it will be necessary to devise some plan 
 calculated not to offend, by which they may 
 be made to understand that you do not wish 
 them, in your ewn house, entirely to share all 
 things in common ; for let the degree of kind- 
 ness on both sides be what it may, your edu- 
 cation and theirs will in all probability have 
 been so different, that circumstances must 
 necessarily arise, calculated to draw forth re 
 marks which cannot always be acceptable ; 
 and it is therefore your wisest plan, to draw 
 the line of demarcation on the side of safety. 
 
 Nor is it necessary that in thus asserting 
 your rights, suspicion should be awakened 
 of any want of kindly feeling. To obviate all 
 chance of this, it would be wise to take ad- 
 vantage of the advice of your husband’s rela- 
 tives in all cases where they are willing to 
 give, and where you are prepared to adopt 
 it; and, at the same time, to be careful that 
 an excess of kindness should accompany 
 that uncompromising defence of your own 
 dignity, which every woman has a right to 
 make. No room will then be left for com- 
 plaint, and you will enjoy the satisfaction of 
 showing your husband how highly you es. 
 teem his relatives, and how much you are 
 prepared to serve and to oblige them for his 
 sake. . 
 
 It is a painful fact, and one of vulgar noto- 
 riety, that all eyes are fixed upon a bride, 
 some to see how she is dressed, others to ob- 
 serve how she behaves, and not a few to as- 
 certain, as far as they are able, whether she 
 
— 
 
 pe 
 Qh 
 
 has come from a respectable home, or, in 
 other words, whether she has raised herself 
 in worldly circumstances by the connection 
 she has made. This exercise of idle and 
 impertinent curiosity might appear a little too 
 contemptible to be met with any kind of con- 
 sideration, were it not the interest of a mar- 
 ried woman to impress her new relations 
 with an idea of her previous importance, and 
 her unquestionable claims to respect. Even 
 servants are much influenced by this impres- 
 sion, and it was, therefore, a prudent plan 
 adopted by our grandmothers, and still kept 
 up in some parts of England, for the bride to 
 go well appointed to her husband’s home, 
 well supplied with a store of good household 
 linen, and with abundance of such clothes as 
 are not likely to become useless by being un- 
 fashionable. These things are accustomed 
 to be discussed among servants and depend- 
 ants. From one little circle of kitchen or 
 laundry gossip, they extend to another; and 
 well if they do not find their way through 
 the same channel to the parlor fireside ; well, 
 if the humiliating remark is never made 
 there, that the bride left every thing of im- 
 portance to be purchased with her husband’s 
 money. 
 
 Although it may seem rather an ungra- 
 cious sort of warning, thus to prepare the 
 young bride for a kind of critical inspection 
 scarcely consistent with kind and generous 
 feeling, it is nevertheless necessary in such a 
 world as ours, to calculate upon much which 
 the external aspect of society would scarcely 
 lead us to expect. Yet we must not for this 
 reason forget the many instances in which the 
 most sincere and cordial kindness is called 
 forth on the part of the husband’s relatives, 
 when they welcome to her new home one 
 who is literally received into the bosom of 
 their family, and cherished as a lamb of their 
 own ‘old. 
 
 In the majority of cases, too, it happens 
 that the bride is no stranger, that her family 
 and her husband’s have been in habits of in- 
 timacy, and that the admission of this new 
 link is but the strengthening of that intimacy 
 into more enduring and affectionate union on 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 both sides. In both these cases, the bride 
 has much to console and to support her in 
 the duties she has undertaken; and a young 
 heart can scarcely fail to feel impressed with 
 gratitude for this voluntary offering of a new 
 and lasting home, with all its kindred as- 
 sociations of parents, brothers, sisters, and 
 friends. 
 
 If, on the one hand, it is not only lawful | 
 
 but expedient to endeavor to maintain that 
 dignity which properly belongs to a married 
 woman; on the other, it is necessary to act 
 with the most scrupulous regard to that mi- 
 nute and delicate line, beyond which dignity 
 degenerates into a mere assumption of im- 
 portance. It is unquestionably an honorable 
 distinction to be the chosen companion of an 
 enlightened and good man; but we must not 
 forget, that nature never yet formed any wo- 
 man too destitute of attractions, or sent her 
 forth into the world too meanly endowed, for 
 her to be chosen as a wife. The dignity de- 
 rived from marriage can, therefore, only be 
 a reflected one; and has nothing whatever 
 
 to do with the merits or the capabilities of | 
 
 the married woman. 
 
 I once heard a newly married lady com- 
 plaining in company with great vehemence 
 of something which had been said to her by 
 a single sister, and concluding many of her 
 sentences with this remark—* All that Miss 
 B— said was, I dare say, sensible enough ; 
 but I, you know, am married’’—as if that 
 alone had been sufficient to give weight to 
 the scale in which good sense, and almost 
 every other good quality, appeared to be 
 wanting. 
 
 In no part of the conduct of the bride will 
 keen eyes be more scrutinizing than here. 
 The husband’s relatives especially will be 
 ready to detect the least assumption of supe- 
 riority to themselves. If, therefore, there has 
 
 been any difference of rank or station in fa- 
 vor of the bride, she will act most wisely as 
 regards herself, and most generously as re- 
 gards her husband, oy keeping every sign or | 
 evidence of her having filled a more exalted 
 station entirely out of sight. 
 
 All her eccentricities, too, must share the 
 
THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 same fate, at least, until her new relations 
 shall have learned to love her well enough to 
 | tolerate them for her sake. At first there 
 will be no such charitable feeling extended 
 towards those peculiarities of character with 
 which they cannot sympathize, perhaps be- 
 cause they cannot understand them. She 
 must now be judged of by a new rule. Sin- 
 gularities of manner, scarcely perceived at 
 home, or kindly borne with as a necessary 
 part of individuality, will now appear not 
 only glaring, but inconsistent and absurd. 
 Faults of temper, too long, and perhaps too 
 leniently indulged, will now be met with op- 
 position, and have the necessity of their ex- 
 istence called in question; while all those 
 little playful sallies of local wit or humor, 
 which were wont to fill up the blanks of 
 social life, may possibly be heard without a 
 smile, or wondered at as unmeaning, and in 
 bad taste. 
 
 It is unquestionably the best policy then for 
 a bride to be in all things the opposite of ec- 
 centric. Her character, if she have any, 
 will develop itself in time; and nothing can 
 be gained, though much may be lost, by ex- 
 hibiting its peculiarities before they are likely 
 to be candidly judged or rightly understood. 
 In being unobtrusive, quiet, impartially polite 
 to all, and willing to bend to circumstances, 
 consists the great virtue of a bride; and 
 though to sink, even for a short time, into an 
 apparent nonentity, may be a little humbling 
 to one who has occupied a distinguished place 
 amongst her former friends, the prudent wo- 
 man will be abundantly repaid, by being thus 
 enabled to make her own observations upon 
 the society and the circumstances around 
 her, to see what pleasant paths she may with 
 safety pursue, or what opportunities are likely 
 to open for a fuller development of her pow- 
 ers, either natural or acquired. 
 
 With regard to the duties of charity, and 
 indeed of kindness in general, the cordial re- 
 ception a bride usually meets with, the inter- 
 est she has so recently excited, and the fa- 
 vorable aspect worn by every thing around 
 her, naturally inspire in her mind so much 
 that is agreeable in return, and awaken on 
 
 19 
 
 her part so many feelings of kindness and 
 good-will, that she becomes more than usu- 
 ally anxious to manifest her benevolence, 
 even towards persons, who, under less favor- 
 able circumstances, would have excited no 
 interest whatever. 
 
 Those who make it their business to check 
 such feelings, have a hard and ungrateful 
 duty to perform ; and yet, where the founda- 
 tion of such acts of benevolence as are thus 
 performed, is feeling only, the danger is, that 
 a system of behavior will be rashly adopted, 
 which the emotions of after life will not be 
 sufficiently powerful consistently to maintain ; 
 and the consequences of such falling off will 
 necessarily be, that the sorrowful or the indi- 
 gent will have to endure a degree of disap- 
 pointment or neglect, for which they were 
 but little prepared. | 
 
 There can be neither injustice nor unkind- 
 ness in not listening, in the first instance, to 
 claims which you are not able to satisfy ; but 
 there is cruelty—absolute cruelty, in with- 
 drawing your attention and interest from per- 
 
 sons who have learned to look to you for | 
 
 sympathy and cordial feeling, and in refusing 
 your assistance to those who have learned to 
 look to you for support. As each person 
 can only satisfy a certain number of claims, 
 it follows as a necessary consequence, that 
 by engaging at once in too many, some, or 
 perhaps all, must in the end be suffered to 
 fall into neglect. 
 
 The first year of married life may justly be 
 regarded as not likely to present one half of 
 the claims upon individual or household char- 
 ity which will follow in the second and the 
 third ; would it not, therefore, be wise to lay 
 by against a future day, a little fund or store 
 for this purpose? and by always keeping 
 something in hand to be appropriated to 
 charitable uses alone, there can be no sur- 
 prise when the payment of a bill is due, to 
 find that part of the amount has already been 
 given to relieve a family in distress, and that 
 the payment of the whole must therefore be 
 deferred. All such miscalculations, and falling 
 short of funds as these, cannot be too scru- 
 pulously guarded against; for not only is 
 
 —_ 
 
OS 
 oo a a en RTT 
 ss = i ee 
 a et at nn 
 
 asa ie mens 
 
 20 
 
 their influence bad, as they operate against 
 the prompt discharge of pecuniary debts, but 
 their tendency is equally to be feared, as they 
 often warp the mind from its benevolent and 
 kindly purposes, by a frequent repetition of 
 regret that sums have becn thoughtlessly ex- 
 pended in charity, which ought to have been 
 otherwise employed. 
 
 And here I would observe, that the less 
 we are induced by circumstances to grudge 
 our past charities, or regret our past kind- 
 ness, the better it is for our own hearts, and 
 for the general tone and temper of our minds. 
 Indeed, where acts of charity are performed 
 with right motives, not for the applause of 
 men, or even for the satisfaction of having 
 done a good deed, or brought about a good 
 end; but simply from a love to God, and in 
 obedience to his commands, there can be no 
 such thing as looking back with regret to the 
 act itself, whatever its consequences may be. 
 He who has commanded us to visit the fa- 
 therless and the widow in their affliction, has 
 not given us more than human penetration to 
 judge of the exact amount of their necessi- 
 ties, or their deserts. If, therefore, we have 
 erred, it has only been in the proportion, or 
 the application, of our bestowments. ‘The 
 act of giving remains as much a duty as 
 ever, and to her who has learned to look 
 upon the good things of this life as only lent 
 to her for a brief season of trial, this sacred 
 duty will be found connected with the highest 
 enjoyments of which, in our present state of 
 existence, we are capable. 
 
 But in order to enjoy the luxury of giving 
 with the greatest zest, it is highly important 
 that we attend to the strict rules of economy. 
 I have already written much, and would that 
 others would write more, and better, on this 
 subject ; for until we can separate in the 
 minds of young women their favorite idea 
 of lavish expenditure, from that of generos- 
 
 | ity, there is little good to be expected from 
 
 the Wives of England, and little happiness 
 to be looked for in their far-famed homes. 
 Would that philanthropists of every descrip- 
 tion then, would give their attention to this 
 subject in detail, and lay it before the public 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 nner UEITEInInIEIIEEnEIEnEIEINEEREEEREERIEREEEEEREEIEE 
 
 in a manner that would render it intelligible 
 to the female part of the community; while, 
 communicated through them, it would find 
 its way to every house and every cottage 
 in our land—not that economy which would 
 lead to a useless hoarding up of money, but to 
 the glorious object of effecting the greatest pos- 
 sible amount of good with the smallest means. 
 
 Until this most refined and delicate art is 
 made systematically a part of female educa- 
 tion, we must look to that stern teacher expe- 
 rience, toshow us, late in life, what might have 
 been accomplished by a combination of econo- 
 my with kindness, had we but begun the study 
 of this delightful art in time. We must look 
 to the items that have been absolutely wasted, | 
 in almost every thing we have had to do, for 
 want of being acquainted with a better mode 
 of doing it; and, adding these together, we 
 must look to the helpless and the destitute, 
 and see what an amount of suffering might 
 have been relieved by our economy, if through 
 a long lifetime we had turned every thing com- 
 mitted to our care, or granted for our use, to 
 the best possible account. But we must look 
 beyond this. Yes, we must look with blush- 
 ing and confusion of face to that want of 
 moral rectitude which rendered us worse 
 than ignorant of the mischief we were doing 
 —to that culpable and degrading apathy—that 
 recklessness of all responsibility with which we 
 conducted our domestic and personal affairs, 
 regardless of each item wasted, until the whole 
 became a mighty and fearful mass of evidence 
 against us, perpetually reminding us, through 
 the medium of our penurious charities, our 
 scanty means, and our apprehensions of the 
 fearful reckoning of each coming day—re- 
 minding us by these humiliating remembran- 
 cers of what we have lost beyond all possi- 
 bility of recovery. 
 
 I am not, however, one of those who would 
 recommend the sacrifice either of comfort or 
 respectability for the sake of economy. A 
 certain air of comfort, a certain degree of re- 
 spectability, regulated by the sphere in which 
 the parties move, should never be lost sight 
 of by the mistress of a house. More espe- 
 cially, there should be no meanness behind 
 
THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 21 
 
 the scenes, to support an unwarrantable dis- 
 play in public. There is a moral degradation 
 in such meanness wherever it exists; and 
 those persons who have habitually to hide 
 themselves, or to conceal their dinner-table, 
 when a guest approaches, must be living 
 either above or below the line which strict 
 integrity would point .out to be observed— 
 they must either be making a figure at other 
 times, and in other places, which they are 
 not able consistently to support ; cr they must 
 | be dressing and living beneath that standard 
 of respectability which properly belongs to 
 their character and station. 
 
 In order to proportion all these matters 
 fairly, the bride must be content to wait un- 
 til time and experience shall have brought to 
 light her true position, and her actual means. 
 The first year of married life will probably 
 be less expensive than the second, and the 
 second less so than the third. Her house- 
 hold furniture, and her own clothing, being 
 good and new, there can be little wanted for 
 repairs; and, therefore, in her domestic ex- 
 penditure, as well as in her charities, this 
 year will afford no true criterion of the claims 
 she must afterwards expect. 
 
 It is, perhaps, owing to this fallacious ap- 
 pearance in their domestic affairs, that so 
 many inexperienced persons are led on to 
 purchase first one article of luxury or indul- 
 gence, and then another, even after their bet- 
 } ter judgment had dictated that such things 
 should be done without; and thus, because 
 they did not find housekeeping at first so ex- 
 pensive as they had anticipated, they have 
 launched out into extravagance which they 
 have had bitterly to regret. Such persons are 
 apt to say, “there can be no loss in furniture, 
 each article will always sell for its full value— 
 there can be no waste in silver, because it, 
 is easily got rid of for the price of its own 
 weight.” But what absurdity is this! As 
 if, after having made a certain figure before 
 the world, and in society, it was as easy to 
 retreat and sink into a lower grade, as it is 
 to sell a sofa, or a silver fork. Why, this 
 very act of assuming a certain position, and 
 this very dread of falling back, is what the 
 
 whole world is striving about at this very 
 hour. It is what so many heads are calcu- 
 lating upon, what so many hands are work- 
 ing out, and what so many hearts are beat- 
 ing for. Whether we look at the wear-and- 
 tear of mental and animal life in our great 
 cites, our ships upon the ocean, our laborers 
 on the land, our congregated thousands pent 
 up in heated rooms, and our miners digging 
 in the bowels of the earth; or whether we 
 turn the page of man’s history, and looking 
 at the inner movements of this great prin- 
 ciple, behold him in his moments of unrest, 
 note down the fluttering of his ambitious 
 hopes, the agony of his suspense, his disap- 
 pointment or his triumph, it is all the effect 
 of one great cause, and that the strongest 
 and most universal which prevails in highly 
 civilized communities—a desire to keep ad- 
 vancing in the scale of society, and a dread 
 of falling back from the position already held. 
 
 Let us then at least talk common sense ; 
 and in doing this, I would advise the newly 
 married woman to look at things in general 
 as they really are, not as they might be. She 
 will then see, that nothing is more difficult to 
 human nature, than to come down even one 
 step from any height it has attained, whether 
 imaginary or real. If, therefore, the ap- 
 pearance a young couple make on their first 
 outset in life be eve1 so little beyond their 
 means, so far from their being willing to re- 
 duce their appearance or style of living to a 
 lower scale, they will ever afterwards be per- 
 plexed by devices, and harassed by endeav- 
 ors, to maintain in all respects the appear- 
 ance they have so imprudently assumed. 
 
 | This perpetua: straitness and inadequacy of 
 
 means to effect the end desired, is of itself 
 sufficient to poison the fountain of domestic 
 concord atits source. Itisbad enough to have 
 innumerable wants created in our own minds 
 which our utmost efforts are unequal to satis- 
 fy; but it is worse, as many thousands can 
 attest, in addition to this, for the husband 
 and the wife to be perpetually disputing at 
 their own fireside, about what expenses can 
 be done without, and what cannot. Yet all 
 these consequences follow, and worse, and 
 
| 29 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 more calamitous than tongue or pen can de- 
 scribe, from the simple fact of having begun 
 a new establishment on too expensive a scale. 
 
 It may seem like a fanciful indulgence of 
 morbid feeling, but I own my attention has 
 often been arrested in the streets of London, 
 by a spectacle which few ladies would stop to 
 contemplate—a pawnbroker’s shop. And I 
 have imagined I could there trace the grad- 
 ual fall from these high beginnings, in the 
 new hearth-rug scarcely worn, the gaudy 
 | carpet with its roses scarcely soiled, the 
 || flowery tea-tray, and, worst of all, the bride’s 
 | white veil. What a breaking-up, I have 
 thought, must. there have been of some lit- 
 tle establishment, before the dust of a single 
 twelvemonth had fallen on its hearth !— 
 |. these articles perhaps disposed of to defray 
 | the expenses of illness, or to satisfy the very 
 creditors of whom they were obtained on 
 | trust. 
 
 Now, though I imagine myself to be ad- 
 dressing a class of persons far removed from 
 all liabilities of this kind, yet, proportioned to 
 their higher respectability, is their greater 
 influence ; and just so far as that influence is 
 on the side of prudence and economy, will 
 their example operate beneficially upon the 
 classes beneath them. 
 
 It seems to be the nature of evil universal- 
 ly to diffuse itself, by rendering one wrong 
 action almost necessary to another. Thus no 
 human being can say, “I will commit this 
 particular sin, and go no further.’ Most 
 especially is this the case with every kind 
 of deception, just as one wilful deviation 
 from truth draws after it a long train of false- 
 hood. Every deviation from the line of in- 
 tegrity, is followed by the same inevitable 
 consequences, and thus where persons have 
 made up their minds to exhibit before the 
 world a style of dress, or a mode of living, 
 beyond what their circumstances are able 
 consistently to support, an endless train of 
 meanness, artifice, and practical falsehood, is 
 almost sure to follow. How much better is 
 it then, to begin the world with an honest 
 heart and a clear conscience, as regards 
 these points of duty, and neither to carry on 
 
 behind the scenes a disgraceful system of ex- |} 
 tracting from comfort what extravagance de- 
 mands, nor of exhibiting at first a transient 
 
 display of luxury or pomp, to be repented of 
 
 for the remainder of life. 
 
 All this, however, requires some self-denial, 
 much principle, and much love. It requires 
 self-denial, because while almost all the 
 world is progressing at this rate, to assume a 
 plainer and more simple mode of living | 
 necessarily brings with it a suspicion of || 
 being unable to live differently. It requires | 
 principle, because temptations present them- | 
 selves on every hand to purchase what we 
 wish for at less than its apparent value; and 
 it requires love, because with true and deep | 
 affection, the wife is so bound up in the inte- 
 rests of her husband, that all things become 
 light in comparison with his temporal and |} 
 eternal good. Love, therefore, is admirably ] 
 calculated to lessen all privations arising | 
 from a conscientious adherence to strict integ- 
 rity on these points. 
 
 Nothing shows more plainly the mistake | 
 under which people in general labor, with | 
 regard to the degree of mental and moral 
 capability requisite in a really good wife, than 
 the common expression used to describe a 
 merely well-disposed and ignorant female, 
 when it is said of her, that she is “a good 
 sort of body, and will make an excellent 
 wife.” The generality of men, and even 
 some of the most intelligent amongst them, 
 appear peculiarly disposed to make the expe- 
 riment of marrying such women, as if the 
 very fact of their deficiency in moral disci- 
 pline, and intellectual power, was of itself a 
 recommendation rather than otherwise, in | 
 the mistress of a family; and until women 
 shall really find themselves neglected by the 
 loftier sex, and actually consigned to oblivion, 
 because they are indolent, selfish, or silly, it 
 is to be feared that books may be multiplied 
 on this subject, and even sermons preached, 
 with little or no effect. 
 
 Still there is surely something in the deep 
 heart of woman capable of a nobler ambition 
 than that of merely securing as a husband 
 the man she most admires. To make that || 
 
— 
 
 THE FIRST YEAR 
 
 husband happy, to raise his character, to 
 give dignity to his house, and to train up 
 his children in the path of wisdom—these 
 are the objects which a true wife will not 
 rest satisfied without endeavoring to attain. 
 And how is all this to be done without re- 
 flection, system, and self-government? Sim- 
 ply to'mean well, may be the mere impulse 
 of a child or an idiot; but to know how to 
 act well, so as that each successive kind im- 
 pulse shall be made to tell upon the welfare 
 and the happiness of others, is the highest 
 
 | lesson which the school of moral discipline 
 
 can teach. 
 Nor is it only by the exercise of a high or- 
 der of talent that this branch of wisdom can 
 
 be attained. It is by using such talent as we 
 
 have, by beginning early to observe and to 
 think, to lay down rules for self-discipline, 
 and to act upon them, so that in after years 
 they shall have become too familiar and habi- 
 tual to require an effort to maintain. Thus 
 it is unquestionably better that the great 
 work of mental discipline should be com- 
 menced after marriage, than not at all; but 
 the woman who delays this work until that 
 time, is not much wiser than the man who 
 should have to learn to walk after he had en- 
 gaged to run a race. 
 
 Already, even in the first year of married 
 life, all the previously formed habits a woman 
 has indulged, begin to tell upon a larger 
 scale than they could have done in her sin- 
 gle state. The art of economizing time may 
 now be made to yield a mine of wealth, be- 
 yond what riches alone could ever have be- 
 stowed; and of this most precious treasure, 
 neither change of fortune, nor place, nor cir- 
 cumstance, will be able to deprive her. If 
 that cleverness which I have attempted to 
 describe in a previous work* has been ac- 
 quired and practised in her early years, it 
 will now have become like a part of her na- 
 ture—an additional faculty, which is really 
 nothing less than the power of turning every 
 thing to the best account; and this power 
 she will now be able to exercise at will, for 
 
 * The Daughters of England. 
 
 OF MARRIED LIFE. 93 
 
 the benefit of all with whom. she is asso- 
 ciated. 
 “ But of what use,” some may be inclined 
 
 to ask, “is her learning and her knowledge, | 
 
 now that the actual work of the hand has 
 become a duty of such important considera- 
 tion?’ I answer, that-the early attainment 
 of learning and knowledge will be found of 
 more than tenfold importance now; because, 
 in the first place, there will be no longer time 
 for their acquisition; and in the next, they 
 will be wanted every day, if not in their di- 
 rect, in their relative exercise, to raise the 
 tone of social intercourse around the domes- 
 tic hearth. 
 
 Music, painting, and poetry, taste, tact, and 
 observation, may all be made conducive to 
 the same desirable end; for if by the mar- 
 riage vow, you hoped to unite yourself to an 
 immortal mind—and I cannot believe of my 
 country women that more grovelling thoughts 
 would be theirs at that solemn hour—you 
 must desire to sustain and cherish such a 
 mind, in all its highest aspirations, and in all 
 its noblest aims. In fact, 1 know not what 
 love is, if it seeks not the moral and intellec- 
 tual perfection of its object——if it is not willing, 
 in order to promote this glorious purpose— 
 
 “'To watch all time, and pry into all space ;” 
 
 so that no opportunity may be lost, and no 
 means neglected, of raising the tone of a hus- 
 band’s character to the highest scale which 
 man is capable of attaining. It is true, that 
 to comfort and sustain the body is a duty 
 which ought never to be neglected; but the 
 woman whocanrest satisfied with this, knows 
 little of the holy and elevating principal of 
 real love—of that love which alone can jus- 
 tify any one in taking upon herself the sacred 
 responsibilities of a wife. 
 
 Influenced by this love, the woman of right 
 feeling will perceive, though but recently mar- 
 ried, that her position is one of relative import- 
 ance; that however insignificant each sepa- 
 rate act of her life might have been when she 
 dwelt alone, or as an inferior member of a 
 family, she has now become the centre of a 
 circle of influence, which will widen and ex- 
 
 SESS ST ETE eT 
 
 p= 
 
tend itself to other circles, until it mixes with 
 the great ocean of eternity. Thus, it is not 
 only what she says and does, but also what 
 she leaves unsaid and undone, which will 
 give a coloring to futurity, so far as the in- 
 fluence of a wife extends; for to have neg- 
 lected acts of duty, or opportunities of advice 
 and encouragement, is in reality to incur the 
 risk of consequences as calamitous as those 
 } which follow having spoken unwisely, or 
 | acted from improper motives. 
 
 It is a serious and alarming thought, but 
 } one which ought to be ever present with the 
 young wife, that no servant can leave her 
 establishment without being either better or 
 worse for her experience there ; that no party 
 can meet beneath her roof without receiving 
 | some good or evil bias from the general tone 
 of her conversation and manners; and above 
 all, that the rules she lays down for the regu- 
 
 || tice and integrity, of benevolence, temperance, 
 ll order, and Christian charity, which are there 
 acted upon, will diffuse themselves through 
 the different members of her household, and, 
 flowing thus through various channels, will 
 become the foundation of peace and comfort 
 in other families, they in their turn dissemi- 
 nating the same principles to the end of time. 
 
 What a sublime—what an elevating 
 thought! May it fill the happy bosom of 
 every English bride, and may the closing re- 
 solution of the first year of her married life 
 be this—* Let others do as they will, but as 
 for me and my house, we will serve ihe Lord.” 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN. 
 
 | In approaching this part of my subject, I 
 cannot but feel that it is one which I have 
 neither the understanding nor the skill to 
 treat with ample justice. All I will venture 
 upon, therefore, is to point out a few of those 
 peculiarities, which women who have been 
 but little accustomed to the society of men, 
 
 lation of her household, the principles of jus- 
 
 24 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 might otherwise be surprised to find in a hus- 
 band. If, in pursuance of this task, what I 
 am compelled to say, should appear in any 
 way disparaging to the dignity of men in 
 general, my apology must be this—that it is 
 the very peculiarities Iam about to point out, 
 which constitute the chief difficulties a mar- 
 ried woman has to contend with, and which, 
 therefore, claim the sympathy of such as are 
 anxious to assist her in the right performance 
 of her duties as a wife.. 
 
 Were all men excellent, without inconsis- 
 tencies, and without defects, there would-be 
 no need for words of caution or advice ad- 
 dressed to the weaker sex, but especially to 
 wives, for each would have perpetually be- 
 fore her, a perfect model of true excellence, 
 from which she would be ashamed to differ, 
 and by which she would be taught at once 
 to admire and imitate whatever is most wor- 
 thy of esteem. With gratitude we ought to 
 acknowledge our belief, that morally and spir- 
 itually there is perfect equality between men 
 and women; yet, in the character of a noble, 
 enlightened, and truly good man, there is a 
 power and a sublimity, so nearly approach- 
 ing what we believe to be the nature and, ca- 
 pacity of angels, that as no feeling can ex- 
 ceed, so no language can describe, the degree 
 of admiration and respect which the contem- 
 plation of such a character must excite. To 
 be permitted to dwell within the influence of 
 such a man, must be a privilege of the high- 
 est order; to listen to his conversation, must 
 be a perpetual feast; but to be permitted into 
 his heart—to share his counsels, and to be 
 the chosen companion of his joys and sor- 
 rows !—it is difficult to say whether humility 
 or gratitude should preponderate in the feel- 
 ings of the woman thus distinguished and 
 thus blest. 
 
 If ail men were of this description, these 
 pages might be given to the winds. We 
 must suppose, however, for the sake of 
 meeting every case,-and especially the most 
 difficult, that there are men occasionally 
 found who are not, strictly speaking, noble, 
 nor highly enlightened, nor altogether good. 
 That such men are as much disposed as 
 
CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN. 
 
 their superiors to enter into the married 
 state, is also a fact of public notoriety, and 
 it is to the women who venture upon uniting 
 themselves to such men for life, that I would 
 be understood chiefly to address myself. 
 
 In order to render the subject more clear, 
 I will in the first place draw an imaginary 
 line between reasonable, and unreasonable, 
 men. <A reasonable man is one who will 
 give a candid hearing to arguments against 
 his own preconceived opinions, and who, 
 when he believes himself to have good cause 
 for acting or thinking as he does, is yet will- 
 ing to be shown a better cause for acting or 
 thinking differently. 'The mind of a reason- 
 able man is, therefore, open to conviction, 
 impartial, and comprehensive ; and all these 
 qualities, from the very nature of his consti- 
 tution, he possesses in a higher degree than 
 j| they can be possessed by woman. An un- 
 | reasonable man is one who will think and act 
 in a particular manner, simply because he 
 | will. If he knows any better reason why he 
 so thinks and acts, he deems it unnecessary 
 to disclose it, because to him this is all-suffi- 
 cient ; and as it is one which no’ argument 
 can refute, and no opposition overcome, the 
 woman who has to accommodate her habits 
 to his, had need commence the preparation 
 for her married life, by a study of patience 
 from the book of Job. 
 
 If, as I have stated, the example and influ- 
 ence of a truly excellent man, are such as to 
 render the very atmosphere in which he lives 
 one of perpetual improvement and delight ; 
 on the other hand, there is nothing more dis- 
 couraging to a woman, than to find defects 
 in the character she has associated herself 
 with for life, having believed it to be thus ex- 
 cellent. Indeed, the peculiarities of the wise, 
 and the. inconsistencies cf the good, among 
 the nobler sex, have a peculiarly startling éf- 
 fect upon women in general, and often prove 
 the means of retarding their improvement, 
 by awakening the childish and petulant 
 thought, that if such are the best, there can 
 be little use in striving after excellence at 
 all. | 
 
 All women should, therefore, be prepared 
 
 for discovering faults in men, as they are for 
 beholding spots in the sun, or clouds in the 
 summer sky. Nor is it consistent with the 
 
 disinterested nature of women’s purest, deep- 
 
 est affection, that they should love them less, 
 because they cannot admire them more. 
 
 - Much allowance should be made in all such 
 calculations, for the peculiar mode of educa- 
 tion by which men are trained for the world. 
 From their early childhood, girls are accus- 
 tomed to fill an inferior place, to give up, to 
 fall back, and to be as nothing in comparison 
 with their brothers ; while boys, on the other 
 hand, have to suffer all the disadvantages in 
 after life, of having had their precocious self- 
 ishness encouraged, from the time when they 
 first began to feel the dignity of superior 
 power, and the triumph of occupying a su- 
 
 perior place. 
 
 Men who have been thus educated by fool- 
 ish and indulgent mothers; who have been 
 placed at public schools, where the influence, 
 the character, and the very name of woman 
 was a by-word for contempt; who have been. 
 afterwards associated with sisters who were 
 capricious, ignorant, and vain—such men 
 are very unjustly blamed for being selfish, 
 domineering, and tyrannical to the other sex. 
 in fact, how should they be otherwise? It | 
 is a common thing to complain of the selfish- | 
 ness of men, but I have often thought, on 
 
 | 
 
 looking candidly at their early lives, and re- 
 flecting how little cultivation of the heart is 
 blended with what is popularly called the 
 best education, the wonder should be that 
 men are not more selfish still. 
 
 With all these allowances, then, we may 
 grant them to be selfish, and pity, rather than 
 blame them that they are so; for no happy 
 being ever yet was found, whose hopes and 
 wishes centred in its own bosom. 
 
 The young and inexperienced woman, who 
 has but recently been made the subject of 
 man’s attentions, and the object of his choice, 
 will probably be disposed to dispute this 
 point with me, and to argue that one man at 
 least is free from selfishness; because she 
 sees, or rather hears her lover willing to give | 
 up every thing for her. But let no woman 
 
 ——————————— ——————————— eee 
 
ee ee ee 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 26 
 
 trust to such obsequiousness, for generally 
 speaking, those who are the most extrava- 
 gant in their professions, and the most servile 
 in their adulation before marriage, are the 
 most unreasonable and requiring afterwards. 
 Let her settle it then in her own mind, what- 
 ever aspect her affairs may assume at pres- 
 ent, that men in general are more apt than 
 women, to act and think as if they were 
 created to exist of, and by, themselves; and 
 this self-sustained existence a wife can only 
 share, in proportion as she is identified in 
 every thing with her husband. Men have 
 no idea, generally speaking, of having them- 
 selves and their affairs made subservient to 
 an end, even though it may be a good one. 
 They are, in fact, their own alpha and omega 
 —beginning and end. But all this, I repeat, 
 is the consequence of a want of that moral 
 training which ought ever to be made the 
 prominent part of education. 
 
 Beyond this, however, it may be said to be 
 a necessary part of man’s nature, and condu- 
 cive to his support in the position he has to 
 maintain, that he should, in a greater degree 
 than woman, be sufficient unto himself. The 
 nature of his occupations, and the character 
 of his peculiar duties, require this. 'The con- 
 tending interests of the community at large, 
 the strife of public affairs, and the compe- 
 tition of business, with the paramount im- 
 portance of establishing himself as the master 
 of a family, and the head of a household, all 
 require a degree of concentrated effort in fa- 
 vor of self, and a powerful repulsion against 
 others, which woman, happily for her, is sel- 
 dom or never called upon to maintain. 
 
 The same degree of difference in the edu- 
 cation of men and women, leads, on the one 
 hand, to a more expansive range of intellect 
 and thought; and on the other, to the exer- 
 cise of the same faculties upon what is par- 
 ticular and minute. Men consequently are 
 
 | accustomed to generalize. They look with 
 far-stretching views to the general bearing 
 of every question submitted to their considera- 
 tion. Even when planning for the good of 
 their fellow-creatures, it is on a large scale, 
 and most frequently upon the principle of the 
 
 greatest good to the greatest number. . By 
 following out this system, injustice is often 
 unconsciously done to individuals, and even 
 a species of cruelty exercised, which it should 
 be woman’s peculiar object to study to avert ; 
 but at the same time, to effect her purpose 
 in such a way, as neither to thwart nor in- 
 terfere with the greater and more important 
 good. 
 
 We see here, as in a thousand other in- 
 stances, the beautiful adaptation of the natu- 
 ral constitution of the two sexes, so as to 
 effect a greater amount of good by their joint 
 efforts, than either could effect alone. Were 
 an island peopled only by men, the strictness 
 of its judicial regulations, and the cold form- 
 ality of its public institutions, would render it 
 an ungenial soil for the growth of those finer 
 feelings, and those subtler impulses of nature, 
 which not only beautify the whole aspect of 
 human life, but are often proved to have 
 been blossoms of the richest fruit, and seeds 
 of the most abundant harvest. And were a 
 neighboring island peopled by women only, 
 the discord of Babel, or the heated elements 
 of a volcano, could scarcely equal the con- 
 fusion, the ebullition, and the universal tu- 
 mult, that would follow the partial attention 
 given to every separate complaint, the ready 
 credence accorded to every separate story, 
 and the prompt and unhesitating application | 
 of means, to effect at all times the most in- 
 compatible ends. 
 
 Those who argue for the perfect equality— 
 the oneness of women in ileir intellectual 
 nature with men, appear to know little of | 
 that higher philosophy, by which both, from 
 the very distinctness of their characters, have 
 been made subservient to the purposes of 
 wisdom and of goodness; and after having 
 observed with deep thought, and profound || 
 reverence, the operation of mind on mind, 
 the powerful and instinctive sympathies 
 which rule our very being, and the asso- 
 ciated influence of different natures, all 
 working together, yet too separate and dis- 
 tinct to create confusion ;. to those who have 
 thus regarded the perfect adjustment of the 
 plans of an all-wise Providence, I own it 
 
does appear an ignorant and vulgar contest, 
 
 to strive to establish the equality of that, 
 which would lose not only its utility, but: its 
 perfection, by being assimilated with a dif- 
 ferent nature. 
 
 From the same constitution of mind which 
 leads men to generalize, and to look at every 
 thing they contemplate on an extensive scale, 
 they are seldom good economists. Even the 
 most penurious, the very misers of whom we 
 read such extraordinary accounts, appear to 
 have had a very mistaken idea of the best 
 means of ensuring the great object of their 
 lives. Thus, while most anxious to avoid 
 the least unnecessary expense, some men 
 greatly increase the waste and the outlay of 
 money in their household arrangements, by 
 not allowing a sufficient number of imple- 
 ments, utensils, or other conveniences, and 
 means, for the purpose of facilitating domes- 
 tic operations, by making each individual 
 thing supply the place for which it is most 
 suitable, and best calculated to secure against 
 absolute waste. 
 
 The master of a family is quite capable of 
 perceiving that money for domestic purposes 
 is often in demand ; and that through some 
 channel or other, it escapes very rapidly; but 
 he is altogether incompetent—and would 
 that all men would believe it!—to judge of 
 the necessity there is for each particular sum, 
 or how the whole in the end must unavoida- 
 bly be increased, by making every article of 
 household use answer as many purposes as it 
 is capable of, without regard to fitness, dura- 
 bility, or strength. 
 
 But if, on the one hand, our fitst wish for 
 the increased happiness of the homes of 
 England would be, that men should let these 
 things alone ; our next, and perhaps it ought 
 to stand first, and be still more earnest than 
 the other, is this, that all women should be 
 so educated, and so prepared by the right 
 disposition of their own minds, as to afford 
 their husbands just grounds for perfect con- 
 fidence in their understanding and right prin- 
 ciple, with regard to these important affairs. 
 For in the first place, without understanding, 
 no woman can economize; and in the next, 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN. a7 
 
 without being supremely anxious for the ful- 
 filment of domestic duty, no woman will. 
 Thus, in addition to other causes of anxiety, 
 sufficiently abounding in the present day, 
 throughout every department of business, 
 hundreds and thousands of men in the re- 
 spectable walks of life, have to suffer from 
 daily and almost hourly apprehension, that a 
 system of neglect and extravagance in their 
 own houses, is wasting away the slender 
 profits of their labor and their care. On the 
 score of simple kindness, then, one would 
 suppose that a right-minded woman would 
 wish to spare her husband these distressing 
 thoughts ; while, on the score of domestic 
 comfort, ease, and independence, it is impos- 
 sible to calculate the vast amount to which 
 she would herself be the gainer, by convin- 
 cing her husband that she was not only able, 
 but determined, to manage his household ex- 
 penditure with the least possible waste. 
 
 With all this, however, and often ia con- 
 nection with the most rigid notions of econ- 
 omy, men are fond of personal indulgences ; 
 nor ought they ever to be absolutely denied 
 so reasonable a means of restoring their ex- 
 hausted energy and cheerfulness, more espe- 
 cially, because those who are connected in 
 any way with business, or who have to provide 
 by their own efforts for the maintenance of 
 their families, are generally so cireumstanced 
 through the greater portion of each day, as 
 to be as far removed as possible from all op. 
 portunity of personal enjoyment. — 
 
 It would, indeed, be a hard thing to refuse 
 to the husband who returns home from h's 
 desk, his counter, or his fields, the best se::t, 
 or the choicest food, with any other indal- 
 gence his circumstances may afford. Hore, 
 however, in certain families, exists a f¢ reat 
 difficulty ; for some men, and I need not say 
 they are of the unreasonable class, are deter- 
 mined to have the indulgences, and yet are 
 unwilling to incur the expense. From their 
 habit of disregarding things in detail, and 
 looking upon them only as a whole; they 
 are utterly unconscious of the importance of 
 every little addition in the shape of luxury to 
 the general sum ; and thus the wife is placed 
 
 Se ee 
 
28 
 in the painful dilemma, either of denying her 
 
 wishes, or of bearing all the blame of con- 
 ducting her household expenses on too ex- 
 travagant a scale. 
 
 There are few situations in the long cata- 
 logue of female perplexities more harassing 
 than this; for it must ever be borne in mind, 
 that men have a tendency to dislike the im- 
 mediate instrument of their suffering or priva- 
 tion. And this again brings us to observe 
 another of their peculiarities, so important 
 in its influence upon the whole of mar- 
 ried life, that. if a woman should venture to 
 
 probably commit one of the most fatal mis- 
 takes by which human happiness was ever 
 wrecked. 
 
 The love of woman appears to have been 
 created solely to minister; that of man, to be 
 ministered unto. It is true, his avocations 
 lead him daily to some labor, or some effort 
 for the maintenance of his family ; and he 
 often conscientiously believes that this labor is 
 for his wife. But the probability is, that he 
 would be just as attentive to his business, and 
 as eager about making money, had he no wife 
 at all—witness the number of single men 
 ‘who provide with as great care, and as plen- 
 tifully, according to their wants, for the main- 
 tenance of-a house without either wife or 
 child. 
 
 As it is the natural characteristic of wo- 
 man’s love in its most refined, as well as its 
 most practical development, to be perpetual- 
 ly doing something for the good or the happi- 
 ness of the object of her affection, it is but 
 reasonable that man’s personal comfort should 
 be studiously attended to; and in this, the 
 complacence and satisfaction which most men 
 evince on finding themselves placed at table 
 before a favorite dish, situated beside a clean 
 hearth, or accommodated with an empty sofa, 
 is of itself a sufficient reward for any sacrifice 
 such indulgence may have cost. In proofs 
 of affection like these, there is something tan- 
 gible which speaks home to the senses—some- 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 pose himself to rest, with more hearty good- 
 
 husband the gratification of his tastes and | will towards the wife who has been thought- 
 
 ful about these things, than if she had been 
 all day busily employed in writing a treatise 
 on morals for his especial benefit. | 
 Again, man’s dignity, as well as his com- 
 fort, must be ministered unto. I propose to 
 treat this subject more fully in another chap- 
 ter, but in speaking of man’s peculiarities it | 
 must never be forgotten that he ought not to 
 
 ,be required to bear the least infringement up- 
 
 on his dignity as a man, and a husband. The 
 woman who has the bad taste, and worse 
 feeling, to venture upon this experiment, ef- 
 
 judge of man’s love by her own, she would | tectually lowers herself; for in proportion as 
 
 her husband sinks, she must sink with him, 
 and ever, as wife, be lower still. Many, how- 
 ever, from ignorance, and with the very best 
 intentions, err in this way, and I am inclined 
 to think such persons suffer more from the 
 consequences of their folly, than others do 
 from their wilful deviation from what is right; 
 just as self-love is more wounded by an in- 
 nocent, than by an intentional humiliation ; 
 because the latter shows us how little we are 
 really esteemed, while the former invests us 
 with a certain degree of importance, as einige 
 worthy of a premeditated insult. 
 
 It is unquestionably the inalienable right of 
 all men, whether ill or well, rich or poor, wise 
 or foolish, to be treated with deference, and 
 made much of in their own houses. It is 
 true that in the last mentionedcase, this duty 
 may be attended with some difficulty in the 
 performance; but as no man becomes a fool, 
 or loses his senses by marriage, the woman 
 who has selected such a companion must 
 abide by the consequences; and even he, 
 whatever may be his dec.7e of folly, is enti- 
 tled to respect from her, because she has vol- 
 untarily placed herself in such a position that 
 she must necessarily be his inferior. 
 
 I have said, that whether well or ill, a hus- 
 band is entitled to respect; and it is perhaps 
 
 ‘when ill, more than at any other time, that 
 
 men are impressed with a sense of their own 
 importance. It is, therefore, an act of kind- 
 
 thing which man can understand without an ness, as well as of justice, and a concession 
 
 | effort; and he will sit down to eat, or com- | easily made, to endeavor to keep up this idea, | 
 
CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN. 
 
 by all those little acts of delicate attention 
 
 which at once do good to the body, and sus- 
 tain the mind. Illness is to men a sufficient 
 trial and humiliation of itself; as it deprives 
 them of their free agency, cuts them off from 
 their accustomed manly avocations, and 
 shuts them up to a kind of imprisonment, 
 which from their previous habits they are lit- 
 tle calculated to bear. A sensible and kind- 
 hearted woman, therefore, will never inflict 
 upon the man she loves, when thus circum- 
 stanced, the additional punishment of feeling 
 that it is possible for him to be forgotten or 
 neglected. 
 
 But chiefly in poverty, or when laboring 
 under depressed circumstances, it is the part 
 of a true wife to exhibit by the most delicate, 
 but most profound respect, how highly she 
 is capable of valuing her husband, indepen- 
 
 dently of all those adventitious circumstances, 
 
 according to which he has been valued by 
 the world. It is here that the dignity of man 
 is most apt to give way—here that his stout 
 heart fails him—and here then it must be 
 woman’s part to build him up. Not,as many 
 are too apt to suppose, merely to comfort him 
 by her endearments, but actually to raise him 
 in his own esteem, to restore to him his esti- 
 mate of his moral worth, and to convince him 
 that it is beyond the power of circumstances 
 to degrade an upright and an honest man. 
 
 And, alas! how much of this is needed in 
 the present day! Could the gay and thought- 
 less Daughters of England know for. what 
 situations they are training—could they 
 know how often it will become their duty to 
 assume the character of the strong, in order 
 to support the weak, they would surely begin 
 betimes to think of these things ; and to study 
 the different workings of the human heart, 
 so as to be able to manage even its master- 
 chords, without striking them too rudely, or 
 with a hand too little skilled. ; 
 
 And after all, this great dignity of man, is 
 not much of it artificial, or at least put on 
 like a robe of state to answer an especial 
 end? Yes; and a pitiful and heart-rending 
 spectacle it is, to see the weakness of man’s 
 
 heart disrobed of all its mantling pride—the 7 
 
 29 
 
 utter nakedness, I might almost say, for wo- 
 man has ever something left to conceal her 
 destitution. In the multitude of her resour- 
 ces she has also a multitude of alleviations 
 to her distress; but man has nothing. In 
 his humiliation he is like a blighted tree. 
 The birds of the air no longer nestle in its 
 boughs, the weary traveller no longer sits 
 down to rest beneath its shade. Nothing is 
 left to it but the clinging ivy, to cover with 
 freshness and beauty its ruin and decay. 
 
 It is said of woman that her imagination 
 is easily captivated, that she is won by the 
 hero’s fame, and led on by her love of glory. 
 and distinction to follow in the sunny path 
 of the illustrious or the great. But far more 
 fatal to the peace of woman, more influential 
 upon her conduct, more triumphant in their 
 mastery over her whole being, are the tears. 
 and helplessness of man, when his proud 
 spirit sinks within him, or when he flies from 
 his compeers in the race of glory, to bury his’ 
 shame, and perhaps his guilt, in her bosom. 
 
 I will not ask how often, after this exhibi- 
 tion of his weakness, after regaining his post 
 of honor, and being received again a .com- 
 petitor for distinction, he has forgotten the. 
 witness of his humiliation; but 1 believe it: 
 is only as a wife, a mother, or a sister, that 
 woman can be this friend to man, with safety 
 to herself, and with certainty that he will not 
 afterwards rather avoid than seek her, from 
 the feeling that she has beheld him shorn of 
 his dignity, and is consequently able to re- 
 mind him of the humiliating past. For the. 
 wife it might also be a dangerous experiment, 
 even in her fondest and most unguarded mo- ‘| 
 ments, to make any allusion to scenes and 
 circumstances of this description ; especially 
 to presume upon having necessarily assumed 
 at such times the stronger and more impor- 
 tant part. When her husband chooses to be 
 dignified again, and is capable of maintain- 
 ing that dignity, she must adapt herself to 
 the happy change, and fall back into com- 
 parative insignificance, just as if circum- 
 stances had never given her a momentary 
 superiority over him. 
 
 The peculiarity already alluded to as a. 
 
 Eee ee 
 
380 
 
 aaa a 
 
 characteristic of men, and as leading them to 
 attach more importance to what is immediate 
 and tangible, than what is remote or ideal, 
 is one which renders them particularly liable 
 to deception, or rather to be, what is more 
 properly called, practised upon, than directly 
 deceived; so much so, that I believe any 
 woman who could manage her own temper, 
 might manage her husband, provided she 
 possessed his affections. I say might, be- 
 cause the mode of management by such 
 means would be utterly revolting to a gen- 
 erous and upright mind. Thus, by fair 
 speech and smooth manners, accompanied 
 with servile and flattering subserviency in 
 little things, some artful women have con- 
 trived to win their way to the accomplish- 
 ment of almost every wish; when a single 
 rash or hasty word, especially if it implied 
 an assumption of the right to choose, would 
 have effectually defeated their ends. 
 
 I have listened much when men have 
 been discussing the merits of women, and 
 have never heard any quality so universally 
 commended by the nobler sex, as quietness ; 
 while the opposite demerit of a tongue too 
 loud, too ready, or too importunate in its ex- 
 ertions, has been as universally condemned. 
 Thus Iam inclined to think that silence in 
 general, and smooth speech when language 
 must be used, are ranked by most men 
 amongst the highest excellences of the fe- 
 male character; while on the other hand, 
 those wordy weapons sometimes so injudi- 
 ciously made use of, are of all things what 
 they most abhor. 
 
 If, however, an artful woman finds it easy 
 to practise upon her husband by the immedi- 
 ate instrumentality of a raanner suited to his 
 taste, this mean and degrading system of 
 working out an end, becomes more difficult 
 in proportion to the frequency of its detection, 
 until at last, some men are brought to sus- 
 pect that all women act indirectly in every 
 thing they do. Hence comes that frequent 
 answer when we ask a simple question mere- 
 ‘ly for the sake of information—* Why do you 
 wish to know?” as if it were impossible for 
 
 | women to be deeply interested where they 
 
 Dal 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 had no end to serve, and as if there must of | 
 
 necessity be some hidden motive concealed 
 behind that which is made apparent. This 
 habitual retort falls hardly upon those who 
 never have deserved it, and not unfre- 
 quently forms a serious obstacle in the way 
 of obtaining useful knowledge; but it is 
 greatly to be feared that such an expression, 
 with the suspicion it implies, would never 
 have become habitual to men, had not the 
 general conduct of women brought this just 
 punishment upon them. 
 
 Indeed, there is something revolting to 
 man’s very nature in having to calculate 
 upon that kind of petty artifice which takes 
 advantage of unwariness and credulity, for 
 working out a purpose, even where that pur- 
 pose may not in itself be wrong. And here 
 we are brought at once to that great leading 
 peculiarity in man’s character—his nobility, 
 or, in other words, his exemption from those 
 
 innumerable littlenesses which obscure the > 
 
 beauty, and sully the integrity of woman’s 
 life. From all their underhand contrivances, 
 their secret envyings, and petty spite, man 
 is exempt; so much so, that the mere con- 
 templation of the broad clear basis of his 
 moral character, his open truth, his single- 
 ness of aim, and, above all, his dignified for- 
 bearance under provocation, might often put 
 the weaker sex to shame. - . 
 
 I am aware that there is much in the situ- 
 ation of both parties to create this difference ; 
 that undisputed power to will, and to act, is 
 often accompanied by a kind of moral ma- 
 jesty, which a weaker spirit never can at- 
 tain, while kept in bondage, either by fear or 
 by absolute restraint. I am aware too, that 
 boys, from their very infancy, are accustomed 
 to a mode of treatment as much calculated 
 to make them determined, frank, and bold, as 
 that of girls is to induce the opposite ex- 
 tremes of weakness, artifice, and timid help- 
 
 ‘lessness ; but even with these allowances, I 
 
 am persuaded there are broad clear features 
 in the moral dignity of man, which it is im- 
 possible to contemplate in their strength and 
 reality, without respect and admiration. 
 
 And a sacred and ennobling trust it is for 
 
woman to have the happiness of such a be- 
 ing committed to her charge—a holy privi- 
 | lege to be the chosen companion of his lot— 
 | to come with her helplessness and weakness 
 to find safety under his protection, and to re- 
 | pose her own perturbed and troubled mind 
 beneath the shelter of his love. 
 
 What then, if by perpetual provocation 
 | she should awake the tempest of his wrath ! 
 We will not contemplate the thought, for 
 
 | tion, as there is attractive in his kindness, 
 and flattering in his esteem. 
 
 Nor, in return for this kindness, are we ac- 
 {| customed to feel gratitude enough; for take 
 away from social life not only the civility, but 
 | the actual service done by men, in removing 
 | difficulty, protecting weakness, and. assisting 
 | in distress, in what a joyless, helpless world 
 would women find themselves, left only to the 
 } slender aid, and the tender mercies of each 
 other ! 
 
 It is too much regarded merely as a thing 
 of course, for men to be obliging and atten- 
 | tive ; and it is too little remembered at what 
 cost to them we purchase their help and their 
 indulgence. Nor is it only in solitary instan- 
 ces, or for especial favorites, that these efforts 
 have to be made. It is the sacrifice of a 
 whole lifetime for a man to be polite. There 
 is no fireside so warm, but he must leave it 
 on a winter’s night to walk home with some 
 female visitor, who has probably no charm 
 for him. .There is no situation so eligible, 
 but he must resign it if required. ‘There is 
 no difficulty he must not encounter, no fatigue 
 he must not endure, and no gratification he 
 must not give up; and for whom? All would 
 do this perhaps for one being in the world— 
 
 perhaps for more; but to be willing to do it 
 
 every day and every hour, even for the most 
 repulsive, or the most selfish and requiring 
 of their sex—there is a martyrdom of self in 
 all this, which puts to shame the partial kind- 
 ness and disinterestedness of woman. 
 
 It may be said that the popularity of po- 
 liteness affords at once its incentive, and its 
 reward. But whence then do we receive 
 those many private acts of unrequited ser- 
 
 | there is something as fearful in his indigna- | 
 
 rr he 
 BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 831 
 lg es ee UU ee oe 
 
 vice, when no other eye is there but ours to 
 witness—no other -tongue to praise? and 
 when we ourselves would probably have 
 been the last recipients of such favor, had 
 our companion chosen to assume the right 
 of selecting an object better suited to his 
 taste ? 
 
 It is from considerations such as these, and 
 I would wish to impress them upon every fe- 
 male mind, that I have not included the self. 
 ishness of man among his peculiarities, though 
 some might think ‘the case would warrant a 
 notice of this nature. Yet such is my con- 
 viction, that man has much to bear with 
 from the capriciousness of woman; such is 
 my grateful estimate of his uncalculating |! 
 kindness, not less to be admired because it is 
 expected and required; such too has been 
 my own experience of his general willingness 
 to oblige, where there was little to attract, 
 and still less to reward; that whatever may 
 be said by others, it would ill become me to 
 lift up a voice, and that a public one, against 
 the selfishness of men. 
 
 Let us rather look again at that nobility of 
 which I have already spoken, and while we 
 blush to feel the stirrings of an inferior spirit 
 prompting us to many an unworthy thought 
 and act, let us study to assimilate our nature, 
 in all that is truly excellent, with his, who 
 was at first expressly formed in the image of 
 his Maker. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 
 
 Lest the reader should suppose, from the 
 heading of this chapter, that the management 
 of husbands is what is really meant, I must 
 at once disclaim all pretension to this particu- 
 lar kind of skill; not because I do not think 
 it capable of being carried out into a system, 
 whereby every woman might become the ac- 
 tual ruler in her own domestic sphere, but 
 because I consider the system itself a bad 
 one, and utterly unworthy of being applied 
 
 ee ec ec ren carrrr aaa cnraer rrr ccea ree eee eraneser ene ene aa aa SS LS aE PSS SLES IT RI NEA eA PEER TT LEE LE 2 eT OS LES I PET ET TE ICE ELITES TT A 
 
—— 
 32 
 
 to any but the most extreme cases of unrea- 
 sonableness on the husband’s part. 
 
 With regard to the treatment of husbands, 
 then, so great is the variety of character to 
 be taken into account that it would be impos- 
 sible to lay down any rule of universal appli- 
 cation, except upon the broad principles of 
 kind feeling, integrity, and common sense. 
 Still there are hints which may be thrown 
 out, it is to be hoped, with benefit to the in- 
 experienced; and many of these will refer 
 again to the peculiarity already dwelt upon 
 in the foregoing chapter. The tendency in 
 men which has been described as rendering 
 them peculiarly liable to be impressed by 
 what is evident to their senses, must ever be 
 consulted by the wife who would adapt her- 
 self to her husband’s mood and character ; 
 and although these may vary in every indi- 
 vidual, and in. the same may change with 
 every difference of time and place, it be- 
 comes the duty of a wife, and one would 
 suppose it must also be her pleasure, studi- 
 ously to observe what those things are, which 
 habitually strike the attention of her husband, 
 so as to convey to him immediate impres- 
 sions of pleasure or of pain; remembering 
 ever, that all indirect evidence of. our tastes 
 and wishes having been consulted, even in 
 our absence, is one of the most grateful of- 
 ferings that can be made to every human 
 heart. 
 
 Thus the general appearance of his home 
 has much to do with the complacency man 
 naturally feels on returning to it. If his 
 taste is for neatness and order, for the ab- 
 sence of servants, and for perfect quiet, it 
 would be absolute cruelty to allow such a 
 man to find his house in confusion, and to 
 have to call in servants to clear this thing 
 and the other away after his return, as if he 
 *!; had never once been thought of, or at least 
 i thought of with kindness and consideration, 
 
 until he was actually seen. 
 Some men particularly enjoy the cheerful 
 welcome of a clean hearth and blazing fire, 
 
 solicitous to stir the glowing embers them- 
 selves, rather than to see them stirred by 
 
 — 
 
 others. 
 
 on.a winter’s day; and all are more or less 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 I knew an excellent woiman who al- 
 ways had her fire built up in such a manner’ 
 before her husband came home, as to present 
 a tempting crust for him to break through 
 on his arrival; and I much question whether 
 the good lady was not more loved for this 
 simple act, than she would have been, had. 
 her husband found his fire neglected, and 
 herself engaged in tears and prayers for his 
 individual welfare. 
 
 But here again we recognise no general 
 rule, for some men unquestionably there are, 
 who would much prefer that their coals 
 should be forthcoming on a future day, than 
 thus unnecessarily expended in a bonfire to 
 welcome their return. 
 
 Again, it is of little use that you esteem 
 and reverence your husband in the secret of 
 your heart, if you do not by your manners, 
 both at home and abroad, evince this pro- 
 per deference and regard. At home it is but 
 fitting that the master of the house should be 
 considered as entitled to the choice of every 
 
 personal indulgence, unless indisposition or 
 
 suffering on the part of the wife render such 
 
 indulgences more properly her due; but even 
 then they ought to be received as a favor, 
 rather than claimed as a right. 
 
 Women, in the present day, and in houses 
 furnished as English homes generally are, 
 may enjoy so many advantages in the way 
 of pampering the body, from which men, and 
 especially those engaged in business, are de- 
 barred, that they can well afford to give up 
 some of these indulgences to those they love; 
 and few indeed would not rather see them 
 thus enjoyed, than appropriated exclusively 
 to themselves. 
 
 There is, however, one great difficulty in 
 connection with this duty, which it is to be 
 hoped all persons are not, like the writer, un- 
 able to solve. Itis in the important question 
 
 of self-sacrifice, how far this virtue ought to 
 
 extend in the treatment of husbands. There 
 is certainly nothing more beautiful to read of 
 in books; and could every act of. self-sacri- 
 fice be seen and appreciated, there would be 
 nothing more delightful to practise towards 
 those we love. But the. question is, does it 
 
BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 
 
 | tell in any high degree upon the happiness 
 | of man? Observation of the world would 
 lead to the conclusion that it does not, for 
 where one husband’s heart has been soften- 
 ed with gratitude on discovering how much 
 his wife has suffered and denied herself for 
 his sake, ten times that number of women 
 have been wounded to the very soul at not 
 having their acts of self-sacrifice valued ac- 
 cording to their cost. 
 
 The fact is, men in general do not see these 
 things, unless told of their existence; and 
 then at once their charm is destroyed. Is it 
 || not better, then, to be a little more sparing of 
 such acts, than to do them, and then grudge 
 the expenditure of feeling they require ; or to 
 do them, and then complain of the punish- 
 ment they inflict? Besides which, some luck- 
 less women go on in this way, until more and 
 more is expected of them; the husband, in 
 his ignorance of the state of things behind 
 the scenes, never dreaming of what is ac- 
 tually suffered, but rather proposing, in his 
 innocence, that as one thing has been so 
 comfortably given up, another should follow, 
 until at last there bursts upon his unhappy 
 head a perfect storm of feeling, from her who 
 would willingly have been a martyr for his 
 sake, would he only have observed and pi- 
 tied what she was enduring for him. 
 
 On the other hand, those women who 
 calmly and equitably maintain their rights, 
 for rights all women have; who, acting upon 
 the broad principle of yielding what is due 
 from a wife to a husband, make a clear dis- 
 tinction betwixt that, and what would be ex- 
 pected by a tyrant from his slave ; who make 
 themselves cheerful and comfortable with 
 what it is proper for them to enjoy, neither 
 withholding what they ought to give up, nor 
 giving up what they cannot afford to lose; 
 such women are upon the whole to be pre- 
 ferred as companions, and certainly they are 
 themselves exempt from a world of wounded 
 feelipg, under which the more romantically 
 generous are perpetually suffering, and at the 
 same time weeping and lamenting that they 
 do so. 
 
 There is, however, a most delicate medium 
 
 33 
 
 in these cases to be observed, for when once 
 woman loses the disinterested generosity of 
 her character, she loses her greatest charm; 
 and when she becomes a stickler for rights, 
 or a monopolizer of good things, presuming 
 upon her greater requirements as being a 
 more delicate and fragile being than man, 
 she may indeed be said to have forfeited all | 
 that claims for her sex our interest and our 
 admiration. But, on the other hand, though 
 she may not be aware of it, there is a secret 
 and deep-seated selfishness in the wounded 
 feeling which accompanies a generous act, 
 on finding it not valued according to its cost. 
 Would it not then be wise to let this maxim 
 be our rule—that none should give up more 
 than they are prepared to resign without 
 grudging, whether noticed and appreciated 
 or not. 
 
 In my remarks upon the subject of self- 
 sacrifice, | would, of course, be understood 
 to refer only to those trifling and familiar af- 
 fairs in which the personal comfort of daily 
 life is concerned. The higher and more 
 sacred claims of trial and calamity with 
 which the experience of every human being 
 is occasionally checkered, admit neither of 
 doubt, calculation, nor delay. Here I cannot 
 suppose it possible that a true-hearted woman 
 would feel the least reserve, for here it is her 
 sacred privilege to forget herself, to count no 
 item of her loss, to weigh no difficulty, and 
 to shrink from no pain, provided she can suf- 
 fer for, or even with, the companion whose 
 existence is bound up with hers. 
 
 Whatever doubt may be entertained on the 
 subject of making self, and selfish gratifica- 
 tion, subservient to a husband’s tastes and 
 enjoyments, in all the little items of domestic 
 arrangement, there can be none with regard 
 to what is right in mixing in society either 
 with friends or strangers. It is here, the 
 
 privilege of a married woman to be able’ to 
 show, by the most delicate attentions, how 
 much she feels her husband’s superiority to 
 herself, not by mere personal services offi- 
 ciously rendered, as if for the purpose of dis- 
 play, but by a respectful reference to his 
 opinion, a willingly imposed silence when he 
 
34 
 
 speaks, and, if he be an enlightened man, by 
 a judicious turn sometimes given to the con- 
 versation, so that his information and intelli- 
 gence may be drawn forth for the benefit of 
 others. 
 
 It is true that a considerable portion of tact 
 is required to manage such matters as these, 
 without appearing to manage them at all; for 
 if the husband is once made to suspect that 
 his wife is practising upon him. for the pur- 
 pose of showing how good a wife she is, his 
 situation will scarcely be more agreeable than 
 that of the man who is made a mere lackey 
 of in company, and called. hither and thither 
 to do little personal services for his wife, as 
 if she had mistaken him for one of her ser- 
 vants, or, what is more likely, had chosen 
 this means of exhibiting her unbounded in- 
 fluence over him. 
 
 Both these extremes are at variance with 
 good taste, to say nothing of right . feeling ; 
 and here, as in innumerable instances besides, 
 we see, that if the tact I have so highly re- 
 commended in a previous work, be valuable 
 before marriage, it is infinitely more so after- 
 wards. Indeed there is scarcely one among 
 the various embellishments of female charac- 
 ter, not even the highest accomplishments 
 exhibited by the most, distinguished belle, 
 which may not, in some way or other, be 
 rendered a still more exquisite embellishment 
 to married life, provided only it is kept in its 
 proper place, and made always subservient 
 to that which is more estimable. | 
 
 ployed in selecting what is agreeable to a 
 husband’s fancy, becomes ennobled to its pos- 
 sessor; while those accomplishments, which 
 in the crowded drawing-room were worse 
 than useless in their display, may sometimes 
 be accounted as actual wealth, to her who 
 has the good feeling to render them condu- 
 cive to the amusement or the happiness of 
 her own fireside. 
 
 On the other hand, it is painful to hear the 
 complaint so frequently made by married men, 
 that their wives have ceased to touch the in- 
 strument whose keys were rendered so sweet- 
 ly available in the great object of charming 
 
 pg 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Thus the most fastidious taste, when -em- 
 
 before marriage; and, did not kindness or 
 delicacy forbid a further disclosure of the se- 
 crets of their lot, there is doubtless a still 
 greater number who could speak feelingly of 
 their regret, that the air of careful neatness, 
 the becoming dress, and the general attract- 
 iveness of look and manner, which first won 
 their attention, had been gradually laid aside, 
 as advancing years and increasing cares had 
 rendered them more necessary as an addi- 
 tional charm to the familiar scenes of domes- 
 tic life. 
 
 Yet in spite of appearances, it is scarcely 
 possible to imagine how there should be, in 
 any other situation, so natural and so delight- 
 ful a display of personal attractions as: at | 
 home, and before the one being whom of all 
 the world we love best; especially when we | 
 reflect that his destiny being bound up with | 
 ours, if we allow him to feel weary of our | 
 company, annoyed by our absurdities, or dis- 
 satisfied with our personal appearance, he 
 must at the same time suffer doubly from | 
 the mortifying conviction, that these things 
 are to remain the same to him throughout 
 the whole of his future life or ours. 
 
 What then so natural and so congenial to 
 the best feelings of woman, as to render this 
 long future as pleasing in its aspect as she 
 can? and what so degrading, and so utterly 
 at variance with the beauty of the female 
 character, as, having once secured a legal 
 claim to the protection of a husband, ever 
 afterwards to neglect those personal attrac- 
 tions, which comparatively few women have 
 to be charged with neglecting in their single 
 state? Yet of what importance is it to the 
 careless observer we meet with in general 
 society, how we dress, or whether! we look 
 well or ill, compared with what it is to the 
 man who has to see us, and perhaps us alone, 
 seated opposite to him at every meal! Of 
 what importance is it to the stranger that we 
 play badly, or do not play at all—that we 
 draw without taste, and have never learned 
 to converse with sprightliness and ease? His 
 happiness is no way dependent upon us. 
 He can turn away, and forget us the next 
 moment. But the case assumes a widely | 
 
different character, when we look at it as 
 extending through each separate hour of a 
 long lifetime ; and surely if there be a natu- 
 ral exultation in having charmed an indiffer- 
 ent person, or even a whole party, for an 
 hour, there must be a higher, and far more 
 reasonable satisfaction, in being able to be- 
 | guile a husband of his cares, to win him from 
 society which might divert his thoughts from 
 home, and to render that home, not only the 
 scene of his duties, but of his favorite amuse- 
 ments, and his dearest joys. 
 
 To this high purpose every intellectual at- 
 tainment should also be made conducive, for 
 there is much in the life of men, and particu- 
 larly where business engages their attention, 
 to lower and degrade the mind. There is 
 much to render it purely material in its aims 
 and calculations; and there is much also, in 
 man’s public intercourse with his fellow-man, 
 to render him eager and monopolizing in that 
 which centres in himself; while at the same 
 | time he is regardless or distrustful of others. 
 
 As a rational, accountable, and immortal be- 
 | ing, he consequently needs a companion who 
 will be supremely solicitous for the advance- 
 ment of his intellectual, moral, and spiritual 
 nature; a companion who will raise the tone 
 of his mind from the low anxieties, and vulgar 
 cares which necessarily occupy so large a 
 portion of his existence, and lead his thoughts 
 to expatiate or repose on those subjects which 
 convey a feeling of identity with a higher state 
 of existence beyond this present life. ' 
 
 ceive home her weary husband, to render 
 
 the gossip she has heard through the. day, of 
 the observations she has made upon her 
 neighbor’s furniture and way of living, of the 
 personal attentions or slights she has received, 
 with a long catalogue of complaints against 
 her servants, and, worse than all, ten thou- 
 sand reasons, strengthened by that day’s ex- 
 perience, why she should be indulged with 
 some favorite article of dress or luxury, upon 
 | which her heart has long been set! 
 It may be said in vindication of this mode 
 of conduct, that the occupations of men of 
 
 BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 
 
 while, at the same time, it is within the region 
 
 Instead of this, how often does the wife re- | general bearing of a man’s interests in this 
 
 him still more weary, by an outpouring of all , 
 
 30 
 
 business in the present day are such, and so 
 pressing, as to leave them little time, and per- 
 haps less inclination, for interesting them- 
 selves in subjects of apparently less urgent 
 and immediate importance ; and that, con- 
 sequently, all endeavor to give their minds a 
 bids in favor of nobler things, would be un- 
 availing. But in reply to this observation, I 
 would ask one question—Have you made the 
 experiment? Have you ever tried whether 
 the introduction of a new idea, appropriately 
 and agreeably clothed, might not be made 
 quite as agreeable as the introduction of a 
 new article of diet, even dressed with the 
 nicest caret Have you then made the ex- 
 periment judiciously? for here lies the secret 
 of all the good we can reasonably expect. 
 If, for instance, you should begin to talk about 
 the stars, when your husband asks for his 
 slippers, or quote poetry when he wants his 
 dinner, the boldest enthusiast would scarcely 
 be wild enough to anticipate any very favor- 
 able result. 
 
 The first thing to be done in the attainment 
 of this high object, is to use what influence | 
 you have so as not to lower or degrade the 
 habitual train of your husband’s thoughts; 
 and the next is, to watch every eligible op- 
 portunity, and to use every suitable means, 
 of leading him to view his favorite subjects 
 in their broadest and most expansive light; 
 
 of woman’s capabilities, to connect them, by 
 some delicate mode of association, with the |I- 
 
 world upon his interests in eternity. 
 
 It is extremely difficult in writing on this 
 subject to convey my exact meaning, or indeed 
 to avoid the charge of wishing to recommend, 
 instead of pleasant, easy, fireside chat, the 
 introduction of a dull, and dry, or perhaps 
 dogmatical discourse, than which, nothing 
 can be more opposed, both to the tastes and 
 the habits of the writer, as well as to her 
 ideas of the nice art of pleasing and doing 
 good at the same time. Indeed that mode 
 of conversation which I have been accus- 
 tomed to describe as talking on a large scale, 
 is, except on very important occasions, most 
 
36 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 inimical to the natural softness and attrac- 
 tiveness of woman. It is not, in fact, her 
 forte ; but belongs to a region of display in 
 which she cannot, or at least ought not, to 
 shine. The excellence of woman as regards 
 her conversation, consists rather of quick, and 
 delicate, and sometimes playful turns of 
 thought, with a lively and subtle apprehension 
 of the bearings, tendencies, and associations of 
 ideas; so that the whole machinery of con- 
 versation, if I may be allowed to use such 
 an expression, may be made, by her good 
 management, to turn off from one subject, 
 and play upon another, as if by the direction 
 of some magic influence, which will ever be 
 preserved from detection by the tact of an 
 unobtrusive and sensitive nature. 
 
 It is in this manner, and this alone, that 
 women should evince their interest in those 
 great political questions which arise out of 
 the state of the times in which they live. 
 Not that they may be able to attach them- 
 selves to a party, still less that they may 
 make speeches either in public or in private ; 
 but that they may think and converse like 
 rational beings on subjects which occupy the 
 attention of the majority of mankind ; and it 
 is, perhaps, on these subjects that we see most 
 strikingly the wide difference betwixt the low 
 views so generally taken, and those which I 
 would so earnestly recommend. If, for exam- 
 ple, a wife would converse with her husband 
 about a candidate for the representation of the 
 place in which they live, she may, if she 
 choose, discuss the merits of the color which 
 his party wears, and wish it were some other, 
 as being more becoming ; she may tell with 
 delight how he bowed especially to her; and 
 she may wish from her heart that the num- 
 ber of votes may be in his favor, because he 
 kissed her child, and called it the prettiest 
 he had ever seen. It is this kind of prattle 
 which may properly be described as small 
 talk, and which it is to be feared denotes a 
 littleness of soul. Yet this style of talk may 
 be, and sometimes is, applied by women to 
 all sorts of subjects, not excepting politics, 
 philosophy, and even religion. But, on the 
 | other hand, there is an opposite style of con- 
 
 versation which may be used with equal scope 
 of application, on almost all subjects, whether 
 high or low: and it is a truth which the 
 peculiar nature of woman’s mind renders her 
 admirably qualified to carry out through ordi- 
 nary life, that so intimately connected are our 
 thoughts and feelings, habits and pursuits, not | 
 only with those of other beings of a similar 
 nature, but with a state of existence in which 
 that common nature will be more fully de- | 
 veloped, that there is scarcely a fact presented 
 to our knowledge, which has not a connec- 
 tion, either immediate or remote, with some | 
 great moral truth; and scarcely a subject | 
 brought under our consideration, which may |} 
 not be ennobled by conducing, in some way | 
 or other, to the improvement of our moral 
 being. 
 
 It will readily be perceived, however, that | 
 this exercise of the powers of conversation || 
 would be utterly unattainable to a woman of | 
 ignorant or vulgar mind—that she would || 
 alike be incapable of comprehending the de- | 
 sirableness of the object, and the best mode | 
 of its accomplishment. And here I would | 
 again advert to an expression not unfre- | 
 quently heard among young ladies, that they 
 do not wish to be clever; by which we are 
 left to suppose, by their neglect of their own 
 minds, that they mean either well-informed, 
 or capable of judging rightly. Yet without | 
 having paid considerable attention to the im- 
 provement and cultivation of their intellectual | 
 
 powers, how will it be possible for them to : 
 
 raise the general tone of thought and con- | 
 versation at their own fireside? | 
 
 Although I am not one of those who at- | 
 tach any high degree of importance to the | 
 possession of great intellectual endowments || 
 in woman, because I believe such natural | 
 gifts to have proved much more frequently | 
 her bane than her blessing, and because they 
 are not the qualifications of female character | 
 which conduce most to her own happiness | 
 or the happiness of those around her; yet | 
 if there be any case in which a woman might | 
 be forgiven, for entertaining an honest pride | 
 in the superiority of her own talent, it would | 
 be where she regarded it only as a means | 
 
of doing higher homage to her husband, and 
 bringing greater ability to bear upon the 
 advancement of his intellectual and moral 
 good. 
 
 Indeed, what is the possession of talent to 
 a woman, when considered in her own cha- 
 racter, separately, and alone? The posses- 
 sion of a dangerous heritage—a_ jewel which 
 cannot with propriety be worn—a mine of 
 wealth which has no legitimate channel for 
 the expenditure of its vast resources. But 
 let her find this natural and lawful medium 
 for its exercise, and we see at once in what 
 an enviable position she is-:placed. Wesee 
 {| at once the height from which she can stoop, 
 || the costliness of the sacrifices she is conse- 
 ‘|| quently enabled to make, and the evidences, 
 no less valuable, which she can thus. bring 
 forward as proofs of her affection. 
 
 Nothing, however, can be more delicate 
 and trying than the situation of such a wo- 
 man, and especially when her husband is 
 inferior to herself; but if he should be abso- 
 lutely silly, it would require more skill than 
 the writer of these pages can boast, to know 
 what mode of treating him to recommend ; 
 for build him up as you will before company, 
 and much may be done in this. way by the 
 exercise of delicacy and tact, a truly grovel- 
 ling man will sink again, and there is no 
 help for it. The charitable conclusion is, 
 that a woman so situated must be content 
 to reap the consequences of her own folly, in 
 having made so unsuitable a choice. The 
 best friend on earth would be unable to as- 
 sist her, nor could the sagest counsel rectify 
 her mistake. 
 
 In the case of a highly-gifted woman, even 
 where, there is an equal or superior degree 
 of talent possessed by her husband, nothing 
 can be more injudicious, or more fatal to her 
 happiness, than an exhibition even of the 
 least disposition to presume upon such gifts. 
 Let her husband be once subjected ‘to a feel- 
 ing of jealousy of her importance, which, 
 without the strictest watchfulness, will be 
 liable to arise, and her. peace of mind and 
 her free. agency are alike destroyed for the 
 remainder of.her life; or at any rate, until 
 
 BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 
 
 she can convince him afresh, by a long con- 
 tinuance of the most scrupulous conduct, 
 that the injury committed against him was 
 purely accidental, and foreign alike to her 
 feelings and her inclinations. 
 
 Until this desirable end is accomplished, 
 vain will be all her efforts to render homage 
 to her husband as a superior. He will re- 
 gard all such attempts as acts of condescen- 
 sion, assumed for no other purpose than that 
 of showing how gracefully she can stoop. 
 In vain may she then. endeavor to assist or 
 direct his judgment; he will in such a case 
 most naturally prefer to thwart her, for the 
 purpose of proving his own independence 
 and his power. 
 
 ‘The same observations will apply, though 
 in a milder degree, to cases in which there 
 have been any great advantages of wealth 
 or station on the side of the wife. ‘The most 
 unselfish and generous consideration, ac- 
 companied with the strictest care, are neces- 
 sary here to avoid giving occasion of offence 
 to that manly pride whichrstartles at nothing 
 so much as owing dignity to a woman, and 
 being reminded of the obligation. __ 
 
 But if, on the one hand, this situation 
 presents a narrow and critical walk with re- 
 gard to action, on the other, it affords a 
 boundless and delightful field in which feel- 
 ing may expatiate ; for it is scarcely possible 
 to imagine any consciousness more happy 
 than that of having been the means of con- 
 ferring affluence or honor upon the being 
 we most love: and if the consequences are 
 such as lead to a trembling apprehension of 
 being perpetually liable to give pain, they 
 also admit of a noble exultation in being en- 
 abled by the same means to give an adequate 
 degree of pleasure. 
 
 With this feeling, subdued by Christian 
 meekness, and cherished only in her “ heart 
 of hearts,” it might almost.be forgiven to any 
 woman secretly to exult in being favorably 
 
 | distinguished ; for to render illustrious a be- 
 
 loved name, and to shed a glory around an 
 honored. brow, is at once the most natural, 
 and the noblest ambition, of which the female 
 mind is capable. 
 
In order to render more clear and definite 
 the observations which have been called forth 
 by the subject of this chapter, it has been al- 
 most necessary to act the ungracious part of 
 pointing out instances of failure, rather than 
 success. ‘This has been done, however, with 
 the most sincere belief, that such instances, 
 notwithstanding the frequency of their occur- 
 rence, arise, for the most part, entirely out of 
 ignorance, or want of thought and observa- 
 tion, and are as frequently accompanied by 
 an amiable and praiseworthy desire to be in 
 all things, such a friend and companion as a 
 reasonable husband would wish. 
 
 And after all, what is it that man seeks in 
 the companionship of woman ?—An_ influ- 
 ence like the gentle dew, and the cheering 
 light, more felt throughout the whole of his 
 existence, in its softening, healing, harmon- 
 izing power; than acknowledged by any sin- 
 gle act, or recognised by any certain rule. 
 It is in fact a being to come home to, in the 
 happiest sense of that expression. . 
 
 Poetic lays of ancient times were wont to 
 tell, how the bold warrior returning from the 
 fight would doff his plumed helmet, and, re- 
 posing from his toils, lay bare his weary 
 limbs, that woman’s hand might pour into 
 their wounds the healing balm. But never 
 wearied knight, nor warrior covered with 
 the dust of battle-field, was more in need of 
 woman’s soothing power, than are those 
 care-worn sons of toil, who struggle for the 
 bread of life, in our more peaceful and en- 
 lightened days. And still, though the ro- 
 mance of the castle, the helmet, the waving 
 plume, and the 
 
 “Clarion wild and high,” 
 
 may all have vanished from the scene; the 
 charm of woman’s influence lives as brightly 
 in the picture of domestic joy, as when she 
 placed the wreath of victory on the hero’s 
 brow. Nay, more so, for there are deeper 
 sensibilities at work, thoughts more profound, 
 and passions more intense, in our great 
 theatre of intellectual and moral strife; than 
 where the contest was for martial fame, and 
 force of arms procured for each competitor 
 lis share of glory, or of wealth. 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Amongst all the changes which have taken 
 place in the condition of mankind, it is then 
 not the least of woman’s privileges, that her 
 influence remains the same, except only as 
 it is deepened and perfected as her own 
 character approaches towards perfection. It 
 is not the least of her privileges, that she can 
 still be all to man which his necessities re- 
 quire ; that he can retire from the tumult of 
 the world, and seek her society with a zest 
 which nothing can impair, so long as she re-. 
 ceives him with a true and faithful heart— 
 true to the best and kindest impulses of 
 which her nature is capable; and faithful to 
 the sacred trust committed to her care. 
 
 And that it is so, how many an English 
 home can witness—how many a fireside 
 welcome—how many a happy meeting after 
 absence painfully prolonged! Yes, there are 
 scenes within the’ sacred precincts of the 
 household hearth, which, not the less be- 
 cause no stranger’s eye beholds them, repay, 
 and richly too, dark days of weary conflict, 
 and long nights of anxious care. But who 
 shall paint them? Are they not graven on 
 the hearts of English wives? and those who 
 hold the picture there, in all its beauty, vivid- 
 ness, and truth, would scarcely wish to draw 
 aside the veil, which screens it from the world. 
 
 pale Bk Se 
 
 ra 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CONFIDENCE AND TRUTII. 
 
 Wirs regard to the behavior of wives to- 
 wards their husbands, there is one great end 
 to be attained, so unmeasurably beyond all 
 others in its influence upon their happiness 
 and their usefulness, that all which is requi- 
 site for the promotion of their true interest, 
 might be summed up in this one recommend- 
 ation—that the wife should endeavor, before 
 every other earthly thing, and next to the 
 salvation of her soul, to obtain and keep her 
 husband’s confidence. Without this, the 
 marriage tie is indeed a galling chain; and 
 the woman who subjects herself to it, less en- 
 viable than a real slave. With this—with 
 
ae 
 
 BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS. 
 
 the perfect trust of a nobler nature reposing 
 on her own, woman is raised to a degree of 
 moral elevation, which, in her single state, 
 she never could have known; and if her 
 own disposition be generous and grateful, she 
 will feel it a sacred obligation not to abuse 
 this trust. 
 
 But the great and important question arises, 
 how is this trust to be secured? With the 
 most ardent desire to enjoy this, the chief 
 good of married life, and the foundation up- 
 on which all its happiness must rest, there 
 are two ways in which woman may effectu- 
 ally fail—intellectually, and morally. In the 
 first, she may fail from want of knowledge; 
 in the second, from want of principle. 
 
 In the first instance, whatever there may 
 be in her conduct or conversation exhibiting 
 a want of judgment, of that perception of 
 fitness and adaptation, which is invaluable in 
 the female character, and of a proper ac- 
 quaintance with common things, is calculated 
 to weaken the confidence of her husband in 
 her ability, whatever her inclination may be, 
 to make a good wife, a prudent mistress, or 
 a judicious mother. It is in vain complain- 
 ing that this sentence is a hard one, when 
 her heart is right, and when she really does 
 her best. It is in vain complaining that her 
 husband does not trust her, either with the 
 knowledge of his affairs, or the management 
 of her own. Confidence in one being is not 
 a matter of choice in another. It is what we 
 ourselves must purchase by an absence of 
 failure on those points, in which the interests 
 of another party are dependent upon us. 
 
 If, then, a husband finds in his wife a de- 
 gree of ignorance which renders her incapa- 
 ble of judging rightly in common things, if 
 he finds that she has never made any proper 
 use of her powers of observation, that she 
 has not been in the habit of thinking to any 
 rational purpose, of discriminating, compar- 
 ing, or drawing right conclusions from what 
 sheshas seen and heard, it would be hard in- 
 deed to require him to believe that she will 
 act with prudence and propriety as the mis- 
 tress of a house; and the natural conse- 
 quence is, that she must be watched, sus- 
 
 pected, and in some degree treated as a 
 child. 
 If, therefore, in a previous work I have 
 
 earnestly recommended to the Daughters of 
 
 England an early, and diligent cultivation of 
 their mental powers, it has not been that such 
 embellishments of character as are classed 
 under the head of “Cleverness, Learning, 
 and Knowledge,”’ or “Taste, Tact, and Ob- 
 servation,” should merely give zest to con- 
 versation, or throw an intellectual charm 
 over the society of the drawing-room ; it is 
 that the happy individual who possesses 
 these advantages, may, on becoming a wife, 
 become also a companion in whom her hus- 
 band can perfectly, and at all times, confide. 
 
 There are, however, cases in which the 
 want of this confidence falls hardly, because 
 it is the inevitable result of circumstances, 
 over which the wife in her single state had 
 no control. One of these is where the mind 
 is naturally weak; and here the wife would 
 certainly act most wisely, by placing her ac- 
 tions and opinions under the direction of her 
 husband, and allowing herself to be treated 
 accordingly. 
 
 But there are also those, who, from ‘no 
 fault of their own, have, before marriage, en- 
 joyed few advantages as regards mental cul- 
 tivation. In this case, much may be done in 
 the way of making up for loss time; and 
 
 where a studious desire to do so is evinced, 
 
 where a respectful and judicious reference to 
 the husband’s opinion is sometimes made, 
 and at other times a still more judicious si- 
 lence observed, these proofs of good sense 
 and right feeling, will go a long way towards 
 obtaining the confidence desired. 
 
 But a far more serious, and it is to be 
 feared more frequent reason for the loss of 
 this invaluable treasure, is a moral one. And 
 here, so many causes meet and combine in 
 their operation, that it would require no com- 
 mon degree of knowledge of the human 
 heart to be able to point them out with per- 
 spicuity and effect. The first thing I shall 
 specify in relation to this part of the subject 
 is, the essential importance there is, that 
 every husband should feel himself perfectly 
 
40 
 
 safe with his wife. “Safe!” exclaims the 
 worthy helpmeet, “with whom could he be 
 safe, if not with me? Do I not watch him, 
 care for him, and wait upon him with a so- 
 licitude that would screen him from every 
 approach of harm?’ All this may be true 
 enough, and yet you may occasionally have 
 taken advantage of your intimacy, for dis- 
 closing weaknesses on his part, which need not 
 otherwise have been known; you may have 
 marked your occasion when company was 
 present, for throwing out hints against him, 
 which you dared not have uttered when 
 alone; or you may have betrayed an evident 
 triumph before your friends, or your servants, 
 on obtaining over him some advantage in 
 opinion, or argument. 
 
 Although such offences as these may ap- 
 pear but very trifling items, when separately 
 enumerated, yet their number and variety 
 sometimes make up a sum of considerable 
 magnitude and importance, as they operate 
 upon individual feeling, and evince too clear- 
 ly a want of delicacy, generosity, or real af- 
 fection. They lead, in short, to the very 
 natural feeling, on the part of the husband, 
 that his wife is not the bosom friend he had 
 fondly imagined her, that she knows no per- 
 fect identity of self with him, but has sepa- 
 rate interests to which he and his affairs are 
 liable at any time to be made subservient. 
 
 I have already said, that the dignity of 
 man should always be studiously maintained ; 
 but there is also a delicate and respectful 
 manner of giving way to a husband in little 
 things, which is the surest means of obtaining 
 concessions on his part, in those which are 
 of greater moment, simply because, having 
 found his wife generally yielding, considerate, 
 and respectful to his wishes, he cannot sup- 
 pose she will differ from him without some 
 good and sufficient reason for doing so. 
 
 Upon the same principle, a wise woman 
 will never be too requiring. She will neither 
 demand from her husband those personal 
 services which are degrading to a man anda 
 gentleman, nor weary his patience by en- 
 deavoring to tease him out of every fault; 
 for though the great end of marriage should 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 be mutual improvement, it is no more than 
 fair, that the wife should allow her husband 
 at least as many faults as he allows her. At 
 allevents, when little defects of character, 
 and especially such as may be called consti- 
 tutional, are quietly and charitably borne 
 with, much strength is gained for making a 
 stand against those which are more serious ; 
 and the husband who is kindly permitted to 
 rest himself, if he chooses, in an awkward 
 position, and to wear an unbecoming coat be- 
 cause it is a favorite, will be all the more 
 likely, at the solicitation of his wife, to, give 
 up habits which are really more objection- 
 able. 
 
 All individual peculiarities, which may not 
 exactly be called faults, should be conceded 
 to in the same manner ; always remembering, 
 that what we allow to men on the ground of 
 their love of importance and authority, they 
 equal, and often surpass, in what they yield 
 to our weakness, incapacity, and occasional 
 perverseness. There are many of these pecu- 
 
 liarities, that, like our own, might excite a de- |}. 
 gree of ridicule, which, however, ought never |} 
 
 to extend beyond mere playfulness, and not 
 even so far as that, except where it is re- 
 ceived in the same spirit. 
 
 If it were possible to whisper upon paper,. 
 
 I should here avail myself of a convenient 
 aside, to hint that there is often a great deal 
 of unnecessary bustle and importance when 
 men have any thing to do. But why should 
 we mind that—why should we not allow 
 them the satisfaction: of feeling, that as re- 
 gards the little world in which they rule su- 
 premely, all space is theirs, and all time? 
 and if we have not patience to look on, and 
 see the order of our house overturned, our 
 dinner waiting, our servants called away 
 from their work, one to fetch paper, another 
 string, and a third to wait until the mighty 
 affair is complete; we have at least the ad- 
 vantage, when the same thing has to be done 
 again, of taking the opportunity to do it*our- 
 selves. " 
 
 A respectful deportment, and a complying 
 disposition, evinced in these and similar 
 cases, with a general willingness to accom- 
 
CONFIDENCE AND TRUTH. 
 
 modate all household arrangements to a hus- 
 band’s wishes, making every other consider- 
 ation subservient to his convenience, wil en- 
 sure for the wife, who consistently does this, 
 a large portion of that confidence upon which 
 her influence and her happiness so much de- 
 pend. . 
 
 But the greatest of all claims upon this 
 
 confidence has yet to be considered; and. 
 
 would there were no occasion, in relation to 
 this subject, so much as to whisper these 
 words into the ear of an English wife—Never 
 deceive! Were all men reasonable, tempta- 
 tions to do so would be infinitely less than 
 they are; for difficult indeed is the lot of that 
 woman, who would act uprightly, whose 
 judgment and principles are good, and who 
 is yet thwarted by a narrow-minded, weak, 
 selfish, or low-principled man. 
 
 Let us imagine the case of such a wife, so 
 situated that her lord is absent for the greater 
 part of every day. Let us imagine her, too, 
 surrounded by a family, having the interests 
 of children, servants, and dependents to care 
 for, and anxious to regulate the affairs of her 
 household according to the principles of jus- 
 tice and integrity. She has her own con- 
 ‘science for her guide in all this, and if it be 
 an enlightened one, how is she to make all 
 her actions accord with the views of a hus- 
 band, who is unenlightened, perverse, or par- 
 tial, and perhaps jealous of her influence, and 
 consequently determined to thwarther plans ? 
 Yet how is she decidedly to oppose his 
 wishes, consistently with the respect which is 
 due from a wife? 
 
 Surely the situation of such a woman, 
 could it be contemplated in all its difficulties, 
 and under all its gloomy shades, might be 
 sufficient to deter any one whose married 
 lot was not yet fixed, from risking her happi- 
 ness with such a man. 
 
 If a woman thus situated, could by any 
 honest means contrive to manage her hus- 
 band, so that he should zot know it, I think 
 the wisest advocate for the supremacy of the 
 lofiier sex, would scarcely deny her such a 
 privilege ; and unquestionably there are cases 
 in which unreasonable husbands are made 
 
 41 
 both happier and better, by being thus man- 
 aged. Besides, the general order of a house- 
 hold, the direction of servants, and the influ- 
 ence of masters and mistresses over their de- 
 pendents and inferiors, require that if good 
 sense, right feeling, and sound _ principles, 
 exist on one side, they should not be made 
 
 subservient to ignorance, prejudice, and ca- | 
 
 price, on the other. 
 
 I have said that all women have their 
 rights, and it would be wise to begin early in 
 married life to act upon the principle, which 
 allows to every wife a little sphere of domes- 
 tic arrangements, with which the husband 
 shall not feel that he has any business to in- 
 terfere, except at her request, and into which 
 a reasonable man would not wish to obtrude 
 his authority, simply because the operations 
 necessary to be carried on in that department 
 of his household, are alike foreign to his un- 
 derstanding and his tastes. ‘To submit every 
 little act of domestic management to the opin- 
 ion of a husband, would be unquestionably 
 to have one half of them at least either de- 
 feated in their object, or immediately inter- 
 dicted, from no other reason than pure ignor- 
 ance of their naturé, cause, and effect. Thus, 
 unless a husband can feel sufficient confidence 
 in his wife, to allow her to rule with undis- 
 puted authority in this little sphere, her case 
 must be a pitiable one indeed. 
 
 I have repeated the word liiéle, because I 
 believe it is from an ambitious desire to ex- 
 tend the limits of this sphere, that many have 
 brought trouble upon themselves, by having 
 their authority called in question, more than 
 it ever would have been, had they remained 
 satisfied with a narrower field for its exercise. 
 
 But delicacy, and strict fairness, are both 
 required on the part of the wife, to ensure to 
 herself this desirable allowance of free agency, 
 for she must remember, that her husband has 
 also his appropriate sphere of action, and a 
 much more extensive one than hers, in which 
 she has no right to interfere, because, as in 
 the case already stated, she is incapable of 
 understanding what is necessary there; and 
 if on both sides there should be the exercise 
 of this delicacy and fairness, in avoiding all 
 
 a 
 
42 
 
 assumption of a right which does not exist, 
 it is impossible but that real affection should 
 dictate the mutual development of much, if 
 not all, which could interest the feelings of 
 either party. 
 
 Thus, there need be no positive conceal- 
 ment, for that is the last thing I would re- 
 commend ; but an open, honest, straightfor- 
 
 upon the other, less for assistance in its own 
 sphere, than for perfect propriety of feeling, 
 and constant adherence to principle, in the 
 sphere to which it more properly belonged. 
 It is upon a right observance of distinctions 
 such as these, that the dignity and usefulness 
 of the marriage state in a great degree de- 
 pend—from remembering that principle must 
 ever be the foundation of action; but that 
 | the open disclosure of every act and purpose, 
 } must ever be a matter of choice; and if re- 
 | garded as such, there will be no doubt but 
 | mutual love will supply information enough 
 to satisfy the most unbounded curiosity. 
 Thus it has never appeared to me, that the 
 free agency which a judicious wife should be 
 | permitted to enjoy in her own department, 
 had any thing to do with concealment; any 
 more than that the transactions in one public 
 office should be said to be concealed from 
 another, because each had its separate rooms 
 and officers. So far from this, I should rather 
 say that a generous nature, and especially 
 that of woman, when implicitly trusted to, 
 and made to feel that trust, will, from a sense 
 of grateful satisfaction, involuntarily disclose 
 its every plan, purpose, and act, not even 
 throwing a veil over its many failures and 
 short-comings in the way of discretion or duty. 
 Indeed, so powerful in its influence upon 
 the female character, is this feeling of being 
 trusted, that I have often thought if man 
 could know the heart of woman better, he 
 might almost guide it to his pleasure, by sim- 
 ply using this master-key to her gratitude 
 and generosity. But I must not forget, that 
 my business is with the behavior of wives to 
 | their husbands, not with that far easier sub- 
 
 | bands to their wives. 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 prehended under the general head of confi- 
 dence towards wives, there is one of such 
 paramount importance to the rectitude of 
 woman’s conduct in her domestic affairs, that 
 were this one consideration all which had to 
 be taken into account, it would of itself be 
 well worth every endeavor to ensure so de- 
 sirable an end. I mean the open communi- 
 cation of the state of the husband’s pecuniary 
 circumstances to his wife ; 
 imagine any thing more congenial to the best 
 feelings of a faithful wife, than to be made 
 the partaker of all the interest and enjoyment 
 her husband derives from prosperity and suc- 
 
 ward way of acting, as if each mind depended | 
 
 greater cruelty, than that of allowing a wo- 
 
 real state of his affairs, when they are in any 
 
 ject in a female hand; the behavior of hus- | 
 
 Among other points of consideration, com- 
 
 for I can scarcely 
 
 cess; while, on the other hand, there is no 
 
 man of good principles and right feelings, to 
 go on ignorantly conducting her household 
 expenses, in a manner inconsistent with the 
 
 degree depressed or involved in difficulty. 
 Yet how often has this been the case! 
 How often has an honest-hearted woman had 
 to bear the charge of having been in reality | 
 dishonest to her husband’s creditors, when 
 ignorance, not want of principle, was the 
 cause! Besides which, how much may be 
 done by domestic economy, and by a consist- 
 ently meek and unpretending deportment, 
 if not exactly to avert the calamity of a ruin- 
 ed house, at least to alleviate the wounded 
 and bitter feelings which naturally arise 
 among those who are the greatest sufferers. 
 The present day is one which claims pecu- 
 liar attention to this subject; and if from any 
 fault in the wife, from any betrayal of her 
 husband’s secrets, any artifice or trickery 
 practised against himself, any assumption 
 of unbecoming importance on her part, any 
 want of consideration for his feelings, or fool- 
 ish and presumptuous interference with mat- 
 ters peculiarly his own—if from any of these 
 causes, she has shut herself out from his con- 
 fidence, now, before it shall be too late, is the 
 time to begin a new system of behavior, for 
 which she may eventually be rewarded by | 
 being admitted into his bosom-counsels, and | 
 thus allowed to share, not only in all the || 
 
CONFIDENCE AND TRUTH. 
 
 43 
 
 hopes and fears arising out of the fluctua- 
 ting nature of pecuniary affairs; but also in 
 those nobler acts of self-denial, which accom- 
 pany sound and enlightened views of the re- 
 quirements of justice, in all transactions of 
 a pecuniary character. | 
 
 What, then, of such importance as to ob- 
 tain the perfect and confiding trust of the 
 companion with whom, or for whom, you 
 have to act in every thing you do? and in 
 order to this happy attainment, nothing is so 
 essential as that you should yourself be true. 
 
 There is a spirit of truth and a spirit of 
 falsehood, pervading many of those actions, 
 which could not be said to be either true or 
 false in themselves. Yet, according to the 
 
 choice we make betwixt these, our behavior 
 
 will be upright, candid, generous, and free; 
 
 or it will be servile, artful, selfish, and cow- 
 ardly. It does not follow, in order to practise 
 | falsehood, that we must deviate from the ex- 
 
 act letter of truth. There are methods of 
 
 | deceiving, as many, and as various, as the 
 | circumstances which checker our experience 
 
 every day; and if a conscientious adherence 
 
 | to truth is not made the rule of daily life, one 
 || act of duplicity will grow out of another, un- 
 
 til the whole conduct becomes a tissue of ar- 
 tifice and deceit. 
 
 The first and most innocent step towards 
 falsehood is concealment. Before our com- 
 mon acquaintances, there is wisdom in prac- 
 
 | tising concealment to a certain extent; but 
 
 where the intimacy is so great, the identity 
 so close, as between a husband and a wife, 
 concealment becomes a sort of breach of 
 faith ; and with parties thus situated, the 
 very act of concealment can only be kept up 
 by a series of artful endeavors to ward off 
 suspicion or observation of the thing con- 
 cealed. 
 
 Now, when a husband discovers, as in all 
 probability he will, unless these endeavors 
 are carried out to a very great extent—when 
 he discovers that his wife has been conceal- 
 
 | ing one thing from him, he very naturally 
 
 supposes that she has concealed many more ; 
 and his suspicions will be awakened in pro- 
 portion. It will then be in vain to assure 
 
 him that your motive was good, that what 
 you did was only to spare him pain, or afford 
 him pleasure; he will feel that the very act 
 is one which has set him apart in his own 
 house as a stranger, rather than a guardian 
 there—an enemy, rather than a friend. 
 
 Why then should you begin with conceal- 
 ment? The answer, it is to be feared, is but 
 too familiar—* My husband is so unreason- 
 able.” And here then we see again the great 
 advantage of choosing as a companion for | 
 life, a reasonable man, who may with safety 
 and satisfaction be made acquainted with 
 every thing you think or do. 
 
 After concealment has been habitually prac- 
 tised, there follows, in order to escape detec- 
 tion, a system of false pretences, assumed 
 appearances, and secret schemes, as much 
 at variance with the spirit of truth, as the 
 most direct falsehood, and unquestionably as 
 debasing to the mind. 
 
 But, as an almost inevitable consequence, 
 next follows falsehood itself; for what wo- 
 man would like her husband to know that 
 she had, for days, months, or years, been 
 practising upon his credulity. If he discov- 
 ers what she has been concealing, he will 
 also discover, that often when the subject 
 was alluded to, she artfully evaded his ques- 
 tions by introducing another ; that sometimes 
 she so managed her voice as to convey one 
 idea, while she expressed another; and that 
 at other times she absolutely looked a lie. 
 No, she cannot bear that he should look back 
 and see all this, lest he should despise her ; 
 and, therefore, in some critical moment, when 
 brought into that trying situation in which 
 she must either confess al!, or deny all, she 
 pronounces at last that fatal word, which 
 effectually breaks asunder the spiritual bond 
 of married love. 
 
 And now, it is scarcely possible to imagine 
 a more melancholy situation than that of a 
 weak and helpless woman, separated by false- 
 hood from all true fellowship, either human or 
 divine; for there, is no fellowship in false- 
 hood. The very soul of disunion might 
 justly be said to be embodied in a lie. It is 
 in fact the sudden breaking asunder of that 
 
 a 
 
SSS 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 se AS A i 
 
 44 
 
 great chain which connects together all 
 spiritual influences; and she who is guilty 
 of falsehood, must necessarily be alone ;— 
 alone, for she has no sympathy of feeling 
 with the beautiful creation around her, of 
 which it has truly been said, that “ Nature 
 never deceives ;’’—alone, for in that higher 
 world, where all her secret thoughts and acts 
 are registered, its very light is truth ;—alone, 
 for she has voluntarily become a stranger, a 
 suspected thing, an enemy, to that one friend 
 in whose bosom she might have found shelter 
 and repose. 
 
 It is a fact which scarcely needs to be re- 
 peated, that the closer the intimacy, and the 
 more important the trust, the greater is the 
 individual injury, and consequently the viola- 
 tion of personal feeling, when that trust is 
 abused. ‘Thus when the child is first made 
 to understand that it has been deceived by 
 
 its mother, the very life of its little soul seems. 
 
 for a moment to be quenched. When the 
 father finds that his, prodigal son has but 
 returned to take advantage of his affection 
 and credulity, his wounded spirit sinks, and 
 his weary heart is broken. But when the 
 husband looks with earnest eyes into the 
 countenance whose beauty was once his 
 sunshine; when memory flies back, and 
 brings again her plighted vow, with all its 
 treasury of truth; when he thinks of that 
 fond heart which seemed to cling to his in 
 all the guileless innocence of unsophisticated 
 youth—oh, it is horrible “to be discarded 
 thence,” by the dark demon of distrust, per- 
 petually reminding him, that the bright and 
 sunny tide of early love, upon which he 
 trusted all the riches of his soul, is but a 
 smiling and deceitful ocean, whose glassy 
 surface at once reflects the hues of heaven, 
 and conceals the depths of hell. 
 
 It is impossible to speak in language ade- 
 quate to the importance of this cause, for by 
 failure in this one point, the whole fabric of 
 connubial affection, which might otherwise 
 be made so influential in the promotion of 
 every kind of good, becomes a heap of ruins, 
 as disgraceful to the deceiver as unsightly to 
 the deceived. — ' 
 
 Yet, after all, is not the former the greater 
 sufferer of the two? Is it not more miserable 
 to be thus separated from all community of 
 thought and feeling, either earthly or divine, 
 than to be the mere dupe of treachery or 
 guile? Yes, and she feels it so, and out of 
 her very desolation, sometimes awakes the 
 voice of penitence, making confession of some 
 individual act of transgression, and craving, |f 
 with all the humility of utter wretchedness, 
 to be reinstated in confidence and esteem. 
 But this cannot be. The thing is impossible. 
 The silver cord which has ‘been loosed, no 
 single act of human will can tie again. The 
 golden bowl which has been broken, no sin- 
 gle effort of human kindness can restore. 
 
 But may not years bring back the confi- 
 dence so wantonly abused? Oh, blessed | 
 thought! Begin, then, a new life. Let truth 
 be the principle of every thought, the echo 
 of every word, the foundation of every act. 
 Truth is invincible—it must—it will prevail. | 
 Beautiful as the morning it will arise; glori- | 
 ous as the noonday it will shine forth; calm 
 as the evening it will be followed by repose ; 
 and thus each day may feel its gladdening 
 and invigorating influence ; while every flow- 
 er that grows beneath its ray will shed a 
 charm upon the path of life. 
 
 But if the regaining of confidence after it has 
 been lost, be an object of such immeasurable 
 importance to attain, what must be the happi- 
 ness of her who has never lost this treasure ? 
 who has borne through all change, and all 
 trial, a true and upright heart towards her 
 husband, who, though he may have some- 
 times mistaken, and sometimes blamed her, 
 has still been able to say, even when appear- 
 ances were least favorable, and when per- 
 haps he was most in need of the consolation 
 derived from reposing implicit confidence in 
 her sincerity— 
 
 “Thou art my true and honorable wife, 
 As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 
 That visit this sad heart.” 
 
 What, then, if she has sometimes suffered 
 when it has seemed asif a little artifice would 
 have made all things easy, that suffering has 
 
"been in anoble cause. And then the reward! 
 _—the conscience void of offence towards that 
 _ one being to whom she can be nothing, if not 
 _true—the fearless look—the unfaltering tone 
 _—the steady hand—the soul that might be 
 / mirrored forth before him—the hopes, the 
 | fears, that might be his--the workings of a 
 busy mind, whose minutest plans might all 
 at any moment be laid bare before his scru- 
 tinizing eye—and onward, into the far future, 
 not a dream but he might know it all—and 
 onward yet—the blessed consciousness that, 
 should the secrets of all hearts be read on 
 the great day of everlasting doom, there 
 would be one whose glance, and that the 
 most familiar, would not detect a single act 
 or thought of her whole life inimical to his 
 interests, or such as might not have been 
 revealed to him before. 
 
 Nor is the mere escape from the uncer- 
 tainty, anxiety, and pain, entailed upon the 
 habitual practice of falsehood, all that has to 
 be considered. A _ brighter picture in the 
 page of truth, is that in which we see por- 
 trayed in living hues, the enjoyment of un- 
 burdening a full heart, and laying open its 
 secret treasury of thought and feeling to him 
 whose earthly portion, whether it be one of 
 weal or wo, must inevitably be blended with 
 our own. And it is from this very identity 
 that the practice and the love of truth be- 
 comes more important, as a moral obligation 
 in the married state, than in all others. In- 
 deed the perfect truth towards each other of 
 individuals thus united, is as necessary to 
 their welfare and their happiness, as the 
 union and concurrence of the different mem- 
 bers of the human frame, is to the usefulness 
 and integrity of the whole. 
 
 It is, as has already been stated, the pecu- 
 liar privilege of a strict adherence to truth, 
 that it brings its own reward ; for if we vol- 
 untarily confess the truth, by this means we 
 obtain confidence ; if we suffer for truth, we 
 have the consolation of suffering in a noble 
 cause, and of gaining strength by every effort 
 we make in its support; while, if we en- 
 deavor conscientiously to uphold the truth, 
 and thus consistently exemplify the beauty 
 
 THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 45 
 
 and the power of this. great attribute in the 
 Divine government, we have the still higher 
 satisfaction of doing our humble part to glorify 
 the God of truth. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 Ir, in the foregoing pages, I have sukeni| 
 of the married state as one of the trial of 
 principle, rather than of the fruition of hope ; 
 and if, upon the whole, my observations 
 should appear to have assumed a discour- 
 aging, rather than a cheering character, it has 
 arisen, in the first place, from my not having 
 reached, until now, that part of the subject in 
 which the advantages of this connection are 
 fully developed ; and if, in the second place, 
 I must plead gulity to the charge of desiring 
 to throw some hindrances in the way of 
 youthful aspiration, it has simply been from 
 observing amongst young people generally, 
 how much greater is the tendency to make 
 the experiment for themselves, than to pre- 
 pare themselves for the experiment. 
 
 If, therefore, I have selected words of 
 warning, in preference to those of an opposite 
 nature, it has been because the tide of popular 
 feeling, especially amongst young women, is 
 already sufficiently strong in favor of matri- 
 monial alliances ; while the disposition to en- 
 sure all the advantages of such an alliance, 
 appears far beyond what bears any propor- 
 tion to the desire evinced for submitting to 
 that discipline, by which alone they can be 
 rendered permanent. 
 
 That this disproportion betwixt expectation 
 and reality, arises from ignorance, rather than 
 any other cause, I am fully prepared to believe 
 —ignorance of the human heart, of the actual 
 circumstances of human life, of the operation 
 of cause and effect in human affairs, and of 
 the relative duty of human beings one to- 
 wards another. 
 
 The numbers who have failed in this way 
 to realize in their experience of married life, 
 
 ] 
 
 ad 
 
 : 
 ii alll SRN: age aca 
 
= 
 
 46 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 I 
 
 the fair picture which imagination painted 
 before it was tried, it would be useless to at- 
 tempt to enumerate; as well as to tell how 
 many have thrown the blame of their disap- 
 pointment upon situation or circumstances— 
 upon husband, servants, friends, or relatives 
 —when the whole has rested with themselves, 
 and has arisen solely out of a want of adapta- 
 tion in their views and habits to the actual 
 requirements of the new state of existence 
 upon which they have entered. 
 
 That this state itself is not capable of the 
 greatest amount of happiness which is ex- 
 pected from it, I should be sorry to deny ; and 
 and all I would attempt to prove in the way 
 of discouragement is, that its happiness will 
 often prove to be of a different kind from 
 what has been anticipated.’ All that has been 
 expected to be enjoyed from the indulgence 
 of selfishness, must then of necessity be left 
 -out of our calculations, with all that ministers 
 to the pride of superiority, all that gratifies the 
 love of power, all that converts the woman 
 into the heroine, as well as all that renders 
 her an object of general interest and at- 
 traction. 
 
 It may very naturally be asked, what then 
 remains? TI answer, the love of married life ; 
 and in this answer is embodied the richest 
 treasure which this earth affords. All other 
 kinds of love hold by a very slender tenure 
 the object of supreme regard; but here the 
 actual tie is severed only by the stroke of 
 death, while mutual interest, instead of weak- 
 ening, renders it more secure. The love of 
 a parent for a child, natural, and pure, and 
 holy as it is, can never bind that child beyond 
 a certain period within its influence; while 
 the love of a child for a parent must necessa- 
 rily be interrupted in the course of nature, by 
 the dissolution of its earthly hold. The love 
 of a brother or a sister must ever be ready to 
 give place to dearer claims $ and that of a 
 friend, though “ very precious” while it lasts, 
 has no real security for its continuance. And 
 yet all these, according to the. laws which 
 regulate our being, in their own place and 
 measure, supply the natural craving of the 
 human heart for something beyond itself, 
 
 which it may call its own, and in the certainty 
 of possessing which, it may implicitly re- 
 pose. | 
 
 Nor is that sage philosophy, which would 
 deny the existence of this craving, or make 
 light of its requirements. There is no moody 
 misanthrope, however solitary the lot he 
 chooses for himself, but cherishes within the 
 secret of his soul, some yearning thought of 
 how he might have been, and could have, 
 loved. There is no agitator of public move- 
 ments, hardened and sharpened by the fierce 
 contact of contending interests, but seeks 
 some chosen spot of rest, where the cold ar- 
 mor of his selfishness may be thrown off, 
 before that being whose hand has been ac- 
 customed to pour into his breast the balm of 
 sympathy and love. ‘There is no outcast 
 from the holier-walks of life, no victim of its 
 cruel vices, no maligner of religion and its 
 sacred institutions, but acknowledges, at 
 times, a secret impulse to cling to something 
 more kind, more gentle, and less degraded 
 than himself. 
 
 Nor is it only in our human sympathies 
 that this craving is developed. The tame 
 bird, or the pet lamb, is folded to the solitary 
 bosom of the neglected child, with as intense 
 a feeling, as if it knew the thoughts of tender- 
 ness pent up and aching there. The miser, || 
 whose grovelling soul is alike at enmity with 
 God and man, enters his narrow cell, and, 
 calling to his side his faithful dog, smiles on 
 the unconscious animal with a look which at 
 once reveals the history of his wasted heart. 
 And strange to say, it is sometimes even thus 
 with ambition, and with many of those aims 
 and occupations which absorb man’s life. 
 They are followed, not for the results they 
 bring, so much as for the promises they offer 
 —for the vague hopes they hold out, that 
 their entire accomplishment will satisfy the 
 cravings of an insatiable soul. 
 
 But, perhaps, more than in any other case, 
 is it thus with literary fame, in the pursuit of 
 which how many are urged on by a strong, 
 though it may seem to some a fanciful im- 
 pression, that the voice of feeling which has 
 failed to find an echo in its own immediate 
 
sphere, may, in the wide world through which 
 it is sent forth, touch in some unknown 
 breast a sympathetic chord, and thus awaken 
 a responsive emotion. 
 
 But if with man, the most powerful and 
 independent of created beings, there ever ex- 
 ists this want of spiritual reliance and com- 
 munion, what must it be to the weaker heart 
 of woman, to find one earthly hold after an- 
 other giving way, and to look around upon 
 the great wilderness of life, in which she 
 stands unconnected, and consequently alone ? 
 If there be one principle in woman’s nature 
 stronger than all others, it is that which 
 prompts her to seek sympathy and protection 
 from some being whom she may love, and 
 by whom she may be loved in return. The 
 influence of fashion is, perhaps, of all others 
 to which the female sex is exposed, the most 
 hardening to the heart—the most chilling to 
 its warm and genuine emotions. Yet I much 
 question whether the successful candidate 
 for public admiration, would not sometimes 
 willingly retire from the splendid circle in 
 which she is the centre of attraction, to re- 
 ceive in private the real homage of one un- 
 sophisticated, noble, and undivided heart. 
 Having failed in this, woman’s first and most 
 excusable ambition, how often does she go 
 forth into the world, to waste upon the cold 
 and polished surface of society, those capa- 
 bilities of thought and feeling which might, 
 if more wisely directed, have made a happy 
 home ; and how often is she compelled to 
 look, appalled and horror-struck, upon the 
 utter emptiness of the reward which follows 
 this expenditure, when the same outlay. ina 
 different, soil, and under happier culture, 
 might have enabled her to gather into her bo- 
 som a hundred fold the richer fruits of con- 
 fidence and affection ! 
 
 It is only in the married state that the 
 boundless capabilities of woman’s love can 
 be fully known or appreciated. There may, 
 in other situations, be occasional instances of 
 heroic self-sacrifice, and devotion to an earth- 
 
 ly object ; but it is only here that the lapse 
 
 of time, and the familiar occasions of every 
 day, can afford opportunities of exhibiting 
 
 THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 the same spirit, operating through all those 
 minor channels, which flow like fertilizing 
 rills through the bosom of every family, 
 where the influence of woman is alike happy 
 in its exercise, and enlightened in its charac- 
 ter. 
 
 Out of all which our first parents sacri- 
 ficed when they lost their high estate, it was 
 mercifully permitted them to retain their 
 mutual love; and it is possible to imagine 
 that the mother cf mankind, even when look- 
 ing her last upon that Eden whose flowers 
 her care had tended, would turn to the com- 
 panion of her banishment with a deeper and 
 more fervent appeal to his sympathy and af- 
 fection, than she ever could have felt the 
 need of, in those bowers of beauty where a 
 leaf was never seen to fade. Thus out of 
 her very weakness, and from among the 
 many snares which have beset the path of 
 woman since that day of awful doom, has 
 arisen a more intense desire, and a more ur- 
 gent need, for the support of a stronger na- 
 ture, with which her own can mingle, until 
 it almost loses the bitter consciousness of 
 having forfeited all claim to be still an inhab- 
 itant of Paradise. 
 
 Lest, however, the temptations to this for- 
 getfulness should stand between her and the 
 necessity there is to seek a higher and a ho- 
 lier rest, there has fallen on her earthly lot 
 some shadows, which the light of earthly love 
 is not sufficient to dispel. Even love itself 
 has sometimes. failed ; and, worse than all, in 
 her own bosom has become extinguished. 
 
 In order to know how to avert this calam- 
 ity, it is necessary to endeavor to look calm- 
 ly and dispassionately at the subject in every 
 point of view to dispel the visions of imagi- 
 nation, and to ask what is the real cause of 
 failure, where woman has so much at stake. 
 
 Love may arise spontaneously, but it does 
 not continue to exist without some care and 
 culture. In a mind whose ideas are all float- 
 ing at large, and whose emotions of feeling 
 or affection are left to the prompting of im- 
 pulse, unrestrained by the discipline or rea- 
 son, there will naturally arise strange wander- 
 ing thoughts, which will be likely at any 
 
48 
 
 THE WIVES UF ENGLAND. 
 
 unguarded moment to undermine so frail a 
 fabric, as love »under such circumstances 
 must ever be. 
 
 One tendency in the mind of the ‘married 
 woman who has thus neglected the govern- 
 ment of her own feelings, will be, on every 
 occasion of momentary vexation or dissatis- 
 faction, to compare her husband with other 
 men to his disadvantage ; than which noth- 
 ing can be more dangerous, or more incon- 
 sistent with that faithfulness which ought 
 ever to be a leading characteristic in the love 
 of married life. Nor ‘can ‘any thing well be 
 more impolitic or absurd; since there is no 
 human being, however excellent, who ‘may 
 not, in some’ way or other, be made to suffer 
 by comparison with others. Besides which, 
 what right have we, as frail and erring crea- 
 tures, to aspire, in this connection, to an alli- 
 
 ance with a being entirely faultless, or even 
 | more perfect than ourselves? 
 
 If then there should occasionally arise feel- 
 ings of disappointment and dissatisfaction, as 
 the lapse of time and a nearer acquaintance 
 develop a husband’s faults, it is good to bear 
 in mind that the same exposure of your'own, 
 from the same cause, must necessarily have 
 taken place ; and by often dwelling upon this 
 view of the subject, a degree of charitable 
 feeling will be excited, more calculated to 
 humble and chasten the heart, than toembit- 
 ter it against the failings of another. 
 
 Still there are frequent provocations of tem- 
 per, which some men through ignorance, and 
 others from perverseness, or the love of pow- 
 er, are not over scrupulous to avoid ; and 
 these, to an irritable temperament, are often 
 more trying than greater deviations from 
 what is strictly right. 
 
 Against the petulance and occasional re- 
 sentment which an accumulation of these 
 trials call forth, there is one great and solemn 
 consideration, by which a woman of right 
 feeling may, at any time, add sufficient 
 weight to the! balance in her husband’s: favor 
 —she may think of his death, of the emotions 
 with which she would receive his last fare- 
 well, and of what would be her situation if 
 
 deprived at'once of ‘his love, his advice, and | 
 
 in our privileged land, where the established 
 
 his protection. ‘We are all'perhaps too little 
 accustomed ‘to such ‘thoughts as these, ex- 
 cept where illness or accident places them 
 immediately before us. “Weare too muchin 
 the habit of looking upon the thread of life 
 with us, as far more likely to be broken first, 
 and of thinking that the stronger frame must 
 necessarily endure the longest. But one 
 realizing thought thatthe sentence of wid- 
 owed loneliness ‘may possibly be ours—how 
 does it sweep away, as by a single breath, 
 the mist of little imperfections which had 
 gathered around a beloved form, and reveal 
 tous atone glance the manly beauties of a 
 noble, or'a generous character ! 
 
 Even beauties’ less than these—the kind 
 
 look, the cordial welcome, the patient answer, 
 the mild forbearance, the gentle and familiar 
 acts of every day which never-tiring affection 
 prompted, and the smile which beamed upon 
 us perhaps when we. deserved it least—all 
 these come back, and live before us, as often 
 as we think of the possibility of losing them 
 forever. And it is good to have the heart 
 thus softened and subdued—-thus made to 
 feel how completely the petty provocations of 
 
 each day wouid vanish from our minds, if we © 
 
 stood by the dying couch of him who never 
 
 offended but in little things, and heard the © 
 parting benediction of the friend who would | 
 fain leave behind him a blessing, which his — 
 living presence had failed to bestow. 
 
 It is an unspeakable privilege enjoyed by — 
 
 the women of England, that in the middle 
 ranks of life, a married woman, however 
 youthful or attractive, if her own manners 
 are unexceptionable, is seldom, or never, ex- 
 posed to the attentions of men, so-as. to lead 
 her affections out of their proper channel. 
 
 How much is gained in domestic and so- 
 cial happiness by this exemption from cus- 
 toms which prevail on the continent, it is here 
 unnecessary to attempt to describe; for I 
 cannot imagine ‘there is any right-minded 
 woman, still less: any Christian wife, who 
 
 does not number it‘among the peculiar bless-— 
 
 ings of her:country, and her sex. Yet-even 
 
 rules of society are: somuch more favorable 
 
 Se 
 
 re een mo 
 
than in others, to the purity of social morals, 
 | and the sanctity of home-enjoyments, there 
 -may occasionally occur an attempted devia- 
 tion from these rules, on the part of ignorant 
 or unprincipled men. In all such cases, how- 
 ever, the slightest approach to undue fami- 
 liarity is easily repelled, by such a look and 
 manner, as all women know how to make 
 use of in discountenancing what is not ac- 
 ceptable ; and even in more trifling cases, or 
 where the temptation to be agreeable over- 
 comes the inclination to be otherwise, I be- 
 lieve that a frank and easy manner of speak- 
 ing of a husband with respect and evident 
 affection, would answer every purpose of 
 putting a stop to such advances; while, on 
 the other hand, nothing can be more likely to 
 invite them, than speaking in complaining 
 terms either of a husband, or of his behavior 
 towards yourself. 
 
 But the surest safeguard both at home and 
 abroad, and the truest test by which to prove 
 the propriety of every look, and act, and 
 word, when mixing in the society of other 
 men, is a sincere and faithful love for the 
 companion of your choice. Without this, it 
 would be vain to lay down rules by which a 
 wandering fancy might be kept in check. 
 An enlightened conscience alone, in such a 
 case, can point out exactly how to act; while 
 with this love, there needs no other guide. 
 It is itself so pure, so constant, and so true, 
 that conscience only echoes oe its gues 
 voice approves. 
 
 And now, having thus loved your husband, 
 and cast in your lot with his—having chosen 
 his portion, his people, and his God for yours, 
 itis meet that you should love him to the 
 last. It is true, there are cases where a 
 gradual deterioration of character, or a sud- 
 den fall from moral rectitude, renders affec- 
 tion the last offering a stranger would think 
 it possible to make at such a shrine; but if 
 others turn away repelled, there is the more 
 need for such a man, that his wife should 
 love him still—there is the more need that 
 one friend should remain to be near him in 
 his moments of penitence, if such should 
 ever come; or to watch the lingering light of 
 
 49 
 
 better days, so as if possible to kindle it once 
 more into a cheerful and invigorating flame. 
 
 Of all the states of suffering which have 
 ever swelled the ocean of human tears, there 
 is none in the smallest degree comparable to 
 
 the situation of such a wife; yet, as if by 
 
 some law of nature, which raises the sweet- 
 est flowers from out the least apparently con- 
 genial soil, it is here that we so often see the 
 character of woman developed in all its love- 
 liest and noblest attributes. It is here that 
 we see to what an almost superhuman height 
 that character can rise, when stripped of its 
 vanity, and divested of its selfishness. Alas! 
 that she should wait for the chastening of a 
 cruel scourge, before she will even aspire to 
 that perfection of moral beauty of which her 
 nature is capable! 
 
 If to love the vicious, or the degraded, 
 were necessarily to love their vices too, it 
 would be a melancholy picture to see an 
 amiable woman falling into such a snare. 
 But though unquestionably too many do this, 
 and sometimes almost unconsciously assimi- 
 late themselves with vice, either from con- 
 stant association with what is evil, or from 
 the habit of referring their own judgment of 
 right and wrong to that of a polluted and de- 
 graded mind; there are others who, with the 
 nicest discrimination, and with the clearest 
 convictions on these points, go on from day 
 to day beholding what they hate, in the most 
 intimate connection with what they love. 
 
 While contemplating the fate of such, our 
 only consolation is to compare their situation 
 as it is, with what it would be, were there no 
 channel open to mercy and to hope, for the 
 outpourings of a heavily laden heart through 
 the medium of prayer. Friends bring no 
 comfort, earth holds no consolation for those 
 who weep such tears; yet often in the depth 
 of their affliction have they been enabled to 
 own and bless the chastening of a Father’s 
 hand, and to feel that in that very ‘chas- 
 tening there was love ! 
 
 But it is time to turn our attention to that | 
 portion of the love of married life, which be- | 
 longs more especially to the other sex; and 
 here the first thing to be observed is, that no 
 
 —.. °° 
 
 THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
———— 
 
 ' 
 
 paratively few of his, and of these perhaps 
 
 50 
 
 man’s heart can be said to be really gained 
 before his marriage. He may be the most 
 obsequious of beaux, the most flattering of 
 admirers, and even the most devoted of lov- 
 ers; but his affection has not been tried in 
 the way which brings it to the severest test. 
 It is true it may have been tried by absence, 
 by caprice, by coldness, or neglect; but it 
 has yet to be tried by the security of entire 
 possession ; by the monotony of sameness ; 
 and, I grieve to add, too often by the neglect 
 of those personal attractions by which it was 
 at first so studiously invited. 
 How little do women think of this, when, 
 by the security of the marriage tie, they are 
 rendered careless of the preservation of the 
 
 richest jewel in their bridal wreath, and one | 
 
 which never yet was secured to its possessor 
 by any outward bond! How little do they 
 reflect, that while it is the natural tendency 
 of woman’s heart to become more tenderly 
 attached to the being with whom she is thus 
 associated, it is not so with that of man! 
 And thus it becomes the study of a life, to 
 retain in all its freshness and its beauty, the 
 precious gem committed to their trust. 
 
 Nor should we murmur that it is so.. For 
 once possessed ‘of this inestimable treasure, 
 and secure of its continuance, what should 
 we aspire to beyond our present state? 
 Even as things are, we see a marked neglect 
 in the behavior of some wives; as if their 
 husbands were equally bound to love, as to 
 protect them. What then would be the de- 
 gree of carelessness prevailing among wo- 
 men, if this were really the case, and if the 
 heart of man invariably, and of necessity, 
 went along with his duty as a husband! 
 
 Happily for our sex, however, there are 
 means of securing this treasure, more effica- 
 cious than the marriage vow; and among 
 these, I shall mention first, the desirable- 
 ness of not being too requiring. It must 
 ever be borne in mind, that man’s love, even 
 in its happiest exercise, is not like woman’s; 
 for while she employs herself through every 
 hour, in fondly weaving one beloved image 
 into all her thoughts; he gives to her com- 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 neither the loftiest nor the best. His highest 
 hopes and. brightest energies, must ever be 
 expected to expend themselves upon the 
 promotion of some favorite scheme, or the 
 advancement of some public measure; and 
 if with untiring satisfaction he turns to her || 
 after the efforts of the day have been com- | 
 pleted ; and weary, and perhaps dispirited, | 
 comes back to pour into her faithful bosom } 
 the history of those trials which the world | 
 can never know, and would not pity if it | 
 could; if she can thus supply to the extent | 
 of his utmost wishes, the sympathy and the | 
 advice, the confidence and the repose, of || 
 which he is in need, she will have little cause || 
 to think herself neglected. | 
 
 It is a wise beginning, then, for every mar- || 
 ried woman to make up her mind to be for- | 
 gotten through the greater part of every day; | 
 to make up her mind to many rivals too in | 
 her husband’s attentions, though not in his |} 
 love; and among these, I would mention | 
 one, whose claims it is folly to dispute ; since 
 no remonstrances or representations on her } 
 her part will ever be able to render less at- 
 tractive the charms of this competitor. I 
 mean the newspaper, of whose absorbing in- | 
 terest some wives are weak enough to evince 
 a sort of childish jealousy, when they ought | 
 rather to congratulate themselves that their 
 most formidable rival is one of paper. 
 
 The same observations apply perhaps in a | 
 more serious manner to those occuv-anons | 
 which lead men into public life. If the ob- | 
 ject be to do good, either by correcting | 
 abuses, or forwarding benevolent designs, | 
 and not merely to make himself the head of 
 a party, a judicious and right-principled wo- | 
 man will be too happy for her husband to be | 
 instrumental in a noble cause, to put in com- 
 petition with his public efforts, any loss she 
 may sustain in personal attention or domestic 
 comfort. | : 
 
 A system of persecution perseveringly car- | 
 ried on against such manly propensities as 
 reading the newspaper, or even against the | 
 household derangements necessarily accom. |! 
 panying attention to public business, has the | 
 worst possible effect upon a husband’s tem- | 
 
per, and general state of feeling. So much 
 so, that I am inclined to, think a greater 
 amount of real love has been actually teased 
 away, than ever was destroyed by more di- 
 rect, or more powerfully operating means. 
 
 The same system of teasing is sometimes 
 most unwisely kept up, for the purpose of 
 calling forth a succession of those little per- 
 sonal attentions, which, if not gratuitously 
 rendered, are utterly destitute of value, and 
 ought never to be required. 
 
 To all married women, it must be gratify- 
 ing to receive from a husband just so much 
 attention as indicates a consciousness of her 
 
 presence ; but with this acknowledgment, ex- 
 pressed in any manner which may be most 
 congenial to her husband’s tastes and habits, 
 a woman of true delicacy would surely be 
 satisfied without wishing to stipulate for more. 
 
 Still less would she annoy him with an ex- 
 
 hibition of her own fondness, under the idea 
 | of its being necessarily returned in kind. It 
 is a holy, and a blessed mystery, from the 
 secrets of which, in its mastery ower the hu- 
 man mind, almost all women who have ever 
 been beloved, have learned the power of their 
 own tenderness; but in proportion to the 
 purity of its nature, and the sacredness of its 
 exercise, is its capability of being abused and 
 | degraded. Thus, all exhibition of fondness 
 before a third party, may justly be looked 
 upon as indicating a total ignorance of the 
 intensity, and the purity, of that which alone 
 deserves the name of love; while, could one 
 imagine the possibility of such a thing, all ex- 
 ercise of this fondness made use of for the 
 purpose of obtaining advantage over a hus- 
 band’s judgment or inclination, could only be 
 supposed to arise out of the meanest impulse 
 of a low, an artful, and a degraded mind. 
 But we cannot for a moment imagine such 
 things really are. We cannot believe that a 
 woman conscious of her personal attractions, 
 | could hang about her husband’s neck, or 
 weep, or act the impassioned heroine, for the 
 base purpose of inducing him to make some 
 concession, which in his calmer moments he 
 could not be prevailed upon to grant. No, 
 the true heart of woman knows too well, that 
 
 | 
 
 THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 | gain a selfish end; but was permitted her for 
 
 51 
 
 that sweet gift of heaven, granted in consid- 
 eration to her weakness, was never meant to 
 be made use of as an instrument of power to 
 
 the high and holy purpose of softening the 
 harder and more obdurate nature of man, so 
 as to render it capable of impressions upon 
 which the seal of eternity might be set. 
 
 It requires much tact, as well as delicacy, 
 to-know how to render expressions of endear- 
 ment at all times appropriate, and conse- 
 quently acceptable; and as love is far too 
 excellent a thing to be wasted, and tender- 
 ness too precious to be thrown away, a sen- 
 sible woman will most scrupulously consult 
 her husband’s mood and temper in this re- 
 spect, as well as remember always the con- 
 sideration due to her own personal attrac- 
 tions ; for, without some considerable portion 
 of these advantages, it will be always safest 
 not to advance very far, unless there should 
 be clear and direct encouragement to do so. 
 Pitiful pictures have been drawn in works of 
 fiction of the hopelessness of efforts of this 
 nature ; but one would willingly believe them 
 to be confined to fiction only, for there is hap- 
 pily, in most enlightened female minds, an 
 intuitive perception on these points, by which 
 they may discover almost instantaneously 
 from a look, a tone, a touch responsive to. 
 their own, how far it may be desirable to go, 
 and by what shadow they ought to be warn-. 
 ed, as well as by what ray of light they ought 
 to be encouraged. | 
 
 It may be easily imagined how an ignorant, 
 or selfish woman, never can be able to un- 
 derstand all this, and how she may conse- 
 quently make shipwreck of her husband’s 
 happiness, and her own peace, simply from 
 never having known, observed, or felt, what 
 belongs to the nature of the human heart in 
 these its most exquisite touches of light and 
 shade; while, on the other hand, not the 
 highest intellectual attainments, with the no- 
 blest gifts of nature, nor all the importance 
 and distinction which these attributes obtain 
 for their possessor in the world, will be able 
 to efface for a moment the delicate percep- 
 tions of a truly sensitive woman, or to render 
 
52 
 
 her in the deep and fervent love of which 
 she is capable, otherwise than humble, and 
 easily subdued; especially when she comes 
 with childlike simplicity to consult the dial 
 of her husband’s love, and to read there the 
 progress of the advancing or receding shad- 
 ows, which indicate her only true position, 
 through the lapse of every hour. 
 
 It is an act of injustice towards women, 
 and one which often brings its own punish- 
 ment upon talented men, when they select as 
 their companions for life, the ignorant or the 
 imbecile of the other sex, believing that be- 
 cause they are so, they must be more capable 
 of loving. If to be incapable of any thing else, 
 implies this necessity, it must be granted that 
 they are so. But of what value is that. love 
 which exists as a mere impulse of nature, 
 compared with that, which, with an equal 
 force of impulse, combines the highest attri- 
 butes of an enlightened mind, and _ brings 
 them all with their rich produce, like flowers 
 from a delicious garden, a welcome and ap- 
 propriate offering at the shrine whereon the 
 heart is laid. 
 
 Still I must repeat, that it is not the superi- 
 ority of talent, but the early and the best use 
 of such as we possess, which gives this power 
 and beauty to affection, by directing it to its 
 appropriate end. For as in other duties of 
 woman’s life, without knowledge she cannot, 
 if she would, act properly ; so in the expres- 
 sion and bestowment of her love, without an 
 
 intimate acquaintance with the human heart, 
 
 without having exercised her faculties of ob- 
 servation and reflection, and without having 
 obtained by early discipline some mastery 
 over her own feelings, she will ever be liable 
 to rush blindly upon those fatal errors, by 
 which the love of married life so often has 
 been wrecked. 
 
 In connection with this subject, there is one 
 consideration to which sufficient weight is sel- 
 dom given; and that is, the importance of 
 
 never trifling with affection after the nuptual 
 
 knot is tied. To do this at any time, or in 
 any way, is scarcely consistent with the feel- 
 ings of a deeply sensitive and delicate mind: 
 but leaving the display of caprice to those 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 who think it gives zest to the familiarity of | 
 courtship, it cannot be too deeply impressed 
 upon the female mind, that with the days of 
 courtship it must end. 
 
 There are innumerable tests which might 
 be applied to the love of married life, so as to 
 ascertain the degree of its intensity, or the 
 progress of its declension; but who would | 
 wish to apply them t—or who, even if they | 
 did, would dare to make so critical an ex- 
 periment? If there be any cause for its exist- 
 ence, the consciousness comes soon enough, 
 that the wife is not all to her husband which 
 the flattering promises of early love prepared 
 her to expect; and if there be no cause for 
 the slightest shadow of suspicion that her 
 star is beginning to go down, why trouble her 
 own repose, and that of her husband, by 
 questioning the reality of what it would be: 
 worse than death to doubt? 
 
 All teasing, all caprice, all acting, for the 
 purpose of renewing an agreeable effect, are 
 therefore inimical to the mutual trust, and | 
 the steady confidence in reciprocal affection, 
 which are, or ought to be, enjoyed by indi- 
 viduals thus bound together by an indissolu- 
 ble tie. Not that the writer would for a mo- 
 ment wish to discountenance that harmless 
 vivacity with which some women know so 
 well how to charm; or to speak of the priva- 
 cy of married life as consistirtg of dull and - 
 sombre scenes. So far from this, it is her 
 firm belief, that nothing tends more to ani- 
 mate and renew the feeling of affection in 
 the mind of man, than the cheerfulness of 
 his fireside companion. 
 
 It is here, then, that the display of native 
 wit and humor may be enjoyed with the 
 greatest zest, for here it is safe; and the hus- 
 band who comes home to’have his spirit re- 
 freshed by an easy, natural, and well-timed 
 description of the amusing incidents which 
 have taken place during his absence, will not 
 be the most likely to prefer another fireside to 
 his own. 
 
 Even in illness, but especially when laboring 
 only under a slight degree of indisposition, by 
 those who have made cheerfulness a familiar 
 habit, much may be done to prevent the dou- 
 
THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 ble burden of sickness and sorrow falling up- 
 on a husband at once. 
 
 There is a vast difference between being 
 | as ill as you can be, and as well as you can 
 be. To aim at the latter rather than the 
 former, is the duty of every one, but espe- 
 cially of the married woman, the great busi- 
 ness of whose life is to soothe and cheer, not 
 to depress, to weary, or to annoy. If there- 
 fore, before marriage, she has been deluded 
 | into the notion that a multiplicity of little ail- 
 | ments invested her character with an inter- 
 esting kind of delicacy ; the sooner she be- 
 | comes perfectly well after marriage, the better 
 | it will be for herself, and for all around her. 
 
 Lest, however, the liberty of these remarks 
 should appear to touch unkindly those who 
 are really afflicted, I must refer the reader for 
 a proof of what may be done in the way of 
 bearing pain with cheerfulness and resigna- 
 tion, to those many beautiful instances which 
 adorn the history of woman, where her own 
 sufferings appear to be forgotten in the inten- 
 sity of her desire to make others happy. 
 And here again we see the necessity of hav- 
 ing made such acts of self-sacrifice habitual. 
 No human being, however great the moment- 
 ary effort, can practise this kind of self-gov- 
 ernment, or consistently exercise this degree 
 of generosity, merely from the force of tran- 
 sient impulse; and when the greater claims 
 upon the attention of a wife render illness to 
 her a more painful and trying ordeal than it 
 has ever been before, she will feel the greater 
 need of having practised, in her early years, 
 | the habit of so far restraining the expression 
 | of personal feeling, as by making the best of 
 | her afflictions, and gratefully embracing such 
 oppurtuuides of enjoyment as still remain, to 
 b. able to render it not an irksome duty, but 
 a privilege, to be near her in sickness and suf- 
 
 | 
 fering. 
 
 It is a great pity when those trials which 
 render affection so essential to our support, 
 should be made the means of driving it away. 
 Nor is it at all necessary that this should be 
 the case with men; for there is a kindness, 
 and a forbearance, mingled with their higher 
 virtues, which sometimes elicits from them 
 
 ere 
 
 53 
 
 the most devoted and delicate attentions in 
 the season of illness; and all who have ex- 
 perienced, and felt the real value of such at- 
 tentions, will estimate them too highly, to be 
 
 | willing that a habit of fretful or unnecessary 
 
 complaining should thus deprive the hour of 
 suffering of its greatest earthly consolation. 
 
 It would not be just, even if it were possi- 
 ble, to speak on this subject, and to leave un- 
 marked by expressions of gratitude and ad- 
 miration, the gentle kindness and untiring 
 patience, with which some men can devote 
 themselves to the duties of a sick-room; or 
 how, by their superior strength, added some- 
 times to a higher degree of tenderness and 
 delicacy, they can render those services to a 
 weak or suffering wife, which nothing but the 
 love of married life can either purchase or 
 repay. But though one would willingly, for- 
 give the wife, who for the gratification afford- 
 ed by such kindness, would almost wish to 
 suffer, it must ever be remembered, that not 
 by complaining of every little ache and pain, 
 is such kindness to be purchased; but by 
 bearing, with sweetness and serenity, those 
 trials which the all-wise Disposer of human 
 events sees meet to inflict. 
 
 It is in seasons such as these, that the per- 
 
 fect identity originating in the marriage bond, | 
 
 is most deeply felt—that identity which gives 
 a spiritual nature to an earthly union. It is 
 true we are told there is no such thing as 
 giving in marriage in heaven; but we are 
 left to enjoy the happiness of believing, that 
 there is something almost heavenly in the 
 “marriage of true minds’”—something which 
 brings us nearer, than any other circumstance 
 in this sublunary state, to an apprehension 
 of what must be the enjoyment of those re- 
 
 gions of felicity, where all existences are 
 
 blended into one, and where the essential 
 principle of that one is love. 
 
 Nor is it the least wonderful property be- 
 longing to this drop of sweetness in life’s 
 
 great ocean, that it can exist almost inde- . 
 
 pendently of outward circumstances. How 
 many of the hapless inheritors of poverty 
 and suffering have nothing else; and yet 
 their lot is scarcely to be called bitter, so long 
 
 eee 
 
 \ 
 
 $e 
 
 rr SE AE 
 
 LSE OE TTS A I A A nee 
 
Loe. 
 
 as they have this. On the other hand, how 
 
 many a’ desolate but jewelled brow, would 
 doff its envied wreath, for the privilege of 
 sharing this enjoyment with one who was 
 
 | equally loving and beloved! 
 
 Let us not, however, fall into the romantic 
 notion, that outward circumstances have no- 
 thing to do with the maintenance of this 
 strong feeling of identity. Poverty of itself, 
 or privation in the abstract, would probably 
 never be able to shake the foundation of 
 man’s love, or woman’s either; but such is 
 the complicated texture of the human mind, 
 that no single portion of suffering or enjoy- 
 ment exists to us alone, but each draws 
 along with it a train of associating links, by 
 
 | which it is connected sometimes with what is 
 | most heterogeneous and dissimilar to its own 
 
 nature. Thus it is the manner in which pov- 
 erty is borne, which so frequently constitutes 
 
 || the greatest trial of love—the mutual com- 
 
 plainings, recriminations, and _ suspicions, 
 which it calls forth ; not its suffering, its des- 
 titution, and its abasement, for under these it 
 is within the province of love to support and 
 to console ; and, on the other hand, it is the 
 vanity, the dissipation, and the diversity of 
 
 | interests excited by circumstances of extra- 
 
 ordinary prosperity, which often prove fatal 
 to the love of married life; when the wider 
 range of duties and privileges, belonging to 
 an exalted station, might have constituted a 
 stronger bond of sympathy between individ- 
 uals thus elevated together. 
 
 Thus the fault is not in the love of mar- 
 ried life, that it gives way so often under the 
 trial of outward circumstances; but in the 
 power so frequently brought to bear against 
 it, from the wrong feelings which circum- 
 stances are allowed to call into action. 
 
 Of man’s love it must ever be remembered 
 too, that if once destroyed, it is destroyed for- 
 ever. Woman has the strong power of her 
 sympathy and her imagination, by which in- 
 terest can be re-awakened, and the past can 
 be made to live again; but the nature of 
 man’s affection admits of no very potent 
 stimulus from such causes. When once his 
 tenderness toward the object of his affection 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 is extinguished, his love may too truly be 
 said to have lost its bloom, its freshness, and 
 its intensity. A sense of duty may still sup- 
 ply what propriety requires, and a feeling 
 that his doom is fixed may prevent any great 
 expenditure of thought in sad and unavailing 
 regrets; but who that has looked “on this 
 picture and on that”—who that has observed 
 the dull and leaden aspect presented by mar- 
 ried life under these circumstances, could 
 contemplate with equanimity of mind, the 
 possibility of its succeeding in the place of 
 that bright and glowing picture first brought 
 to light by the early promise of mutual love ? 
 
 It should then be the first and last study of 
 every married woman, to preserve this pic- 
 ture in all its purity, and all its freshness; 
 remembering ever that it is not from the 
 great and stirring accidents of time, that the 
 most danger is to be apprehended; but that 
 sometimes— . 
 
 “ A word unkind or wrongly taken; 
 
 Or Love, which tempest never shook, 
 A breath—a touch like this hath shaken.” 
 
 It is not, therefore, by exemption from out- 
 ward calamity, that woman can preserve this 
 treasure of her life; but by maintaining | 
 through all the little incidents of daily inter- 
 course a true and faithful heart towards her 
 husband—true in its own affections—true also 
 to the various requirements of human nature | 
 —and true in its attachment to his interests, || 
 both as they relate to time and to eternity. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 Ir in describing the domestic happiness of 
 English homes, the love of married life were 
 all which had to be dwelt upon, the task of 
 the writer would be like that of one who en- ' 
 ters a garden for no other purpose than to 
 cull the flowers; but as among the fairest 
 productions of nature, the intrusion of noxious 
 weeds must ever be anticipated ; so among 
 the brighter scenes of human life, dark pas- 
 
| 
 
 TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 sages must occasionally be expected; and 
 happy will it be if they only appear like pass- 
 ing clouds over the landscape, leaving the 
 aspect of the whole more vivid and beautiful, 
 for the trifling interruption to its sameness 
 and repose. 
 
 That married life has its peculiar trials, it 
 would imply great ignorance of the actual 
 state of human affairs to attempt to disprove ; 
 and while we gladly admit the fact, that it is 
 possible to be happier in this state, than any 
 human being can be alone; we must also 
 bear in mind, that it is possible to be more 
 miserable too—perhaps for this very reason, 
 that the greatest trials connected with this 
 state of existence, are such as cannot be told, 
 and therefore such as necessarily set the suf- 
 ferer apart from all human sympathy and 
 consolation. Many of these, however, may 
 be greatly ameliorated by a willingness to 
 meet them in a proper way; but more es- 
 pecially, by an habitual subjection of self to 
 the interests and the happiness of others. 
 
 Among the trials. peculiar to married life, 
 we will first speak of those of temper; and 
 here it is necessary to refer again to the 
 common delusion prevailing among young 
 women, which leads them to look forward to 
 the time of marriage, as the opening of a 
 scene of unlimited indulgence, where -every 
 wish will be consulted, and every inclination 
 gratified to its full extent, and where con- 
 sequently it will be impossible that offences 
 should ever come. 
 
 It requires but litile reflection to perceive, 
 that even if the husband had been sincere in 
 all the promises, which as a lover he held 
 forth, it would not be in his power to render 
 the lot of any woman one of uninterrupted 
 enjoyment; for however faithfully his own 
 part might be fulfilled, it would still be the 
 inevitable consequence of thus setting out 
 together in the serious business of conducting 
 a household, that circumstances should press 
 
 | upon both, so as either to thwart their incli- 
 
 nations, or berid them to submission. Be- 
 yond these, however, it must be allowed, that 
 
 | there are no trials of temper arising out of 
 
 the cross occurrences incident to family af- 
 
 fairs, at all to be compared with those which 
 belong to the close intercourse of persons of 
 dissimilar habits bound together for life. 
 
 It is a curious fact, that however irritable 
 the temper may be, a stranger has compara- 
 tively no power to ruffle it; while, on the 
 other hand, the closer the intimacy, the 
 greater is the liability both to pain and pro- 
 
 vocation, where that intimacy is made use of 
 
 as a key to the secret passages of the heart. 
 Hence the bland and patient smiles with 
 which a stranger is sometimes listened to, 
 when a sister or a brother conversing in the 
 same style, would scarcely be endured; and 
 hence the peevish answer sometimes be- 
 stowed upon a husband, when a guest is im- 
 mediately spoken to in the gentlest and most 
 conciliating tone. | 
 
 There is something, too, in the bare fact of 
 being indissolubly bound together, which, in- 
 stead of rendering it for that reason an ob- 
 ject of supreme desire that the bondage 
 should be one of silken cords, rather than one 
 of weary chains, seems to produce in the 
 human mind, a sort of perverse determina- 
 tion to bear, whatever must be borne, as 
 badly as we can. 
 
 That the prospect of having to combat with 
 any trial of temper but for a very limited space 
 of time, has a peculiar effect in rendering it 
 more tolerable, we have sufficient proof in 
 the conduct of hired nurses, who, perhaps, 
 of all human beings, have the most to put up 
 with in the way of provocations of this kind. 
 It cannot be supposed that persons of this 
 description possess any peculiar advantages 
 in the way of mental discipline, to give them 
 this power of selfcommand ; nor is it a ques- 
 tion of selfinterest, for of all persons, that 
 would bs most likely to operate upon the 
 wife; neither have they time or opportu- 
 nity, in the majority of cases, for attaching 
 themselves by any feelings of affection to the 
 objects of their care. It is the simple fact that 
 all will soon be over, and that to them it is 
 ultimately of no sort of consequence, which 
 enables them to bear with such amazing equa- 
 nimity the trials of patience to which they 
 are so frequently subjected ; while, on the 
 
 50 | 
 
56 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | other hand, the consideration that it must be 
 thus, and thus always, appears at once to 
 excite a spirit of resistance where resistance 
 is most vain. 
 
 But granting that there is, inherent in the 
 human mind, this spirit of contradiction, and 
 granting also that men, with all their dignified 
 and noble attributes, are sometimes, though 
 often unconsciously, indescribably provoking 
 to an irritable temperament; there is one 
 consideration which a generous mind will 
 be ever willing to dwell upon with so much 
 candor, as at least to make concessions when 
 it has been betrayed into any excess of irrita- 
 bility, if not wholly to submit with cheerful- 
 ness and resignation to this peculiar dispen- 
 sation, regarding it as among the appoint- 
 ments of Providence, designed for purposes 
 inscrutable perhaps to human reason, yet not 
 the less in accordance with mercy, and with 
 wisdom. 
 
 But in order to judge more candidly on 
 this subject, let us single out a few instances 
 of the most familiar kind on both sides; and 
 i if the merit of unconsciousness, and absence 
 of design, does not preponderate on the side 
 of man, I shall be much mistaken in my cal- 
 culations. 
 
 I have always been accustomed to con- 
 sider it as the severest trial to the temper of 
 a married woman, to have an idle husband; 
 and if in addition to neglecting his business, 
 or such manly occupations as an exemption 
 from the necessities of business would leave 
 him at liberty to pursue, he is personally 
 idle, sitting slipshod at noontime, with his 
 feet upon the fender, occasionally jarring to- 
 gether the whole army of fire-irons with one 
 stroke of his foot, agitated at intervals by the 
 mere muscular irritation of having nothing to 
 do, or not choosing to do any thing; and if 
 he should happen to have chosen for his wife 
 a woman of active bustling character, as such 
 men not unfrequently do, I believe I must, as 
 in some other instances, leave it to the reader 
 to suggest some possible means by which 
 such a woman may at all times control her 
 
 temper, and keep the peace at her own fire- 
 side. 
 
 One thing, however, is certain in such a 
 
 case—it is not by ebullitions of momentary ° 
 
 indignation that an idle man can be stimula- 
 ted into action. So far from it, he will rather 
 be made worse, and rendered more obsti- 
 nately idle by any direct opposition to the in- 
 dulgence of his personal inclinations. What- 
 ever good is to be done in such a case, can 
 only be effected from the convictions of his 
 own mind, brought about by the quiet opera- 
 tion of affectionate and judicious reasoning ; 
 for if the wife should be unguarded enough 
 
 ‘to throw out reproaches against him, repre- 
 
 senting the disgusting nature of idleness in 
 its true colors; or if she should seek to es- 
 tablish her own claims to his exertions, so as 
 to convey an idea of her arguments tending 
 to a selfish end, she might as well 
 “go kindle fire with snow,” 
 
 as attempt to rouse her husband into healthy 
 and consistent habits of activity by such 
 means. 
 
 Here, too, we might mention as pre-emi- 
 nent among the trials of married life, though 
 I question whether it operates so immediately 
 upon the temper as some others, the ruinous 
 propensity inherent in the nature of some 
 men, to spend their own money, and some- 
 times the money of their friends, in vague 
 speculations and visionary schemes. 
 
 The man who is possessed with this mania, 
 for in certain cases it deserves no-other name, 
 is neither to be convinced by argument nor 
 experience, that after ninety-nine failures, he 
 is not very likely to succeed the hundredth 
 time; and the wife who knows that the main- 
 tenance of herself and her family is entirely 
 dependent upon him, has abundant need for 
 supplies of strength and patience beyond 
 what any earthly source can afford. 
 
 Among other causes of irritation, and form- » 
 
 ing reasonable ground of complaint, is the 
 disposition evinced by some men to be incon- 
 siderate and cruel to animals; and this I 
 must think, is one of the cases in which we 
 are recommended to be angry, and sin not. 
 Yet even in this instance, when we look at 
 the education of boys—and consider the ab- 
 sence there is of all regard to the feelings of 
 
animals, even in the minds of the most deli- 
 cate females, except where early instruction 
 has given to this regard the force of princi- 
 ple—great and charitable allowance ought to 
 be made for the conduct of men in this re- 
 spect: and perhaps the best and only means 
 of remedying the evil, which any woman can 
 adopt, is to bring up her children, if she be a 
 mother, with higher and more enlightened 
 views of the requirements of Christian duty. 
 
 It is a well-known fact, that men in gene- 
 ral appear to consider themselves justly en- 
 titled to the privilege of being out of humor 
 about their food. Thus the whole pleasure 
 of a social meal is sometimes destroyed by 
 some trifling error in the culinary department, 
 or the non-appearance of some expected in- 
 dulgence. But here again, our forbearance 
 is called into exercise, by remembering the 
 probability there is, that such men have had 
 silly mothers, who made the pleasures of their 
 childhood to consist chiefly of such as belong 
 to the palate; and here too, if the wife can- 
 not remedy this evil, and in all probability it 
 will be beyond her power to do so, she may, 
 by her judicious efforts to promote the wel- 
 fare of the rising generation, impart to the 
 youthful minds committed to her care, or 
 subject to her influence, a juster estimate of 
 what helongs to the true enjoyment of intel- 
 lectual and immortal beings. 
 
 With all occasions of domestic derange- 
 ment, such as washing days, and other reno- 
 
 vations of comfort and order, some men of: 
 
 irritable temperament wage open and deter- 
 mined war. But, may we not ask, in con- 
 nection with this subject, whether their pre- 
 judices against these household movements 
 have not been remotely or immediately ex- 
 cited, by the extreme and unnecessary con- 
 fusion and disturbance with which they are 
 too frequently accompanied ? _ For I cannot 
 think that a reasonable man, on comparing 
 an English home with a French one, for in- 
 stance, would desire to be altogether exempt 
 from such domestic purifications; and if 
 properly managed, so as to interfere as little 
 as possible with his personal comfort, and 
 conducted with general cheerfulness and 
 
 good humor, such a man might easily be 
 brought to consider them as necessary to the 
 good of his household, as the refreshing 
 shower is to the summer soil. 
 
 A causeless and habitual neglect of punctu- 
 ality on the part of the master of a house, is 
 certainly a grievance very difficult to bear ; 
 because as he is the principal person in the 
 household, and the first to be considered, the 
 whole machinery of domestic management 
 must necessarily be dependent upon his 
 movements; and more especially, since it so 
 happens, that persons who are the most ac- 
 customed to keep others waiting, have the 
 least- patience to wait for others. Thus it 
 not unfrequently occurs, that a wife is all day 
 urging on her servants to a punctual atten- 
 tion to the dinner-hour appointed by her 
 husband, and when that hour arrives, he has 
 either forgotten it himself, or he allows some 
 trifling hindrance to prevent his returning 
 
 home until one, or perhaps two, hours later. | 
 
 Yet the same man, though in the habit of do- 
 ing this day after day, will be excessively an- 
 noyed, if for once in his life he should be 
 punctual to the appointed time, and not find 
 all things ready on his return. 
 
 Perhaps too the master of a family, on | 
 days of household bustle, when extra busi- | 
 ness has to be done, will not choose to rise | 
 so early as usual; or he will sit reading the |, 
 newspaper while his breakfast waits, and | 
 
 thus keep every member of his family stand- 
 
 ing about unoccupied, with all the business 
 
 of the day before them. Or, he may be one 
 of those who like that women should be al- 
 ways ready long before the necessary time, 
 and thus habitually name an hour for meet- 
 ing, or setting out from home, at which he 
 has not the remotest intention of being ready 
 himself. 
 
 Now, as the time of women, if properly 
 employed, is too precious to be wasted, some- 
 thing surely may be done, not by endeavor- 
 ing to overrule the movements of such a 
 man so as to make him true to his own ap- 
 pointment, but by convincing him, that com- 
 mon honesty requires him simply to state 
 the actual time at which he does intend to 
 
 | TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. si 
 
 | 
 
58 
 
 be ready. And here we see at once, one of 
 those numerous instances in which a reason- 
 | able man will listen, and endeavor to amend 5 
 while an unreasonable man will either not 
 listen, or not take the slightest pains to im- 
 prove. 
 
 _ Again, there are men who like the import- 
 ance, and the feeling of power and decision 
 which it gives them, to set out on a journey 
 as if upon the spur of the moment, without 
 having communicated their intentions even 
 to the wife, who is most interested in making 
 preparations for such a movement. And 
 there are others, who when consulted about 
 any thing, cannot be brought to give either 
 their attention or their advice, so as to assist 
 the judgment of a wife, who would gladly 
 give satisfaction if she'could; yet when the 
 time to act upon their advice is past, will be- 
 stow their attention a little too severely upon 
 the unfortunate being, who, consulting her 
 own judgment as the only guide she had, 
 will most probably have done exactly what 
 they did not wish. 
 
 But it would be an endless task, to go on 
 enumerating instances of this description. I 
 have merely mentioned these as specimens 
 of the kind of daily and hourly trials which 
 most women have to expect in the married 
 state ; and which, as I have before stated, 
 may be greatly softened down, if not entirely 
 reconciled, by the consideration already al- 
 luded to. Besides which, it is but candid to 
 allow, that the greater proportion of these 
 offences against temper and patience, origin- 
 ate in one of those peculiarities in the charac- 
 ter of man which I have omitted to mention 
 in its proper place. I mean the incapability 
 under which he labors, of placing himself in 
 idea in the situation of another person, so as 
 to identify his feelings with theirs, and thus 
 to enter into what they suffer and enjoy; as 
 if the feeling were his own. 
 
 This capability appears to be “peculiarly a 
 feminine one, and it exists among women in 
 so high a degree, as to leave them little ex- 
 cuse if they irritate or give offence to others ; 
 because this innate power which they possess 
 of identifying themselves for the moment 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 a 
 
 with another nature, might, if they would 
 use it for such a purpose, enable them not so 
 much to know, as to feel, when they were 
 giving pain, or awakening displeasure. Men, 
 as I have just stated, are comparatively des- 
 titute of this power, as well as of that of sym- 
 pathy, to which it is so nearly allied. When, 
 therefore, they appear to women so perverse, 
 and are consequently so difficult to bear 
 with, it is often from their being wholly un- 
 conscious of the actual state of the case; of 
 the long entanglement of- inconveniences 
 which their thoughtless ways are weaving ; 
 and consequently of the wounded feeling, 
 disappointment, and vexation, which such 
 thoughtlessness not unfrequently inflicts upon 
 the weaker mind of woman, when the whole 
 framework of her daily existence must be 
 regulated by the movements of a husband 
 who thinks of “none of these things.” 
 
 But we have not yet sufficiently examined 
 that one consideration, which ever remains 
 to be weighed in the balance against the 
 trials of patience arising out of the conduct 
 of men. And here we must first ask—have 
 you yourself no personal peculiarities exactly 
 opposed to your husband’s notions of what is 
 agreeable 1—such as habits of disorder, dress- 
 ing in bad taste, or any other of those minor 
 deviations from delicacy or good breeding, 
 which he might not have had an opportunity 
 of observing before marriage ? 
 
 We all know that in men these peculiari- 
 ties are of little importance, compared with 
 what they are in the other sex. If, therefore, 
 you offend in these things, you run imminent 
 risk of impairing, by a succession of little an- 
 noyances, the warmth and the intensity of 
 
 your husband’s affection; for man’s love, it 
 
 must ever be remembered, is far more de- 
 pendent than that of woman, upon having 
 the taste and the fancy always pleased, and 
 consequently upon reposing with pertfect 
 complacency on the object of its regard. 
 Have we not all, then, abundant cause to be 
 erateful for being borne with in our infirmi- 
 ties, and loved in spite of our personal 
 defects ? i 
 
 But if such peculiarities as these are of 
 
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 09 
 
 sufficient importance to cast a shadow over 
 the sunny spots of life, what must we say of 
 some others. occasionally observable in the 
 character and conduct of women, to which 
 it is scarcely possible that much charity should 
 / be extendéd? And here I would ask, if you 
 /have never treasured up against your hus- 
 band, some standing cause of complaint, to 
 be thrown at him when an opportunity is 
 offered by the presence of a friend, or a 
 stranger, for discharging this weapon from 
 the household quiver with perfect safety to 
 yourself? Have you not upon the whole pre- 
 ferred having such grievances to complain 
 of, rather than taking such peaceable and 
 judicious measures as would be likely effect- 
 ually to accomplish their removal ? 
 Have. you never, in addition to this, re- 
 fused an offer of personal gratification when 
 it was convenient or agreeable for your hus- 
 band to indulge you with it; and professed 
 a somewhat exaggerated desire to accept of 
 it, when the thing was impossible, or at 
 least extremely difficult for your husband to 
 grant? 
 _ Have you never made the most of house- 
 | hold troubles, spread forth the appurtenances 
 | of a wash, allowed the affairs of the kitchen 
 to extend themselves to the parlor, com- 
 plained unnecessarily of servants and work- 
 people, and appeared altogether in your own 
 person more harassed, exhausted, and for- 
 lorn, after your husband’s return home, than 
 
 you did before, on purpose that he might be. 
 
 compelled, not only to pity you, but to. bear 
 a portion of your domestic discomfort him- 
 self? 
 
 When a concatenation of cross occur- 
 rences, hindrances, or mistakes, have. ren- 
 dered every moment one of perplexity and 
 haste; have you never, when involved with 
 your husband in such circumstances, added 
 fuel to the fire by your own petulance, or by 
 your still more provoking exclamations of 
 triumph, that you “thought it would come 
 to that?” Or, when your husband has re- 
 turned at:an hour considerably later than he 
 had appointed, have you never begun with 
 
 breathless. haste: to. remonstrate with him, 
 
 and even allowed your remonstrances to ex- 
 tend to reproaches, before you gave him time: 
 to vindicate himself, or to say whether he 
 had not in reality been unavoidably detained? 
 
 Now, it is impossible for any woman of 
 right feelings to hide from her conscience, 
 that if she chooses to marry, she places her- 
 self under a moral obligation to make her 
 husband’s home as. pleasant to him as she 
 can. Instead, therefore, of behaving as if it 
 was the great business.of married life to com- 
 plain, it is her peculiar duty as a wife, and 
 one for which, by her natural constitution, 
 she is especially fitted, to make all her do- 
 mestic concerns, appear before her husband 
 to the very best advantage. She has time 
 for her troubles and turmoils, if such things 
 must necessarily be, a fact which I ama little 
 disposed to question, when her husband is 
 absent, or when she is engaged exclusively 
 in her own department; and if she would 
 make his home what it ought to be to him— 
 “an ever-sunny place,” she will studiously 
 shield him, as. with the wings of love, from 
 the possibility of feeling that his. domestic an- 
 noyances give weight and poignancy to those 
 more trying perplexities, which most men, 
 engaged either in business, or in public af- 
 fairs, find more than sufficient for their peace 
 of mind. ; 
 
 By those who write on the subject of tem- 
 per in connection with the happiness of mar- 
 ried life, much is generally said by way of 
 giving weight to the importance of guarding 
 against the first angry word. But though it 
 is unquestionably most desirable to keep the 
 tablet of experience as long unsullied as we | 
 can, I do not see exactly how this rule ap- 
 plies more to offences of temper, than to any: 
 other transgressions of the law of perfect love ; 
 for if it be felt, as it must be, a breach of this 
 law to utter an unkind expression ; it is equal- 
 ly so to allow any evidence to appear of a 
 disposition to act counter to a husband’s 
 wishes, or even to forget or neglect what he 
 considers: essential to his comfort. 
 
 Indeed, so. various are the circumstances 
 
 to which any remarks upon the subject of 
 
 temper must apply, that the best possible plan 
 
60 
 
 which could be proposed for maintaining 
 harmony and good feeling in one instance, 
 might be the worst in another. As a case in 
 point, there are unquestionably some individ- 
 uals so constituted, that if in a moment of 
 irritation, they do not speak out, the smoth- 
 ered feeling forcibly pent up, assumes with 
 them the character of sullenness, and even 
 approaches to that of dislike towards the of- 
 fender. Besides which, we should never 
 know when we did. offend, and might conse- 
 quently go on to the end of life inflicting per- 
 petual annoyance upon our fellow-creatures, 
 if there were no outward evidence of the de- 
 gree of displeasure which our inadvertences 
 were causing. 
 
 Not that I would by any means be guilty 
 of recommending an approach to those vio- 
 lent outpourings of heated and impassioned 
 feeling, which mark out some of the darkest 
 passages of human life, by the remembrance, 
 never to be obliterated, of angry and cruel 
 expressions not possible to be often repeated 
 without destroying the tenderness, and even 
 the very life, of love. What I would say on 
 the other side of the question, is simply this 
 —that in reference to temper, no general rule 
 can be laid down, scarcely can any human 
 aid be called in, because of the diversity of 
 dispositions upon which the influence of tem- 
 per operates, and the difficulty to mere hu- 
 man reason of discovering exactly what is 
 best for every case. In this, as in every other 
 instance of human frailty, it is the power of 
 religion upon the heart and conduct, which 
 alone can afford any lasting or effectual help. 
 
 And after all, as the subject bears upon the 
 affection of human beings one towards an- 
 other, with creatures frail as we are, and in 
 a state of existence so imperfect as the pre- 
 sent, it is not by an exemption from all 
 offences that the purity or the strength of 
 human love can be maintained ; but far more 
 so by mutual forgiveness, by sympathy with 
 each other’s infirmities, and by the constant 
 exercise of that charity which thinketh no evil, 
 and which suffereth long, and is kind. 
 
 But leaving all further consideration of the 
 trials of temper, as a subject which from its 
 
 es: 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 endless variety might rather be made to fill 
 volumes than pages; we must turn to sub-. 
 jects of a more serious and alarming nature, 
 and among these, it cannot be out of place to 
 speak first of the deterioration of a husband’s 
 character, as taking precedence of other trials 
 incident to married life. 
 
 I have already said there can be no calam- 
 ity in the vast catalogue of human miseries, 
 at all comparable to watching the gradual 
 extinction of that guiding light from the moral 
 influence of a husband, to which a wife might 
 reasonably be allowed to look for her greatest 
 earthly encouragement in every effort to ad- 
 here to the dictates of duty, or the require- 
 ments of Christian principle. Here, then, it 
 becomes most important to inquire, what can | 
 be done to stem the tide of evil, before it shall 
 have borne away the whole fabric of domes- 
 tic happiness. 
 
 A true-hearted woman, herself impressed 
 with the importance of moral and religious 
 principle, will ever be most studious of her 
 husband’s safety in this respect; and if her 
 own character, and her own example, are 
 such as to give weight to her remonstrances, 
 there is no calculating the degree to which 
 her influence may not extend. Women, too, 
 are often remarkably quick-sighted to the 
 minor shades of good and evil; and they are 
 thus sometimes enabled to detect a lurking 
 tendency to what is wrong, before the mind 
 of man is awakened to suspicion. Even in 
 business, then, and in all affairs in which men 
 are most liable to be deluded by self-interest, 
 and by the prevailing customs of the world, 
 and thus are too frequently betrayed into 
 transactions at variance with the spirit, if not 
 with the letter, of the law of just and honora- 
 ble dealing; a right-minded woman may 
 sometimes so place before her husband the 
 affair in which he is engaged, as to make 
 him see at once the error into which he 
 might have fallen; and having seen this 
 clearly, she may possibly enjoy the satisfac- 
 tion of beholding him adopt, throughout his 
 intercourse with others, a more strict and 
 equitable rule of action. 
 
 As this subject, however, in its highest and 
 
bo STDS LEA BAL TCS 8 RES GL ASR PRIS LEAT SOE TERRE TT TT EE SESE SY OP rd “TTT Tre IEEE BSE a ERE, Porter ee 
 
 i 
 TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 61 | 
 
 most serious import, belongs more properly 
 to a subsequent chapter, we will consider 
 more especially two particular defects in the 
 ‘moral character of men, which may be truly 
 said, wherever they exist, to constitute the 
 severest and most painful trials of married 
 life. 
 The first of these is intemperance; and 
 here I am aware that my own views on this 
 subject are scarcely such as ought to occupy 
 a place in this work; not because I could not 
 earnestly recommend them to the adoption 
 of every English wife, but because, to do them 
 ample justice, I should be compelled to fill a 
 volume. 
 
 Intemperance, then, to treat it as a com- 
 mon vice, should, like every other evil ten- 
 dency, be watched in its commencement; 
 and here the eye of a conscientious and de- 
 voted wife will be far better able to detect the 
 mischief, than his, who, perhaps, in the se- 
 cret of his heart, would rather not behold it 
 even if he could. I believe there is no diffi- 
 culty to a delicate-minded person, equal to 
 that of warning a beloved friend or relative 
 of his danger in this respect, else why do we 
 see so many hundreds—nay, thousands look- 
 | ing on, and not stretching out a helping hand 
 until it is too late? 
 
 The fact is, that if impressed in any com- 
 mon measure with a sense of justice or of 
 generosity, we cannot do it, so long as we 
 ourselves, pursue the same course, only not 
 exactly to the same extent. We cannot look 
 into the face of a familiar friend, and say— 
 “If you take one glass more, you will be 
 guilty of a vulgar and degrading sin; while 
 I, by taking one glass less, commit no sin at 
 all.” And it must come to this, where it is 
 the degree, and not the act itself, which con- 
 stitutes the evil. It must come to the small- 
 est possible measurement, to mark that min- 
 ute, and ever shifting line, which. separates 
 an act allowed and sanctioned by the wise 
 and good, from one which stamps a human 
 being with infamy in this world, and deprives 
 him of all title to admission into the blessed- 
 ness of the world to come. 
 
 Leaving it then to women whose hearts 
 
 might have animated the wives of Sparta, if | 
 the absence of all sympathy and tenderness | 
 for the weak in their weak points, may rank 
 among the characteristics of those heroines 
 of the past—leaving it to such women to sit 
 down every day to an indulgence, which in 
 a mere trifle of extent beyond their own meas- 
 ure of gratification, they would deny to a 
 husband—I must candidly confess, that I am 
 wholly at a loss to know what to advise, 
 should that husband, advancing a little and 
 a little further by imperceptible degrees, at 
 last exceed the bounds of strict propriety, 
 and finally hasten on towards the “ drunk- 
 ard’s grave.” | 
 
 It is said again and again of such men, that 
 they ought to stop in time; but which is the 
 time? It may vary according to the state of 
 their own health, as well as with the nature 
 of the refreshment of which they partake ; 
 while with no two individuals will it ever be 
 found exactly the same. Besides which, it 
 must always be remembered, that the right 
 time to stop, is the time when the intemper- 
 ate man least wishes to do so; because in 
 exact proportion to his danger, has been his 
 inability to perceive it, and his increase of in- 
 clination to go onward towards excess. 
 
 Tell me then, ye wise and potent reasoners 
 on this subject, who hold yourselves above 
 the vulgar error of believing that total absti- 
 nence is the only safe and efficient means of 
 rescuing the tempted man from ruin,—tell 
 me, or rather tell the afflicted wife, what I am 
 utterly unequal to, by what means she is to 
 conquer, or even to restrain, the habit of in- 
 temperance in her husband, except by in- 
 ducing him altogether to abstain, and by ab- 
 staining altogether herself. 
 
 One remark, however, may not be inap- 
 propriate here, as it applies equally to the 
 point of view in which the subject has so long 
 been held by the world in general, and to that 
 in which it is the happier privilege of some 
 in the present day to behold it. I mean that 
 a husband should never be made the subject 
 of reproach for transgressions of this nature. 
 If he be a man of feeling, his spirit will be 
 sufficiently wounded by a sense of his own 
 
62 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 [am SO sR TE OR a Se NO LY Na a aca am DE NS RR am a een 
 
 degradation ; and if not, he will only be hard- 
 ened by such treatment, and driven, as a 
 means of revenging himself, into still greater 
 eXCeSs. 
 
 Indeed, nothing but the utmost delicacy, 
 forbearance, and gentleness, will ever be 
 found to answer in such a case; and what- 
 ever means are employed, they must be con- 
 fined in their operation to seasons of perfect 
 sanity, and especially reserved for those oc- 
 casions of fitful penitence, which often suc- 
 ceed to the most extravagant indulgence ; 
 when, partly from the weakness of an ex- 
 hausted frame, and partly from the satiety 
 of inclination, the victim of intemperance 
 will sometimes throw open his heart to a 
 confidential friend, whose kind and judicious 
 treatment of him at such times, may not im- 
 probably be rendered conducive to his ulti- 
 mate recovery. 
 
 Here, too, much may be done by making 
 his home all that it ought to be to a husband, 
 
 | by receiving him on his return with cordial 
 
 ——————_———— LS 
 a 7 
 
 smiles, by amusing him with pleasant conver- 
 sation, but, more than all, by exercising over 
 him, in a mild and prudent manner, that in- 
 fluence which it is the high privilege of a 
 loved and trusted wife to attain. 
 
 Could all women who encourage their hus- 
 bands in the commencement of intemperance, 
 not only by smiling with evident satisfaction 
 at any extraordinary proofs of good humor 
 or excitement as they begin to appear, but 
 beyond this, and far more effectually, by their 
 own example—could all such women “look 
 to the end,” and see the bitter fruits of this 
 trifling with the serious indications of a grow- 
 ing evil, they would stand appalled at the 
 magnitude of their own sufferings, in having 
 to watch from day to day, through their fu- 
 ture lives, the gradual extinction of all they 
 had ever loved in the being to whom they 
 must still be united. They would see then 
 how the very countenance may lose its beau- 
 ty, and like some hideous form that grows 
 upon us in a feverish dream, assume first one 
 aspect of distortion, and then another, until 
 all trace becomes extinct of the “ divinity” 
 that stirred “within.” They would see then 
 
 what an awful wreck is that presented by a 
 lost and polluted mind; and they would feel, 
 in all its reality, what it is to be desolate and 
 alone. For the woman thus circumstanced 
 must not complain. She must not ask for 
 sympathy, for that would be to expose the 
 folly and disgrace of him, about whom her 
 hopes still linger; over whose degraded 
 brow she would still fondly spread the soft 
 shadow of her tenderness, that no ray of 
 piercing light might reach it, to render more 
 conspicuous its deformity and its shame. 
 No; she can only lock her griefs within her 
 own bosom, and be still. 
 
 It must be from ignorance, for the phe- 
 nomenon is not to be accounted for in any 
 other way than on the ground of ignorance 
 of what is to be found in human life, as well 
 as what is the capability of the human heart 
 for suffering and enjoying, which leads so 
 many kindly-disposed and well-intentioned 
 women into such culpable neglect of points 
 connected with this important subject. 
 
 One would willingly believe it was because 
 they had never, even in idea, realized what 
 it must be to live through one long night of 
 anxious expectation, when the crisis of a 
 husband’s fate had come, and when that sin- 
 gle night would decide whether he had suf- 
 ficient mastery over himself to resist, or 
 whether he would allow his inclination to 
 lead him for the last time over the barrier, 
 and finally to plunge himself and his helpless 
 family into irremediable wretchedness and 
 ruin. 
 
 It is in such seasons as these, that every 
 moment is indeed an age, and every pulse 
 like an advancing or receding wave, which 
 falls with heavy swell upon the shore of life. 
 And then what sharpening of the outward 
 senses !—what quickening of the ear to dis- 
 tant sounds, giving to that which lives not, a 
 vitality, until the very step is heard, and then 
 —another wave of the fast-ebbing tide, and 
 all is gone, and all is silent as before. The 
 
 eye, too, though dim with tears, and wearied 
 out with watching, what does it not behold? 
 —creating out of “strange combinations” of 
 familiar things, some sudden and unexpected 
 
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 63 
 
 evidence that he has returned! Yes, already 
 come! Then follows an instantaneous flash 
 of self-reproach for having judged him with 
 too little kindness. But, no; the vision 
 fades away, and with it sinks the heart of the 
 too credulous believer. 
 
 joyous recollection, of some other little acts 
 of kindness by which she may possibly be 
 able to make his home look more attractive. 
 
 But still he comes not ; and that strange sick- | 
 ness of the heart begins again, and creeps 
 along her frame, until her very fingers ache 
 
 And if such be the quickening of the out- | with anguish ; and tremblingly her hands are 
 
 ward senses, what must be that of the differ- 
 ent faculties of the mind?t—of memory, 
 whose cruel task it is through those long 
 weary hours, to paint the smiling past, to 
 make it live again with such intensity of 
 loveliness, that while no actual form intrudes, 
 
 clasped together, and were it not for prayer, 
 her heart would surely break with its strong 
 agony ; for still he comes not. Yet,—slowly 
 as the heavy hours drag on, the midnight 
 chime at last is heard, that solemn peal, which 
 tells to some its tale of peace, of safety, and 
 
 nor actual sound breaks through the chain of | of home; while it speaks to others but of 
 thought, the phantasy grows real; and old | darkness, desolation, and despair. 
 
 impressions wake again, and voices speak 
 
 But who shall fill from one sad moment to 
 
 so kindly, and cordial looks, and gentle loving | another the page of busy thought, or paint 
 
 acts, are interchanged, and pure soft feelings 
 towards each other, as in those early days 
 when the sweet “trysting time” was kept, 
 and hope made light of expectation. Oh, 
 agony ! 
 
 the ever-shifting scenes which flit before the 
 lonely watcher’s mind? Another hour, and 
 still he comes not—Yet hark! It is his step 
 —She flies to meet him—Let us close a scene 
 
 It is a dream—a very dream. for which earth holds no parallel ; for here 
 
 Nay, worse—the vision of the sleeper may | are mingled, horror, shame, repulsion and 
 
 return; but this can never—never live 
 again. 
 
 There is no credulity like that of love. 
 
 contempt, with a soft tenderness like that of 
 some sad mother for her idiot child—joy that 
 the shrouding wings of love once more can 
 
 However dark may be the fear which alter- shelter him—bliss that no other eye but hers 
 
 nates with hope-in the mind of her who is 
 thus situated, she has, under all, and support- 
 
 is there to see—kind yearning thoughts of 
 care to keep him in his helplessness from 
 
 ing her through all the deep foundation of | every touch of harm—feelings so gentle, yet 
 
 her own unchanging love—that love which 
 is strong as death. And by the same com- 
 prehensive rule, which to her includes in one 
 close union every faculty and feeling of her 
 
 so powerful, of a strange gladness to be 
 near him in his degradation—to press the 
 hand which no one else in the wide world 
 would hold—to kiss the brow which has no 
 
 soul—by this rule she judges of her husband, | trace of beauty left! And to do this, night 
 
 and calculates the probability of his return. 
 
 after night—to live through all the changes 
 
 By this rule it is impossible that he should | of this scene, through months and years, only 
 
 forget her prayers, and her entreaties, her 
 sorrow, her suffering, and her tears. 
 this rule, then, he must of necessity remem- 
 ber her in that gay circle, even when its mirth 
 and its revelry are at their height. She has 
 wronged him—deeply wronged him, to think 
 he could forget. Another hour will find him 
 by her side, repaying, Oh, how richly! all 
 her anxious fears. 
 
 With these sweet thoughts, she rises and 
 trims her fire again, and draws her husband’s 
 
 with less of hope, and more of anguish and 
 
 By despair ! 
 
 Such is the picture not exaggerated, for 
 that would be impossible, of one short portion 
 in the experience of how many women! We 
 cannot number them. They are to be met 
 with in society of every grade, and yet soci- 
 ety for the most part can rest satisfied to do 
 nothing more than pity them. Nor scarcely 
 that ; for the same voice which speaks with 
 feeble lamentations of the suffering of the. 
 
 | chair beside the hearth, bethinking her, with | wife, will often press the husband to the fes- 
 
a 
 Ne 
 
 64 
 
 tive board, and praise the sparkling wine, 
 and urge him to partake. t 
 
 ' But it is time to turn our attention to the 
 contemplation of another of the trials of mar- 
 
 ; ried life, of which it is to be hoped that few 
 
 who read these pages, will have any cause to 
 think with reference to themselves. It may 
 be said, “ Why then remind them of the pos- 
 sibility that such causes of trial may, or do, 
 exist ?”’ I answer, that although the extreme 
 of the case to which I am about to allude, is, 
 happily for us, comparatively seldom known 
 among respectable families in the middle 
 ranks of life in England; yet, there are de- 
 grees of proximity to these extremes, existing 
 sometimes where we should least expect to 
 find the cheerful aspect of domestic life cast 
 under such a cloud. 
 
 In reflecting seriously and impartially upon 
 the love of married life, we must all be forci- 
 
 bly impressed with the fact, that the love’ 
 
 which is most frequently presented to the 
 notice of the observer, is far from being such 
 as we ourselves should be satisfied to pos- 
 sess ; or, at all events, not such as women of 
 deep and sensitive feelings would expect to 
 meet with in the married state. It is true, 
 there are instances, and they can scarcely be 
 dwelt upon with too much admiration, where 
 the love of married life, in all its imperishable 
 beauty, outlives the bloom of youth, and sheds 
 a radiance like the sunset glow of evening, 
 around the peaceful passage of old age to- 
 wards the tomb. And were it not that in 
 such instances, we see the possibility of 
 earthly love being kept in all its vigor and its 
 freshness, uninjured by the lapse of time, it 
 would be useless to follow up the inquiry 
 every married woman ought to make—by 
 what means is this love to be preserved ? 
 
 li in speaking of the peculiar trial about to 
 occupy our attention, I use the word unfaith- 
 fulness, to signify my meaning, it is less in 
 reference to those extremes of moral delin- 
 quency which sometimes stain the history of 
 private, as well as public life, than to those 
 shighter shades of the same character, which 
 more frequently flit across the surface of do- 
 mestic peage; or, what is still more lament- 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | ecstasy, down to the lowest notes of wo? No: 
 
 able, remain to cloud the atmosphere of home- 
 enjoyment, until the whole experience of 
 married life becomes as dull, and soulless, 
 and devoid of interest, as if the union was 
 simply one of habit or convenience, endured 
 with mutual indifference, yet dragged on with 
 decency and something like respect, because 
 it was “so nominated in the bond.” 
 
 - But is it right that creatures endowed with 
 capabilities for the highest and holiest enjoy- 
 ment, should be satisfied with this? Nay, is 
 it possible that happiness of so low a grade, 
 if one may call it such, can fill the heart 
 whose quick susceptibilities, whose trembling 
 emotions, and whose living depths, have been 
 formed to answer, and to echo every touch 
 and tone of feeling, from the highest thrill of 
 
 if we are reckless how we turn from its high 
 destiny, a nature thus endowed; if we will 
 thus sink the immortal in the material, so as 
 merely to work out with mechanical precision 
 the business of each day, in which the animal 
 nature holds pre-eminence over the spiritual, 
 we must not venture to complain that life is 
 vapid and monotonous, or that there is little 
 in this world to remind us of that blessedness 
 which is promised as the ‘portion of the hap-_ 
 
 py in the next. {| 
 
 Whatever we aim to possess as a privilege 
 even in this life, let it then be of the highest 
 order; and having attained our wish, let us 
 seek to preserve that privilege unimpaired. 
 That which elevates the soul in its capability 
 of enjoyment, is always worthy of our care; 
 while that which lowers it, is always to be 
 shunned and feared. In nothing is this more 
 important to be observed, than in the preser- 
 vation of earthly love. That which degrades 
 the standard of affection, degrades the whole 
 being; and that which raises this standard, | 
 raises also every faculty which can be con- 
 nected either immediately or remotely with 
 the exercise of the affections. 
 
 I have already described, in some particu- 
 lars, how that best gift of Providence, the 
 love of a faithful and devoted husband, is to 
 be preserved. "We have now the painful 
 task of supposing that it has been allowed, 
 
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 by some means or other, to fall away. There 
 are faint and frequent symptoms of this de- 
 cline, of which the judgment takes no cogni- 
 zance, until after the heart has been made to 
 feel them; and although I have already al- 
 luded to the folly and the danger of volunta- 
 rily looking out for such symptoms where 
 there is no reason to suppose they exist, there 
 may be equal, if not greater danger, in disre- 
 garding them where they do. 
 
 I will only mention as the first of these 
 symptoms, an increased tendency on the part 
 of the husband to be repelled or annoyed by 
 little personal peculiarities. And here it may 
 be observed, that almost every impression 
 injurious to the love of man in married life, 
 is personal or immediate, rather than remote. 
 
 Thus a husband will more easily forgive his. 
 
 wife for an act of moral culpability, provided 
 it has no reference to himself, than for the 
 least personal affront, or the slightest occasion 
 for even a momentary sensation of disgust. 
 
 | It consequently happens, that when affection 
 
 begins to wane, the husband often becomes 
 annoyed with the voice, the manner, the dress 
 of his wife, more than he is with those of 
 other women. She has, then, some peculiar 
 way of doing every thing which seems to jar 
 upon his senses ; and in time he ceases so 
 entirely to look, to listen, or to linger near 
 her, that unless more than commonly obtuse, 
 
 she must be made to feel that she has lost. 
 
 her power to charm him, and when that is 
 lost—alas, for the poor wife! 
 
 Still we must not forget, that there are two 
 kinds of unfaithfulness, the one arising entire- 
 ly from estranged affection; and the other 
 
 | from attraction towards a different object. In 
 
 the latter case it does not always follow that 
 affection for the wife shall have become ex- 
 tinct, and therefore there is hope; but, in the 
 former, the fact that man’s love when once 
 destroyed is destroyed forever, excludes all 
 
 | possibility of consolation, except from a high- 
 
 er and a surer source. As well might the 
 
 mourner weeping for the dead, expect by 
 tears and lamentations to reanimate the life- 
 less form; as the unloved wife to recall the 
 affection of her husband, after the bloom and 
 
 ‘ a 
 ee 
 
 65 
 
 tenderness of his love is gone. Who then 
 would incur the risk of so vast and irrepa- 
 rable a loss, by a neglect of those personal at- 
 tractions by which it was her study in early 
 life to charm? Who would allow a careless 
 or negligent demeanor to impress her hus- 
 band’s mind with the conviction, that he was 
 not in her estimation of sufficient importance 
 to make it worth her while to please? or who 
 would be willing that the powers of her mind 
 should fall into disuse, when they might in 
 their happiest and yet most natural exercise, 
 be made conducive to the one great end of 
 increasing her husband’s interest in his home? 
 
 To feel herself an unequal companion to 
 the being whom ofall others she would most 
 wish to please, to have never cultivated her 
 powers of conversation, and to be conscious 
 that her society is vapid and uninteresting, 
 must be one of the most painful and humilia- 
 ting feelings to which an amiable woman can 
 be subject: but to see, what is very natural 
 in such a case, that others have a power 
 which she has not, to call forth the higher 
 faculties of her husband’s mind, to elevate 
 his thoughts, to charm his fancy, and to en- 
 liven his spirits !—Surely if the daughters of | 
 England could realize by any exercise of their 
 imagination, the full intensity of feelings such 
 as these, they would cease to be careless 
 about the cultivation of those means of pro- 
 moting social and domestic happiness, with 
 which every woman who enters upon the 
 duties of a wife, ought to make herself ac- 
 quainted. 
 
 But beyond this vague and general feeling 
 of being neglected, and this incapacity for 
 doing any thing to avert so desolate a doom, 
 it sometimes happens that there is real cause 
 to suspect a transfer of the husband’s interest | 
 and affection to another. And although no- 
 thing can be more destructive to the happi- 
 ness of married life, or more at variance with 
 the nature of true and deep affection, than a 
 predisposition to suspicion on these points ; 
 yet where the case is too evident to admit of 
 doubt, it would evince a culpable indifference 
 in the wife who could suffer it to remain un- 
 noticed. — . | 
 
 r 
 
ir 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 | 66 
 
 Here, however, if ever in the whole range 
 of human experience, it is necessary to act 
 with delicacy and caution. It is necessary, 
 in the first place, to be sure. In the next, no 
 selfish motive, no indignant feeling, no dis- 
 position to revenge, must mingle with what 
 is said or done on so melancholy and mo- 
 mentous an occasion; for though the dignity 
 of virtue, and the purity of the female char- 
 acter, as well as the temporal and eternal 
 good of the offender, alike require that some 
 decided measures should be adopted to avert 
 the evil; the wife herself must not forget, 
 that under such circumstances she possesses 
 no other than a legal claim—that, as a being 
 to be cherished and beloved, she is utterly 
 discarded from her husband’s heart—that 
 scarcely is his home her own—that her re- 
 spectability, her position in society, all that in 
 which an honored and a trusted wife delights, 
 are only nominally hers; and that she is in 
 reality, or rather, in all which belongs to the 
 true feelings of a woman, a low, lost thing, 
 more lonely, pitiable, and degraded, than the 
 veriest outcast from society who still retains 
 a hold upon her husband’s iove. What, then, 
 are admiration, wealth, or fame, to such a 
 woman? Society, even though she were its 
 idol, would have no power to flatter her; 
 nor could the wide world, with all its congre- 
 gated millions, awake within her desolate 
 bosom a single thrill of pride. No, there is 
 
 ‘| nothing but uncomplaining loneliness, and 
 
 utter self-abasement, for the portion of that 
 wife who cannot keep her husband’s heart! 
 It is in this spirit alone, that with any pro- 
 priety or any hope, she can appeal to a hus- 
 band’s feelings, carefully guarding against all 
 expression of tenderness, no longer welcome 
 or desired; and keeping, as it were, aloof in 
 her humility ; yet withal, casting herself upon 
 his pity, as one who is struck down by a be- 
 loved hand, will kiss the instrument of her 
 abasement; putting aside all selfish claims, 
 as indeed she must; and making it evident, 
 that though her own happiness is wrecked 
 for ever, she cannot live without a hope, nor 
 breathe without a prayer, forhim. __ 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 I —I— II III 
 
 And surely, if all this is carried out to the 
 
 full extent of woman’s delicacy, disinterest-. 
 
 edness, and truth; and if accompanied by 
 earnest and unceasing prayer for that help 
 which no human power can then afford— 
 surely, towards a wife thus suffering and sin- 
 eere, the husband whose heart is not yet 
 wholly depraved, could scarcely withhold his 
 pity, his protection, and his love! 
 
 And if the husband should relent, if he 
 should renounce the object of attraction to 
 his wandering fancy, though nothing can ob- 
 literate the past, or break the chain of asso- 
 ciation between that and the thousand appre- 
 hensions which must of necessity link them- 
 selves into the sad future; all these dark 
 thoughts must be concealed within her bo- 
 som, into whose secret counsels, and more 
 secret griefs, no earthly friend must be ad- 
 mitted. Neither must sadness cloud her 
 brow, nor any lurking suspicion betray itself 
 upon the smooth surface of her after-life, but 
 
 vivacity and cheerfulness again must charm; 
 
 while a manner disengaged, and a mind at 
 liberty to please, and receive pleasure in re- 
 turn, must prove the mastery of principle 
 over impulse—of affection over self. 
 
 lf with a wife thus circumstanced, the 
 power to forget should appear the greatest 
 mercy a kind Providence could bestow; and 
 if this mercy being denied, the aspect of her 
 life should look too dark to be endured, she 
 must not forget that one earthly consolation 
 yet remains—it is that of having kept her 
 own affection unchanged and true: and oh! 
 how infinitely preferable is the feeling of hav- 
 ing borne unfaithfulness, than of having been 
 unfaithful ourselves ! 
 
 But beyond, and far above such consola- 
 tion, is that of being remembered in her lost 
 and low estate, by Him who chasteneth whom 
 he loveth; of being permitted in her degrada- 
 tion to come and offer up her broken heart 
 to Him; when deprived of every other stay, 
 to call Him father, and to ask in humble faith 
 the fulfilment of His gracious promise of 
 protection to those who put their trust in 
 Him. 
 
 joe : : : : ———————————————— en cee eee _ 
 
POSITION IN SOCIETY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 POSITION IN SOCIETY. 
 
 In.a previous work, addressed to the 
 “Daughters of England,’ I have proposed 
 as the first serious inquiry of a thinking mind, 
 that all young persons entering upon the ac- 
 tive duties of life, should ask this question— 
 what is my actual position? And if in the 
 season of early youth this question is import- 
 ant, it is equally, if not more so, immediately 
 after marriage, especially as the position of a 
 woman must always depend upon that of her 
 husband, where society is so constituted that 
 a man may raise or lower his wife, though 
 no woman, except in very peculiar cases, 
 can effect any material alteration in the rank 
 or station of her husband. 
 
 Thus it is highly important, in taking upon 
 herself the duties of a new home, that the 
 wife should ascertain precisely what is her 
 position with regard to those with whom she 
 associates; for there is as great a deviation 
 from good sense, integrity, and right feeling, 
 in being servile to the great, as in being 
 haughty to the poor. 
 
 But it is impossible to enter upon this sub- 
 ject, without being afresh reminded of one 
 of those inconsistencies which mark the gen- 
 eral tone of feeling and habit in society of 
 the middle ranks in England. I mean a 
 striking inequality between the degree of re- 
 finement, self-indulgence, and luxury, existing 
 among men, and that which is generally 
 found among women of the same rank. In 
 families whose dependence is entirely upon 
 business, this is especially the case, at least 
 in our large towns and cities; for, while the 
 sons are sent out at an early age, to engage 
 in all the drudgery of the shop or the ware- 
 house, the daughters remain at home, not 
 unfrequently the occupants of elegant draw- 
 ing-rooms, with little else to do than practise 
 their music lessons, manufacture their Wax- 
 
 flowers, or pursue, according to the popular 
 
 notions of the day, those various and infallible 
 methods.of renovating a feeble constitution, 
 which, in nine cases out of ten, in reality 
 | wants nothing more than a little wholesome 
 
 | eee 
 
 67 
 
 « 
 
 activity to render it as strong as either hap- 
 
 piness or usefulness require. 
 
 Now, though it is far from the wish of the 
 writer to wage war against any of those in- 
 genious occupations which fill up the spare 
 time of young ladies in general, provided such | 
 occupations are kept in their proper place, 
 and made to fill up spare time only; yet, 
 against the morbid feelings both of mind and 
 body, which are engendered by a life of mere 
 trifling, all who wish well to the sex, both in 
 this and other countries, must feel it a sacred 
 duty to use such influence as they possess. 
 
 It is, however, the foolish pride, and the 
 false notions of what is, or is not, becoming, 
 naturally arising out of the state of existence 
 to which our young Jadies of the middle class 
 of society in England are consigned, which, 
 more than any thing else, interfere with their 
 happiness, and prevent their being in reality 
 either a help, or a comfort, to the companions 
 whose lot they are bound to share for life. 
 
 England as a nation has little to boast of 
 beyond her intellectual and her moral power. 
 It is in this that her. superiority is felt and 
 acknowledged by the world; and in this it 
 might almost be allowed her to indulge a 
 sort of honest pride. That this power is 
 chiefly lodged with the middle classes, I 
 think all have agreed; and that, originating 
 in them, it is made to operate more exten- 
 sively through the efficient instrumentality 
 of a comparatively well-ordered and wisely 
 governed population of working people. 
 
 What then would England gain indivi- 
 dually or collectively, by the middle classes 
 aspiring upwards to imitate the manners, 
 and adopt the customs of the aristocracy ? 
 No; let her shopkeepers be shopkeepers 
 still—her farmers, farmers—and the wives 
 and daughters of such honest, manly, and 
 honorable citizens of the world, let them no 
 longer blush to owe the comfort of their 
 homes to the profits of a well-conducted 
 trade. 
 
 To say nothing of the want of right sub- 
 mission to the will of Providence, evinced by 
 being foolishly above the situation we are 
 born to; it is in my opinion a sort of rebel- 
 
 il it 
 
 ce 
 ee = 
 a 
 
68 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 lion, or rather treachery, against the welfare 
 of our country, to be thus unwilling to main- 
 tain, what future ages will agree to have been 
 the glory of the times in which we live. 
 
 Besides which, it requires but little know- 
 ledge, but little observation of society in other 
 countries, and but little acquaintance with 
 the world in general, to see that those dis- 
 tinctions which give to one occupation so 
 much more dignity than another, must be 
 purely conventional. Let us look, as an in- 
 stance of this, at the vast difference we make 
 in our notions of gentility between wholesale 
 and retail business. And though a man of 
 noble birth, as he drives by necessity through 
 the bustling streets of London, would smile 
 at the idea that trade was not a degradation 
 of itself sufficient to exclude all notion of de- 
 gree; yet the tradesman living at his shop 
 knows perfectly well, that his wife and daugh- 
 ters have no right to visit with the wife and 
 
 daughters of him who keeps his country 
 | house, and sells en masse, from some dark 
 ' warehouse in the city, the self-same articles 
 in which the other deals. 
 
 Still these distinctions, strongly and clearly 
 as they are occasionally impressed upon the 
 inferior classes, become sometimes a little in- 
 tricate, as wealth enables its possessor to ad- 
 vance in the scale of luxury and indulgence. 
 When the city shopkeeper, for instance, ob- 
 tains sufficient to enable him to settle in his 
 rural villa, from whence he issues every 
 morning to his counting-house in town, the 
 wife and daughters who remain to set the 
 fashions of the village where they live—how 
 immeasurably far are they from holding in- 
 tercourse with any of the shopkeepers there! 
 Even when affairs connected with the wei- 
 fare of the neighborhood render it necessary 
 to call upon the shopkeeper’s wife, they meet 
 her in a manner the most distant, and the 
 most unlike what could by any possibility be 
 construed into friendship. 
 
 But in order to see more clearly the perfect 
 absurdity of such distinctions, we have only 
 to make a sudden transition of thought to 
 the state of a new colony, on some uncivil- 
 ized and distant shore; and ask what differ- 
 
 ence any one would think of making there, 
 between the member of that little community , | 
 who should prepare the skins of wild animals 
 for general use, and him who should manu- 
 facture such skins into articles of wearing 
 apparel? or who would pronounce upon the 
 inferiority of occupation in him who should 
 employ himself each day in catering for a 
 single meal, to that of him who should, in a 
 longer space of time, provide for many meals 
 together ? 
 
 That the man who held the reins of gov- 
 ernment over such a community, would 
 merit some distinction, I am free to allow, 
 because his situation would be one to which 
 he must have risen either by his own superi- 
 ority of mind, or by the unanimous consent 
 of the rest, who agreed, at the time they ap- || 
 pointed him to the office, to evince towards 
 him the respect which is always due to influ- | 
 ence rightly exercised. In the same manner, 
 and according to their different degrees of 
 capability, many of the others would, no 
 doubt, work their way to offices of responsi- 
 bility and trust, instituted for the good of the 
 whole body, and each entitled to its share of 
 respect and confidence. But that working 
 in one material more than another, handling 
 one article of food or apparel, or even deal- 
 ing in a large or a small way, with those 
 who buy and sell, should be able to create 
 distinctions of such importance as to sepa- 
 rate society into mere fractions, or to invest 
 one party with honor, and cast odium upon 
 the other, is a phenomenon which has been 
 left for the enlightened stage of civilization in 
 which we live, fully to develop, though the 
 march of intellect has hitherto failed to re- 
 duce the whole to a system, so as to be un- 
 derstood and acted upon with any degree of 
 certainty and precision. 
 
 It may be said, and perhaps with too much 
 truth, that the business of shopkeeping, as it 
 is generally conducted, has little tendency to 
 ennoble the character; and that perpetually 
 striving to please for purposes of self-interest, 
 those who in reality are sometimes cordially 
 despised, is lowering to the dignity of a man, 
 to say nothing of a gentleman. 
 
It may be asked, on the other hand, who, 
 in the present state of society, is exempt 
 from this particular kind of degradation ? 
 The lawyer, who may be said almost to hold 
 the destinies of his fellow-creatures in his 
 hand—he cringes to his wealthy client, and 
 often works his way to distinction by conceal- 
 ing his real sentiments, and pretending to be 
 other than he is. The doctor, too, with his 
 untiring patience, and his imperturbable se- 
 renity, approaching with apparent kindness 
 and respect, where every feeling of his soul 
 is repelled—who would speak of him as an 
 independent man, more especially in the out- 
 set of his career? Nor is this less the case 
 with other professions, all which, however, 
 are esteemed more honorable, and conse- 
 quently more eligible, than any kind of trade. 
 
 But still— | 
 
 ‘ A man’s a man for a’ that ;” 
 
 and let his occupation be what it may, it is 
 the honest heart, the upright principle, the 
 steady mind, and the unbiased judgment, 
 which give him dignity wherever he may be 
 placed. The man who possesses these qual- 
 ifications, in addition to a far-stretching and 
 enlightened intellect, must ever be a pillar to 
 the state in which he lives, for he will up- 
 hold its integrity, and without such men no 
 nation can be truly great. 
 
 As the chosen companion of such a man, 
 is it possible, then, that an English woman 
 born to the same rank in society, should 
 blush to acknowledge herself a tradesman’s 
 wife? Nor is this all. It is not the bare ac- 
 knowledgment that she is so, which can in 
 any way be made to answer the demands of 
 duty, but a perfect willingness to adapt her- 
 self in every respect to her situation, so as to 
 answer its various requirements to the satis- 
 faction of all around her. And here the sis- 
 ters who have been separated so widely from 
 their brothers in the formation of their social 
 and domestic habits, are found so often and 
 so lamentably at fault; not always because 
 they are unwilling to do what duty may re- 
 quire, but because from having early imbibed 
 false notions of what is really honorable, and 
 really degrading, they do their duty, if at all, 
 
 a eee 
 
 POSITION IN SOCIETY. 
 
 69 
 
 in a troubled, fretful, and discontented spirit, 
 as much at variance with what a husband 
 would naturally desire in the companion of 
 his home, as with what ought to be exhibited 
 as the graces of the Christian character. 
 
 Yet what can be expected of such wives, 
 for they have their sickly sensibilities arising 
 out of the false position they have held, and 
 for which they have been training; they have 
 the romance engendered by indolence and 
 light reading; they have the love of self, 
 which personal indulgence has strengthened 
 into a habit; they have their delicate consti- 
 tutions, and their thousand ailments—they 
 have all these to contend with, and all opera- 
 ting powerfully against the cheerful perform- 
 ance of the new duties in which they are in- 
 volved. | 
 
 Who can have witnessed the situation of 
 such women in their married state, without 
 longing to awaken the whole sisterhood to a 
 different estimate of duty, and of happiness ? 
 Who can have observed their feeble striving 
 after nobler effort, when too late to attain the 
 power of making it to any useful purpose— 
 the spirit broken, the health impaired, the 
 beauty and vivacity of youth all gone; the 
 few accomplishments upon which their time 
 was wasted, forgotten, or remembered only 
 as a dream; the wish without the hope to do 
 better for the future, than has been done for 
 the past, the failmg of pecuniary means, re- 
 sources gradually diminishing in proportion 
 to the increase of demand—sickness, ser- 
 vants, children, and their education, all re- 
 quiring more and more—who that has ever 
 looked upon all this, and there are not a few 
 among the boasted homes of England where 
 the reality of this picture might be found, 
 would not yearn with aching heart over su 
 lamentable a waste of good feeling and in- 
 tention, arising solely out of the early, but 
 wrong basis of the female mind with regard 
 to common things? 
 
 But let us not despair. Where ignorance 
 and not perverseness constitutes the founda- 
 tion of any prevailing evil, the whole may 
 easily be remedied. Let us look then again 
 at the constitution of English society, at the 
 
 A 
 
 | 
 
vast proportion of good which is effected by 
 the middle classes, at the mass of intellect it 
 comprehends, at the genius by which it is 
 adorned, at the influence it commands, at the 
 dignity with which it is invested by the state, 
 and last, but not least, at its independence ; 
 for if, on the one hand, it claims exemption 
 from the necessary hardships and restrictions 
 of the poor, on the other, it is equally privi- 
 leged in its exemption from the arbitrary re- 
 quirements of exalted rank. 
 
 It is unquestionably one of the great ad- 
 vantages of being born to this station, that 
 we are comparatively free to think and act 
 for ourselves; that our heritage is one of 
 liberty, with the rational enjoyment of which 
 no one has a right to, interfere. We have 
 our intellectual privileges, too, and leisure 
 for the cultivation of the mind; our social 
 meetings, where we dare to speak. the hon- 
 est feelings of the heart, no man being able 
 to make us afraid; our hospitality unshack- 
 led by the cold formalities of rank ; our homes 
 supplied with every comfort, and it may be, 
 adorned with elegance; our fireside pleas- 
 ures uninterrupted; our ingatherings of 
 domestic joy sacred to those who dwell be- 
 neath the same protecting roof; and no in- 
 terference with our sentiments, or our reli- 
 gion, but each one left to follow out the pur- 
 pose of a merciful Creator, by choosing his 
 Bible and his conscience as his only guide. 
 
 And what could any reasonable woman 
 wish for more? Or having found herself a 
 member of a community thus constituted, 
 why should she reject its noble privileges, for 
 
 the sake of any feeble hold she may obtain 
 
 of such as belong more probably to another, 
 and a higher sphere? 
 
 I have already stated, in an earlier por- 
 tion of this work, that true dignity can only 
 be maintained by adaptation to our cir- 
 cumstances, whatever they may be: thus 
 
 there can be no dignity in assuming what 
 does not belong to our actual position in so- 
 ciety ; though many temptations to fall into 
 this error are placed in the way of women in 
 When, for instance, the wife of a 
 respectable tradesman is associated with Pe a 
 
 general. 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 sons of superior rank in the duties of private 
 or public charity, she is frequently treated. | 
 with a degree of kindness and freedom, | 
 which, if not on her guard against the fasci- |} 
 nating manners of that class of society, might 
 easily beguile her into the belief that no real 
 difference of rank was felt to exist. But just 
 in proportion as she would herself desire to be 
 affable and kind to those beneath her, without |} 
 such kindness being presumed upon as an | 
 evidence of equality ; so it often happens that | 
 ladies of rank do really enjoy a certain degree 
 of friendly and social intercourse with women: 
 of good sense occupying a lower station,. 
 when at the same time they would shrink 
 away repelled by the least symptom of the 
 difference of rank being forgotten by the in- 
 ferior party. 
 
 It is the instinct of natural delicacy then 
 which leads us rather to withdraw our famil- 
 larity, than to have it withdrawn from; and 
 if thus sensible of what is her proper sphere, 
 and scrupulous to observe its limits, a right- 
 minded woman need never be made to feel 
 that she is not respected; although the mo- 
 ment she steps beyond the boundary of that 
 sphere, the true dignity of her character will 
 be gone. 
 
 Nor is this the case with her position in 
 society alone. All misapprehensions about 
 herself, such as supposing she is beautiful 
 when she is not, or highly gifted when no 
 evidence of talent appears, or important 
 when she has no influence—all these mis- 
 takes are calculated to deprive a woman of 
 that dignity which is the inalienable posses- 
 sion of all who fill with perfect propriety their 
 appointed place. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary in the present state 
 of society to point out, on the other hand, the 
 loss of character and influence occasioned by 
 living below our station; for if in some indi- 
 vidual minds there is an inherent tendency 
 to sink and grovel in their own sphere, or to 
 be servile and cringing to those above them ; 
 such a propensity forms so rare an exception 
 to the general character of the times in which 
 we live, as scarcely to need any further com- 
 ment, more especially as such a disposition 
 
POSITION IN SOCIETY. 71 
 
 is exposed by its own folly to that contempt 
 which constitutes its proper punishment. 
 
 It is, however, deeply to be regretted, that 
 often where this tendency is not inherent, 
 nor consequently a part of individual charac- 
 ter, it has in too many instances been induced 
 by the severe and constant pressure of pecu- 
 niary difficulties, rendering it an act of ne- 
 cessity, rather than of choice, that the favor 
 of the distinguished or the wealthy should be 
 sought, and their patronage obtained, as the 
 only means of ensuring success, and some- 
 times as the only hope of preserving a help- 
 less family from want or ruin. 
 
 Pitiable as this situation may be, and fre- 
 quent as there is every reason to fear it is, 
 much may be done in cases of this kind to 
 keep up the moral dignity of a husband and 
 a family, by the influence of a high-principled 
 wife, who will make it the study of her life 
 
 | to prove that it is not in the power of cir- 
 / cumstances to degrade an upright and inde- 
 
 pendent mind. 
 
 If, then, it is a duty of paramount import- 
 ance for a wife to ascertain what is her ex- 
 act position in society, and to endeavor to 
 adapt herself to it wherever it may be; her 
 next duty is to consider well the manner of 
 doing this. We can all feel, in the case of 
 our servants and dependents, the vast differ- 
 ence there is between a willing and an un- 
 willing service. How striking then must be 
 this difference, where all the social! affections, 
 and the best feelings of the heart, are impli- 
 cated, as they must be, in the conduct of a 
 wife ! 
 
 I can think of no more appropriate word 
 by which to describe the manner in which 
 her duties ought to be performed, than the 
 
 homely phraseology we use, when we speak 
 
 of things being done heartily; for it is pre- 
 cisely in this way that she may most effect- 
 ually prove to her husband how entirely she 
 considers her destiny, with all its hopes, and 
 all its anxieties, to be identified with his. 
 As a mere matter of policy, too, nothing can 
 be more likely to ensure the happiest results, 
 since whatever we do heartily, produces in 
 one sense its own reward, by stimulating in- 
 
 to healthy activity the various powers of the 
 mind and body, and thus exciting a degree 
 of energy and cheerfulness, alike calculated 
 to enhance the pleasure of success, or to 
 support under the trial of disappointment. 
 While on the other hand, a shrinking, re- 
 luctant, halfish way of falling in with the re- 
 quirements of duty, by perpetuating the sen- 
 sation of self-sacrifice, and dragging out each 
 individual effort into a lingering and painful 
 struggle, is not more likely to produce the 
 most unfavorable impression upon the minds 
 of those with whom we are associated, than 
 to weary out our own inclination to do right, 
 at the same time that it effectually destroys 
 our happiness and our peace of mind. 
 
 I have thus far, in relation to position in 
 society, spoken only of cases in which the 
 wife may be liable to feel that her situation 
 is a humiliating one, and I have been com- 
 pelled to do this at some length—from the 
 fact already noticed, of the sisters in families 
 connected with business, being generally so 
 far in advance of their brothers, not only as 
 regards their notions of what is suitable or 
 becoming to themselves, but also the habits 
 they have cultivated of refinement and per- 
 sonal indulgence, as to render it scarcely 
 possible for them to marry in the same sphere 
 of life, without having much to endure before 
 they can enter with full purpose of heart into 
 all the requirements of their new situation. 
 
 But if cases of this kind constitute the ma- 
 jority of those which fall under our notice, 
 we must not forget that in English society, 
 it is the privilege of many persons in the 
 middle ranks to be placed in circumstances 
 of affluence and ease, where the luxuries of 
 life, and even its elegances, may properly be 
 enjoyed. And if the first aspect of such a 
 lot should present the idea of greater per- 
 sonal indulgence being its lawful accompani- 
 ment; on the other hand, the serious and 
 reflecting mind must be struck with the im- 
 portant fact, that in proportion to more ex- 
 tensive means of enjoyment, must be a wider 
 influence, and a greater amount of re- 
 sponsibility. 
 
 To use this influence aright, and to render | 
 
 2 a 
 EE OLD SEE TILE IRAE AL SAE LS EL ELE LIE ITE SEPT TET P TIEN PELL LCI ROOT A LE LOLOL ROO ELLA LEL LIE IOTED AA 
 
| 
 
 [SoS St eS SS SS SSN 
 
 a aR LT Ee 
 
 72 
 
 to her conscience a strict account of these 
 responsibilities, will be no light undertaking 
 to the English wife ; and as we live, happily 
 for us, in a country where channels are per- 
 petually opened for our benevolence, and 
 opportunities perpetually offered for our ef- 
 forts to do good, we cannot, if we would, 
 rest satisfied with the plea, that our disposi- 
 tion towards usefulness meets with no field 
 for its development. 
 
 It so happens, however, that the same po- 
 sition in society which presents such facilities 
 
 for the. exercise of better feeling, presents’ 
 
 also innumerable temptations to the gratifi- 
 cation of female vanity, indolence, and self- 
 indulgence, with all the evils which common- 
 ly follow in their train. The very title of this 
 chapter—“ Position in Society,”—-where it 
 conveys an idea of wealth and influence, 
 never fails to conjure up a host of enemies to 
 simple Christian duty, some of which are so 
 deceptive and insidious, as effectually to es- 
 cape detection, until their magnitude, as 
 plants of evil growth, becomes a cause of 
 just alarm. 
 
 The great facility with which the elegan- 
 ces and luxuries of life are now obtained, 
 and the general competition which prevails 
 throughout society with regard to dress, furni- 
 ture, and style of living, present to a vain and 
 unenlightened woman, an almost irresistible 
 temptation to plunge into that vortex of extrav- 
 agance, display, and worldly-mindedness, in 
 which, I believe, a greater amount of good in- 
 tention has been lost, than by the direct as- 
 sault of enemies apparently more powerful. 
 
 Again, the indolence almost necessarily in- 
 duced by the enjoyment to a great extent of 
 the luxuries of life—how often is this foe to 
 health and cheerfulness dressed up in the 
 cloak of charity, and made to assume the 
 character of kindness to the poor, in offering 
 them employment. Not that I would be 
 guilty of endeavoring to divert from so ne- 
 cessitous a channel the proper exercise of 
 real charity; but at the same time that we 
 advocate the cause of the poor, let us call 
 things by their right names; and if we em- 
 ploy more servants than are necessary, or 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 send out our work to be done by those who 
 
 need the utmost amount of what we give ° 
 
 them for doing it, let us not take advantage 
 of this disposition of our affairs, to spend the 
 time which remains upon our hands in idle- 
 ness; but let us rather employ, in a higher 
 sphere of usefulness, those faculties of mind, 
 and those advantages of education, the free 
 exercise of which constitutes one of the 
 greatest privileges of an exalted station. 
 
 The same temptations which spread the 
 snare of indolence around the feet of the un- 
 wary, are equally potent in their power to 
 beguile into habits of self-indulgence. And 
 here the fancied or real delicacy of constitu- 
 tion which seems in the present day to be 
 the birthright of Englishwomen, with all that 
 spectral host of nervous maladies, which so 
 often paralyze their energies, and render nu- 
 gatory their efforts to do good—here, in this 
 most privileged of all positions of human life, 
 most frequently assail the female frame, so as 
 often to reduce their pitiable victim to a mere 
 nonentity as regards one great end of her ex- 
 istence—usefulness to her fellow-creatures. 
 
 Far be it from me to speak with unkind- 
 ness or want of sympathy of those maladies 
 of mind and body, which, under the general 
 head of nervous disorders, I believe to con- 
 stitute some of the greatest miseries which 
 “flesh is heir to.” But having never found 
 them to exist to any serious extent where 
 constant occupation of head and hand, and 
 heathful bodily exercise, were kept up with 
 vigorous and unremitting effort; I feel the 
 more anxious that English wives should not 
 create for themselves, out of their habits of 
 personal indulgence, so formidable an enemy 
 to their own enjoyment, and to the beneficial 
 influence which, as Christian women, they 
 are capable of exercising to an almost incal- 
 culable extent. 
 
 I feel anxious also, that some pictures, too 
 frequently witnessed by us all, should never 
 be realized in their experience—pictures in 
 which a sickly, helpless, desponding wife, 
 forms the centre of a group of neglected 
 children, whose boisterous mirth she is little 
 able to endure, and whose numerous wants, 
 
 ERR A 9 ES A a 
 
 P 
 
 3 / 
 
 (nn ne een 
 
 », 
 
POSITION IN SOCIETY. 
 
 73 
 
 all unrestrained, remind her every moment, 
 with fresh pain, of her inability to gratify 
 them. 
 
 That a woman thus situated, is, under ex- 
 isting circumstances, more to be pitied than 
 blamed, we should be wanting in common 
 feeling to deny ; but in comparing her situa- 
 tion with that of a healthy, active, cheerful- 
 spirited wife, prompt to answer every claim, 
 and happy in the discharge of every duty ; 
 and when we see how such a woman, merely 
 by the exercise of moral power, and often 
 without the advantages of any extraordinary 
 intellectual gifts, can become the living prin- 
 ciple of activity, order, and cheerfulness in 
 her own family, the adviser whom all consult, 
 the comforter to whom all repair, and the 
 support upon whom all depend, happy in 
 herself, and diffusing happiness around her 
 —oh how we long that those dispositions, 
 and those habits, both of mind and body, 
 should be cultivated in early youth, which 
 would be most likely to ensure such blessed 
 results as the experience of riper years! 
 
 Much of this habitual cheerfulness, and 
 this willing submission to the requirements 
 of duty, is to be attained by the proper regu- 
 lation of our aims with regard to common 
 things; but especially by having chosen a 
 right standard of excellence for every thing we 
 do. For want of aiming at the right thing, 
 the whole course of human life, which 
 might be so richly diversified with enjoyment 
 of various kinds, is often converted into a 
 long, fruitless, and wearisome struggle, first 
 to attain a happiness which is never found, 
 and then to escape a misery which too surely 
 pursues its mistaken victim. 
 
 The married woman cannot, then, too fre- 
 quently ask herself, “ What is it which con: 
 stitutes the object of my greatest earthly de- 
 sire ? and at what standard dol really aim ?”’ 
 Nor let us deceive ourselves either in asking 
 or in answering these questions; for if it be 
 essential to integrity that we should be sin- 
 cere with others, it is no less so that we 
 should be sincere with ourselves. 
 
 If, then, we are weak enough to aim at be- 
 ing the centre of a brilliant circle, let us not 
 
 pretend that we court notoriety for the pur- 
 pose of extending our influence, and through 
 that, our means of doing good. Ifweaim at 
 surpassing our neighbors in the richness of 
 of our furniture, the splendor of our enter- 
 tainments, and the costliness of our dress, 
 let us not deceive ourselves into the belief, 
 that it is for the sake of encouraging the 
 manufactures and the people of our own 
 country. If we aim at taking the lead in af- 
 fairs of moment, and occupying the first 
 place among those with whom we associate, 
 let us not do this under the plea of being 
 forced into a conspicuous situation against 
 our will, in compliance with the wish of 
 others, and under the fear of giving them of. 
 fence. Let us, I repeat, be honest with our- 
 selves, for this is our only chance of ever 
 arriving at any satisfactory conclusion, or at- 
 taining any desirable end. 
 
 And if we would ascertain with certainty 
 what is the actual standard of excellence 
 which in idea we set up for ourselves, for all 
 persons, whether they know it or not, have 
 such a standard, we have only to ascertain 
 to what particular purpose our thoughts and 
 actions most uniformly téhd. If the most 
 briliant and striking characters are those 
 which we consider most enviable, we may 
 easily detect in ourselves a prevailing en- 
 deavor, in what we say or do, to produce an 
 impression, and consequently to render our- 
 selves conspicuous, than which, nothing can 
 be more out of keeping with the right position 
 of a married woman, nor more likely to ren- 
 der her, at the summit of her wishes, a mark 
 for envy, and all uncharitableness. 
 
 But a far more frequent, and more exten- 
 sively prevailing standard of excellence, is 
 that which consists in giving the best dinners, 
 exhibiting the most costly furniture, being 
 dressed in the newest fashion, and making 
 every entertainment go off in the most suc- 
 cessful manner. How many heads and 
 hearts are made to ache by this ambition, it 
 must be left for the private history of every 
 family to record. What sleepless nights, 
 what days of toil, what torturing anxieties, 
 what envyings, what disputes, what back- 
 
ec 
 
 74 
 
 bitings, and what bitter disappointments arise 
 out of this very cause, must be left for the 
 same record to disclose. And if in the oppo- 
 site scale we would weigh the happiness en- 
 joyed, the good imparted, or the evil over- 
 come by the operation of the same agency, 
 we behold a blank; for let the measure of 
 success be what it may, there is no extreme 
 of excellence to which this ambition leads, 
 but it may be exceeded by a neighbor, or 
 perhaps a friend; and where wealth can 
 purchase all that we aspire to, we must 
 ever be liable to the mortifying chance of be- 
 ing compelled to yield precedence to the ig- 
 norant and the vulgar-minded. 
 
 Nothing, in fact, can be more vulgar, or 
 more in accordance with the lowest grade 
 of feeling, than an ambition of this kind. 
 Not only is it low in its own nature, but low 
 in all the calculations it requires, in all the 
 faculties it calls into exercise, and in all the 
 associations it draws along with it. Yet, 
 who shall dethrone this monster from its 
 place in the hearts of English wives, where 
 it givés the law to private conduct, levies a 
 tax upon industry, monopolizes pecuniary 
 profit, makes itself the arbiter in cases of 
 
 ‘difficulty or doubt, rules the destiny of fami- 
 
 lies, and finally gives the tone to public feel- 
 ing, and consequently the bias to national 
 character ? 
 
 I ask again, who shall dethrone this mon- 
 ster? Perhaps there would be little weight 
 attached to my assertion, if I were to say 
 that it is within the sphere of woman’s influ- 
 ence to do this; thatit rests with the wives 
 of England to choose whether they will go 
 on to estimate their position in society by the 
 cost of their furniture, and the brilliance of 
 their entertainments; or, by the moral and 
 intellectual character of their social jinter- 
 course, by the high principle which regulates 
 their actions, and by the domestic happiness 
 to be found within their homes. 
 
 So long as we esteem those we meet with 
 in society according to the fashion of their 
 dress, the richness of their ornaments, or the 
 style in which they live, it is a mockery of 
 words to say that our standard of excellence 
 
 THE WIVES°OF ENGLAND. 
 
 I 
 
 does not consist in that which money can 
 
 purchase, or a vain and vulgar ambition at-. 
 
 tain. Andso long as we feel cast down, dis- 
 appointed, and distressed at being outshone 
 in these outward embellishments, it is a cer- 
 tain proof that we are not attaching supreme 
 importance to such as adorn the mind. 
 
 Iam fully aware, in writing on this subject, 
 that I am but lifting a feeble voice against the 
 giant-force of popular feeling; that the state 
 of our country, presenting an almost univer- 
 sal tendency towards an excess of civiliza- 
 tion, added to the improvement in our manu- 
 
 factures, and the facility with which every — 
 
 kind of luxury is now obtained, are causes 
 perpetually operating upon the great mass 
 of the people, so as to urge them on to a state 
 of eager competition in the display of all 
 which money can procure; and that this 
 competition is highly applauded by many, as 
 beneficial to the nation at large, and espe- 
 cially so when that nation is considered mere- 
 ly as a mass of instrumentality, operating 
 upon what is purely material. 
 
 But I am aware also, that this very cause, 
 operating so widely and so powerfully as it 
 does, ought to furnish the impetus of a new 
 movement in society, by which the intellec- 
 tual and the spiritual shall, by a fresh effort, 
 be roused to its proper elevation above the 
 material; and this necessary and truly noble 
 effort, I must again repeat, it is in the power 
 of the wives of England to make. 
 
 Nor would this great movement in reality 
 be so difficult to effect, as we might be led to 
 suppose from looking only at the surface of 
 society, and observing the multiplicity of in- 
 stances in which a false standard of excel- 
 lence is established. We are sometimes too 
 much influenced in our opinions, as well as 
 too much discouraged in our endeavors to 
 do good, by a superficial observation of the 
 general state of things in social life ; for there 
 is often an under-current of feeling towards 
 what is just and good, at work in the minds 
 of those who, from being deficient in the 
 moral power to act upon their own convic- 
 tions, fall in with the superficial tide, and go 
 along with the stream, against their better 
 
 a 
 
POSITION IN SOCIETY. 
 
 rh) 
 
 judgment, if not against their real inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 Thus, in a more close and intimate ac- 
 quaintance with the world, we find, to our 
 frequent satisfaction, that a combination of 
 intellectual superiority and moral worth, is 
 not in reality so lightly esteemed as at first 
 we had supposed; that the weak and the 
 vain, who spend their lives in striving after 
 that which truly profiteth not, are dissatisfied 
 and weary with their own fruitless efforts, 
 and that others a little more gifted with un- 
 derstanding, and enlightened by juster views, 
 though engaged in the same unprofitable 
 struggle, would be more than glad of any 
 thing that would assist them to escape from 
 their grovelling anxieties, and low entangle- 
 ments, so as in an open and decided manner 
 to declare themselves on the side of what is 
 intrinsically good, and consequently worthy 
 of their utmost endeavors to attain. 
 
 Thus we find too, in spite of popular ‘pre- 
 judice against a simple dress, or a homely 
 way of living, that respectability, and genuine 
 worth of character, are able not only to give 
 | dignity to any position in society, but also to 
 command universal respect from others; and 
 that, while few are bold enough to imitate, 
 there is no small proportion of the commu- 
 nity who secretly wish they were like those 
 noble-minded individuals, who dare to aim at 
 a true standard of excellence in the forma- 
 tion of their own habits, and the general con- 
 duct of their families. 
 
 Shall we then go on in the same way, 
 forcing ourselves to be contemptible, and de- 
 spising the bondage to which we submit? It 
 is true, the effort necessary to be made,'which 
 the state of the times, and the satisfaction of 
 our consciences, alike require of us, is hard 
 for any single individual. But let us stand 
 by each other in this great and noble cause. 
 Let the strong endeavor to encourage and 
 sustain the weak; and let us prove, for the 
 benefit of succeeding generations, how much 
 may be done for the happiness of our homes, 
 and the good of our country, by being satis- 
 
 fied with the position in which Providence 
 has placed us, and by endeavoring to adorn 
 that position with the lasting embellishments 
 which belong to an enlightened understand- 
 ing, a well-regulated mind, and a benevolent, 
 sincere, and faithful heart. 
 
 Our standard of excellence will then be no 
 longer found in the most splendid jewelry, or 
 the costliest plate ; for in all these the vulgar 
 and the ignorant may easily attain pre-emi- 
 nence; but in. the warmest welcome, the 
 kindest service, the best-regulated household, 
 the strictest judgment of ourselves, the most 
 beneficial influence, the highest hopes for fu- 
 turity, and the largest amount of domestic 
 and social happiness which it is ever permit- 
 ted to the families of earth to enjoy. 
 
 It is needless to say that all these embel- 
 lishments to life may be ensured without re- 
 gard to position in society ; and if such were 
 made the universal standard of excellence 
 among the wives of England, much, if not 
 all, the suffering which prevails wherever 
 happiness is made to consist in what money 
 can procure, would cease to be found within 
 our homes; while, rising thus above our cir- 
 cumstances, we should no longer be subject 
 in our hopes and fears to the fluctuations of 
 commerce, or the uncertainty of a position 
 depending solely upon its pecuniary advan- 
 tages. We should then feel to be resting on 
 a sure foundation, just in proportion as our 
 standard was faithfully upheld. Ido not say 
 that we should be free from troubles, for such 
 are the lot of all; but that single wide-spread- 
 
 ing source of anxiety, which from its vastness 
 
 appears in the present day to swallow up all 
 others—the anxiety to attain a position higher 
 than our own proper sphere, would then van- 
 ish from our land; and with it such a host 
 of grievances, that in contemplating so bless- 
 ed a change in our domestic and social con- 
 dition, I cannot but again entreat the wives 
 of England to think of these things, and finally 
 to unite together in one firm determination 
 to establish a new and a better standard by 
 which to estimate their position in society. 
 
 ST 
 
| 76 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 
 
 C1oseLy connected with the subject already 
 dwelt upon, is that of domestic management ; 
 since whatever standard we choose, and what- 
 ever principles we adopt as our rule of action, 
 ‘will develop themselves in the system we 
 pursue with regard to the conduct of our do- 
 mestic affairs. 
 
 If, therefore, to appear well with the world 
 according to the popular standard, be our su- 
 preme desire, the tendency of our domestic 
 regulations will be to make, before our friends 
 and associates, the greatest possible display 
 of what is costly and elegant in our furniture 
 and style of living; while, on the other hand, 
 if our aim be to ensure the greatest amount 
 of happiness to ourselves, and to those around 
 us, we shall have a widely different task to 
 | pursue; and it is to the latter purpose only 
 that I propose devoting this chapter, as the 
 former could be better effected by consult- 
 ing the upholsterer, the silversmith, or the 
 jeweller. . 
 
 Leaving to individuals thus qualified the 
 important office of deciding what is accord- 
 ing to the latest fashion, and which article 
 | is most approved in circles of distinction, 
 | we must turn our attention to a study of a 
 totally different description ; and if at first it 
 should appear more difficult and complica- 
 ted, it will have the merit of becoming every 
 | day more simple, and more clear; or if it 
 | should seem to involve by necessity a cer- 
 tain degree of suffering and self-denial, it 
 will have the still higher merit of resulting 
 in ultimate happiness ; while the system of 
 domestic management above alluded to, 
 though in the outset full of promises of 
 indulgence and pleasure, is certain to in- 
 volve in greater and deeper perplexity the 
 longer it is pursued, and finally to issue in 
 | vexation and disappointment. 
 
 It is, then, the way to make others hap- 
 || py, and consequently to be happy ourselves, 
 which I am about to recommend; and if 
 in doing this I am compelled to enter into the 
 minute and homely details of woman’s daily 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 AY cece ee EE 
 
 ‘mon, and consequently to some extent vul- 
 
 life, I must claim the forbearance of the read- | 
 er on the plea that no act can be so trifling |} 
 as not to be ennobled by a great or a gen- 
 erous motive. 
 
 Before proceeding further with this subject, 
 I must address one word to the ladies of the 
 present day—to the refined and fastidious, 
 who dwell in an atmosphere of taste, and 
 make that their standard of excellence—lest 
 from the freedom of my remarks upon dress 
 and furniture, I should fall under their con- 
 demnation for undervaluing what is elegant, 
 and wishing to discard what is ornamental ; 
 or, in other words, of being indifferent to the 
 influence of beauty in general, as it may just- 
 ly be said to refine our feelings, and enhance 
 our enjoyments. 
 
 Without presuming to refer such readers 
 to a work of my own,* in which they would 
 find that my admiration of the beautiful, 
 wherever it may be found, is scarcely inferior |} 
 to theirs; I will simply express my convic- |} 
 tion, that the exercise of good taste, which | 
 must ever be in accordance with the princi- 
 ples of beauty, fitness, and harmony, is by no 
 means confined to the display of what is 
 costly, elaborate, or superb; but may at all 
 times be sufficiently developed in the ar- 
 rangement of what is simple and appropri- 
 ate. Indeed, there are nicer distinctions, and 
 more exquisite sensibilities, required in the | 
 happy distribution of limited means, than in 
 the choice and arrangement of the most cost- 
 ly ornaments which money can procure. In 
 accordance with this fact, we almost invaria- 
 bly find writers of fiction bestowing what is 
 gorgeous and elaborate upon scenes and 
 characters with which the best feelings of 
 the heart have little connection; while the 
 favorite heroine is universally made con- 
 spicuous in her simplicity, and at the same 
 time pre-eminent in her good taste. 
 
 But in addition to other considerations, it 
 is in the present day so easy as to be com- 
 
 gar, for all persons, both high and low, to 
 adorn themselves and their houses to the 
 
 * The Poetry of Life. 
 
utmost extent of their pecuniary means ; 
 and they are also enabled to do this with 
 a certain appearance of taste, because to 
 that class of persons who supply the requi- 
 site articles of dress and furniture, it has 
 become their study to ascertain what is most 
 approved in the highest circles, as well as 
 what is most ornamental and becoming in 
 itself And thus individuals who have but 
 little taste themselves, may easily supply 
 their deficiency by consulting what are called 
 the first tradespeople, or those who sell to 
 the highest purchasers. 
 
 How much more exquisite, then, raniat be 
 the good taste, and delicate feeling, of her 
 who has no such assistance to call in; who 
 expends but little money upon the entertain- 
 ment of her friends, in order that she may 
 see them the oftener, and with a less painful 
 tax upon her household ; but who is still able 
 so to conduct her household: arrangements, 
 that while there is no distressing appearance 
 of excessive preparation to alarm her guests, 
 an aspect of elegance and comfort is thrown 
 over the most familiar things, so as to convey 
 the idea of her family affairs being always 
 conducted in strict accordance with the prin- 
 ciples of taste—of that taste which consults 
 the beauty of fitness and order, and which 
 permits no extravagance or excess to inter- 
 fere with the perfect harmony of its arrange- 
 ments. 
 
 Here, then, we see the value of having 
 made good taste one of the studies of early 
 life; for when the cares and anxieties of a 
 household, added to the actual occupations 
 
 of the mistress of a family, press upon the 
 
 sometimes over-burdened wife, she will find 
 little time, and perhaps less inclination, to en- 
 ter into any abstruse calculations upon these 
 points; and hence we too frequently gee 
 among married women, a deterioration of 
 character in this respect; for where one 
 
 single woman is careless and slovenly in her 
 appearance or habits, there is reason to fear 
 we might find many in the married state, 
 who might justly be suspected of having lost 
 their regard for those embellishments which 
 depend upon the exercise of good taste. 
 
 DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 
 
 pe | 
 
 In pursuing the subject of domestic man- 
 agement, we are again struck with the im- 
 portance of speaking of things by their proper 
 names; for by some strange misnomer, those 
 women have come to be generally called good 
 managers, who put their whole souls into the 
 business of providing for the mere bodily ex- 
 igences of every day; and thus the more re- 
 fined, and sometimes the more intellectual, 
 who have no idea how many good principles 
 may be exemplified in the proper regulation 
 of a household, have imbibed a sort of dis- 
 taste for good management, as if it necessa- 
 rily belonged exclusively to the province of 
 the ignorant, or the vulgar-minded. 
 
 Managers, indeed, those household tor- 
 ments may be, who live perpetually in an 
 element of strife and discord, where no one 
 who valued their own peace would wish to 
 live with them; but good managers they cer- 
 tainly are not. It is not, therefore, in abso- 
 lute bustle and activity, nor yet in mere clean- 
 liness, order, and punctuality, that the per- 
 fection of domestic management consists; for } 
 where the members of a household are nas 
 to feel that they pay too dearly, by the loss 
 of their peace and comfort, for the cleanli- 
 ness, order, and punctuality of the mistress, 
 all claim on her part to the merit of good 
 management must be relinquished. 
 
 It is most difficult, however, to be suffi- 
 ciently solicitous about such points of obser- 
 vance, and not irritated by the neglect of them 
 in others. Hence it is often said that. ill- 
 tempered servants are the cleanest and most 
 orderly ; because the exactness and precision 
 which regulate their conduct, produce in un- 
 enlightened minds, a tendency to exact the 
 same from others; and where this is impos- 
 sible to be effected, produce’a petulance and 
 dissatisfaction which obtain for them the char- 
 
 _acter of being ill-tempered ; while an opposite 
 
 disposition, careless of order, cleanliness, or 
 punctuality, obtains sometimes with great in- 
 justice the merit of being good-tempered, 
 simply because any deviation from these 
 points occasions to such a mind no disturb- 
 ance whatever. 
 
 It has appeared to me ever since I was ca- 
 
pable of extreme annoyance or extreme en- 
 joyment from such causes, that the perfec- 
 tion of good domestic management required 
 so many excellences both of head and heart, 
 as to render it a study well worth the atten- 
 tion of the most benevolent and enlightened 
 of human beings. For when we consider the 
 simple fact, that it comprehends—nay, is 
 mainly dependent upon the art of giving to 
 every thing which comes within the sphere 
 of practical duty its proper weight, and con- 
 sequently its due share of relative importance, 
 we see at once that it cannot be within the 
 province of a common or a vulgar mind con- 
 sistently to do this, more especially as there 
 must not only be the perception to find out, 
 and the judgment to decide upon things gen- 
 erally, but the good feeling—and here is the 
 great point—to make that subservient which 
 is properly inferior. Thus all selfish consid- 
 erations must be set aside, all low calcula- 
 tions, all caprice, all vanity, all spite. And 
 in how many instances do all these, with a 
 multitude of other enemies to peace and hap- 
 piness, mix themselves up with what people 
 persist in calling good management, but which 
 from this lamentable admixture, makes no- 
 body like such management, or wish to be 
 where it prevails! 
 
 Perhaps it has occurred to not a few of us 
 to see one of these reputed good managers, 
 bustling about a house from one apartment 
 to another, peeping into corners, throwing 
 open closets, emptying drawers, with a coun- 
 tenance which bid defiance for the time to 
 every gentle or kindly feeling; and calling to 
 one person, despatching another, or enumer- 
 ating the misdeeds of a third, with a voice 
 which even in its distant and unintelligible 
 utterance, had the bitter tone of raking up 
 old grievances, and throwing them about like 
 firebrands on every side. And then the burst- 
 ing forth of the actual eruption, where such 
 a volcano was perpetually at work! The 
 fusion of heated and heterogeneous particles 
 into one general mass—the outpouring indis- 
 criminate and vast—the flame, the smoke, the 
 tumult! what is there, I would ask, in the 
 absence of harmless dust, or in the presence 
 
 +4 
 
 78 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 of the richest and best concocted food, to re- 
 pay the wretched family where such a mana- 
 ger presides, for what must be endured 
 through the course of any single day ? 
 
 No-—-let me live in peace, is the natural 
 demand of every human heart; and so far 
 as relates to our cookery, and our carpets, 
 we are happily all able to do this. We must, 
 therefore, settle it in our minds, that whatever 
 excellences may be attained in the prepara- 
 tion of food, the care of clothing, the arrange- 
 ment of furniture, or the general order of 
 rooms, that can never be called good man- 
 agement, which fails to secure peace, and to 
 promote happiness. 
 
 Not that I would undervalue the care of 
 the body, so far as tends to preserve health, 
 and ensure cheerfulness; or, what is still 
 more important, so far as serves to evince a 
 high degree of tenderness and affection, strong 
 evidence of which may sometimes be con- 
 veyed through this channel, when no other 
 is open. It is the swpreme importance at- 
 tached to these cares and anxieties, which 
 prevents such a system of management being 
 properly called good. 
 
 In order to maintain general cheerfulness, 
 and promote happiness throughout your 
 household, it is essential that you cultivate 
 within your own mind, a feeling of content- 
 ment with your home, your servants, and 
 your domestic affairs in general, remembering 
 that nothing which occurs to you in this de- 
 partment is the result of mere chance, but 
 that all your trials, as well as your enjoy- | 
 ments, are appointed by a kind Providence, || 
 who knows better than you can know, 
 exactly what is ultimately best for you. It is 
 consequently no more a deviation from what 
 you ought to be prepared to expect, that 
 your servants should sometimes do wrong, 
 that your plans should be thwarted by folly 
 and perverseness, or that your house should 
 be old and inconvenient; than that the blos- 
 soms in your garden should occasionally be 
 blighted, or that a shower should fall at the || 
 moment you had fixed for going out. 
 
 Yet, to maintain this desirable cheerfulness 
 through all circumstances, is certainly no | 
 
ee 
 
 DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 79 | 
 
 easy task, unless both health and temper 
 | have been carefully attended to before mar- 
 | riage; for when the former fails, it is but nat- 
 | ural that the animal spirits should fail too ; 
 | and defects of temper if long indulged, so as 
 to have grown into habit, will, in the general 
 conduct of domestic affairs, be able to infuse 
 a taint of bitterness into the kindest endeav- 
 ors, so as effectually to defeat the best inten- 
 tions. 
 
 How necessary is it, therefore, for all 
 women to have learned to manage them- 
 selves, before undertaking the management 
 of a household, for the charge is both a seri- 
 ous, and a comprehensive one; and how- 
 ever inexperienced a wife #nay be, however 
 helpless, uncalculating, and unequal to the 
 task, she no sooner takes upon herself the 
 duties of a mistress, than she becomes, in a 
 great measure, responsible for the welfare of 
 every member of the family over which she 
 presides. And not only is this her situation 
 in the ordinary course of things, but on all 
 extraordinary occasions, she must be at the 
 same post, ever on the alert, prompt to direct, 
 and ready with expedients suited to every 
 emergency that may occur. 
 
 In cases of illness more especially, though 
 the more laborious duties of the sick-room 
 nh may with propriety be deputed to others, 
 there can be no excuse for the mistress who 
 does not make it her business to see. that 
 proper attention is paid to the directions of 
 the doctor, as well as to the ventilation of 
 rooms, and all those other means of allevia- 
 ting pain, or facilitating recovery, instead of 
 which, inexperienced nurses are so apt to 
 substitute \notions and nostrums of their 
 | own. 
 
 But beyond the care of the patient, that of 
 the nurse also devolves upon the mistress of 
 the house, to see that her wants are properly 
 supplied, that a judicious distribution of her 
 time is made, so as to allow of a reasonable 
 portion of rest; or, if wearied out, to take 
 eare that her place is supplied, so that none 
 may have to complain of hardship or oppres- 
 | sion. And here we may observe by the way, 
 | that this kind of care and consideration be- 
 
 stowed upon those who habitually bear the 
 burden of domestic labor, constitutes one of 
 the strongest bonds which can exist between | 
 a mistress and her servants; besides re- 
 warding her, in many instances, by a double 
 measure of their gratitude and their faithful- 
 ness. 
 
 If the mistress of the house, as is not un- 
 frequently the case with kind-hearted women, 
 should take charge of the patient herself, it 
 then becomes her duty not to act so entirely 
 from the impulse of feeling, as to neglect her 
 own health. Imention this, because there is 
 a kind of romantic devotion to the duties of 
 the sick-room, more especially where the suf- 
 ferer is an object of interest or affection, which 
 carries on the young nurse from one day of 
 solicitude to another, without. refreshment, 
 without rest, and without exercise in the open 
 air, until nature being completely exhausted, 
 she herself becomes a source of trouble, and 
 an object of anxiety and care. By this apparent 
 generosity, the kindest intentions are often 
 frustrated ; while the household of such a 
 mistress will necessarily be thrown into 
 
 is most important that order and quiet shouid | 
 be maintained throughout. 
 
 To those who please themselves with the 
 idea that such romantic self-devotion is the 
 extreme of generosity, it may appear a cold 
 kind of reasoning to advocate the importance 
 of self-preservation, by frequently taking 
 exercise at short intervals in the open air. 
 Yet, I own I am one of those who prefer the 
 kindness which lasts, to that which expends | 
 itself in sudden and violent effort; and I | 
 would, therefore, strongly urge upon the 
 wife not only to attend to such means of pro- 
 longing her own usefulness, but to see that 
 the nurse employed under her direction does 
 the same. 
 
 Nor is it only in such cases as that already | 
 described, that married women are apt to 
 neglect the best means of maintaining cheer- | 
 fulness, and preserving health, two blessings | 
 which they above all other persons have the 
 most reason to estimate highly. Not that I 
 would insinuate an idea of any culpable ne- 
 
80 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 glect, of the employment of doctors, or the 
 use of medicines. I believe this can scarcely 
 be charged upon the wives of England, as a 
 general fault. But I have known some wo- 
 men almost entirely neglect all kinds of ex- 
 ercise in the open air, either because they 
 were too busy, or it tired them too much; or, 
 for that. most amiable of all reasons, because 
 their husbands were absent, and they were 
 too dependent to walk alone. And thus, from 
 the very excess of their affection, they were 
 satisfied, on a husband’s return, to be weary, 
 listless, dispirited, and altogether incapable of 
 adding to his enjoyment, whatever he—hap- 
 py man that he must be, to be so tenderly 
 beloved !—might add to theirs. 
 
 But fortunately for the character of woman, 
 and may we not add, for the patience of man, 
 there are happier methods of proving the ex- 
 | istence of affection than that which is exhibit- 
 ed by the display either of an excessive and 
 imprudent self-devotion, which effectually de- 
 feats its own object ; or a weak and childish 
 dependence, which is nothing better than a 
 sort of disguised selfishness. In accordance 
 with deeper and more chastened feelings of 
 regard, is that system of careful but quiet 
 watchfulness over the general health of a hus- 
 band, or a family, which detects every symp- 
 tom of indisposition, and provides against all 
 unnecessary aggravation of such symptoms 
 by any arrangement of domestic affairs which 
 can be made so as to spare an invalid, or 
 prevent the occurrence of illness. 
 
 I believe that nothing tends more to the 
 increase of those diseases classed in popular 
 phraseology under the head of bilious, which 
 prevail so extensively in the present day, 
 than long fasting, with heavy meals at the 
 close of the day. Where fashion is the root 
 of this evil, it is to be supposed that the suf- 
 ferers have their own reward; at all events, 
 a mere matter of choice, it would be impetti- 
 nence to interfere with; but in the case of 
 those husbands whose business calls them 
 from home during the greater part of every 
 day, surely something might be done by the 
 wife, to break through this habit, either by 
 supplying them with intermediate refresh- 
 
 a me 
 
 ment, or inducing them by persuasion or ar- 
 gument to make some different distribution 
 of their time. 
 
 And where symptoms of indisposition do 
 
 appear, how beautiful is that display of affec- |} 
 
 tion in a wife, who can put aside all her own 
 little ailments for the more important consid- 
 eration of those of a husband; who can bear 
 without a murmur to have her domestic af- 
 fairs at'any moment deranged, so as may 
 best suit his feelings or his health; and who 
 can make up her mind with promptness and 
 cheerfulness, even to accompany him from 
 home, at any sacrifice of her own comfort 
 and convenience! How precious then is the 
 health and the ability to do this, and to do it 
 with energy, and perfect good-will—how 
 much more precious than the childish fond- 
 ness to which allusion has already been 
 
 made, which would lead her to sit and faint | 
 
 beside him in his illness, or to neglect the ex- 
 
 ercise necessary for her own health, because, 
 
 forsooth, she could not walk without him! ~ 
 Nor let it be imagined from the familiar 
 
 and apparently trifling nature of the instances |; 
 
 adduced in relation to the subject of domestic 
 management, that the subject itself is one of 
 little moment. Necessity compels the selec- 
 tion of only a few cases from the mass of evi- 
 dence which might be brought to prove how 
 many important principles may be acted up- 
 on in the familiar transactions of every day. 
 The woman of naturally restless and irritable 
 temper, for instance, who, without controlling 
 her own feelings, would effectually destroy 
 the peace of every member of her household, 
 may by habits of self-government, and by a 
 kind and disinterested regard for the happi- 
 ness of those around her, so far restrain the 
 natural impetuosity of her character, as to 
 become a blessing instead of a torment to the 
 household over which she presides; while 
 the tender and affectionate wife, who would 
 fondly and foolishly waste her strength by 
 incessant watching over a husband, ora child, 
 may, by the habit of making impulse subser- 
 vient to judgment, preserve her health for 
 the service of many a future day, and thus 
 render herself, what every married woman 
 
ought to be—the support and the comfort of 
 her whole household. 
 We see here, although the instances them- 
 selves may appear insignificant, that in these 
 two cases are exemplified the great princi- 
 ples of disinterested kindness, prudence, and 
 selfgovernment. And thus it is with every 
 act that falls within the sphere of female duty. 
 The act itself may be trifling; but the motives 
 by which it is sustained may be such as to 
 do honor to the religion we profess. And 
 we must ever bear in mind, that not ohly do 
 we honor that religion by engaging in public 
 services on behalf of our fellow-creatures, or 
 for the good of our own souls; but by re- 
 straining evil tempers, and selfish disposi- 
 tions, in the privacy of our own domestic 
 sphere; and by cherishing for purposes of 
 practical usefulness, those amiable and benev- 
 olent feelings, which are not only most en- 
 dearing to our fellow-creatures, but most in 
 accordance with the perfection of the Chris- 
 tian character. 
 In turning our attention again to the prac- 
 tical part of female duty, as connected with 
 domestic management, that important study 
 | which refers to the best means of economiz- 
 | ing time and money, is forcibly presented to 
 | our notice.- Having dwelt at considerable 
 | length upon the subject of economy of time 
 | ina former work,* I shall not repeat the ar- 
 guments there made use of to show the im- 
 portance of this great principle of good man- 
 agement; but simply state, that if essential 
 before marriage to the attainment of intel- 
 lectual or moral good, and to the welfare and 
 comfort of those with whom we are connect- 
 ed; it becomes doubly so when the mistress 
 of a house has not only to economize her 
 own time, but to portion out that of others. 
 | In this, as in all other cases where good 
 influence is made the foundation of rightly- 
 exercised authority, the married woman must 
 not forget that example goes before precept. 
 Whatever then may be the trial to her natu- 
 | ral feelings, she will, if actuated by this prin- 
 ciple, begin the day by rising early; for it is 
 
 * The Daughters of England. 
 
 DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 
 
 in vain to urge others to do what they see that 
 we have not either the strength, or not the 
 inclination to do ourselves. Besides which, 
 there is little inducement for servants or 
 other inferior members of a family to rise 
 early, when they know that the business of 
 the day will be delayed by the mistress 
 herself not being ready ; while, on the other 
 hand, if prepared to expect that she will be 
 up early herself; there are few who could be 
 so unaccommodating as to thwart her wish- 
 es by not endeavoring to be ready at the ap- 
 pointed time. : 
 
 Nor is there any thing depending upon 
 ourselves which tends more to the proper 
 regulation of the mind, as well as the house- 
 hold, than the habit of rising early—so early 
 as to have time to think, as most persons do 
 
 in the morning hours, clearly and dispassion- : 
 
 ately ; when, free from the disturbance of feel- 
 ing so often excited by contact with others, 
 the mind is at liberty to draw its own con- 
 clusions, from a general survey of the actual 
 state of things, uninterrupted by any partial 
 impressions received through the medium of 
 the outward senses. Thus it often happens, 
 that in the early morning we are brought to 
 serious and just conclusions, which we should 
 never have arrived at, where the actual cir- 
 cumstances which gave rise to our reflections, 
 were transpiring beneath our notice, or had 
 the persons most intimately connected with 
 such circumstances been present during the 
 formation of our opinions. | 
 
 The morning, then, is the time for review- 
 ing the actions and events of the previous 
 day, and for forming, for that which has com- 
 menced, a new set of plans, upon the con- 
 victions which such a calm and impartial 
 review is calculated to produce. The morn- 
 ing is the time for gathering our thoughts 
 together, for arranging our resources, and for 
 asking with humble reverence that Divine 
 assistance, without which we have no right to 
 expect that the coming day will be spent more 
 satisfactorily than the past. 
 
 Such are the higher advantages derived 
 from habits of early rising, but there are also 
 practical duties to be attended to by all mar- 
 
 i | 
 re ee 
 a = 
 
 SS SS Sn 
 
82 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ried women, in the commencement of the | neglected by the waste of so valuable a talent 
 
 day, which must be so managed as not to in- 
 terfere with, or delay the business of others ; 
 or the end of early rising will be entirely de- 
 feated, as regards its good influence upon the 
 general habits of a family. 
 
 I mention this, because there are some 
 well-intentioned persons, who habitually rise 
 early, and are yet habitually too late for 
 breakfast, wondering not the less every day 
 how it can possibly be that they are so. To 
 such I would venture to hint, that despatch is 
 an excellent thing in whatever we have to 
 do; and that the habit of trifling is one of 
 the most formidable enemies to good inten- 
 tion in this respect, because at the same time 
 that it hinders our practical usefulness, it be- 
 guiles us into the belief, that we are actually 
 doing something—nay, even a great deal ; 
 yet, look to the end, and nothing isreally done. 
 
 If such persons are unacquainted with the 
 merits of despatch, or refuse to adopt it as a 
 wiser and a better rule, I know of nothing they 
 can do, except it be to rise a little earlier, and 
 a little earlier still, until they find that they 
 have exactly proportioned their time to their 
 requirements ; but on no account ought they to 
 allow the breakfast, or the business of the day, 
 to be retarded so as to meet their convenience. 
 Whatever time they take from sleep is their 
 own, and they have aright to dispose of it as 
 they please ; but that time can scarcely be call- 
 ed so, which is portioned out to others, espe- 
 cially where it is barely sufficient for the busi- 
 ness they are required to do through the 
 course of the day. 
 
 Perhaps it is with us all too frequent a 
 mistake to suppose that time is our own, and 
 that the higher our station, and consequently 
 the greater the number of persons subject to 
 our control, the more entirely this is the case. 
 I have already said that the time we take 
 from sleep, may with some justice be called 
 so; but except in a state of existence entirely 
 isolated, and exempt from relative duties, I 
 am not aware how conscientious persons can 
 trifle with time, and not feel that they are 
 encroaching upon the rights of others, to say 
 
 nothing of the more serious responsibility | they would never again require urging to | 
 
 committed to their trust. 
 
 There is no time perhaps so entirely wasted 
 as that which is spent in waiting for others, 
 because while expectation is kept up that 
 each moment will terminate our suspense, we 
 
 / cannot prudently engage in any other occu- 
 
 pation. If, then, the mistress of a house, by 
 habitual delay of breakfast, keeps as many as 
 four persons waiting half an hour every 
 morning, she is the cause of two valuable 
 hours being wasted to them, which they 
 would most probably have preferred spend- 
 ing in any other way rather than in waiting 
 for her. 
 
 It must of course be allowed, that every 
 master and mistress of a family enjoys the 
 right of breakfasting as late as they choose, 
 provided they give directions accordingly ; 
 but where there is one in the middle ranks 
 of society who will order breakfast at ten, 
 there are twenty who will order it at eight, 
 and not be ready before nine. It can only 
 be to such. deviations from arrangements 
 made by the heads of the family, and under- 
 stood by all its members, that the foregoing 
 observations apply. 
 
 It is a great point in the economy of time, 
 that different kinds of work should be made 
 to fill up different intervals. Hence the great 
 value of having a variety of needlework, 
 knitting, &c.; for besides the astonishing 
 amount which may thus almost imperceptibly 
 be done, a spirit of contentment and cheer- 
 fulness is much promoted by having the 
 hands constantly employed. Thus, if ever 
 the mistress of a house spends what is called 
 the dark hours in idleness, it is a proof that 
 she has either not properly studied the arts 
 of knitting and netting; or that she is a very 
 indifferent workwoman not to be able to pay 
 for the use of candles. Could such persons 
 once be brought to appreciate the really bene- 
 ficial effects of constant employment upon 
 the mind and temper, could they taste those 
 sweet musings, or enjoy those ingatherings 
 of thought, which are carried on while a piece 
 of work is growing beneath their hands, 
 
 | 
 
ae 
 
 those habits of industry which may tru- 
 ly be said to bring with them their own re- 
 ward. 
 
 Habitually idle persons are apt to judge 
 of the difficulty of being industrious, by what 
 it gosts them to do any thing they may hap- 
 pen to undertake; the movements of a natu- 
 rally indolent person being composed of a 
 series of painful exertions, while the activity 
 of an industrious person resembles the mo- 
 tion of a well-regulated machine, which, 
 having been once set at work, requires com- 
 paratively little force to keep it going. It is 
 consequently by making industry a habit, and 
 by no other means, that it can be thoroughly 
 enjoyed; for if between one occupation and 
 another, time is allowed for sensations of 
 weariness to be indulged, or for doubts to be 
 entertained as to what shall be done next, 
 with those who have much to do all such 
 endeavors to be industrious must necessarily 
 
 _ be irksome, if not absolutely laborious. 
 How pitiable then is the situation of that 
 married woman who has never fully realized 
 the true enjoyment of industry, nor the. ad- 
 vantages of passing rapidly from one occu- 
 pation to another, as if it was the business 
 of life to keep doing, rather than to wait to 
 see what was to be done, and to question the 
 necessity of doing it! Pitiable, indeed, is that 
 Woman, because in a well-regulated house- 
 hold, even where the mistress takes no part 
 in the executive business herself; there must 
 still be a constant oversight, and constant 
 forethought, accompanied with a variety of 
 calculations, plans, and arrangements, which 
 to an indolent person cannot fail to be irk- 
 some in the extreme; while to one who has 
 been accustomed to rely upon her own re- 
 sources in the constant exercise of industry, 
 they give a zest and an interest to all 
 the duties of life, and at the same time im- 
 part a feeling of contentment and cheer- 
 fulness sufficient of itself to render every 
 duty light. 
 
 There is no case in which example is more 
 closely connected with influence than in this. 
 A company of idle persons can keep each 
 
 other in countenance to almost any extent ; 
 
 DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT. 
 
 83 
 
 while there are few who cannot be made 
 ashamed of idleness by having constantly 
 before them an example of industry. Thus 
 where the mistress of a house on extraordi- 
 nary occasions is ever ready to lend assistance 
 herself; where she evinces a decided prefer- 
 ence for doing things with her own hand, 
 rather than seeing them left undone; and 
 where it is known that her mind is as quick 
 to perceive what is wanted as her hand is 
 willing to execute it; such a mistress will 
 seldom have to complain that her servants 
 are idle, or that they cannot be brought 
 to make the necessary effort. when extra 
 work has to be done. 
 
 There is, however, a just medium to be 
 observed between doing too much, and too 
 little, in domestic affairs; and this point of 
 observance must be regulated entirely by the 
 circumstances of the family, and the number 
 of servants employed. It can never be said 
 that the atmosphere of the kitchen is an ele- 
 ment in which a refined and intellectual wo- 
 man ought to live; though the department 
 itself is one which no sensible woman would 
 think it a degradation to overlook. But in- 
 stead of maintaining a general oversight and 
 arrangement of such affairs, some well-inten- 
 tioned women plunge head, heart, and hand 
 into the vortex of culinary operations, think- 
 ing, feeling, and doing what would be more 
 appropriately left to their servants. 
 
 This fault, however, is one which belongs 
 but little to the present times. It was the 
 fault of our grandmothers, and we are en- 
 deavoring to improve upon their habits by 
 falling into the opposite extreme, forgetting, 
 in our eagerness to secure to ourselves per- 
 sonal ease and indulgence, how many good 
 and kind feelings may be brought into exer- 
 cise by a participation in the practical part 
 of domestic management—how much valua- 
 ble health, and how much vivacity and cheer- 
 fulness, alternating with wholesome and real 
 rest, are purchased by habits of personal ac- 
 tivity. 
 
 But it is impossible to do justice to this 
 subject without entering into it fully, and at 
 
 considerable length ; and having already done | 
 
 OR 
 
84 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 a 
 
 this elsewhere,* under the head of “ Kind- 
 ness and Coasideration,” I will spare the 
 reader a repetition of my own sentiments 
 upon a subject of such vital importance to 
 the wives of England. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 THE generai tendency of domestic manage- 
 ment should be, to establish throughout a 
 household the principles of order, justice, and 
 benevolence. 
 
 In speaking first of order, I would not be 
 understood to restrict the meaning of the 
 word to such points of observance as the 
 placing of chairs in a drawing-room, or or- 
 naments on a mantelpiece. The principle of 
 order, in its happiest development, has to do 
 with the state of the mind, as well as the 
 personal habits. Thus a due regard to the 
 general fitness of things, correct calculations 
 as to time and means, with a just sense of 
 relative importance, so as to keep the less 
 subservient to the greater, all belong to the 
 department of order in a well-governed house- 
 hold, and should all be exemplified in the 
 general conduct of the mistress. 
 
 There is no surer method of maintaining 
 authority over others, than by showing that 
 we have learned to govern ourselves.” Thus 
 a well-ordered mind obtains an influence in 
 society, which it would be impossible for 
 mere talent, without this regard to order, 
 ever to acquire. All caprice, all hasty or 
 violent expressions, all sudden and extrava- 
 gant ebullitions of feeling of any kind what- 
 ever, exhibited before servants and inferiors, 
 have a tendency to lower the dignity of a 
 mistress, and consequently to weaken her 
 influence. ) 
 
 The mistress of a house should always 
 
 appear calm, and perfectly self-possessed, 
 
 * The Women of England. - 
 
 whether she feels so or not; and if from an 
 
 accumulation of household disasters, partic- 
 
 ularly such as makoccurrences before her 
 
 guests, the agitation of her feelings should 
 
 be too great for her powers of self-control, 
 
 she may always find a natural and appropri- 
 
 ate outlet for them, by sympathizing with 
 
 other sufferers in the same calamity, and thus 
 
 evincing her regard for them, rather than for” 
 herself. 
 
 Nor ought we to class this species of self- 
 discipline with those artificial manners which 
 are assumed merely for the sake of effect. 
 If the same individual who controlled her 
 feelings before her guests, should go out 
 among her servants and give full vent to 
 them there, such a case would certainly de- 
 serve to be so classed. But the self-control 
 I would gladly recommend, is of a widely | 
 different order, extending to a mastery over | 
 the feelings, as well as the expressions. In’ 
 the former case, a lady seated at the head of | 
 her table, will sometimes speak in a sharp 
 whisper to a servant, with a countenance in | 
 which all the furies might be represented as 
 one; when suddenly turning to her guests, 
 she will address them with the blandest 
 smiles, even before the cloud has had time to 
 vanish from her brow. In the latter case, 
 the mistress of the house will recollect, that 
 others have been made to suffer perhaps 
 more than herself, and that whatever the 
 cause of vexation or distress may be, it can 
 only be making that distress greater, for her 
 to appear angry or disturbed. By such 
 habits of reflection, and by the mastery of 
 judgment over impulse, she will be able in 
 time, not only to appear calm, but really to 
 feel so ; or if there should be just as much 
 excitement as may be agreeably carried off 
 in condolence with her friends, there will 
 never be sufficient really to destroy either 
 their comfort, or her own peace of mind. 
 
 In speaking of the beauty of order, would 
 that it were possible to impress this fact upon 
 the minds of English wives—that there is 
 neither beauty nor order in making their ser- 
 vants and their domestic affairs in general, 
 the subject of conversation in company. To 
 
 Sa SS 
 
 oe? 
 
ss 
 
 wees.” 
 
 hear some good ladies talking, one would 
 really think that servants were a sort of 
 plague sent upon the nation at large, and 
 upon them in particular. To say nothing of 
 the wrong state of feeling evinced by allow- 
 
 comfort to be habitually regarded as a bane 
 rather than a blessing ; we see here one of 
 those instances in which the laws of order 
 are infringed by a disregard to the fitness of 
 things ; for however interesting our domestic 
 affairs may be to ourselves, it requires but 
 little tact or observation to discover, that they 
 | interest no one else, unless it be our nearest 
 and most intimate friends, whose personal 
 regard to us will induce them to listen with 
 kindness to whatever we describe as being 
 connected with our welfare or happiness. 
 
 Upon the same principle, a history of bodily 
 
 ailments should never be forced upon visit- 
 ors; for as it requires either to be an intimate 
 friend, or a member of the same family, to 
 feel any particular interest in the good or 
 bad practices of servants ; so it requires that 
 our friends should be very tenderly attached 
 to us to care about our ailments, or even to 
 listen with any real attention when we make 
 them the subject of conversation. Inallsuch 
 cases, it is possible that a third party may be 
 more quick to perceive the real state of things 
 ‘than the party most concerned ; but I own I 
 have often wondered what the habitual com- 
 plainer of household and personal grievances 
 could find to induce her to go on in the 
 averted look, the indifferent answer, and the 
 absent manner of her guests; yet, such is 
 the entire occupation of some minds with 
 subjects of this nature, that they are scarcely 
 alive to impressions from any other source ; 
 and perhaps the surest way to prevent our 
 annoyance of others, is to recollect how often 
 | and how much we have been annoyed in 
 this way ourselves. 
 
 It is, then, no mean or trifling attainment 
 | for the mistress of a house to be thoroughly 
 } at home in her own domestic affairs; deeply 
 | interested in the character and habits of all 
 
 the different members of her household, so as 
 to extend over them the care and the solici- 
 
 Nm es jt 
 
 ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 ing one of our greatest sources of personal 
 
 85 
 
 tude of a mother ; and yet before her guests, 
 or in the presence of her friends, to be per- 
 fectly disengaged, able to enter into all their 
 causes of anxiety, or hope, and above all, to 
 give an intellectual character and a-moral 
 tendency to the general tone of the conver- 
 sation in which she takes a part. With no- 
 thing less than this strict regulation of the 
 feelings, as well as the habits, this regard to 
 fitness, and this maintenance of order in the 
 subserviency of one thing to another, ought 
 the wives of England to be satisfied ; for it is 
 to them we look for every important bias 
 given to the manners and the morals of that 
 class of society upon which depends so much 
 of the good influence of England as a nation. 
 A love of order is as much exemplified by 
 doing any thing at its proper time as in its 
 appropriate place; and it rests with a mis- 
 tress of a house to see that her own time, 
 and that of her servants, is judiciously pro- 
 portioned out. Some mistresses, forgetting 
 this, and unacquainted with the real advan- 
 tages of order, are in the habit of calling their | 
 servants from one occupation to another, || 
 choosing extra work for them.to do on busy 
 days, crowding a variety of occupations into 
 one short space of time, and then complain- 
 ing that nothing is thoroughly done; while 
 others will put off necessary preparations un- 
 til so late that everybody is flurried and con- 
 fused, and well if they are not out of temper 
 too. Itmay possibly have occurred to others 
 as it has to myself, to be present where, on 
 the occasion of an evening party being ex- 
 pected, all the good things. for the entertain- 
 ment had to be made on the afternoon of the 
 same day. I need hardly add that when the 
 guests arrived, neither mistress nor servants 
 were in a very fit state to go through the 
 ceremonial of a dignified reception. 
 Forethought, then, is a most essential quai- 
 ity in the mistress of a house, if she wishes 
 to maintain throughout her establishment the 
 principle of order. Whatever others do, she 
 must think. It is not possible for order to ex- 
 ist, where many minds are employed in di- 
 recting a variety of movements. There 
 must be one presiding intellect to guide the 
 
 ie 
 
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 on 
 
 | 
 
 whole; and whether the household to be 
 governed belong to a mansion or a cottage, 
 whether the servants to be directed be many 
 or few, that presiding power must be vested 
 in the mistress, or in some one individual 
 deputed to act in her stead. It is from leav- 
 ing this thinking and contriving part, along 
 with the executive, to servants, that we see 
 perpetuated so many objectionable and ab- 
 surd methods of transacting the business of 
 
 one generation to another, and acted upon 
 sometimes with great inconvemence and 
 equal waste, simply because habit has ren- 
 dered it a sort of established thing, that 
 whatever is done, should be done in a cer- 
 tain manner; for servants'are a class of 
 people who think but little, and many of 
 them would rather take double pains, and 
 twice the necessary length of time in doing 
 their work the old way, than risk the experi- 
 ment of a new one, even if it should ever 
 occur to them to make it. 
 
 It must rest with the mistress, then, to in- 
 troduce improvements and facilities in the 
 transaction of household business; and she 
 will be but little fitted for her office who has 
 not studied before her marriage the best way 
 of doing common and familiar things. What- 
 ever her good intentions, or even her meas- 
 ure of good sense may be, she will labor un- 
 der painful disadvantages, and difficulties 
 scarcely to be overcome, by taking up this 
 study for the first time after she has become 
 the mistress of a house; for all points of 
 failure here, her own servants will be quick 
 to detect, and most probably not slow to 
 take advantage of. 
 
 ee a RS ET AN RL SAN, SY STN 
 a a 
 SIS AEE SS RR DED AADAC ALIA a AEE DDD a A LIE IS 
 aa a eae eee eet ee 
 a ee 
 
 A married woman thus circumstanced, will 
 certainly act most wisely by studiously con- 
 cealing her own ignorance; and in order to 
 do this. effectually, she must avoid asking 
 foolish questions, at the same time that she 
 watches every thing that is done with care- 
 ful-and quiet scrutiny, so as to learn the how 
 and the why of every trivial act before en- 
 
 gaging in it herself, or even venturing a re- 
 mark upon the manner in which it may be 
 | done by others. 
 
 domestic life; methods handed down from. 
 
 But essential as knowledge is to good do- 
 
 mestic management, we must ever bear in | 
 
 mind that knowledge is notall. ‘There must 
 be a love of order, a sense of fitness, a quick 
 perception of the appropriateness of time 
 
 and place, lively impressions of reality and | 
 
 truth, and clear convictions on the subject of 
 relative importance; and in order to the com- 
 plete qualification of a good wife and mis- 
 tress, there must be along with all these, not 
 only a willingness, but a strong determina- 
 
 tion to act upon such impressions and con- | 
 
 victions to the full extent of their power to 
 promote social, domestic, and individual hap- 
 piness. 
 
 And if all these requirements are to be | 
 
 classed under the head of order, we must 
 look for those which are still more serious 
 under that of justice. 
 
 The word justice has a somewhat start- 
 ling sound to female ears, and I might per- 
 haps be induced to use a softer expression, 
 could I find one suited to my purpose; 
 though after all, I fancy we should none of 
 us be much the worse for having the word 
 justice, in its simple and imperative strict- 
 ness, more frequently applied to our relative 
 and social duties. It is, in fact, a good old- 
 fashioned notion, that of doing justice, which 
 has fallen a little too much into disuse; or 
 perhaps, I ought rather to say, has been dis- 
 missed from its place among female duties, 
 and considered too exclusively as belonging 
 to points of law and cases of public trial. 
 
 I am well aware that justice in its highest 
 
 sense belongs not to creatures frail, short- | 
 
 sighted, and liable to deception like our- 
 selves ; but that strong sense of truth, and 
 honesty, and individual right, which we 
 
 naturally include in our idea of the love |} 
 of justice, was surely given us to be éxer- || 
 ‘eised in our dealings with each other, and in 
 
 the general conduct of our domestic affairs. 
 This regard to what is just in itself, necessa- 
 rily including what is due to others, and what 
 is due from them also, is the moral basis up- 
 on which all good management depends ; for 
 when once this foundation is removed, an 
 inlet is opened for innumerable lower mo- 
 
te 
 ee ee 
 
 ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 87 
 
 tives, such as selfishness, vanity, caprice, and 
 a host of others of the same unworthy char- 
 acter, to enter and mix themselves up with 
 the conduct of daily life. 
 
 We cannot therefore be too studious to de- 
 tect, or too prompt to overcome, these ene- 
 mies to right feeling and to duty ; and I be- 
 lieve we shall be best enabled to do this, with 
 the Divine blessing upon our endeavors, by 
 a habit of constantly stretching our ideas to 
 the broad and comprehensive nature of jus- 
 tice in general—justice in its simplicity and 
 its strictness, without deterioration from the 
 influence of custom, and without those quali- 
 fications which owe their existence to an arti- 
 
 | ficial state of society. 
 
 Imbued with a strong sense of justice, the 
 kind and considerate mistress will see that 
 every member of her household has some 
 
 | rights which others ought not to be allowed 
 to infringe; and if she be attentive to the 
 
 welfare of her family, she will find sufficient 
 exercise for her love of justice in the settle- 
 ment of all differences which may arise out 
 of the clashing of individual interests. Even 
 
 ‘the most insignificant member of such a 
 
 family, that unfortunate attached to almost 
 all establishments under the name of “the 
 boy,” all from him down to the very animals, 
 will have their rights, and such rights can 
 only be consistently maintained by the au- 
 thority of one presiding mind. 
 
 Thus the abuse or the neglect of domestic 
 animals can never prevail to any great extent, 
 where the mistress does her duty ; for though 
 servants will sometimes lavish their caresses 
 upon such creatures, they are for the most 
 part careless about their actual wants; and 
 unless properly instructed, and even looked 
 after in this respect, they will sometimes be 
 absolutely cruel. The mistress of a house 
 may thus have an opportunity of teaching 
 her servants, what they possibly will have 
 had no means of learning at home, that these 
 are creatures committed to our care by their 
 Creator and ours, and that we have no more 
 
 right to practise cruelty upon them, than we 
 
 4 
 
 shave to disobey the righteous law of God in 
 
 any other respect. 
 
 Regarding the important subject of econo- 
 
 my in its character of a great moral obliga- 
 tion, rather than simply as an individual 
 benefit, I shall place it under the head of jus- 
 tice; and I do this in the humble hope, that 
 when so classed, it may obtain a greater 
 share of serious attention than could be de- 
 sired, were the subject to be considered the 
 mere act of saving money. True economy, 
 and that which alone deserves our-regard as 
 a study, I have already described as consist- 
 ing in doing the greatest amount of good with 
 the smallest pecuniary means—not only good 
 to the poor, and to society in general, but 
 good to the family of which we form a part; 
 and of course this study includes the preven- 
 tion of absolute waste in any department 
 whatever. Such a system of economy, I 
 consider to be entirely distinct from the mere 
 act of saving money; except so far as that 
 all economical persons will endeavor to save 
 money to a certain extent, in order that they 
 or their families may not be dependent upon 
 others. A sense of justice will also induce 
 them to make a suitable provision for those 
 under their care, without doing which they 
 have certainly no right to be generous. 
 
 necessary to the exercise of justice. We 
 shall therefore turn our attention the more 
 seriously to a few hints on the most common- 
 place of all subjects—that of saving. 
 
 Nor let the refined and fastidious young 
 wife, retaining all her boarding-school con- 
 
 ‘tempt for such homely household virtues, 
 
 dismiss the subject with the hasty conclusion, 
 that such studies are only for the vulgar or 
 the low. ‘There are those who could tell her, 
 that there is a vulgarity in extravagance, of 
 which the really well-bred are seldom guilty ; 
 and that no persons are so much addicted to 
 the lavish and indiscriminate waste of money, 
 as those who have been raised from low birth 
 and education to affluent means. 
 
 But it is impossible to believe that the 
 sound-minded, honest-hearted, upright wo- 
 men, who form the majority of English wives, 
 
 should deceive themselves by notions so ab-— 
 
 Every thing necessary to the practice of this |. 
 kind of equitable economy, is consequently 
 
88 
 
 surd as these; and I only wish it were pos- 
 sible to embody in the present work, the 
 united evidence of such women in favor of 
 the plans they have themselves found most 
 conducive to the promotion of comfort and 
 economy combined. 
 
 I place these two words together, because 
 that can never be called good management, 
 which has not reference to both, or which 
 extracts from the one for the purpose of add- 
 ing to the other; that can never be called 
 good management, where economy takes pre- 
 cedence of comfort, except only in cases of 
 debt, where comfort ought unquestionably’to 
 give place to honesty ; and still less can that 
 be called good management where comfort is 
 the only consideration, because the higher con- 
 sideration of justice must then be neglected. 
 
 In order to carry out the principle of jus- 
 tice in her household transactions, it is highly 
 important that the mistress of a family should 
 make herself thoroughly acquainted with the 
 prices and qualities of all common and famil- 
 
 iar things, that she may thus be enabled to 
 pay equitably for every thing brought into her 
 
 house. These are opportunities of observing 
 or violating the laws of justice, which few 
 mistresses have the energy, and still fewer 
 the inclination, to look after themselves; and 
 they are consequently left for the most part 
 to servants and trades-people to adjust as 
 they think proper, each regarding their own 
 interest and convenience, as it is perfectly 
 natural that they should. Servants of course 
 prefer having every article of household con- 
 sumption brought to the door; and in large 
 towns this is easily managed by small traders 
 in such articles, who can regulate their prices 
 as they think proper, without the cognizance 
 of the mistress of the house, and sometimes 
 without any direct reference to what is the 
 real marketable value of their property. That 
 too much is trusted to interested parties in 
 such cases as these, must be clear to the 
 meanest understanding ; for we all know the 
 tendency there is in human nature, to use for 
 selfish purposes the power of doing what is 
 not strictly right, and especially where this 
 can be done without fear of detection. 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 In the “Daughters of England” I have 
 strongly recommended that young women.|} 
 should cultivate habits of attention to the 
 public as well as the private affairs of the 
 country in which they live, so far as to ob- 
 tain a general knowledge of its laws and in- 
 stitutions, and of the great political move- 
 ments taking place around them. The abuse 
 of such knowledge is to make it the basis of 
 party feeling and political animosity ; but its 
 proper and legitimate use is that which ena- 
 bles respectable, influential,.and patriotic wo- |: 
 men, to carry out the views of an enlightened 
 legislature through those minor. channels 
 which form the connection between public 
 and private life, and the right direction of 
 which is of the utmost importance to the 
 welfare of the country in general. 
 
 How little do women, poring over their 
 
 | worsted work, sometimes think of these 
 
 things! How little do they reflect, that not 
 only is it a part of their duty to govern their 
 household well, but so to govern it, that those 
 wise and benevolent enactments designed for 
 the good of the nation at large, which it has 
 been put into the hearts of our rulers to 
 make, may not be frustrated for want of their 
 prompt and willing concurrence! When once 
 this idea has been fully impressed upon the 
 mind of woman, she will not, she cannot, 
 think it a degradation to use every personal 
 effort for the correction of public abuses, 
 rather than it should be said, that while the 
 legislature of England evinced the utmost 
 solicitude for the happiness of the people, 
 there was not patriotism enough among her 
 women to assist in promoting their general 
 good. 
 
 But to return to particular instances of do- 
 mestic economy. The habit of making what 
 are called “cheap bargains,” does not appear 
 to me worthy of being classed under this 
 head; because the principle of economy 
 would inspire a wish to pay an equitable and 
 fair price for a good article, rather than a low 
 price for a poor one; and in ninety-nine cases 
 out of a hundred, articles offered for sale as 
 being remarkably cheap, are of very inferior | 
 quality. | 
 
But above all other things to be guarded 
 against in making bargains, is that of taking 
 advantage of the poor. It is a cruel system 
 carried on by the world, and one against 
 which woman, with her boasted kindness of 
 heart, ought especially to set her face—that 
 of first ascertaining the position, or degree 
 of necessity of the party we deal with, and 
 then offering a price accordingly. Yet, how 
 often do we hear the expression—“TI get it 
 done so well, and so cheaply ; for, poor things, 
 they are in such distress, they are glad to do 
 it at any price!” 
 
 work, and fine work too, that is done upon 
 such terms. A pitiful thing it is to think of 
 the number of hours which must have been 
 | spent, perhaps in the endurance of hunger 
 and cold, before the scanty pittance was earn- 
 ed; and to compare this with the golden 
 sums so willingly expended at some fashion- 
 able milliner’s, where, because the lady of the 
 house is not in want, the kind-hearted pur- 
 chaser would be sorry to insult her feelings 
 by offering less. 
 
 The same principle applies to ready pay- 
 ment of the poor. It is a mockery of words, 
 to tell them you have no change. The poor 
 know perfectly well that change is to be had; 
 and when you tell them to call again in a few 
 days, or when it is more convenient to attend 
 to them, perhaps the disappointed applicant 
 goes sorrowing home, to meet the eager 
 glance of a parent, or a child, who has been 
 all day calculating upon some article of food 
 or clothing, which that little payment was ex- 
 pected to have furnished them with the means 
 of procuring. 
 
 Iam aware that disappointments of this 
 kind are sometimes unavoidable; but I ap- 
 peal to my country women, whether as a mere 
 matter of convenience, the poor ought to be 
 
 dependent, because of their greater influence, 
 and the higher respect in which they are 
 held, are paid in a prompt and willing man- 
 
 nience or difficulty. 
 
 ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 And a pitiful sight it is to see the plain. 
 
 sent empty away, when the rich and the in- | 
 
 ner, nothing being said either about inconve- | 
 
 To all persons, however, whether high or 
 
 89 | 
 
 low, rich or poor, it is highly important to 
 good management that frequent payments 
 should be made. Weekly payment of all 
 trades-people is the best, because then neither 
 party has time to forget what has been bought, 
 and they are consequently less likely to make 
 mistakes in their final settlement. Asa check | 
 upon such mistakes in the making up of ac- | 
 counts, it is indispensable that all bills should | 
 be kept for a year at least after their payment; | 
 and though this practice may at first appear | 
 useless and troublesome, ample satisfaction | 
 will eventually be derived by exemption from 
 all that uncomfortable feeling which arises | 
 from uncertainty in this respect—from an idea | 
 of having either injured another, or being in- ; 
 jured one’s self. ; | 
 
 There is a foolish habit to which many |}, 
 shopkeepers are addicted, of persuading mar- 
 ried women, and particularly the young and 
 inexperienced, to purchase on credit. When 
 they see a lady evidently tempted, looking at | 
 an article again and again, and repeatedly | 
 asking the price, as if in the hope each time 
 of finding it less, it is perfectly natural in them, | 
 if they know the respectability of their cus- 
 tomer, to fall in with her weakness, and, ac- 
 commodating themselves to her inadequate | 
 means, to offer the tempting article, to be paid | 
 for on some distant day. It is still more fool- } 
 ish, therefore, in the woman who goes unpro- 
 vided for such a purchase, to trust herself so |} 
 far as to trifle with temptation; but the ex- | 
 treme of her folly, is to allow herself to be 
 prevailed upon, at last, to take what she 
 cannot pay for, and probably does not really 
 want. 
 
 It is often stated by imprudent women, as | 
 an excuse for buying what they do not need, 
 that it was “so extremely cheap;” but that | 
 must always be a dear article to us which we | 
 have no use for; and the money which such | 
 things would cost must, in the end, prove | 
 more valuable than the cheapest goods which | 
 are not necessary, or not calculated to be | 
 of use. | 
 
 Married women who love justice to them- | 
 selves as well as to others, should always | 
 keep strict accounts. Without some evidence | 
 
90 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 of this kind, husbands are sometimes a little 
 incredulous, and such a proof of the right 
 distribution of her means, no one need hesi- 
 
 tate to show. While, however, the husband. 
 
 is thus enabled to see for himself what has 
 been the actual expenditure, it must not be 
 supposed that he is qualified to judge in all 
 cases of the necessity for such expenditure 
 being made. The wife alone can do this; 
 and if she enjoys that inestimable blessing to 
 a married woman, her husband’s confidence, 
 he will be satisfied that all the rest is right, 
 whether he understands it or not. There is 
 no doubt, if he was consulted about every 
 purchase to be made, he would think in some 
 instances that the article could be done with- 
 out; while in others, he would probably 
 choose a far more expensive one than was 
 necessary. A wise and prudent woman will, 
 therefore, so manage these affairs, as to ob- 
 tain the privilege of having them left entirely 
 to her judgment. 
 
 She will find too, that economy does not 
 consist so much in buying little, as in buying 
 suitably ; for a house or a wardrobe may be 
 so scantily supplied, that each article has to 
 do the service of many, and is thus prema- 
 turely worn out, or effectually destroyed, by 
 being put to uses for which it never was de- 
 signed. The poor girl who has but a thin 
 pair of shoes, and no money to buy stronger, 
 must unavoidably destroy them in one day’s 
 journey ; when, had they been used only for 
 proper purposes, they might have lasted a 
 
 ; year. And it is the same with a scantily fur- 
 nished kitchen. Absolute waste to a very 
 great extent must necessarily be the conse- 
 quence of having but few implements for 
 daily use, and making them serve every pur- 
 pose as occasion may require. With the best 
 supply of kitchen utensils, however, their se- 
 lection and use ought not to be left entirely 
 to servants. The mistress herself must some- 
 times direct in this department, unless she 
 would see the amount of her bills alarmingly 
 increased by the habit most servants have, 
 of snatching up what is nearest to them, 
 rather than thinking what is fittest to be used. 
 The same rule applies to household linen, 
 
 of which an ample supply, given out with 
 regularity and judgment, will always be found | 
 most economical in the end. But on no ac- 
 count whatever let any deficiency in this de- 
 partment, or in that of your kitchen, be sup- |} 
 plied by borrowing. There is no occasion for 
 the defects of your establishment to be made 
 known to others, and, except in sases of ex- 
 traordinary emergency, if you cannot afford 
 to purchase what is wanted, the sooner you 
 learn to do without it the better. 
 
 With regard to food, too, I am inclined to 
 think that to have a table comfortably sup- 
 plied with a moderate variety of dishes, is 
 by no means inconsistent with the strictest 
 economy. I have sometimes even fancied 
 that a spare dinner had the effect of produc- 
 ing a very disproportionate appetite; at least 
 I remember, when a girl, having occasionally 
 the privilege of sitting down to a table of this 
 kind, when I always felt most perversely in- 
 clined to eat up every thing that was set be- 
 fore me. 
 
 But leaving this fact to be settled by politi- 
 cal economists, it must be allowed that per- 
 sons in general are not so childish as to eat 
 more, because they see more; and in the ap- 
 pearance of a well-supplied table, there is an 
 air of comfort and respectability, which un- 
 der ordinary circumstances, I cannot think 
 we should derive any advantage from giving 
 up. Besides which, a certain extent of va- 
 riety affords opportunity for bringing out 
 again, ir a more attractive form, many things 
 which inust have been otherwise dismissed 
 altogetwr. In this art the French have ar- 
 rived at great perfection; and asa proof of 
 the correctness of these observations, the 
 cheapness of their way of living is always a 
 subject of surprise to the English, on their 
 first acquaintance with French habits. 
 
 Still, we must feel that the system is a dan- 
 gerous one, when it leads to excess; far bet- 
 ter—far better is it to eat the last morsel of 
 plain food prepared every day, than to give 
 the time, and the thoughts, too much to the 
 preparation and enjoyment of food. 
 
 But the great point to be observed, both in 
 the study and the practice of economy, is to 
 
proportion your expenditure to your means. 
 The differénce, even of a hundred a year, in 
 the income of a family, makes a considerable 
 difference in the duties of the mistress with 
 regard to economy. Thus, it may be highly 
 meritorious for one married woman to do all 
 her needlework herself, while, in another, it 
 would evince a disregard for the fitness of 
 things, to spend her time in doing what she 
 would be more in the way of her duty to em- 
 ploy the poor and the needy to do for her. 
 
 In all these cases, it is evident that princi- 
 ple, rather than inclination, must form the 
 basis of our actions; and in following out the 
 principle of justice more especially, that self 
 must hold a very inferior place in our calcu- 
 lations. The same may be said of those du- 
 ties which follow, and which are comprised 
 under the head of benevolence; for though 
 selfishness and generosity may, in the first 
 view, appear to be directly opposite in their 
 nature, the act of giving is, in many cases, 
 only the gratification of a refined selfishness, 
 with which the principle of integrity has to 
 wage determined war. Thus there can be 
 no generosity in giving what is not, strictly 
 speaking, our own, nor justice in receiving 
 thanks for what we had no right to give. 
 
 To be solicitous either to give, or to receive, 
 
 costly presents in your own family, is a sort 
 | of childish weakness, and particularly to ex- 
 pect such presents from a husband, for where 
 there is a perfect identity of feeling and pos- 
 session, both as regards money and goods, 
 the wife may just as well purchase the val- 
 uable article for herself. There is, however, 
 something gratifying to every heart in being 
 remembered during absence; but the gratifi- 
 cation consists rather in finding that our tri- 
 fling wants have been thought of and sup- 
 plied, than that the indulgence of our self-love 
 or our vanity has had to be taken into ac- 
 count; and a thimble in such a case may be 
 more valuable than a costly gem. 
 
 The married woman, as soon as she takes 
 upon herself the responsibility of standing at 
 the head of an establishment, should with- 
 draw herself in a great measure from those 
 I} little obligations and kindnesses, which as a 
 
 add, that the fewer supplicants and hangers- 
 
 ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. ere) | 
 
 the study of a lifetime to learn how to give 
 
 to the poor to exaggerate their own wants and 
 
 care might have converted into a wholesome 
 
 young woman and unmarried, she might 
 with propriety have received. She must, 
 therefore, strictly avoid courting such favors, 
 especially from the great, remembering that 
 in being the mistress of a house, she has her- 
 self become a source from whence kindness 
 ought to flow, and consequently is not so 
 proper an object for receiving it. | 
 
 To be “just before we are generous,” is a 
 good old maxim. ‘The duties of benevolence 
 must, therefore, always be made subservient 
 to those of integrity. But still, where a fami- 
 ly is neither in debt, nor in want of the com- 
 mon necessaries of life, there must be some- 
 thing due from such a family to those who 
 are more needy than themselves. 
 
 It is a privilege we all enjoy, of being at 
 liberty to choose our own way of being char- 
 itable; yet if we think seriously on the sub- 
 ject of giving, as a duty, and regard our 
 means as only lent to us for the purpose of 
 doing the greatest possible amount of good {I 
 which they are capable of effecting ; we shall 
 find that instead of its being the mere indul- 
 gence of a natural impulse, to give, it is often 
 
 judiciously. 
 
 To judge by the frequency of its practice, 
 one would suppose that one of the most ap- 
 proved methods of serving the poor, was to 
 give away at the door pieces of broken or 
 otherwise objectionable food. Yet I am dis- 
 posed to think that, upon the whole, more 
 harm than good results from this practice ; 
 for, to say nothing of the temptation it offers 
 
 a 
 eS » = 
 
 sufferings, the temptation to servants is no 
 trifling one, to be perpetually adding to the 
 charitable hoard, what a little ingenuity or 
 
 or palatable dish. Besides which it is impos- 
 sible that any family should be able to furnish 
 a regular supply of such food, and the disap- 
 pointment of the really destitute must be very 
 great, on those days when they are obliged 
 to return home to set down to an empty 
 table, or perhaps to go supperless tobed. In | 
 addition to which objections, we may safely 
 
eS 
 Oe ee 
 
 92 
 
 about, to be found at our doors, the better. 
 Those are seldom the most needy who ask 
 assistance in this way, and happily for our 
 benevolence, there are innumerable channels 
 now open, through which we may at least 
 endeavor to do good with less probability of 
 doing harm. 
 
 In the exercise of kindness to the poor, care 
 is often necessary to avoid falling into popu- 
 lar mistakes with regard to the merit of cer- 
 tain cases, which after all frequently consists 
 in nothing more than a few circumstances of 
 interest attaching tothem. The tide of fash- 
 ion, when it takes a charitable course, will 
 sometimes pour a perfect flood of benefits 
 upon certain individuals, to the neglect of 
 others equally deserving, and perhaps more 
 in need. But the mistress of a family, whose 
 mind is well governed, will be her own judge 
 in such matters, and not allowing either in- 
 dolence or self-indulgence to stand in her 
 way, nor even deputing the task to others, she 
 will, as far as it is possible to do so, examine 
 the case for herself, in order that she may 
 not be led away by the partial statements 
 or highly colored representations of her 
 friends. 
 
 For all the purposes of benevolence, she 
 will also keep a separate provision, and sep- 
 arate accounts, in order to ascertain at the 
 end of the year, or at any particular time, 
 what has been the exact proportion of her 
 resources thus distributed. Without this 
 kind of record, we are apt sometimes to fancy 
 we have been more generous than is really 
 the case; or, on the other hand, we may 
 have been liberal beyond what was just, for 
 it is not the number of cases we relieve, 
 which has to be considered, so much as the 
 due proportion of our means which is be- 
 stowed upon charitable purposes. : 
 
 When the duty of benevolence, extended 
 through offices of charity, is considered in 
 this light, as being no duty in some cases, 
 and in others one of serious extent and re- 
 sponsibility, and thus bearing, through all the 
 intermediate degrees between these two ex- 
 tremes, exact reference to our pecuniary 
 
 | means, to our situation in life, and to the 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 number of relative claims we have to fulfil, it | 
 
 will easily be seen, that to lay down any pre- 
 cise rules for the amount of money which 
 ought to be expended in charity, would 
 be presuming upon an extent of knowledge 
 which no single individual can possess. 
 Besides which, there are so many ways of 
 doing good, that benevolent feeling can often 
 
 find free exercise through channels which 
 
 could scarcely be considered as belonging to 
 what is generally understood by charity. 
 
 But while perfectly aware that little can be 
 done in the way of benefiting our fellow-crea- 
 tures, without regard to their spiritual wel- 
 
 fare, I own I am one of those who would | 
 
 wish that the bodies, as well as the souls of 
 
 the poor might be cared for ; nor can I think 
 they would be less likely to attend to instruc- |} 
 tion, for being comfortably clothed and suffi: | 
 
 ciently fed. 
 
 The mistress of a family, when truly benev- 
 olent, will not rest satisfied with merely giv- 
 ing to the poor. She will visit them in their 
 dwellings, make herself acquainted with their 
 habits, characters, and circumstances: and 
 while urging upon them their religious duties, 
 or recommending such means of religious in- 
 struction as may be within their reach, her 
 own experience in the practice of econo- 
 my will enable her occasionally to throw in 
 
 a few useful hints on the best method of ; 
 
 employing their scanty means, so as that 
 every thing may be turned to the most use- 
 ful account. 
 ciously and kindly given, is often more valu- 
 able than money would be without it; and 
 those who have but little to give, may often, 
 
 by such means, extend their influence to as | 
 
 wide a circle of usefulness, as if they had 
 thousands at their disposal. 
 
 The indigent and the suffering are often 
 good judges of what is real, and what is pre- 
 tended sympathy, or of what is meant for kind- 
 ness, without sympathy atall. Thus the most 
 sincere and fervent zeal for their spiritual 
 improvement often fails to produce any ef- 
 
 fect, simply from the fact of little attention | 
 being paid to their temporal affairs, or only | 
 such as they can perceive at once to be un- 
 
 Assistance of this kind, judi-: 
 
ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE. 93 
 
 accompanied by any feeling of sympathy. It 
 is a happy constitution of mind, therefore, 
 which has been given to woman, no doubt 
 for holy and benevolent purposes, which en- 
 ables her with a quick and sensitive feeling 
 
 to enter into all the minutie of daily expe- 
 rience, without interruption to those higher 
 aims which must occupy the supreme atten- 
 tion of every Christian woman in her inter- 
 course with those who are brought under her 
 influence or her care. 
 
 The advantages of adaptation are never 
 more felt than in our association with the 
 poor. By a look ora tone, they may be at- 
 tracted or repelled. Yet how little do some 
 worthy people think of this, when they speak 
 to the poor in an authoritative, or disrespect- 
 { ful manner! It is good to bear about with us 
 the remembrance of this fact—that we have 
 no more right to be rude to the poor than to 
 the rich. Even as regards household ser- 
 vants, so strong is the feeling of that class of 
 persons in this respect, that I believe mis- 
 tresses who never deviate from a proper 
 manner of speaking themselves, have sel- 
 | dom occasion to complain that their servants 
 speak improperly to them. 
 
 In every mistress of a family, the poor of 
 her immediate neighborhood should feel that 
 they have a friend, and where the principle 
 of benevolence has been strongly implanted 
 in the heart, such a mistress will esteem this 
 consideration too high a privilege to allow any 
 regard for mere personal interest to interfere 
 with the just discharge of so sacred a trust. 
 Yet to befriend the poor substantially, and 
 with reference to their ultimate good, all who 
 have made the experiment will allow to be a 
 difficult, as well as a sacred duty, requiring 
 much patience, forbearance, and equanimity 
 of mind, with much confidence in a superin- 
 tending Providence, and faith in Him who 
 chose his own disciples among the poor. 
 
 That benevolence which commences its 
 career with high expectations of reward in 
 this world, is sure to be withered by disap- 
 fointment. Indeed, there is so much to dis- 
 
 courage the exercise of charity for the sake 
 of producing great and conspicuous results, 
 that most persons who begin upon this prin- 
 ciple, end by having their temper soured, their 
 confidence destroyed, and their minds embit- 
 tered by uncharitable feelings towards their |} 
 fellow-creatures in general. “The poor are 
 so ungrateful,” is their frequent remark-= * so 
 dishonest, so requiring; there is no pleasure 
 in doing any thing for them.” But how dif- 
 ferent is the spirit which prompts these com- 
 plaints, from that of the Bible, where the poor 
 are mentioned in almost every page, and 
 where the duty of kindness and consider- 
 ation towards them is enforced upon the 
 simple ground of their being poor, without 
 regard to ‘any other merit or demerit what- 
 ever! 
 
 Nor is it to the poor alone, but towards her 
 fellow-creatures in general, that the woman 
 who undertakes the superintendence of a fam-» 
 ily, should cultivate feelings of kindness and 
 benevolence. Men, engaged in the active 
 affairs of life, have neither time nor oppor- 
 tunity for those innumerable little acts of con- 
 sideration which come within the sphere of 
 female duty, nor are they by nature so fitted 
 as woman for entering into the peculiarities 
 of personal feeling, so as to enable them to 
 sympathize with the suffering or the distressed. 
 But woman, in the happiest exercise of her 
 natural endowments, enjoys all those requi- 
 sites which are combined in a real friend; 
 and as such she ought always to be regarded | 
 at the head of her domestic establishment— 
 
 ‘a friend with whom all within the reach of 
 
 her influence may feel that their interests are 
 safe—a friend in whose sympathy all may 
 share, and in whose charity all may find a 
 place. No one, however, can be such a | 
 friend as this, without having cultivated be- 
 nevolent dispositions towards the human 
 race in general, without feeling that all are 
 members of one great family, only differently | 
 placed for a short period of their existence, 
 and that all are objects of kindness and care } 
 to the same heavenly Father. 
 
 § 
 
94 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 TREATMENT OF SERVANTS AND DEPENDANTS. 
 
 Ir, as soon as a woman marries, she has 
 the services of domestic assistants at her 
 command, she has also devolving upon her 
 the responsibility of their comfort and their 
 general welfare ; and it is a serious thought 
 that she cannot, by any means, escape from 
 this responsibility, whatever may, in other 
 respects, be the privileges and indulgences of 
 her situation. Neither the affection of her 
 husband nor the kindness of her friends can 
 do any thing to relieve her here, except only 
 so far as their advice may aid her judgment ; 
 but as the mistress of a house she must be 
 the one responsible being for the habits, and, 
 in a great measure, for the circumstances of 
 those who are placed under her care. 
 
 By the thoughtless or inexperienced it may 
 be asked how this should be, since servants 
 are expected to care for us, not we for them? 
 Such, however, is not the language of a 
 Christian woman, with whom it will be im- 
 possible to forget that her influence and ex- 
 ample must unavoidably give a tone to the 
 character of her whole household ; and if 
 there be no solicitude for a bias to be given 
 | towards what is good, it must unavoidably be 
 towards what isevil. Itis morally impossible 
 that it should be neither one way nor the 
 other, because the very time which a servant 
 ‘| spends beneath a master’s roof, will, of ne- 
 cessity, be confirming old habits, if not spent 
 in acquiring new ones; and thus while fondly 
 persuading yourself that because you are 
 
 doing nothing you cannot be doing harm, | 
 you may, in reality, be guilty of the sin of © 
 | omission, which, in cases of moral responsi-— 
 
 bility, is often of the most serious conse- 
 quence. 
 
 It is too frequently considered that servants 
 are a class of persons merely subject to our 
 
 authority. Could we regard them more as 
 placed under our influence, we should take 
 
 a wider and more enlightened view of our 
 
 own responsibilities with regard to them. 
 And after all, it is influence rather than au- 
 thority which governs a household ; not but 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 that every mistress has a right to expect im- 
 plicit obedience, all neglect of which is inju- . 
 rious to both the parties concerned, and in 
 order to enforce which, her orders should al- 
 
 ways be given in as clear and decided a man- |} 
 ner as possible, leaving nothing, except where || 
 it is absolutely necessary, to contingencies, || 
 
 to make the purpose her own, and not to al- 
 low the servant an opportunity of feeling that 
 she has overruled the plans of her mistress, 
 and in reality substituted her own. 
 
 Where the mistress is an ignorant one, 
 these points of observance are very difficult 
 to maintain, and the habit of giving foolish 
 
 orders, inconvenient or impossible to be exe- 
 
 cuted, and of finding that her servant is ca- 
 pable of proposing what is at once more rea- 
 sonable and much to be preferred, will, in all 
 probability, reduce her to a mere nonentity 
 as regards authority in her kitchen, and may 
 ultimately be the cause of her withdrawing 
 from all interference there. 
 
 But necessary as it is that a rmastress should 
 be implicitly obeyed, I repeat, that it is not 
 by mere authority that a household can be 
 well governed ; because there are innumera- 
 ble ways in which servants can deceive with- 
 out being detected, and carry on their own 
 schemes while they appear to be adopting 
 
 | those of a mistress; it is, therefore, by no 
 
 other means than by the establishment of 
 mutual feelings of confidence and respect, 
 that we can hope to be as faithfully served 
 
 and nothing to the choice of the servant her- | 
 self, unless good reasons should be adduced | 
 for a change of purpose; and then the or- | 
 ders of the mistress should be so worded as | 
 
 when absent, as when inspecting our affairs | 
 in person; and as I have already said that a | 
 
 kitchen can never be the proper element for |} 
 : an enlightened woman to live in, the greater | 
 confidence she feels in a right system being | 
 carried on there, the more leisure she will | 
 possess for other avocations, and the more |} 
 happiness she will enjoy. if 
 
 The question then arises, how is this right | 
 understanding, and this perfect confidence to | 
 be attained? I answer, first, by respecting |} 
 
 the rights of servants, and secondly, by atten- \} 
 
TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC. 
 
 peer an ae ee mn rr 
 
 95 
 
 tion to their interests. There are certain 
 duties which you have a right to require of 
 them, and among them is implicit obedience ; 
 but there are also many things which even 
 
 though they might greatly promote your con- 
 
 venience, you have no right to require. You 
 have no right to require a reduction of wages 
 oelow what you first agreed to give, or in- 
 deed, any deviation from what was stipulated 
 for in that agreement. And here it may be 
 well to observe, that all particular require- 
 ments with regard to dress and personal 
 habits, should be mentioned at that time, so 
 that no disappointments or disputes may af- 
 terwards arise. Notes should also be made 
 of such arrangements, with the time of hir- 
 ing, and ‘the rate of wages: and when all 
 these things in the beginning are clearly stated, 
 and fully understood, it may tend greatly to 
 the prevention of unpleasant consequences. 
 Whatever your own circumstances may 
 be, it is the right of your servants to have a 
 
 || sufficiency of rest, and of wholesome food ; 
 
 and even in cases of sickness, or other exi- 
 
 || gency, you have noright to require that either 
 
 should be given up; to request it as a kind- 
 || ness, is the only proper manner in which a 
 _ servant should be brought to make such con- 
 | cessions ; and we have often a beautiful ex- 
 
 ample for imitation in the perfect willingness 
 
 | with which, when thus treated, they will de- 
 
 ny themselves personal indulgence, more 
 especially sit up night after night with the 
 sick, without in the intermediate times neg- 
 lecting their daily work. 
 
 It is a delicate part of good management, 
 but a very important one in maintaining in- 
 fluence, to keep always clear distinctions on 
 these points, and not even to demand the 
 pillow from the servant’s bed, remembering 
 that all things essential to their daily suste- 
 nance and nightly rest, have been stipulated 
 for in your first agreement, and that your ser- 
 vants are consequently under no greater ok- 
 ligation than other members of your family, 
 
 to give up what may be classed under the 
 head of bed or board. But I must again ob- 
 serve, that there is a manner of requesting 
 
 | ‘| tinue until the end of the day. 
 these things to be done, when required on 
 
 any extraordinary occasion, which seldom 
 meets with a refusal, or even with an unwil- 
 ling compliance. 
 
 A certain degree of care of your servants’ 
 
 health is a species of kindness which they | 
 
 always feel gratefully, and which is no more 
 than ought to be shown by the mistress to- 
 wards every member of her household. In- 
 deed it is impossible to imagine a kind-hearted. 
 woman neglecting the pallid looks, and lan- 
 guid movements of those who are spending 
 their strength in her service; and if she be 
 at the same time a lover of justice, she will 
 remember that the bodily exercise necessary 
 for carrying on household labor during the 
 day, requires a greater interval of rest than 
 such occupations as are generally carried on 
 in the drawing-room. Instead of which, how 
 often do we find those on whom devolves 
 the burden of this labor, required to rise two 
 or three hours earlier than their mistress, 
 and kept up at night as late as any of the 
 household !—kept up perhaps to wait for 
 the return of visitors, when another member 
 of the family, allowed to rest longer in the 
 morning, might as well have done so in their 
 stead—kept up on a cold winter’s night to 
 warm a bed, which the indulgent occupant 
 might more properly have warmed herself, 
 unless she had chosen to retire earlier—or 
 kept up perhaps until a late hour for family 
 worship ; a practice which requires no fur- 
 ther comment, than to say, that except on 
 very extraordinary occasions, or where great 
 allowance is made in the morning for rest, 
 no servants ought to be expected to attend 
 family worship after ten at night. 
 
 By allowing, and even requiring your ser- 
 vants to retire early, you have a right to ex- 
 pect their services early in the morning, 
 without which, no household can be properly 
 conducted ; for when the day commences 
 with hurry and confusion in order to over- 
 
 take lost time, the same state of things, only. 
 
 aggravated by its unavoidable tendency to 
 
 eall forth evil tempers, impatient expressions, 
 and angry retorts, will in all probability con- 
 | And here we 
 | see, as in thousands of instances besides, the 
 
 — 
 
— 
 
 96 
 
 importance of making ourselves acquainted 
 with what belongs to nature, and especially 
 that of the human heart. We may compel 
 an outward observance of the laws we lay 
 down for our own families, but we cannot 
 compel such feelings to go along with their 
 observance, as alone can.render it of any 
 lasting benefit either to our servants or our- 
 selves. Thus by rendering our service an 
 irksome one, or in other words, not attending 
 to what the constitution of human nature 
 | requires, we effectually destroy our good influ- 
 | ence; and if by bringing religion into the 
 same hard service, we render it an irksome 
 restraint, the mischief we do by this means 
 may be as fearful in its extent, as it is serious 
 and important in its character. But of this, 
 more in another chapter. 
 
 The same care which is exercised with re- 
 gard to your servants’ heaith, should be ex- 
 tended to their habits in general, and even to 
 cases in which their good alone is concerned ; 
 for it is an act of injustice to complain of the 
 habits of this class of persons, without doing 
 your part to form, upon better principles, 
 those which come within the sphere of your 
 influence. It is often objected to this duty, 
 that nothing can be done for the good of 
 ; young servants, so long as they are encour- 
 aged at home in what is foolish and wrong. 
 The mothers then are clearly to blame; and 
 certainly the mothers in many poor families 
 are bad enough. But who made the mothers 
 what they are, or helped to make them so? 
 Unquestionably the negligent, injudicious, or 
 unprincipled mistresses under whose influ- 
 ence their early lives were spent. 
 
 And have you not then sufficient regard 
 for the welfare of future generations to begin 
 a new system, by which the errors of the last 
 may be corrected? For the little thoughtless 
 girl just entering beneath ‘your roof—the 
 young nursery-maid—she of whom nobody 
 thinks, except to find fault when she has 
 done wrong—she who perhaps never thinks 
 herself, except to contrive how she shall man- 
 age to purchase a ribbon like that upon her 
 mistress’s cap—this very girl is gradually ex- 
 periencing under your influence, and, nom- 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 inally at least, under your care, that great and 
 
 important change of thought, feeling, and’ 
 
 habit, which is not improperly called the 
 formation of character; and this girl will 
 
 consequently take away with her whatever 
 
 bias she receives either from your neglect, or 
 your attentions, first into other families, and 
 then into her own, where she herself will 
 probably in her turn have to train up Sapigee 
 both for this world and the next. 
 
 Will the wives of England then think me 
 very extravagant in my notions of what is 
 due towards servants, when I propose to 
 those in the middle class of society, that as 
 
 Christian women they should consider such. 
 
 young servants as placed peculiarly under 
 their care; because it is only by beginning 
 early, that that great and radical change can 
 be effected in the habits and character of ser- 
 vants generally, which all unite in consider- 
 ing as so urgently required. , 
 
 If a mistress would really do this, and I 
 cannot see how any responsible person so cir- 
 cumstanced is justified in neglecting it, she 
 would consider that some oversight of her 
 servants’ wardrobe was absolutely necessary ; 
 and as they grow older, and come to be in- 
 trusted with money of their own, the same 
 oversight should extend to their manner of 
 spending it. It is an excellent thing when 
 
 servants are allowed time for making their | 
 own clothes, and it is no mean occupation | 
 for the mistress of a house to teach them | 
 I speak on the supposition , 
 that she is acquainted with this art herself, | 
 for I cannot imagine the education of an | 
 English woman in the middle class of society | 
 
 how to do so. 
 
 complete, without her having become familiar 
 with the art of making every article of dress 
 she wears. Not that she is under any obli- 
 
 gation to continue the practice of making her | 
 
 own clothes; that is a totally different mat- 
 ter; but as this class of women are situated, 
 and taking into account all the probabilities 
 of change of circumstance, failure of health, 
 or failure of pecuniary means, I am convinced 
 that no one could have to regret, while thou- 
 sands might have to rejoice, at having ac- 
 quired in early life an art so capable of 
 
 ie 
 
 eT ee 
 Ne 
 
 eee sa SR inp . Gres Leia Me 
 
being made useful both to themselves and 
 others. 
 
 I believe that one half of the forlornness, 
 discomfort, and apparent destitution of the 
 || poor around us, arises, not so much from ab- 
 solute want of means, as from the absence 
 of all knowledge of this kind. They are un- 
 fortunately but too ready to imitate us in our 
 love of finery, our extravagance, and self-in- 
 dulgence ; and it is a serious question whether 
 they discover any thing else in us which they 
 can imitate; but let them see our economy, 
 our industry, our contrivance, and our soli- 
 citude to turn every thing to the best ac- 
 count, and I believe they would not be 
 slow to imitate these habits as well as the 
 others. 
 
 The art of mending, for instance, though 
 most important to the poor, is one in which 
 they are lamentably deficient; and so much 
 waste, disorder, and slovenliness, are the con- 
 sequence of not being able to mend skilfully, 
 that this department of neatness and econo- 
 my is one in which all young servants should 
 be carefully instructed; more especially as 
 the making-up of new clothes is a much 
 easier, as well as generally more agreeable 
 task, than that of mending old ones, so that 
 they look respectable to the last. 
 
 By this kind of oversight of her servants’ 
 wardrobe, a kind-hearted and judicious mis- 
 tress may easily obtain some direction in the 
 expenditure of their money, and in nothing 
 is assistance to the poorer classes more ne- 
 cessary than in this. ° Servants generally are 
 pleased to have the approbation of a beloved 
 and respected mistress in those cases over 
 which she does not assume any direct author- 
 ity; and they would be equally mortified to 
 find they had incurred her disapprobation by 
 the purchase of what was worthless, or un- 
 befitting their situation. By this means, too, 
 mistresses would generally be better able than 
 they are, to understand what is sufficient, 
 and consequently what is just, with regard 
 to wages; for while, on the one hand, some 
 require their servants always to look respec- 
 table without allowing them the means to do 
 so, others are induced by fashion or custom 
 
 TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC. 
 
 97 | 
 
 to give higher wages than are really any 
 benefit to the receiver. 
 
 But the variety of instances are too numer- 
 ous to specify, in which the Christian care 
 and oversight of a good mistress may be in- 
 valuable to a young servant. I will mention 
 but one more, and that of greater importance 
 than any which have yet fallen under our 
 consideration. I mean the preservation of 
 young servants from circumstances of expo- 
 sure or temptation. 
 
 Those who have never lived in large 
 towns, and especially in London, would 
 scarcely give credit to the facts, were they 
 told the number of instances in which ser- 
 vants are brought from the country, and be- 
 ing obliged, from illness or some other cause, 
 to leave their employers, are allowed to be 
 cast upon the mercy of the public, friendless 
 and destitue, and too often a prey to the 
 cruel deceptions which are practised upon 
 young females thus situated. Some of the 
 most painful among the many distressing cir- | 
 cumstances which come under the notice of | 
 those Christian ladies who have the over- 
 sight of female penitentiaries, are cases in 
 which country servants have been brought 
 to town, and having lost their health, or suf 
 fered from accident, have been placed in 
 hospitals, and left there without regard to 
 their future destiny ; when, on coming out, 
 they have found that all clue was lost to their 
 former masters or mistresses, and that they 
 were consequently alone in the streets of 
 London, without money, without friends, and 
 without the knowledge of any respectable 
 place in which they might find shelter. 
 
 It may be said that these are extreme 
 cases, but it is lamentably true that these, 
 and others of similar neglect, are not so 
 rare as persons would suppose who are 
 unacquainted with the practices of our large 
 towns. 
 
 Another evil against which mistresses 
 ought to be especially on their guard, is 
 the introduction of unprincipled char-wo- 
 men, or other assistants, into their families. 
 In the country it is comparatively easy to 
 ascertain what is the general moral character 
 
ie earn ar een “ee ee a 
 
 g 
 
 a dS Se NE AR 
 
 v2) 
 
 of those around us; but in large towns this 
 knowledge is more difficult to acquire, and 
 incalculable mischief has often been the con- 
 sequence of associating young servants with 
 persons of this description. 
 
 The practice of sending out young female 
 servants late at night, to bring home any 
 members of the family who may be out visit- 
 ing, or placing them in any other manner 
 unnecessarily in circumstances of exposure, 
 are considerations to which we ought not to 
 be indifferent; and the mistress who allows 
 her servant to be thus circumstanced, would 
 do well to ask herself how she would like a 
 young sister, or a daughter, to be placed in a 
 similar situation. Can it be that youth has 
 
 not as strong a claim to our protection in the | 
 Can it | 
 
 lower as in the higher walks of life ? 
 be that innocence is not as precious to the 
 poor as to the rich? Did the case admit of 
 any degree of comparison, I should say that 
 it was more so; for what has a poor girl but 
 her character to depend upon? Or when 
 once the stigma of having deviated from the 
 strict line of propriety attaches to her name, 
 who is there to defend her from the conse- 
 quences? Her future lot will in all probabil- 
 ity be to become the wife of some poor and 
 hard-working man, whose whole amount of 
 worldly wealth will be comprised in the re- 
 spectability of his humble home. Who then, 
 through indifference or neglect, would allow 
 a shadow to steal in, still less a blight to fall, 
 where, in spite of poverty, in spite of trial, in 
 spite of all those hardships which are the 
 inevitable portion of the man who earns 
 his bread by the labor of his hands, his 
 home might still be an earthly paradise to 
 him ? 
 
 Young women of a higher grade in socie- 
 ty, or those who are more properly called la- 
 dies, being all taught in the great school of 
 polished society, acquire the same habits of 
 decorum, and even of modesty, to a certain 
 extent; and the restrictions of society render- 
 ing it more painful to deviate from such hab- 
 ite, than to maintain them through life, we 
 come, very naturally, to look upon them 
 Father az a matter of course than as a merit. 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 estimating this charm, would for the wealth 
 of worlds be the cause of its being lost. 
 
 heart of a kind mistress will naturally sug- 
 
 them. 
 
 ing about whether a servant should be sent 
 to a neighboring town before, or after, dinner. 
 They themselves appearing to have no choice, 
 it was suggested by another party, that the 
 servant would prefer going in the afternoon. 
 “He prefer it, indeed!” exclaimed the lady 
 of the house; “then for that reason he shall 
 go in the morning.” When it is added, that 
 the lady was a most kind, and in many re- 
 spects, truly excellent character, this fact is 
 difficult to believe; and I am only induced 
 to state it as a striking proof to what an ex- 
 tent benevolent feeling may be restrained in 
 its exercise, by the habit of thinking that ser- 
 vants are merely passive instruments upon 
 which authority ought to be exercised; and 
 that, consequently, all pretension on their part 
 to an equality of feeling with ourselves, as re- 
 gards what is agreeable or otherwise, ought 
 to be put down by the most prompt and de- 
 cided measures. 
 
 After all, however, it must be allowed, that 
 there are some servants, and perhaps not a 
 few, who cannot, by the best and most judi- 
 cious tre:tment, be moulded to our wishes ; 
 and with regard to these, if the case is a de- 
 
 But in the modesty of a poor young girl there | 
 is inexpressible beauty, because we know that | 
 it must arise from the right feelings of her 
 heart; and none who are capable of truly 
 
 It is a common saying with servants, that | 
 they do not fear work if well treated; and I | 
 believe such little acts of consideration as the | 
 
 gest, may be made to go much further in | 
 stimulating them to a right performance of | 
 their duty, than either high wages or great | 
 | personal indulgence. A little consideration I 
 shown for their wishes, where the matter is | 
 one of little moment to their employers, is felt | 
 by them as a real kindness, and often abun- | 
 dantly rewarded by their willingness ‘and 
 | alacrity in doing whatever is required of | 
 
 An instance was once brought painfully | 
 under my notice, where the mistress of a_ 
 house and some of her family were consult- 
 
TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC. 
 
 cided one, that they can neither do good to 
 us, nor we to them, the sooner we get rid of 
 them the better. Before deciding too hastily 
 to part with a servant, we should, however, 
 
 call into exercise all the charity we can, by 
 | remembering how different their education 
 
 and early treatment have been from ours, 
 and if we cannot on this ground forgive them 
 
 | some faults, either they or we must be wrong 
 | indeed. 
 
 Again, there may have been faults on our 
 side as well as theirs. We may have been 
 too lax in our discipline, for kindness ceases 
 
 | to be such when it degenerates into negli- 
 
 gence. ‘Thus, to permit servants to feel that 
 
 | there are in your household departments of 
 | duty which you never superintended, and 
 | places and things secure from your inspec- 
 | tion, is allowing them a license which few 
 
 are so conscientious as not, in some measure, 
 
 | to abuse. It may happen too, that you have 
 | been expecting regularity from them, while 
 you have failed to practise it yourself; or, 
 
 that you have been requiring neatness, order, 
 and punctuality, when your own example, 
 on these points of observance, has been far 
 from corresponding with your precepts and 
 injunctions. 
 
 That care should be exercised not to part 
 too hastily with servants, is as much for the 
 interest of one party as another; since the 
 
 | distinction of a bad name as a mistress, is 
 | sure to be felt in its natural consequence of 
 
 | of all mistresses to make it a privilege to 
 
 preventing good servants seeking employ- 
 ment under such direction. It is in the power 
 
 | live with them; but still, even this privilege 
 
 will occasionally be abused. There are cases 
 too, in which the natural dispositions of the 
 two parties are not suited; and there is such 
 a thing as a mistress becoming afraid of her 
 
 | servant—afraid to thwart her plans, or afraid 
 | to enforce others; and where such is the 
 | feeling, whatever may be the excellences of 
 2 the servant, that she is not in her proper 
 | place with such a mistress, is sufficiently 
 | evident. 
 
 Instances of dishonesty, or other cases of 
 serious moral delinquency, I have not deem- 
 
 99 
 
 ed it necessary to mention, because all must 
 be aware of the importance of treating them 
 in an equitable and summary manner. The 
 only thing to be observed in relation to these 
 is, that the evidence upon which we act 
 should be clear and decisive. 
 
 In all cases of dissatisfaction, it is good to 
 bear in mind the familiar and true maxim, 
 that “good mistresses make good servants ;”’ 
 and that with persons who are constantly 
 changing, some fault must rest with them- 
 selves—some fault attributable either to mis- 
 management or neglect—some fault arising 
 either from too great indulgence, or too great 
 severity, or perhaps from a mixture of both. 
 And I am strongly disposed to think, that in- 
 dependently of such faults, many of the griev- 
 ances we complain of in our domestic affairs, 
 
 ‘and especially those which arise out of the 
 
 foolish, perverse, or unprincipled conduct of 
 our servants, might be obviated by more 
 
 careful attention being paid to the formation 
 
 of their character when young. 
 
 That a better system is also required with 
 regard to the practice of giving characters to 
 servants, is universally allowed; yet few per- 
 sons seem to have the moral courage to be- 
 gin with a plan, which shall at once be more 
 just to the employers and the employed. 
 This weakness of purpose originates, no 
 doubt, in an amiable feeling of anxiety, lest, 
 by speaking of our servants as we have 
 really found them, we should deprive them 
 of a future home. The case unquestionably 
 has its difficulties, yet as a moral obligation, 
 it must be allowed, that the sooner we begin 
 to act fairly and honestly, the better it will 
 ultimately be, both for ourselves and those 
 with whom we are associated; and there 
 
 can be no doubt, that the confidence all ser- | 
 vants feel in being able to obtain what is call- | 
 ed a character, so long as they have not been | 
 really dishonest, insolent, or disobedient, ren- | 
 ders them more careless than they otherwise | 
 
 would be, of those minor points of domestic 
 duty, which, taken as a whole, form an ag- 
 gregate of considerable importance to those 
 who engage their services. ‘This, then, is 
 one of those cases, in which the Wives of 
 
eee 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 England are called upon to assist each other, 
 not only in making a strong determination, 
 but in acting upon it, so far as to break 
 through a popular and long-established prac- 
 tice, by speaking of servants, when asked for 
 their character, in such terms as they really 
 deserve ; without reference to their worldly 
 interests, or indeed to any thing but the sim- 
 ple truth. If by such means a few of them 
 should be longer than they now are in ob- 
 taining situations, a great many would be 
 more careful to fill their places to the satis- 
 faction of the families by whom they are 
 employed; and thus honesty would be found 
 in the end, as it always is, to be the best 
 policy. 
 
 In addition to household servants, many 
 married women have devolving upon them 
 the serious responsibility of caring for appren- 
 tices, or other assistants in the way of busi- 
 ness; and in the discharge of these duties, it 
 is most important for all who are thus cir- 
 cumstanced to ask themselves, whether they 
 are acting upon the golden rule of doing to 
 others what they would that others should 
 do to them, or to those in whom they are 
 most warmly interested. If they are, their 
 merit is great, and there can be no doubt but 
 their reward will be so too; for we must all 
 allow, that it requires no ordinary share of 
 kind feeling, or of Christian principle, to do 
 all which a high sense of duty requires in this 
 respect. 
 
 There are many reasons why the task is 
 difficult—almost too difficult for mere human 
 nature to perform; and it is not the least of 
 these, that most young men who begin to 
 learn a business, enter as strangers into a 
 family at an age when they have little to re- 
 commend them as companions, except to 
 their own associates, or to a partial parent; 
 yet at that precise time of their lives, when 
 
 ; the formation of their habits and character 
 (| requires the strictest care. 
 
 It is easy to ima- 
 gine that few women would prefer spending 
 much of their time with youths of fifteen, or 
 eighteen years of age, in connection with 
 whom they have no family tie, or strong con- 
 necting interest; but why, on the other hand, 
 
 the wife of a man who is engaged in busi- 
 ness, to the successful pursuit of which she 
 
 owes all her pecuniary advantages, should | 
 
 hold herself above her husband’s clerks or 
 apprentices, I never could distinctly see; 
 more especially as time was when her own 
 husband was thus situated, and most pro- 
 bably time will be, when her sons will be the 
 same. , 
 
 Is it possible, then, that a mother thus 
 circumstanced can look with indifference to 
 the future, when the happy boy who plays 
 beside her, the joy of her own heart, and the 
 
 pride of his father’s—the spirited handsome | 
 fellow who carries away the prizes at his | 
 school, and lords it over his playmates, and | 
 
 only softens into tenderness when he sees his 
 mother’s tears—is it possible that she can 
 think with indifference of the time when he 
 
 shall be old enough to go out into a stran- || 
 
 ger’s family—nay, actually be bound there 
 
 for a term of years, and thus inwrought as it | 
 
 were with the entire fabric of a new order of 
 domestic arrangements, yet notwithstanding 
 all this, made to sit apart, and to feel that he 
 is not only an alien but an absolute intruder, 
 as regards the mistress of that family and her 
 friends? Could the fond mother follow her 
 boy when thus circumstanced up to his own 
 bedroom in the attic, and see how often, for 
 want of a welcome at the household hearth, 
 he sits there upon his box, and reads the 
 books he brought from home, at the risk of 
 being chidden for the light he has kept burn- 
 ing ;—could she see the far-off way in which 
 he sits at the family board, satisfying his hun- 
 ger according to necessity, not choice ;— 
 could she see the manner in which, from the 
 very overflow of the life of his young spirit 
 he is driven down and compelled to make 
 merry with associates unfitted to himself, at 
 least to that self with which he was identified 
 in his father’s home, but which he has almost 
 ceased to remember now ;—could she hear 
 when he speaks how his voice is becoming 
 gradually habituated to the utterance of low 
 thoughts and words which never formed a 
 part of the language of his home ;—but be- 
 yona all this—could she see his Sabbaths— 
 
 - 
 
his days of rest—those happy days, when the 
 members of his father’s family used all to be 
 united in equality of feeling, and solicitous 
 only to give precedence to each other,—could 
 she behold him walking the streets of some 
 great town, and for want of home-attractions, 
 for want of cordiality and welcome at his 
 master’s fireside, familiarizing himself with 
 the sinful practices of others similarly cir- 
 cumstanced ;—could the mother, beholding 
 all this, trace out its fearful and degrading 
 consequences upon the future destiny of her 
 boy, she would be ready to exclaim to the 
 
 Should any such appeal be made, the mis- 
 tress of that family would in all probability 
 reply with indignation—“ The young men 
 employed im my husband’s business enjoy 
 the very best of food, they are not required to 
 work beyond the hours agreed upon, and 
 their sleeping-rooms are healthy and well 
 furnished.” And all this may be strictly 
 true, yet the mother’s heart may be unsatis- 
 fied, for she knows, and we all know, that it 
 is possible to be well cared for as regards the 
 body, and yet be made to feel most destitute. 
 We all know that there is a kind of treat- 
 ment which elevates the moral feelings, and 
 another which degrades them, rendering the 
 spirit upon which it operates, grovelling, ser- 
 vile, mean. And if this powerful influence 
 should be made to weigh upon, and bear 
 down the buoyant mind of youth, what must 
 we expect, after such treatment, will be the 
 downward tendency of old age? 
 
 But is it possible, we ask again, that the 
 mother whose natural instinct renders her so 
 keenly alive to all these feelings as regards 
 her own child, can be insensible to the claims 
 of others !~can be induced by her own pride 
 or her own selfishness to trample under foot 
 the high moral obligation laid upon her, to 
 be as a mother to her own household, but 
 
 especially to the young, remembering that 
 they will go forth into the world bearing the 
 seal upon’ their foreheads of her maternal 
 care, or of her most culpable neglect? Nor 
 is this all. She must remember, too, that 
 | these very youths are to constitute in after 
 
 TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC. 
 
 whose moral power are vested the interests 
 during five or seven long years of the lives 
 made upon their minds—is it right, or in any 
 for this portion of their lives they should be 
 
 subjected to a system of moral discipline, 
 
 mistress of that household—“ Save my child!” | 
 ble and beautiful instances of women who 
 
 101 
 
 life that strong phalanx of respectability, in 
 
 of the people, and the welfare of the state. |} 
 Is it right then—is it just—is it politic—that |} 
 
 of such men—years in which the most last- 
 ing impressions they ever will receive, are 
 
 way to be reconciled to English women, that 
 
 calculated, in almost every way, to lower 
 them as future citizens of the world ? 
 But it is not always thus. There are no- 
 
 absolutely could not live upon such terms; || 
 warm-hearted, patriotic women, who can- 
 not sit down to their own tables without a 
 cordial welcome for every one entitled to a || 
 place at the same board—who, putting aside | 
 all personal feeling, can even make friends |} 
 of such associates, remembering that to their | 
 parents and their country they are in a great 
 measure responsible for the high or low posi- | 
 tion such men may take in after life. Yes, | 
 we are happy in believing there are those 
 who would willingly bear all the annoyance 
 or restraint of such society, were it tenfold | 
 greater than it is,rather than be the cause of 
 one young man being drawn out from home 
 to seek enjoyment, or down into a lower 
 grade of social fellowship, for a freedom and 
 a cordiality which he could not find with her. | 
 Contemptuously as young men will often | 
 speak of the influence and the habits of wo- 
 men in general, I believe there are few who 
 may not in the early part of their lives, be 
 more easily influenced by women than by 
 men—by judicious women, I mean, for, not- 
 withstanding the absurdities of which some |} 
 youths are guilty themselves, they appear to 
 be instinctively quick-sighted to the absurdi- 
 ties of others, and especially to those of wo- 
 man. In fact, they seem glad to lay hold of 
 any excuse for despising them, and, even 
 where they feel the greatest respect, will sel- 
 dom acknowledge it openly or directly. But 
 for all this, the cautious and well-ordered 
 treatment of women tells upon their charac- 
 
 ae 
 
102 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ance under the infliction of their annoyances, 
 | a little good sense, and a great deal of cheer- 
 | fulness, an amiable woman will seldom fail to 
 obtain, even without the assumption of any 
 direct authority, an extensive influence over 
 | the young men with whom she is associated. 
 
 For this reason, and because the master of 
 a family with whom it rests to exercise real 
 authority cannot so well unbend, and make 
 himself familiar with the young people under 
 his direction, the claims of this part of the 
 community are strong upon the wives of 
 England, who as they value the comfort of 
 their own sons, and estimate with regard to 
 them the advantages of a high moral stand- 
 ard, can surely not forget the interests of the 
 stranger’s son committed to their care. 
 
 The same observations apply with equal 
 force to dependants of every description, ex- 
 cepting only that those who are not bound, 
 may be considered as at liberty to find situa- 
 tions more suited to their ideas of comfort. 
 
 But, above all others, the class of destitute 
 or homeless relatives are most entitled to our 
 consideration and kindness. Yet such is the 
 weakness of human nature in cases of severe 
 or protracted trial, that the good and the hap- 
 piness of all parties seem to require as little 
 mixing up as possible in the same household, 
 of rich and poor relations. When the poor 
 have to be provided for by more affluent rel- 
 
 SE Ne I ES I SI OT DT DE ELIE TAILED PERE ADELE LLG 
 
 I 
 ters in the end; and by a little good-natured 
 falling-in with their humors, a little forbear- 
 
 atives, it is better—far better, to do this at a 
 distance, or at least not associated as one 
 family ; though such needful precaution has 
 nothing whatever to do with the kindness 
 which may often be most appropriately ex- 
 tended towards them as guests, or indeed as 
 members of the same family for a limited 
 period. 
 
 In all such cases, there are difficulties to 
 be contended with on both sides, owing to 
 the natural tendency in one party to suspect 
 or imagine slights, and in the other to appre- 
 hend or resist encroachments. One half of 
 these, however, I am jully persuaded, might 
 be obviated by a cendid and delicate mode 
 of behavior on the p-ri of the mistress of a 
 
 ———— 
 
 t ASS OR OE BT TEE ET PTS TT — 
 
 house who entertains such relatives as guests. 
 Her behavior must be delicate in the extreme, 
 because she has to do with those whose pe- 
 culiar situation renders them more than com- 
 monly susceptible of pain: and it must be 
 candid; because in all such cases the habit 
 of leaving things to be understood is the 
 surest way to produce misunderstandings. 
 Still, the delicacy which would make no 
 difference be felt, would fail in its object to 
 do good; because as the world considers 
 there is a vast difference between abundant 
 and slender pecuniary means, there could be 
 no kindness in persuading those who are but 
 scantily supplied in this respect, that they are | 
 to mix in society upon the same terms as the 
 rich; and more especially after one or more 
 generations have marked this difference be- 
 tween them and their relatives by stronger 
 characters. 
 
 While it is left to all persons to decide ac- 
 cording to their own judgment to what ex- 
 tent they will cultivate the acquaintance of 
 their poorer relatives, the manner of doing 
 this admits of no doubt; for to receive them 
 as guests without a welcome, is at once a 
 breach of justice and of hospitality. The 
 welcome then which I would earnestly re- 
 commend, is one which sets them perfectly 
 at ease as to any fear of intrusion, and which 
 does away with all idea that personally they 
 are considered as inferiors by the mistress of 
 the house ; though at the same time her be- 
 havior should be such as to assist them in 
 marking out for their safety, in associating 
 with others, those delicate distinctions, upon 
 the nice observance of which so much of 
 their comfort and respectability depends. By 
 encouraging them to trust implicitly to her 
 candor in expressing her wishes respecting 
 them, she may, as the mistress of a house, 
 be enabled to become a real friend to a class 
 of persons whose claims are perhaps the 
 strongest of any upon our sympathy and 
 consideration. For let the case be our own 
 —let the lapse of time as it passes over our 
 family connections leave us alone to struggle 
 with a tide of adverse circumstances; while 
 those who originally branched off from the 
 
same root are basking in the sunshine of 
 prosperity—let us ask of our own hearts, 
 whether we should not sometimes feel it 
 hard to be shut out from their indulgences, 
 4 and thrust down as it were into a lower 
 ' grade of society altogether, without any fault 
 of our own. 
 
 Nor is it so much the fact itself, as the ac- 
 companiments of this fact, which we should 
 feel it hard to bear—the willingness of our 
 relations to forget us—their cold or forced 
 civilities when we claimed their attention, 
 compared with the warmth of their emotions 
 towards those who were more distinguished 
 than ourselves—the situations they might 
 point out to us as eligible, but which they 
 would almost die rather than occupy—the 
 times they would choose for inviting us, 
 when no one else was likely to appear—the 
 multitude of things reserved for us to do, 
 when our health required that we should 
 have perfect rest—all which are perfectly nat- 
 ural, and might easily occur without any ac- 
 companiment of unkind feeling. Yet, these 
 are only small items of a vast sum, like grains 
 of dust in the long wearisome and humilia- 
 ting path, which the poor relation must tread 
 in associating with the rich. 
 
 In all such circumstances, how much may 
 the facts themselves be ameliorated to the 
 sufferer by the kind and cordial treatment of 
 the mistress of a family, and especially by 
 one whose high sense of justice and generos- 
 ity admits of no half welcomes beneath her 
 roof! Such a mistress will consider the poor 
 relative as peculiarly under her protection, to 
 guard from slights, to bring forward as oc- 
 casion may invite, to keep back as circum- 
 stances may require, and to render comforta- 
 ble and. at ease whatever may occur. And 
 if in the contemplation of this duty, in addi- 
 tion to those already dwelt upon in this chap- 
 ter, the English wife should fear that her 
 time will be so occupied in thinking of others, 
 as to leave none for thinking of herself, she 
 _must remember, that by these means she 
 will gather around her a strong phalanx of 
 friends, whose love and gratitude will leave 
 her little to wish for, which it is in their power 
 
 SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 103 
 
 to supply ; and beyond this, she will find that 
 by the same means she has been put in pos- 
 session of one of the great secrets of human 
 happiness—that of making others happy. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 VisitTInc, and receiving visits, being re- 
 garded by some married women as among 
 the most important avocations of life, it may 
 possibly to such individuals imply an igno- 
 rance of the claims of society, when I ven- 
 ture to hint at the probability of this being 
 one of the peculiar temptations against 
 which women in general would do wisely to 
 be on their guard, especially against acquir- 
 ing a habit of visiting, as a means of escape 
 from the dullness and monotony of their own 
 firesides. 
 
 It needs but little acquaintance with do- 
 mestic duty, to know that there must be 
 something wrong in the home of that woman 
 who is always leaving it; although, on the 
 other hand, few persons would recommend 
 exclusive confinement to the same narrow 
 sphere of thought and action, in which we 
 exist athome. Itis good to go out into so- 
 ciety sometimes, in order that we may return 
 with the greater relish; but a still more ex- 
 tensive amount of good is derived from what 
 we may learn in mixed society, and some- 
 times even from the humblest individuals we 
 meet with there. 
 
 It must, however, depend much upon our- 
 selves, whether we go out prepared to make 
 visiting a wholesome refreshment to the mind, 
 or a means of collecting and disseminating 
 low ideas with regard to our own affairs, and 
 those of our neighbors. When a married 
 
 woman goes out intent upon reckoning the 
 cost of the entertainment she partakes of, 
 upon comparing her neighbor’s furniture with 
 her own, but especially upon depreciating 
 the excellence of all which falls under her 
 notice, it may safely be said that she would | 
 
a 
 
 104 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 have been better at home; but when she goes 
 out with a desire to extend her kindly feel- 
 ings towards her fellow-creatures in general, 
 to learn from others, and to impart knowledge 
 in return; or, in other words, to do and re- 
 ceive good in any way that may open, she 
 will seldom have the mortification of return- 
 ing home weary and dispirited, or wishing 
 she had never gone. 
 
 But pleasant as this kind of refreshment 
 may occasionally be, and necessary as it is 
 sometimes to mix with others in order to 
 
 have our views enlarged, and our prejudices ' 
 
 rubbed off, the woman who makes it the chief 
 
 business of her life to visit and receive com-- 
 
 pany, will have committed a lamentable mis- 
 take by getting married; for this business 
 might unquestionably have been carried on 
 in her single state with as much enjoyment 
 to herself, and with far less injury to the hap- 
 piness of others. Whatever is done by a 
 married woman in the way of duty, must 
 have reference to others, and more especially 
 to those with whom she is most intimately 
 connected; how then can it be promoting 
 their interests, or making their welfare the 
 chief object of desire, for her to be bestowing 
 her time, her intelligence—nay, all that is 
 pleasing in her manners, and interesting in 
 her character, upon comparative strangers ; 
 while her lassitude, weariness, and exhaus- 
 tion, the natural effects of too much excite- 
 ment, are brought home to her own family, 
 and unsparingly indulged before them. 
 There are probably few English wives who 
 would really wish to enter at once upon so 
 unnatural a way of living; but there are un- 
 fortunately too many, who from want of firm- 
 
 | ness to resist temptation, as well as prudence 
 
 and discernment to foresee what consequen- 
 ees must inevitably follow certain acts, are 
 
 | drawn into that vortex of dissipation appa- 
 
 rently against their will, and, if one could re- 
 ally’ believe their protestations, still more 
 decidedly against their inclinations. 
 
 There is no more curious phenomenon, 
 presented by human life, than that of innu- 
 merable multitudes of persons doing every 
 day, towards each other, with every demon- 
 
 stration of delight, what one half at least of 
 
 the same individuals declare themselves to 
 
 be doing with the utmost unwillingness, and 
 
 even with dislike. In nothing is this more 
 striking than in the ceremony of making 
 morning calls. The devices which are prac- 
 tised to escape from callers, on the one hand, 
 and to call upon persons who are not at 
 home, on the other, might put to shame the 
 
 warmest advocate for keeping up these forms 
 _of polished life. 
 with one stout heart, determine to speak the 
 
 For let the whole nation, as 
 
 truth, and say exactly what degree of willing- 
 ness is really felt to go out and make these 
 calls, or to stay at home and receive them, 
 and let the willingness thus avowed, be made 
 the rule of their future conduct, what an im- 
 mense amount of precious time would thus 
 be rescued from worse than waste ! 
 
 Nor is it the absolute calls themselves, 
 which constitute the whole objection to the 
 practice as it is now carried on, for every 
 mistress of a family addicted to this practice, 
 knows that there are two or three good 
 hours—nay, actually the very best of every 
 day, which she can never cal! her own, and 
 which she consequently makes no attempt to 
 spend in any rational or useful manner. If 
 any thing within the sphere of her duties has 
 really to be done, it must be hurried through 
 between, perhaps, a late breakfast, and the 
 arrival of those few early callers, who come 
 on business, or who really wish to find the 
 lady of the house at home. When these are 
 
 gone, the first part of the farce commences, 
 
 and if the after scenes could be made to vary 
 so as to develop what was interesting or 
 new, there would perhaps be less objection 
 to the whole. But, unfortunately, having gone 
 through one set of observations, one series of 
 little surprises at the intelligence of the day, 
 one succession of animated smiles, and ex- 
 pressions of profound interest, no sooner is 
 another guest announced, than the lady of 
 the house has to be just as much astonished 
 at the news, and just as much startled at 
 each item of intelligence, as if she had never 
 heard it before—just as much pleased to re- 
 ceive the twentieth caller as the first, and al- 
 
 say 
 
SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 though in all probability no single truth has 
 been told her with which she was not all the 
 while acquainted, no new idea developed, 
 and no feeling, except weariness, excited, she 
 has to remain until the last as fascinating, 
 vivacious, and apparently delighted, as she 
 was at first. 
 
 Now if this is not hard labor, I am igno- 
 rant what labor is. If this is not waste of 
 time, Iam ignorant what is its use. If this 
 is not a weariness and degradation to the 
 spirit, 1am ignorant on that point’too. Al- 
 lowing, however, that calls are necessary, a 
 fact I do not pretend to dispute, allowing also 
 that some particular portion of each day 
 should be appropriated to that purpose, what 
 harm, I would ask, would result to society in 
 general, from having that time compressed 
 into the space of one hour each day. It is 
 true that by this means many callers would 
 probably have to be introduced at the same 
 time, but here would be the great advantage, 
 that the same common-place remarks would 
 do for all at once, the same little starts of as- 
 tonishment, the same expression of interest 
 lighting up the face, and beyond this, the 
 same delighted welcome for the many, em- 
 bodied in one, might have a better chance of 
 being really cordial and sincere. In addition 
 to these advantages, every married woman 
 should have the privilege of fixing her own 
 hour as a generally understood thing, so that 
 her household arrangements might be made 
 accordingly ; and time comparatively secure 
 would thus be left for pursuing any more im- 
 portant avocations without fear of interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 I now appeal to the wives of England, 
 whether the carrying out of such a plan 
 would not be felt as a general relief; more 
 especially since it need only be adopted by 
 
 | those who consider time too precious a gift 
 
 to be spent in a sort of trifling which seems 
 neither to do good, nor to give satisfaction ; 
 while all who prefer the present system, 
 would enjoy the gratification of spending 
 their whole mornings either in making or 
 receiving calls. The only difference to them 
 
 | would be, that they could no longer with any 
 
 105 
 
 justice complain of the system as irksome or 
 annoying. 
 
 In such observations I would be under- 
 stood to refer to those calls of ceremony, 
 habit, or fancied necessity, which are univer- 
 sally complained of behind the scenes. Visits 
 of friendship are of a totally different order, 
 and might be arranged for accordingly. But 
 whatever plans may be proposed, the great 
 evil to be avoided is, a universal determina- 
 tion to appear pleased with what is as uni- 
 versally complained of as a waste of time, 
 and a tax upon patience and sincerity ; for 
 that can never be a right state of things, 
 where a general grievance is borne with 
 under the pretence of its being a pleasure. 
 There are many grievances which must be 
 borne with, and which it is consequently de- 
 sirable to make the best of; and there are 
 others which fall heavily upon individuals, 
 and yet conduce to the general good; but 
 that a burden felt by all, and sincerely de- 
 plored by the majority of those who bear it, 
 should come not only to be submitted to, but 
 apparently rejoiced in, is a phenomenon 
 which exhibits so striking an instance of the 
 self-mastery of woman, that one cannot suf- 
 ficiently regret this exercise of her magna- 
 nimity not being devoted to a nobler cause. 
 
 The art of receiving guests agreeably, ar- 
 ranging them judiciously, and treating them 
 
 so that every one shall feel perfectly at ease, | 
 
 is of more importance to the mistress of a 
 house, than the display of her richest jewels, 
 or her most studied accomplishments. In- 
 
 deed, there is always this fact to be borne in | 
 
 mind with regard to society in general, that 
 nothing which is merely an embellishment to 
 ourselves, can, as regards its real value, bear 
 the slightest proportion to that which affords 
 gratification to others. The mistress of a 
 house would do little for the enjoyment of 
 her guests by being the most splendidly 
 dressed, or even the most striking and dis- 
 tinguished person in her own drawing-room. 
 The probability is that half of them would go 
 away secretly, if not openly, affronted. Her 
 proper duty is to allow them an opportunity 
 of shining, if they can; and in pursuance of 
 
 | 
 
a RE RY 
 
 106 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 this subject, she will endeavor to make way 
 
 for the distinguished, as well as to bring for- 
 
 ward the retiring. But more especially it is 
 her part to be unobtrusively watchful of in- 
 
 dividual comfort, attentive to every wish, | 
 
 moving about from one to another without 
 bustle or officiousness, and above all things 
 taking care that the most insignificant are 
 not neglected. She must do all this too with 
 a perfect knowledge of what is in human na- 
 ture, so as not to offend while endeavoring 
 to please; and with a perfect adaptation of 
 herself to the different characters of her 
 guests, whose enjoyment for the evening 
 must be in a great measure at her disposal. 
 Thus the mistress of a house may attain the 
 desirable object of having her visitors all 
 pleased and satisfied, without any of them 
 being aware how much of their gratification 
 they owe to her; for I am supposing her one 
 of those unselfish women, who, when they go 
 into company, are intent only upon the hap- 
 piness of those around them, and who conse- 
 quently escape the disappointment of having 
 failed in their own persons to be either courted 
 or admired. 
 
 But there is a far different. manner of visit- 
 ing and receiving visits from this—and I had 
 almost said, would that there were no other 
 with which wehad any thing to do! I mean 
 where one or more friends—real friends, are 
 invited by the mistress of a house to be for a 
 short time the companions of her fireside en- 
 joyments, and, as members of the same fam- 
 ily, to partake in whatever may constitute its 
 amusements or its privileges. Here then we 
 find an appropriate and ample field for the full 
 development of those qualifications, whether 
 natural or acquired, which are combined in 
 an agreeable companion ; for here are happi- 
 ly united, freedom for the exercise of truth, 
 time for narrative, opportunity for confidence, 
 resource for intellect, occasion for pleasantry, 
 recollections shared together, hopes mutually 
 anticipated, and indeed any thing which an 
 affectionate heart, and an enlightened under- 
 standing, can require for enjoyment. 
 
 What a luxury too it is for a married 
 woman to feel such perfect identity with her 
 
 husband in all he is, and in all he possesses, 
 that her home, her books, her garden, seem |! 
 
 to be her very own to place at the disposal 
 
 of her friend; but greater than all, is the 
 luxury of gathering into her bosom that ful- 
 ness of delight, derived from ten thousand 
 sources, yet all embodied in the simple feel- 
 ing, that she has a home to offer. There is 
 nothing in the joy of girlhood equal to this; 
 and say what people will about marriage |! 
 being the grave of friendship, I cannot think 
 the wife is the person most to blame where it 
 is so. Perhaps there is no blame at all, for I | 
 should rather think the falling off of female | 
 friends might, in a great measure, be attrib- 
 uted to a natural shrinking, on the side of the 
 unmarried party, from admitting, as she sup- 
 poses he must be, a man, and perhaps a 
 stranger, into her confidence. There are, 
 however, so very few men who care any || 
 thing at all about such confidence, who feel | 
 any curiosity to know what female friendship’ 
 is composed of, or who even listen when its 
 details are laid before them, that such an ob- | 
 jection need scarcely be allowed to interfere 
 with the freedom of intercourse, which con- 
 stitutes one of the great privileges of friend- 
 ship, and without which it must be little bet- 
 ter than a name. 
 
 Beyond this, too, there may be a little fault 
 on the part of the unmarried friend, in at- 
 taching ideas of what is interesting, exclu- 
 sively to those unfamiliar scenes, and images 
 of impossible perfection, which occupy the 
 mind of the romantic, or the ‘highly imagina- 
 tive, to the exclusion of what is real, practi- | 
 cal, and true. Thus the wife who really |} 
 does her duty, isnot unfrequently condemned | 
 by her female friends, as being a common- || 
 place, and perhaps a vulgar, or degenerate || 
 being. But could they really know what | 
 deep and thrilling interests are to her in- || 
 volved in this her duty, what high and burn- || 
 ing zeal—what quenchless ardor—what en- || 
 thusiasm, what feeling, are expended upon || 
 the avocations of each day, marked as they 
 must be, by the ebb and flow of affection’s 
 ceaseless tide; could they see all this, how 
 would they start astonished at their own mis- 
 
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take, in having supposed that the mere ma- 
 | terial elements upon which the duties of a 
 wife were exercised, were in_ themselves 
 what constituted the reality of all the interest 
 which she had in life. No; beyond these 
 visible signs which tell of the observance or 
 neglect of duty, she has a life—a soul—a 
 spiritual existence, which comprises every 
 thing between the wide extremes of happi- 
 ness and wo; and if her early associates 
 will not believe it, if they will withdraw them- 
 selves, and think, and say, that she is 
 changed, it is because she regards all the in- 
 tense and profound realities of the life she 
 now leads, as too sacred to be unveiled even 
 before the eye of friendship. 
 
 But she is not changed: a warm, true- 
 hearted woman cannot change to those she 
 | has loved in early life, simply because her 
 name, her home, and the occupations which 
 fill up her time, are not the same. Affection 
 in such a heart can never die; where it has 
 once fixed, it will retain its hold; and if by 
 force it should be shaken off, it will be like 
 wrenching away a portion of the heart itself: 
 If new ties are formed, it does not follow 
 | that the old ones shall be broken. They 
 | rather grow into the soul from having been 
 ‘| interwoven with its earliest affections, and 
 | if they are less observable in after life, it is 
 only because they lie the deepest, and are 
 consequently the most concealed. 
 
 But to return to the subject of duty; in 
 | the act of entertaining her familiar friends, 
 and particularly those who are younger than 
 herself, the married woman may possibly sup- 
 pose that she enjoys only a pleasant recrea- 
 tion, by which the more serious business of 
 | life may be diversified with social amusement. 
 But however much this might have been the 
 case in her single state, it is so no longer; for 
 as the mistress of a house, and the head ofa 
 | family, she holds a relation to her young 
 | friends which is necessarily invested with a 
 
 | authority she is as a Christian woman ac- 
 | countable. Even if no attempt is made to 
 use her influence, so as to give to the minds 
 | around her a bias either one way or another, 
 
 SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 | her young friends as a fireside companion, 
 
 | degree of authority, and for the use of this. 
 
 some bias will necessarily be given by the 
 general character of her establishment, and 
 the tone of feeling by which her domestic and 
 social affairs are regulated. Besides which, 
 her young friends will naturally look to her 
 to see what plans she wishes to adopt, and 
 what principles it is her object to carry out, 
 and their conduct will be regulated accord- | 
 ingly ; for whatever the degree of familiarity | 
 may be which exists between them, the rules | 
 which she has adopted for the government || 
 of her household, they will feel it an obliga- | 
 tion strictly to observe. 
 
 The mistress of a house too, will have an 
 influence beyond this, and one which is rare- | 
 ly enjoyed through any other medium of | 
 communication ; for if she be one who has 
 cultivated and embellished her own mind, 
 storing up for the benefit of others all those 
 means of being agreeable which no woman | 
 ought to neglect, she will be the delight of || 
 
 and as such will share in all their moments 
 of unrestrained vivacity, and unlimited free- 
 dom. | 
 
 The authority of teachers, and unfortu- | 
 nately sometimes that of parents too, extends 
 only to those hours of discipline which are 
 spent immediately under their care. Could 
 any system of scholastic instruction be made 
 to regulate without spoiling the sports of chil- 
 dren, or could any means of influence be 
 made to operate upon their play, what an 
 amount of additional good might be effected 
 in the formation of individual character ! For 
 how often is it found. that the child who is 
 taught, questioned, and examined by his mas- 
 ters, who answers freely and fluently on the 
 points referred to, and whois ready and prompt 
 asif his whole mind was there, is in reality but 
 an actor performing his part in that august 
 presence, from which, the moment he is dis- 
 missed, his real character bursts forth in the 
 play-ground, to be developed in an entire be- | 
 ing as opposite to that which stood before the 
 desk, as if they held no relation to each other! 
 How often too, do we find that persons who 
 appear staid and demure onserious occasions, 
 are most objectionable companions in their 
 
 ea a ee eee ere 
 
| 108 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 mirth ; while, on the other hand, those whose 
 mirth is innocent and pure, and guiltles sof 
 | all taint from selfish or malignant feeling, 
 may safely be trusted when they are in earn- 
 est. 
 But the mistress of a family in the midst of 
 her young friends enjoys the high privilege of 
 giving a right tone to their enjoyments, and 
 chastening the spirit of their mirth. ‘That is, 
 if she has so cultivated her own understand- 
 ing as to know what belongs to nature, and 
 to be able to adapt herself to it; for without 
 this power, she must ever be a stranger to the 
 inner and more potent workings of the human 
 heart. But if she has studied those accom- 
 plishments which are particularly attractive 
 to youth, and those more important qualifi- 
 cations of mind and intellect which give su- 
 periority as well as interest wherever they are 
 found, she will be able to render the moments 
 spent benéath her roof the most privileged 
 perhaps of a whole lifetime—moments in 
 which good impressions were rendered in- 
 delible as being accompanied by the most de- 
 lightful associations—moments retained with- 
 in the richest treasury of memory, to be made 
 the pattern of the choicest intercourse, and 
 the highest intellectual communion through 
 other chains of association, extending on- 
 | wards from family to family, and from heart 
 
 ; to heart, into a never-ending future. 
 
 | We see here the consequences which I 
 have perhaps sufficiently dwelt upon, of hav- 
 ing cultivated the art of being agreeable, not 
 
 | to shine in general society, as is too frequent- 
 ly the case; not to establish any personal 
 . || claim to admiration, merely to render striking 
 and brilliant the intellectual companionship of 
 a single hour, but to make the fireside circle 
 a centre of attraction to which the young may 
 love to resort; to render home the chosen 
 spot of earth, where all who are admitted 
 within its social fellowship may delight to 
 dwell, where hopes and joys may be shar- 
 ed together, and where all the thoughts most 
 cherished and enjoyed, are such as tend to- 
 
 ence. 
 Without having studied the cultivation of 
 
 wards a happier and holier state of exist-. 
 
 the mind, or the embellishment of the char- 
 acter in general, how can the mistress of a 
 family throw around the scenes of home- 
 enjoyments this intellectual and spiritual 
 charm? How can she keep away the cloud 
 of dulness, the monotony of common-place, 
 the shadow of discontent, of which young 
 persons so often complain when visiting their 
 married friends? and how, when her inter- 
 course with them is marked by no lively or 
 impressive character, can she expect that 
 her influence over them will extend to what 
 is lasting or good? It is impossible ; because 
 itis not in the nature of the human heart to 
 be thus influenced, without being thus im- 
 pressed. | 
 
 To the married woman, then, itis a serious 
 thing to have lost, by indolence or neglect, 
 those golden opportunities of being useful to 
 society, which her position naturally places 
 within her reach. For it is not so much our 
 private precepts which have weight, and per- 
 haps still less our public ones, so much as the 
 influence of individual character upon a sur- 
 rounding circle, and through that circle upon 
 the world at large. 
 
 The English wife should, therefore, regard 
 her position as a central one, and remember 
 that from her, as the head of a family, and the 
 mistress of a household, branch off in every 
 direction trains of thought, and tones of feel- 
 ing, operating upon those more immediately 
 around her, but by no means ceasing there ; 
 for each of her domestics, each of her rela- 
 
 tives, and each of her familiar friends, will in | 
 
 their turn become the centre of another circle, 
 from which will radiate good or evil influ- 
 ence, extending onwards, in the same man- 
 ner, to the end of all things—to the disrup- 
 tion of all earthly ties, and the union of the 
 great family of heaven, where sweet and 
 harmonious notes of her own teaching may 
 possibly be numbered with the songs of the 
 blessed forever and forever. 
 
 Is it then a subject merely to be glanced 
 over with a careless wish that we could be 
 useful to our fellow-creatures?—that we 
 could leave on the minds of those who will 
 remember us when we are dead, some last- 
 
SS a aE SSS ESSE Sas 
 
 SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 ing impress worthy of their high destiny and 
 ours? All may do this. Of that we are 
 convinced. But are we equally or suffi- 
 ciently convinced that some impress will, 
 and must be left, whether we have desired it 
 or not? And what if it should be such as to 
 mark them out for wrath in the great day of 
 wrath! And if that too should have spread, 
 as the other might have done, on—on—from 
 one circle and one generation to another— 
 from one family, one community, one people, 
 one country, widening on every hand until 
 the world itself should suffer from the uni- 
 versal taint! 
 
 The carrying out of such a thought to its 
 full extent is too tremendous, and yet we 
 know of no natural limits by which influence 
 either good or evil can be confined or ar- 
 rested in its progress towards eternity. We 
 can only ask with penitence and prayer that 
 what we have hitherto exercised amiss may 
 be overruled for good, and that what we have 
 yet to exercise, may be directed by Him who 
 alone can give the power to use it for his 
 glory. 
 
 There are many cases of practical duty, in 
 which it seems as if the language of Scripture 
 had, by general consent, been explained away 
 as referring to times and circumstances in 
 which we have no part. In none is this 
 more striking than as regards hospitality, 
 few of us considering ourselves at all the 
 more required from any thing we meet with 
 there, when we prepare a feast, to call in the 
 poor or the friendless to partake. 
 pretending to be wiser than others, by apply- 
 ing these and similar injunctions more liter- 
 ally than they appear to be generally under- 
 stood, it seems to me.a question of deep im- 
 
 portance to a serious mind, whether we are 
 
 not many of us required to go much further 
 than we do in extending our hospitality to 
 
 | those who, according to the usages of the 
 
 world, may appear to have but little claim 
 upon such attentions. 
 
 There is an extensive class of persons, 
 who, if we would do to them as we would 
 that others should do to us under similar cir- 
 cumstances, instead of being objects of gene- 
 
 Without, 
 
 109 
 
 ral neglect, would become objects of our 
 especial kindness in this respect. I mean 
 those who are separated from their own 
 home-connections by becoming assistants in 
 business, or otherwise attached to families in 
 which they are comparatively strangers. 
 
 It cannot be denied that a system of hospi- 
 tality thus carried out towards persons so 
 circumstanced, or according to the Scripture 
 rule of inviting those who cannot ask us in 
 return, would require the exercise of consid- 
 erable self-denial as well as benevolence ; 
 and more especially so with those whose 
 homes are the centre and the source of the 
 greatest happiness they enjoy ; for it is per- 
 haps the only disadvantage accompanying 
 
 an excess of this home-feeling, that the more | 
 
 perfect is the satisfaction with which we 
 gather into the domestic circle, the less wil- 
 lingness we feel that a stranger should “ in- 
 termeddle with its joys.” 
 
 Thus we sometimes find a sort of house- 
 hold exclusiveness, and a too great concen- 
 tration of domestic satisfaction, prevailing al- 
 most to the extent of selfishness, where such 
 feelings are indulged without the restraint of 
 judgment or of principle. ‘T'o persons in- 
 fected with this home-mania, their own 
 houses, their own grounds, their own habits, 
 and their own modes of thinking and living 
 are always the very best imaginable, and 
 such as bear no comparison with those of 
 any other family. So much is this the case, 
 that they seem almost to be a law unto them- 
 selves ; while above every thing they reject 
 the idea of being improved by adopting the 
 views and the practices of others. Itis needless 
 to say that such persons have little weight to 
 throw into the scale ef social influence either 
 on the side of good or evil, for the absurdi- 
 ties they exhibit to the world effectually pre- 
 vent their doing any considerable amount of 
 harm beyond what is negative. 
 
 But there are degrees of this evil against 
 which we may not all be sufficiently on our 
 guard, because we may be mistaking it for 
 good; yet when it stands in the way of our 
 practising the duty of hospitality, we shou'd 
 ask ourselves seriously whether that home 
 
‘which ought to be the scene of our greatest 
 earthly happiness is not in reality the temple 
 of our worship. A higher cultivation of the 
 feelings of Kindness and benevolence towards 
 others, a deeper sympathy for their trials and 
 sufferings, a more earnest solicitude for their 
 welfare, and a greater desire to impart the 
 blessings we enjoy, would, I am persuaded, 
 tend very much to reconcile us to any tem- 
 porary interruption of our domestic enjoy- 
 ments which might be occasioned by the 
 presence of astranger, even should his habits 
 and modes of thinking be the most dissimilar 
 to our own. And if any thing could be done 
 by this means to improve the minds and mor- 
 als of that important class of society who 
 will constitute the next generation of men of 
 business—men who will give the weight of 
 extensive influence either to the side of good, 
 or evil, that strong feeling of household ex- 
 clusiveness, which is but a refined and ex- 
 tended selfishness, ought certainly in some 
 measure to give way. 
 
 We complain of the habits of young men, 
 and with some cause, yet when we recollect 
 of what materials human nature is composed, 
 and compare these with the situation of 
 young men generally; but more especially 
 when we think of the thousand inviting 
 avenues to sin which are opened to their 
 choice, the cordiality with which they are 
 met by evil associates, and invited to every 
 rendezvous of vice; and when*we compare 
 this with the very little cordiality they meet 
 with on the opposite side; the scanty wel- 
 comes, the cold notice, and the treatment 
 equally distant and disrespectful, we surely 
 must expect them to be more than human 
 wholly to withstand the one, and to bind them- 
 selves over with lasting and warm attach- 
 ment to the other. 
 
 Young men, too, are often diffident of their 
 own attractions in polished society, and some. 
 times not without considerable reason, more 
 especially when they find themselves treated 
 in respectable company with every demon- 
 stration of contempt. Here, then, we must 
 also remember that vice is not delicate in her 
 | distinctions. In her wide halls of revelry, 
 
 ——— 
 
 “THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. — 
 
 the ignorant, the mean, and the unlettered 
 find a welcome. Sheslights them not for 
 want of polished manners. She heeds nei- 
 ther personal inferiority, nor unfashionable 
 attire. All—all are welcome, from the raw 
 stripling, to the friendless stranger, who finds 
 not in the wide world another or a safer home. 
 
 In contemplating this view of the subject, 
 I have often thought, what an amount of 
 good might be effected, if a little more attrac- 
 tion were held out by Christians in general, 
 towards persons of this class. We ought 
 seriously to question, too, whether we are 
 really doing them justice—whether we are 
 not resting too well satisfied in merely urging 
 upon them the necessity of attention to pub- 
 lic worship, when a few more welcomes into 
 Christian families might possibly do more for 
 their real good, than many sermons without 
 participation in the real comforts of any re-_ 
 spectable home. 
 
 Nor is it the mere invitation of such per- 
 sons at stated times, which can effect the 
 good so much required, the mere bestowment 
 of a dinner, or the mere permission to come 
 on Sundays and be present during the hours 
 of family devotion. Good as this unquestion- 
 ably is, there is something else required; 
 and this something should be supplied by the 
 mistress of the house; for, I repeat, that to 
 woman all the common usages of kindness 
 are so easy and familiar, as to leave her little 
 excuse for neglecting the claims of hospital- 
 ity, which constitute so essential a part of 
 social duty. There is much kind feeling 
 conveyed even by so slight an act as a cor- | 
 dial shake of the hand, but especially by those 
 apparently slight observations upon personal 
 affairs, which evince an interest in the situa- 
 tion and circumstances of a guest, and which 
 often lead to a freedom of communication 
 which, as a means of influence, may be turned 
 to the happiest account. 
 
 In all associations in which the feelings and 
 affections are concerned, it must never be 
 forgotten, that the manner in which.an act of | 
 benevolence is done, is often of far greater 
 importance than the act itself—That it is 
 possible to be kind in an unkind manner; to 
 
give a great deal away, and yet be most un- 
 generous. This truth we have many of us, 
 at some time or other of our lives, had to feel 
 perhaps too keenly for our peace. Yet it is 
 possible the thought of what such kindness 
 cost us, may prove a wholesome one in its 
 effect upon our own conduct towards others, 
 by teaching us how to soothe, where through 
 ignorance we might have wounded; how to 
 attract, where we might have repelled; and 
 | consequently how to do good, where we 
 might inadvertently have done evil. 
 
 ‘But it is useless to think of the manner, 
 | until we have seen the act itself to be a duty ; 
 and I would here appeal to the wives of 
 England, as they value the good of their 
 country, and the good of their sons and 
 brothers—as they value youth in gene- 
 | ral, and regard it as the season for remem- 
 bering our Creator, and the Giver of all our 
 blessings—as they would cherish its buoyant 
 hopes, strengthen its high capabilities, and 
 / lay an imperishable foundation of good, 
 where evil must otherwise enter and occupy 
 the vacant room—as they value all these 
 considerations, I would urge them not to 
 confine their social kindness merely to those 
 who can requite them after their own man- 
 ner; but to extend it to those who, though 
 comparatively strangers, share in the affec- 
 tions and the feelings of a common nature, 
 and who are now undergoing the formation 
 of their characters for time and for eternity. 
 
 “ Not following lower things,”—was a no- 
 ble motto adopted by a noble queen,* when 
 | she chose as emblematical of the course she 
 intended to pursue, a marigold turning to 
 | the sun. Although nothing could be more at 
 variance with the duties of a wife, and 
 especially one of that class of society to 
 which this work more especially applies, than 
 | to be aspiring after any selfish or personal 
 -agegrandizement as regards mere sublunary 
 | things; there is an ambition, if I may call it 
 such, which ought to fill the heart, and rouse 
 the energies of every Christian woman who 
 stands at the head of a household, whatever 
 
 * Marguarite of Valois, sister of Francis I., and 
 Queen of Navarre. 
 
 SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 111 
 
 her position may be with regard to outward 
 circumstances. I refer to that aspiration af- 
 ter higher and holier things, which lifts the 
 soul out of its grovelling anxieties and world- 
 ly cares, and directs its hopes unchangeably 
 towards the world which is eternal. 
 
 It is not consistent with the aim of the 
 writer in such a work as this, to enter fully 
 upon the subject of that change of heart 
 which alone can qualify for forming any just 
 or proper estimate of what belongs to a prep- 
 aration for the heavenly state. Had such 
 been my intention, I would not have left the 
 consideration of so momentous and sublime 
 a theme, to the last few pages of this work. 
 But leaving this subject, in its vastness and 
 its depth—its absorbing interests, and its 
 solemn truths, to writers of a higher anda 
 weightier character, I would still indulge a 
 hope that what has here been said may in 
 some degree assist towards a more full and 
 satisfactory exemplification of the Christian 
 character. For even where religion is felt 
 and owned to be the one thing needful, and 
 where it is adopted as the principle and the 
 rule of life, those familiar avocations which 
 occupy the attention of every day are not 
 always conducted in the spirit which ought 
 to regulate the Christian’s life. Some good 
 persons err on these points from ignorance: 
 some from want of thought, and many from 
 not regarding them as essential to religion ; 
 and thus the standard of excellence is low- 
 ered, and we come to be “satisfied with infe- 
 
 rior things.” 
 
 It would as ill become me, as it would be 
 contrary to my feelings, to speak in an un- 
 kind or censorious spirit of those, who with 
 good intentions, and while making great en- 
 deavors, fall short in little things; but I am 
 convinced that along with this deficiency, 
 there is, to a certain extent, a tendency to 
 aim at what is low, sufficient of itself to pre- 
 vent the attainment of what is great. The 
 more circumscribed our influence, the less 
 this tendency is seen and felt; but when we 
 take the direction of a household, and con- 
 sequently have much to do with the forma- 
 tion of the characters around us, this tenden- 
 
 sneer $$ 
 
 | Ea TS SS RSE SI EF 
 
, 
 
 | 
 
 1ieo 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | cy to grovel tells to an amazing and incalcu- 
 
 lable extent. 
 It is far from my wish to write on this sub- 
 
 | ject as one who has neither knowledge nor 
 
 feeling of what wives in general have to 
 struggle with, in the way of depressing or 
 degrading circumstances. I know that the 
 occupations of a household, by reminding us 
 perpetually of what is material, have a strong 
 tendency to occupy the mind with that alone. 
 I know that under wasted health, or weari- 
 ness, or disappointment, to be urged to strug- 
 gle after what is high, sounds like a mockery 
 to the human heart. And I know too that 
 there are trials in the lot of woman, almost 
 sufficient of themselves to quench the very 
 life within her soul, and to extinguish there 
 the power to hope for any thing before the 
 grave. I know that the spirit may be har- 
 assed—wounded—broken ; but I am yet to 
 learn, that under any circumstances we are 
 justified in giving all things up. 
 
 I should rather reason thus—that having 
 striven after excellence in every department, 
 we have so multiplied our resources, that 
 something always must be left; so that if 
 nothing in the shape of positive happiness 
 could ever reach us more, we should still 
 be capable of adding to the happiness of 
 others. 
 
 But the most powerful and widely prevail- 
 ing cause of that moral and _ intellectual 
 degradation—that downward tendency of 
 the mind, and that grovelling of the spirit 
 among material things, which is so much to 
 be lamented over in the wives of the present 
 day, arises clearly and unquestionably out of 
 the false estimate so universally formed of 
 what is most to be desired—nay, of what is 
 absolutely essential to existence. It is this 
 vain and fruitless ambition with regard to 
 worldly things, in which we are all more or 
 less engaged, that wears down our energies, 
 and wearies out our hopes. It is the disap- 
 pointment, the perplexity, the harass of this 
 long struggle, which leaves us so spiritless 
 and worn. It is the emptiness of our suc- 
 cess when the highest worldly wish has been 
 attained, which makes us, in the midst of 
 
 all our coveted possessions, so miserably 
 poor. | 
 
 It is difficult to speak strongly on these 
 subjects, yet with that kindness and respect 
 which I feel that my country women deserve, 
 and deserve especially from me. But when 
 I assert again that it is not intention which 1s 
 in fault, so much as a certain set of mistaken 
 views which more or less affect us all, I 
 would fondly hope I might obtain their for- 
 giveness for being more than commonly earn- 
 est in so important a cause. _In this hope I 
 appeal to their own hearts, whether the daily 
 conflict they are many of them enduring is 
 not in reality after that which “ perisheth in 
 the using ;” whether it ever brings them a 
 reward at all commensurate with what it 
 costs ; and whether it is not in itself a weari- 
 ness to the very soul. I appeal to society at 
 large, whether the importance we many of 
 us attach to appearing well before the world, 
 in other words, to dressing and living in a 
 certain style, has not irritated more tempers, 
 destroyed more peace, occasioned more dis- 
 putes, broken more spirits, crossed more love, 
 hindered more improvement, and caused 
 more spiritual declension, than any other 
 single cause which could be named. And 
 what has it done to throw into the opposite 
 
 scale? Encouraged one kind of manufactory | 
 
 to the disadvantage of another, changed our 
 fashions, excited our vanity, furnished our 
 houses, decked our persons—and what then ? 
 Sent us forth into society envied and envying 
 one another, and disseminating wherever we 
 might go, low thoughts, disparaging allusions, 
 and uncharitable feelings, all arising out of the 
 
 | very rivalry and competition of which this 
 
 fruitless ambition was the source. 
 
 Let us look at one channel only among the 
 many thousands through which it operates to 
 the destruction of human happiness, and the 
 disunion of natural ties. It is no poet’s fable, 
 
 and I speak it reverently, believing what I 
 speak, when I say, that the love which grows 
 up between two young people who expect to 
 spend their lives together, is of every earthly 
 feeling that which most endears to us all 
 which is most excellent in itself, most beauti- 
 
SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 ful in the creation, and most beneficent in the 
 dispensaticns of an all-wise and eternal God. 
 Who then would quench this feeling, or 
 lower its exercise, or make it a mere slave 
 
 to wait upon the customs of the world? The 
 
 voice of humanity exclaims against so base, 
 so foolish a perversion of our nature. Youth 
 exclaims against it, as well it may. Society 
 —the world exclaims. The world? No, 
 that can never be. It is the world whose 
 unrelenting voice demands this sacrifice— 
 the world before whose artificial glare the 
 star of love must hide its purer ray. 
 
 It is because the world is the great altar 
 upon which the hearts of multitudes are laid, 
 that the shrine of domestic happiness so often 
 is profaned by broken vows—vows broken in 
 the spirit, and therefore the mere symbols of 
 a love, without its sweetness or its life. It is 
 because the spirit of the world demands that 
 we should love and serve the mammon of 
 unrighteousness, that hearts are bought and 
 sold, and youth is wedded to old age, and 
 every mockery of feeling which imagination 
 can conceive, is perpetrated under the grave 
 name of prudence. I have myself advocated 
 prudence, and I have urged the necessity of 
 waiting for what are popularly considered as 
 sufficient means. Yet this has been chiefly 
 in conformity with the universal system we 
 acknowledge, of “regarding lower things.” 
 I did not, and I never shall, believe the sys- 
 tem is a right one in itself; but until our 
 views are more enlightened, and our princi- 
 ples are strong enough to support us in the 
 effort, it would be worse than folly to advise 
 that individuals here- and there should 
 overstep the bounds of prudence as they 
 are now laid down, not knowing what 
 they did. 
 
 The new order of things which I would 
 advocate must be a general one, brought 
 about by simultaneous views, and feelings, 
 and determinations. There will then be no 
 
 ’ world to fear, for we shall constitute ourselves 
 
 a world, in which lower things will no longer 
 be regarded, except as such—a world in 
 which the warmest feelings of the heart will 
 
 8 
 
 113 
 
 parison, in value, with the cold formalities of 
 artificial life—a world in which what we 
 wear, and what we use, shall no longer be 
 esteemed as more important than what we 
 do—a world in which people shall be judged 
 of by what they are, and not by what they 
 possess—a world in which what is costly and 
 brilliant in ornament, shall give place to that 
 which is excellent in character, and sterling 
 in value. 
 
 And when shall this bright epoch arrive ?— 
 this dawning of better hopes—this day of 
 promise for our country, and our homes? It 
 will arrive when the wives of England shall 
 hold themselves above their circumstances; || 
 and, estimating that most highly which is 
 really high, shall understand how principle is 
 the basis of all good ; and having subjected 
 these principles to the word of God, and tried 
 them by the only test which is safe and true, 
 they may then adorn the superstructure by 
 all which the purest taste and the most 
 chastened feeling can suggest. 
 
 In adopting the motto of one of the most 
 amiable and accomplished of female sover- 
 eigns, we must not forget that hers was the 
 pursuit of excellence of almost every kind; 
 in her studies, her attainments, and in all 
 those graces of mind and person which adorn 
 a court. Nor doIsee why the raising of our |, 
 highest admiration to that which is highest 
 in itself, should in any respect interfere with 
 our desire after excellence in general. 
 
 It is a melancholy thought, when marriage 
 has united the destiny of two human beings 
 for this life at least, that one of them should 
 grow indifferent to those qualities of mind 
 and person which formed the chief attraction 
 to the other. It is a melancholy thought, that 
 when a wife has taken upon herself the du- 
 ties which belong to the mistress of a family, 
 she should be willing to lose those charms 
 which constitute the loveliness of woman. It 
 is a melancholy thought, that because she has 
 become a useful, she must cease to be an in- 
 tellectual, being. But it cannot—it must not 
 be. The very thought is one of treason 
 against the love and the happiness of mar- 
 
 no longer be considered as bearing any com. | ried life; for what is there among all the em- | 
 
114 
 
 bellishments of female character, which this 
 love cannot legitimately appropriate, and this 
 happiness enhance and improve? 
 
 In no other situation in life can woman find 
 so appropriate a sphere for the exercise of 
 every grace, and the display of every charm, 
 as in the centre of her home-enjoyments ; yet 
 here, how often do we find that she permits 
 all the poetry of her mind to be extinguished, 
 and after that the beautiful too often fades 
 away. Life may remain the same to her in 
 all its tangible realities; but as the sunshine 
 
 _ passes from the landscape, so the light which 
 gives freshness and vividness to every object, 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 is gone forever. 
 
 It is said she has actual and pressing cares, 
 which absorb her attention, to the exclusion 
 of other, and especially of higher, thoughts. 
 But here again is her mistake. [t is not in 
 woman’s nature to be degraded or brought 
 down by care, provided only the objects of 
 her solicitude are worthy in themselves, or 
 such as call forth feelings worthy of being 
 indulged. ‘The care—ihe love—the brooding 
 tenderness of a fond mother or a faithful 
 
 _ wife—when, I would ask, was woman found 
 _ the worse for these ? 
 
 No. It is the element 
 in which she lives, to care for those she loves. 
 
 It is in this element that all her virtues rise 
 | and shine; while her whole character as- 
 _sumes a higher and more spiritual excel- 
 
 lence. We talk of altered circumstances, and 
 
 _ personal privations, but we libel the true heart 
 
 of woman when we think it cannot stand the 
 shock of such extremes as these. No, these 
 are not the foes she fears; and it is an insult 
 to her understanding, when society persuades 
 her that she does fear them. Within her 
 heart of hearts she has a nobler conviction, 
 that her husband’s happiness, and her own 
 integrity and truth, are more to her than all 
 the riches in the world. Why then, with 
 these convictions, and with that strong capa- 
 bility which constitutes her dower, of rising 
 above the tide of circumstance, and living 
 apart from worldly things in the higher world 
 of her affections—why will woman stoop to 
 be the slave of habit, of custom, and most of 
 all, of fashion, until her vanity and self-indul- 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 gence become the bane of man’s existence, 
 and her own? 
 
 And is it well that men, whose daily avo- 
 cations necessarily call into service, as one 
 of their great principles of action, a worldly 
 and a selfish spirit—is it right that they should 
 be urged, nay, goaded on, in the perpetual 
 race of personal and family aggrandizement, 
 by those who profess to love them, and who, 
 consequently, ought to seek their ultimate and 
 real good? May we not rather leave to them 
 the whole adjustment of these worldly mat- 
 ters? It is their business, and their duty, to 
 find a place among their fellow-men, to es- 
 tablish a footing in society, and to maintain it 
 by all just and honorable means. This is no 
 care of woman’s. Her appropriate part is to 
 adorn that station wherever it may be, by a 
 contented mind, an enlightened intellect, a 
 chastened spirit, and an exemplary life. 
 
 I have dwelt much upon the influence of 
 woman in social and domestic life, and in her 
 married state she will find that influence ex- 
 tending almost on every hand. What, then, 
 will be her situation, without the aid of per- 
 sonal religion, to give a right direction to its 
 operations upon other minds? But what 
 will be her situation altogether without this 
 aid? 
 
 The thought is too appalling. 
 
 “ A boat sent out to sail alone 
 At midnight on the moonless sea,”’ 
 might bear some comparison to the situation 
 of a solitary being trusting herself upon the 
 world’s great ocean without this guide; but 
 a richly-freighted vessel, crowded with hu- 
 man beings, and bearing in its bosom the in- 
 terests of as many souls, yet venturing out to 
 sea without a pilot, without a compass, with- 
 out any hope or means of safety, might with 
 more justice be compared to the woman who 
 should dare to engage in the deep responsi- 
 bilities of married life, without religion to di- 
 rect her course. Whatever difficulties may 
 be thus encountered, she cannot meet them 
 alone. Whatever dangers, others are drawn 
 
 in to share them with her. Whatever storms, 
 she braves them only at the peril of the pre- 
 cious lives committed to her trust. Whatever 
 
-rock she strikes upon, it wrecks not her alone, 
 but all—all the rich treasury of hopes and in- 
 terests which she bore along with her in that 
 presumptuous course, and for all these she is 
 accountable. I repeat, the thought is too ap- 
 palling. Let us turn to scenes of more famil- 
 iar occurrence, where there is more satisfac- 
 tion, because there is more hope. 
 
 There is a large class of persons, who with- 
 out having given up their hearts entirely to 
 the influence of personal religion, are wishing 
 that they could do so, and intending some 
 time or other that they will. On all solemn 
 occasions they feel as if they actually would ; 
 and never more so perhaps than when they 
 enter upon the duties of married life. To 
 woman this is so great and important a 
 change, that it naturally produces, if any 
 thing can, trains of reflection highly favorable 
 to an altered and improved state of mind 
 altogether ; and if she has ever seriously 
 thought of religion, she does so then. Those 
 who rest satisfied with good intentions, and 
 especially in religious matters, are glad of any 
 alteration in their circumstances which they 
 think will make it easier to begin; and they 
 hail the opening of a new life, as the entrance 
 upon one which will be more exemplary 
 than the past. Thus it is often with perfect 
 sincerity, that the young religious professor 
 believes she will set out upon a new career 
 when engaging in the duties of a wife. Her 
 feelings are much softened, too, by separation 
 from her former friends; she fears the diffi- 
 culties of her untried path; and thus is alto- 
 gether more disposed than ever in her life 
 before to do, and to be, what she sees clearly 
 to be right. If, under these circumstances, 
 she has married a good man, her first temp- 
 tation will be to think, for that reason, that 
 she must be good herself; if a man who has 
 little or no religion, her first trial will be to 
 ‘find that instead of being helped, as she had 
 expected, so smoothlyon her way, she has, 
 in addition to her own difficulties, to help 
 him and all his household. 
 
 But a more familiar temptation, and a more 
 frequent trial than either of these, is one 
 which steals by its insidious nature into the 
 
 SOCIAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 _ a re == 
 
 ‘T15 
 
 very heart of domestic life; and it works 
 the more deceitfully by mixing itself up with 
 all that is most reputable and most approved 
 in society in general, and not less than others, 
 in the society of the good. 
 
 Persons of this description, in all probabili- 
 ty, seek the acquaintance of the well-mean- 
 ing young wiie, or she seeks theirs; and be- 
 ing a sincere and somewhat hopeful charac- 
 ter, not having much foundation of her own, 
 but easily led on by others, she is induced by 
 their companionship to take a higher stand- 
 ing in religious matters than she ever did be- 
 fore. Encouraged by their kindness, she ad- 
 vances step by step, progressing outwardly, 
 and gaining confidence as she goes on. All 
 this perhaps might be well, for she is still 
 sincere so far as her self-knowledge extends; | 
 but here again the spirit of the world creeps — 
 in. Indeed the question is, whether she has 
 not all the while been actuated by the spirit 
 of the world, for it is now so reputable to be 
 religious, that temptation can assume this 
 form as well as any other. 
 
 With this advance in an outward, and, 
 perhaps, too visible profession, the cares of 
 the young wife increase. The circle of her | 
 acquaintance widens. Visits und morning- | 
 calls are not to be neglected; and well if they 
 are not devoted to that most objectionable of 
 all kinds of gossip, which chooses the minis- 
 ter and the observances of a religious life, for 
 its theme. But in addition to this, the young 
 wife listens to the popular and common talk 
 about low worldly things. She learns to think 
 much of her furniture, much of her dress, 
 and much of the manner in which she enter- 
 tains her friends. Nay, she is even glad to 
 see that all this competition does not appear 
 to be discarded from the fashionable world. 
 As time passes on, she becomes more and 
 more absorbed by the growing cares and 
 thickening perplexities of every day; until 
 at last it might become a matter of doubt to 
 those around her, which in reality occupied 
 her thoughts the most, the preparation for a 
 
 party, or the preparation for eternity. 
 
 Need we wonder that such a woman has 
 little religious influence? That she fails to ; 
 
 = 
 
adorn the doctrine of our Saviour, or to com- 
 mend the faith which she professes? Need 
 we wonder that her husband, her servants, 
 society at large, are not made better by her 
 conversation and her example? Yet strange 
 to say, it is sometimes wondered at that the 
 religious conversation of such persons does 
 not do good, and they themselves, when they 
 have leisure for it, will labor diligently for the 
 conversion of the poor. But they forget that 
 those around them, and especially the poor, 
 are quick-sighted to their inconsistencies, and 
 that they know by other evidence than words, 
 when the world is really in the heart. 
 
 By this slight picture, far be it from me to 
 convey an idea that I could represent the 
 really changed in heart; for I know that theirs 
 is a foundation which none of these things 
 move. I speak of those who have been only 
 almost persuaded, and who, on the solemn 
 occasion of their marriage, have set out in 
 life with serious views and good intentions ; 
 yet whatever may be the clearness of these 
 views, or the strength of these intentions, I 
 believe that a great number of hopeful begin- 
 nings have been frustrated by this single root 
 of evil, this spirit of the world. I believe also, 
 that more spiritual declension among women 
 
 THE WIVES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 may be traced to the same cause, than to ail 
 the vice and all the infidelity to be met with 
 among the openly profane. 
 
 It is then against this single enemy, above 
 all others, that married women have to sus- 
 tain each other in waging constant and de- 
 termined war. I repeat, it is hard, too hard, | 
 for any single individual to struggle against 
 the tide of popular feeling, more especially 
 when religion numbers in her ranks so many 
 who divide her claims with those of the world. 
 But if the happiness of home be precious, we 
 have that at stake. If our intellectual and 
 moral good be worth preserving, we have 
 that to cherish. If our religious influence be 
 the most important treasure committed to 
 our trust, we have that to hold secure. All 
 to which the best feelings of the heart attach 
 themselves as lovely and enduring is ours, 
 if we maintain this conflict as we ought; and 
 sink under it we never need, for we know to 
 whom to go for help. 
 
 Let us then remember that a worldly 
 spirit is the very opposite of that which finds 
 its home in Heaven; ‘and if our interests are 
 sufficiently engaged in what is spiritual and 
 eternal, we shall not easily be turned away 
 to fix them upon “ lower things.” 
 
THE 
 
 DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND: 
 
 THEIR _ 
 
 || POSITION IN SOCIETY, CHARACTER, AND RESPONSIBILITIES. | 
 
 BY MRS. ELLIS, - 
 
 AUTHOR OF “THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND,” “SONS OF THE SOIL,” “HINTS TO MAKE 
 HOME HAPPY,” AND “‘'THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.” 
 
 UNIFORM EDITION, 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET. 
 1843.. 
 
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THERE can be no more gratifying cir- 
 cumstance to a writer, than to find that a 
 subject which has occupied her thoughts, 
 and employed her pen, has also been oc- 
 cupying the thoughts of thousands of her 
 fellow-beings ; but she is gratified in a 
 still higher degree to find, that the pecu- 
 liar views she entertains on that subject, 
 are beginning to be entertained by a vast 
 number of the intelligent and thinking 
 part of the community, with whom she 
 was not previously aware of sharing, 
 either in their sympathy, or their con- 
 victions. 
 
 Such are the circumstances under 
 which “’The Women of England” has 
 been received by the public, with a degree 
 of favor, which the merits of the work 
 alone would never have procured for it. 
 And as no homage of mere admiration 
 could have been so welcome to the Author, 
 as the approval it has met with at many 
 an English hearth, she has been induced 
 to ask the attention of the public again, 
 to a further exemplification of some sub- 
 jects but slightly touched upon, and a 
 candid examination of others which found 
 no place in that work. 
 
 The more minute the details of indi- 
 vidual, domestic, and social duty, to which 
 allusion is made, the more necessary it 
 becomes to make a distinct classification 
 of the different eras in woman’s personal 
 experience; the Author, therefore, pro- 
 poses dividing the subject into three parts, 
 in which will be separately considered, 
 the character and situation of the Daugh- 
 ters, Wives, and Mothers of England. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Daughters of England only form 
 the subject of the present volume: and 
 as in a former work the remarks which 
 were offered to the public upon the social 
 and domestic duties of woman, were ex- 
 pressly limited to the middle ranks of so- 
 ciety in Great Britain ; so, in the present, 
 it must be clearly understood as the in- 
 tention of the writer to address herself 
 especially to the same interesting and in- 
 fluential class of her countrywomen. 
 Much that is contained in that volume, 
 too, might with propriety have been re- 
 peated here, had not the Author preferred 
 referring the reader again to those pages, 
 assured that she will be more readily par- 
 doned for this liberty, than for transcrib- 
 ing a fainter copy of what was written in 
 the first instance fresh from the heart. 
 
 It seems to be the peculiar taste of the 
 present day to write, and to read, on the 
 subject of woman. Some apology for 
 thus taxing the patience of the public 
 might be necessary, were it not that both 
 honor and justice are due to a theme, in 
 which a female sovereign may, without 
 presumption, be- supposed to sympathize 
 with her people. Thus, while the char- 
 acter of the daughter, the wife, and the 
 mother, are so beautifully exemplified in 
 connection with the dignity of a British 
 Queen, it is the privilege of the humblest, 
 as well as the most exalted of her sub- 
 jects, to know that the heart of woman, 
 in all her tenderest and holiest feelings, 
 is the same beneath the shelter of a cot- 
 tage, as under the canopy of a throne. 
 
 Rose Hitz, January 10th, 1842. 
 
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* 
 
 THE 
 
 DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IMPORTANT INQUIRIES. 
 
 Ir it were possible for a human being to be 
 suddenly, and for the first time, awakened. to 
 consciousness, ‘with the full possession of all 
 its reasoning faculties, the natural inquiry of 
 such a being would be, “What am I?—how 
 am I to act?—and, what are my capabilities 
 for action 
 
 The sphere upon which a young woman 
 enters on first leaving school, or, to use a 
 popular phrase, on “completing her educa- 
 tion,” is so entirely new to her, her mind is 
 so often the subject of new impressions, and 
 her attention so frequently absorbed by new 
 motives for exertion, that, if at all accustomed 
 to reflect, we cannot doubt but she will make 
 these, or similar questions, the subject of seri- 
 ous inquiry—* What is my position in socie- 
 ty? what dol aim at? and what means do I 
 intend to employ for the accomplishment of 
 my purpose?’ And it is to assist any of the 
 daughters of England, who may be making 
 these inquiries in sincerity of heart, that I 
 would ask their attention to the following 
 pages ; just as an experienced traveller, who 
 had himself often stepped aside from the 
 safest path, and found the difficulty of re- 
 turning, would be anxious to leave directions 
 for others who might follow, in order that 
 they might avoid the dangers with which he 
 had already become acquainted, and pursue 
 their course with greater certainty of attain- 
 ing the end desired. 
 
 First, then, What is your position in socie- 
 | ty? for, until this point is clearly settled in 
 your own mind, it would be vain to attempt 
 
 a — nee 
 
 any description of the plan to be pursued. 
 The settlement of this point, however, must 
 depend upon yourselves. Whether your are 
 rich, or poor, an orphan, or the child of 
 watchful parents—one of a numerous fami- 
 ly, or comparatively alone—filling an exalted 
 or an humble position—of highly gifted mind, 
 or otherwise—all these points must be clear- 
 ly ascertained before you can properly under- 
 stand the kind of duty required of you. 
 How these questions might be answered, is 
 of no importance to the writer, in the present 
 stage of this work. The importance of their 
 being clearly and faithfully answered to your- 
 selves, is all she would enforce. 
 
 For my own purpose, it is not necessary 
 to go further into your particular history or 
 circumstances, than to regard you as women, 
 and, as I hope, Christian women. As Chris- 
 tian women, then, I address you. This is 
 placing you on high ground; yet surely there 
 are few of my young countrywomen who 
 would be willing to take lower. 
 
 As women, then, the first thing of import- 
 ance is to be content to be inferior to men— 
 inferior in mental power, in the,same propor- 
 tion that you are inferior in bodily strength. 
 Facility of movement, aptitude, and grace, 
 the bodily frame of woman may possess in a 
 higher degree than that of man; just as in 
 the softer touches of mental and spiritual 
 beauty, her character may present a lovelier 
 page than his. Yet, as the great attribute of 
 power must still be wanting there, it becomes 
 more immediately her business to inquire 
 how this want may be supplied. | 
 
 An able and eloquent writer on “ Wo- 
 man’s Mission,” has justly observed that 
 
ee 
 
 ia 
 
 woman’s strength isin her influence. And, in 
 order to render this influence more complete, 
 you will find, on examination, that you are 
 by nature endowed with peculiar faculties— 
 With a quickness of perception, facility of 
 adaptation, and acuteness of feeling, which 
 fit you especially for the part you have to 
 act in life; and which, at the same time, 
 render you, in a higher degree than men, 
 susceptible both of pain and pleasure. 
 
 These are your qualifications as mere wo- 
 men. As Christians, how wide is the pros- 
 pect which opens before you—how various 
 the claims upon your attention—how vast 
 your capabilities—how deep the responsibility 
 which those capabilities involve! In the 
 first place, you are not alone; you are one 
 of a family—of a social circle—of a commu- 
 nity—of a nation. You are a being whose 
 existence will never terminate, who musi live 
 for ever, and whose happiness or misery 
 through that endless future which lies before 
 you, will be influenced by the choice you are 
 now in the act of making. 
 
 What, then, is the great object of your 
 life? “To be good and happy,” you will 
 probably say ; or, “ To be happy and good.” 
 Which is it? For there is an important dif- 
 ference in giving precedence to one or the 
 other of these two words. In one case, your 
 aim is to secure to yourself all the advanta- 
 ges you can possibly enjoy, and wait for the 
 satisfaction they produce, before you begin 
 the great business of self-improvement. In 
 the other, you look at your duties first, ex- 
 amine them well, submit yourself without 
 reserve to thei claims, and, having made 
 them habitual, reap your reward in that hap- 
 piness of which no human being can deprive 
 you, and which no earthly event can entirely 
 destroy. 
 
 LS 
 
 yourself, or for others? Perhaps you have 
 no definite aim as relates to this subject. 
 You are ashamed to think of living only for 
 
 others ; you therefore put away the thought, 
 and conclude to leave this important subject 
 until some future day. . Do not, however, be 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 have decided, and are acting upon the decis- 
 
 Is it your intention beyond this to live for 
 
 yourself, and deem it hard to live entirely for’ 
 
 | 
 
 deceived by such a fallacious conclusion. 
 Each day of your life will prove that you 
 
 ion you make on this momentous point. 
 Your conduct in society proves it; your be- 
 havior in your family, every thought which 
 occupies your mind, every wish you breathe, 
 every plan you form, every pleasure you en- 
 joy, every pain you suffer—all prove whether 
 it is your object to live for yourself, or for 
 others. 3 | 
 
 Again, is it your aim to live for this world 
 only, or for eternity? This is the question 
 of supreme importance, which all who pro- 
 fess to be Christians, and who think serious- 
 ly, must ask and answer to themselves. 
 There can be no delay here. Time is silent- 
 ly deciding this question for you. Before 
 another day has passed, you will be so much 
 nearer to the kingdom of heaven, or so much 
 further from it. Another day, another, and 
 another, of this fearful indecision, will be 
 adding to your distance from the path of 
 peace, and rendering your task more difficult 
 if you should afterwards seek to return. 
 
 If it be your deliberate desire to live for 
 this world only, all the highest faculties of 
 your nature may then lie dormant, for there 
 is no field of exercise here, to make the cul- 
 tivation of them worth the pains. [If it is 
 your deliberate desire to live for this world 
 only, the improvement of the bodily senses 
 becomes more properly the object of primary 
 interest, in order that you may taste, smell, 
 feel, hear, and see, with more acuteness. A 
 little invention, a little calculation, a little ob- 
 servation of cause and effect, may be neces- 
 sary, in order that the senses may be grati- 
 fied in a higher degree ; but beyond this, all 
 would indeed be worse than vanity, that 
 would tend to raise the human mind to a 
 knowledge of its own capabilities, and yet 
 leave it to perish with the frail tenement it 
 inhabits. 
 
 I cannot, however, suppose it possible that 
 any daughter of Christian parents, in this 
 enlightened country, would deliberately make 
 so blind, so despicable a choice. And if || 
 your aim be to live for eternity; if you || © 
 
 | 
 
 ca i i a 
 
IMPORTANT INQUIRIES. 7 
 
 | would really make this an object, not merely 
 | to read or to talk about, but to strive after, 
 as the highest good you are capable of 
 conceiving, then is the great mystery of your 
 being unravelled—then is a field of exercise 
 laid open for the noblest faculties of your 
 soul—then has faith its true foundation, hope 
 its unextinguishable beacon, and charity its 
 sure reward. 
 
 I must now take it for granted, that the 
 youthful reader of these pages has reflected 
 seriously upon her position in society as a 
 woman, has acknowledged her inferiority to 
 man, has examined her own nature, and 
 found there a capability of feeling, a quick- 
 ‘ness of perception, and a facility of adapta- 
 | tion, beyond what he possesses, and which, 
 | consequently, fit her for a distinct and sepa- 
 | rate sphere; and I would also gladly per- 
 suade myself, that the same individual, as a 
 Christian woman, has made her decision not 
 | to live for herself, so.much as for others; 
 but, above all, not to live for this world, so 
 much as for eternity. The question then 
 arises—What means are to be adopted in 
 the pursuit of this most desirable end ? 
 Some of my young readers will perhaps be 
 disposed to exclaim, “ Why, this is but the 
 old story of giving up the world, and all its 
 pleasures !” But let them not be too hasty 
 in their conclusions. It is not a system of 
 giving up which I am about to recommend 
 to them, so much as one of attaining. My 
 advice is rather to advance than to retreat, 
 yet to be sure that you advance in the right 
 way. Instead, therefore, of depreciating the 
 value of their advantages and acquirements, 
 it is my intention to point out, so far as I am 
 able, how all these advantages may be made 
 conducive to the great end I have already 
 supposed them to have in view—that of liv- 
 ing for others, rather than for themselves— 
 of living for eternity, rather than for time. 
 
 I have already stated, that I suppose my- 
 self to be addressing young women who are 
 professedly Christians, and who know that 
 the profession of Christianity as the religion 
 of the Bible, involves responsibility for every 
 talent they possess. By responsibility I 
 
 mean, that they should consider themselves, 
 during the whole of their lives, as in a condi- 
 to say, if called upon to answer, whether 
 they have made use of the best means they 
 were acquainted with, for attaining what they 
 believed to be the most desirable end. 
 Youth and health are means of the utmost 
 importance in this great work. Youth is the 
 season of impressions, and can never be re- 
 called; health is a blessing of such boundless 
 value, that when lost it may safely be said 
 to be sighed for more than any other, for the 
 sake of the countless advantages it affords. 
 Education is another means, which you are 
 now supposed to be enjoying in its fullest 
 
 extent; for I have already said that I sup- 
 
 pose myself to be addressing young women 
 who are popularly spoken of as having just 
 completed their education. Fresh from the 
 master’s hand, you will therefore never pos- 
 sess in greater perfection the entire sum of 
 your scholastic attainments than now. Read- 
 ing and conversation, it is true, may improve 
 your mind ; but of your present possessions, ! 
 
 in the way of learning and accomplishments, | 
 
 { 
 te 
 
 how many will be lost through indolence or 
 neglect, and how many more will give place | 
 to claims of greater urgency, or subjects of 
 more lively interest ! | 
 The present moment, then, is the time to | 
 take into account the right use of all your 
 knowledge and all your accomplishments. 
 What is the precise amount of these, we will 
 not presume to ask ; but let it not be forgot- 
 ten, that your accountability extends to the | 
 time, the trouble, and the expense bestowed 
 on your education, as well as to what you | 
 may have actually acquired. How many | 
 years have you been at school ?—We will | 
 suppose from two to ten, and that from one || 
 hundred pounds, to five or more, have been 
 
 expended upon you during this time ; add to 
 
 . this the number of teachers employed in your 
 
 ted to your use, the time—to say nothing of 
 the patience—bestowed upon you, the anxie- | 
 ty of parents, who probably spared with dif- 
 ficulty the sum that was necessary for your 
 education, their solicitude, their self-denial, | 
 
 | 
 | 
 instruction, the number of books appropria- 
 1 
 {| 
 
nrg en ee nenee aneonnennnen eee 
 
 i¢ 8) 
 
 their prayers that this sum might be well ap- 
 plied ; reflect upon all these, and you will 
 perceive that a debt has been contracted, 
 which you have to discharge to your parents, 
 your family, and to society—that you have 
 enjoyed a vast amount of advantages, for 
 which you have to account to the great 
 Author of your being. 
 
 Such, then, is your position in life; a 
 Christian’ woman, and therefore one whose 
 first duty is to ascertain her proper place—a 
 sensitive and intelligent being, more quick to 
 feel than to understand, and therefore more 
 under the necessity of learning to feel right- 
 ly—a responsible being, with numberless tal- 
 ents to be accounted for, and believing that 
 no talent was ever given in vain, but that all, 
 however apparently trifling in themselves, 
 are capable of being so used as to promote 
 
 the great end of our being, the happiness of 
 
 our fellow-creatures, and the glory of our 
 Creator. 
 
 Let not my young friends, however, sup- 
 pose that lam about to lay down for them 
 some system of Spartan discipline, some tron 
 rule, by which to effect the subjugation of all 
 that is buoyant in health, and delightful in the 
 season of youth. The rule I would propose 
 to them is one by which they may become 
 beloved as well as lovely—the source of hap- 
 piness to others, as well as happy in them- 
 selves. My desire is to assist them to over- 
 come the three great enemies to their tem- 
 poral and eternal good—their selfishness, 
 indolence, and vanity, and to establish in their 
 stead feelings of benevolence and habits of 
 industry, so blended with Christian meekness, 
 that while affording pleasure to all who live 
 within the sphere of their influence, they shall 
 be unconscious of the charm by which they 
 please. 
 
 I have already stated, that women, in their 
 position in life, must be content to be inferior 
 to men ; butas their inferiority consists chiefly 
 in their want of power, this deficiency is 
 abundantly made up to them by their capa- 
 bility of exercising influence ; it is made up 
 to them also in other ways, incalculable in 
 their number and extent, but in none so ef- 
 
 eS 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 fectually as by that order of Divine Provi- 
 dence which places them, in a moral and re- 
 ligious point of view, on the same level with 
 
 -man; nor can it be a subject of regret to any 
 
 right-minded woman, that they are not only 
 exempt from the most laborious occupations 
 both of mind and body, but also from the 
 necessity of engaging in those eager pecunia- 
 ry speculations, and in that fierce conflict of 
 worldly interests, by which men are so deep- 
 ly occupied as to be in a manner compelled 
 to stifle their best feelings, until they become 
 in reality the charactérs they at first only as- 
 sumed. Can it be a subject of regret to any 
 kind and feeling woman, that her sphere of 
 action is one adapted to the exercise of the 
 affections, where she may love, and trust, 
 and hope, and serve, to the utmost of her 
 wishes? Can it be a subject of regret that 
 she is not called upon, so much as man, to 
 calculate, to compete, to struggle, but rather 
 to occupy a sphere in which the elements of 
 discord cannot with propriety be admitted— 
 in which beauty and order are expected to 
 denote her presence, and where the exercise 
 of benevolence is the duty she is most fre- 
 quently called upon to perform? 
 
 Women almost universally consider them- 
 selves, and wish to be considered by others, 
 as extremely affectionate; scarcely can a 
 more severe libel be pronounced upon a wo- 
 man than to say that she is not so. Now 
 the whole law of woman’s life is a law of love. 
 I propose, therefore, to treat the subject in 
 this light—to try whether the neglect of their 
 peculiar duties does not imply an absence of 
 love, and whether the principle of love, tho- 
 roughly carried out, would not so influence 
 their conduct and feelings as to render them 
 all which their best friends could desire. 
 
 Let us, however, clearly understand each | 
 
 other at the outset. To love, is a very differ- 
 ent thing from a desire to be beloved. To 
 love, is woman’s nature—to be beloved is the 
 consequence of her having properly exercised 
 and controlled that nature. 
 man’s duty—to be beloved, is her reward. 
 Does the subject, when considered in this 
 
 point of view, appear less attractive? “ No,” 
 
 ee) 
 
 To love, is wo- 
 
 | 
 | 
 
A RE A a SE RS PRES SEES ER an TT 
 
 IMPORTANT INQUIRIES. 9 
 
 you reply, “it constitutes the happiness of 
 every generous soul, to love; and if that be 
 the secret of our duty, the whole life of wo- 
 man must be a pleasant journey on a path of 
 flowers.” 
 
 Some writers have asserted, that along 
 with the power to love, we all possess, in an 
 equal degree, the power to hate. I am not 
 prepared to go this length, because I would 
 not acknowledge the principle of hatred in 
 any enlightened mind ; yet I do believe, that 
 in proportion to our capability of being at- 
 tracted by certain persons or things, is our 
 liability to be repelled by others, and that 
 along with such repulsion there is a feeling 
 of dislike, which belongs to women ina higher 
 degree than it does to men, in the same pro- 
 portion that their perceptions are more acute, 
 and their attention more easily excited by 
 the minuter shades of difference in certain 
 things. Although not willingly recognising 
 the sensation of hatred, as applied to any thing 
 but sin, 1 am compelled to use the word, in 
 order to render my meaning more obvious ; 
 and certainly, when we listen to the unre- 
 strained conversation ofthe generality of young 
 ladies, we cannot hesitate to suppose that 
 the sensation of hatred towards certain per- 
 sons or things, does, in reality, form part of 
 the most important business of their lives. 
 
 To love and to hate, then, seem to be the 
 
 | two things which it is most natural and most 
 
 easy for women to do. In these two principles 
 how many of the actions of their lives origi- 
 nate! How important is it, therefore, that 
 they should learn in early life to love and 
 hate aright ! 
 
 Most young women of respectable parent-_ 
 | age and education, believe that they love 
 
 } virtue and hate vice. 
 | ascertained what virtue and vice are—have 
 
 But have they clearly 
 
 they examined the meaning of these two im- 
 
 | portant words by the light of the world, or 
 | by the light of divine truth? Have they list- 
 | ened to the plausible reasoning of what is 
 | called society; where things are often spoken 
 l| of by false names, and where vulgar vice is 
 | distinguished from that which is sanctioned 
 
 | by good breeding? or have they gone directly 
 
 channel, it requires a painful and determined 
 
 to the eternal and immutable principles of 
 good and evil, as explained in the Bible, 
 which they profess to believe? have they by 
 this test tried all their favorite habits—their 
 sweet weaknesses—their darling idols? and 
 have they been willing to abide the result of 
 this test—to love whatever approaches that 
 standard of moral excellence, and to renounce 
 whatever is offensive to the pure eye of ‘|| 
 Omniscience ? Now, when we reflect that all 
 this must be done before we can safely give || 
 ourselves up either to love or hate, we shall } 
 probably cease to think that our Spey duty 
 is so easily performed. 
 
 Youth is the season for regulating these |} 
 emotions as we ought, because it is compara- |} 
 tively easy to govern our affections when | 
 first awakened ; after they have been al- 
 lowed for some time to flow in any particular 
 
 effort to restrain or divert their course ; nor 
 does the constitution of the human mind en- 
 dure this revulsion of feeling unharmed. As 
 the country over whose surface an impetu- 
 ous river has poured its waters, retains, after 
 those waters are gone, the sterile track they 
 once pursued, marring the picture as with a 
 scar—a seamy track of barrenness and 
 drought ; so the course of misplaced affec- 
 tion leaves its indelible trace upon the char- 
 acter, breaking the harmony of what might 
 otherwise have been most attractive in its 
 beauty and repose. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no subject on which 
 young women are apt to make so many and 
 such fatal mistakes as in the regulation of 
 their emotions of attraction and repulsion ; 
 and chiefly for this reason—because there is 
 a popular notion prevailing among them, 
 that it is exceedingly becoming to act from 
 the impulse of the moment, to be what they 
 call “the creatures of feeling,” or, in other | 
 words, to exclude the high attribute of rea- 
 son from those very emotions which are given | 
 them, especially, to serve the most exalted 
 purposes. “It is a cold philosophy,” they 
 say, “to calculate before you feel ;” and thus | 
 they choose to act from impulse rather than | 
 from principle. 
 
10 
 
 The unnatural mother does this when she 
 singles out a favorite child as the recipient 
 of all her endearments, leaving the neglected 
 one to pine away its little life. ‘The foolish 
 mother does this, when she withholds, from 
 imagined tenderness, the wholesome disci- 
 pline which infancy requires—choosing for 
 her unconscious offspring a succession of 
 momentary indulgences which are sure to 
 entail upon them years of suffering in after 
 life. The fickle friend does this, when she 
 conceives a sudden distaste for the com- 
 panion she has professed to love. The un- 
 faithful wife does this, when she allows her 
 
 thoughts to wander from her rightful lord. | 
 
 All women have done this, who have com- 
 mitted those frightful crimes which stain the 
 page of history—all have acted from impulse, 
 and by far the greater number have acted 
 under the influence of misplaced affection. 
 It is, indeed, appalling to contemplate the ex- 
 tent of ruin and of wretchedness to which 
 woman may be carried by the force of her 
 own impetuous and unregulated feelings. 
 Her faults are not those of selfish calcula- 
 tion ; she makes no stipulation for her own 
 or others’ safety ; when once she renounces 
 principle, therefore, and gives herself up to 
 act as the mere creature of impulse, there is 
 no hope for her, except that experience, by 
 its painful chastisements, may bring her back 
 to wisdom and to peace. 
 
 Does this seem a hard sentence to pro- 
 nounce upon those impetuous young crea- 
 tures who make it their boast that they never 
 stay to think, that they cannot reason, and 
 were only born to feel? Hard as it is, ob- 
 servation proves it true. If we do not ac- 
 knowledge any regular system of conduct, 
 habit will render that systematical which is 
 our customary choice ; and if we choose day 
 by day to act from impulse rather than prin- 
 ciple, we yield ourselves fo a fatal and delu- 
 sive system, the worst consequences of 
 which will follow us beyond the grave. 
 
 As youth is the season for making this im- 
 portant choice, so it is the season for impres- 
 sions. You will never remember what you 
 acquire in after life, as you will remember 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 only for your own consolation, and the re- 
 
 what you are acquiring now. The know- 
 ledge you now obtain of evil will haunt you 
 through future years, like a dark spectre in 
 your path; while the glimpses of virtue| 
 which you now perceive irradiating the circle 
 in which you move, will re-appear before 
 you to the end of life, surrounded by the 
 same bright halo which adorns them now. 
 If you have loved the virtuous and the good 
 —if you have associated yourselves with 
 their pursuits, and made their aims and ob- 
 jects yours in early life—the remembrance 
 of these early friends will form a bright spot 
 in your existence, to recur to as long as that 
 existence lasts. 
 
 It is therefore of the highest importance to 
 the right government of your affections, that 
 you should endeavor to form clear notions 
 of good and evil, in order that you may know 
 how to choose the one and refuse the other ; || 
 not to take things for granted; not to believe 
 that is always best which is most approved 
 by the world, unless you would prefer the 
 approbation of man to that of God; but to 
 be willing to see the truth, whatever it may 
 be, and as such to embrace it. 
 
 In the gospel of Christ there are truths so 
 simple and so clear, so perfectly in keeping 
 one with another, that none need be kept in 
 the dark’as to the principles on which they 
 ought to act, if they are but willing to sub- 
 mit themselves to this rule. 
 
 I speak here of the practical part of the 
 Scriptures only ; but in connection with the 
 vivid and lasting impressions made upon the 
 mind of youth, I would strongly enforce the 
 importance of choosing that season for ob- 
 taining an intimate knowledge of the Scrip- 
 tures altogether. You can scarcely at pres- 
 ent be aware of the extreme value of this 
 knowledge : it will serve you in after life as 
 a rich and precious store to draw upon, not 
 
 newal of your own faith, but for the comfort, 
 guidance, and support of all who come with- || 
 in the sphere of your influence, or depend 
 upon you for aid in the great work of pre- 
 paring for eternity. Without this knowledge, 
 how feeble will be your arguments on the]. 
 
, IMPORTANT INQUIRIES. 
 
 most important of all subjects, how useless 
 
 | your assertions, and how devoid of efficacy 
 
 your endeavors to disseminate the principles 
 of Divine Truth! How enviable does the 
 possession of this knowledge now appear to 
 many a zealous Christian who has to deplore 
 the consequences of a neglected’ youth ! for I 
 repeat, that in after life it is almost impossi- 
 ble to impress the mind with the same vivid- 
 ness, and consequently to enrich the memory 
 with the same amount of useful knowledge, 
 as when the aspect of the world is new, and 
 the feelings comparatively unoccupied and 
 unimpressed. 
 
 The same observations which occur in re- 
 lation to the reading of the Scriptures at an 
 early period of life, apply, in degree, to the 
 acquisition of all other kinds of knowledge. 
 Never again will the mind be so free from 
 distraction as now ; never again will the 
 claims of duty be so few; never again will 
 the memory be so unoccupied. If, therefore, 
 a store of knowledge is not laid up while the 
 mind is in this state, it will be found wanting 
 when most needed ; and difficult indeed is 
 
 _the task, and mortifying the situation, of 
 
 those whose information has to be sought, in 
 order to supply the demand of every hour. 
 As well might the cultivator of the soil allow 
 his grain to remain in the fields, until hunger 
 reminded him that bread was wanted on his 
 board ; as the woman who expects to fill a 
 respectable station in life, go forth into society 
 unprovided with that supply of knowledge 
 and information which she will there find per- 
 petually required. The use of such knowledge 
 is a different question, and remains yet to be 
 discussed ; but on the importance of its ac- 
 quisition in the season of youth, there can be 
 but one opinion among experienced and ra- 
 tional beings. 
 
 Of all kinds of knowledge, that of our own 
 ignorance is the first to be acquired. It is an 
 humbling lesson for those to learn, who are 
 built up on the foundation of whatis called a 
 good education ; yet such is the fact, that the 
 knowledge which young ladies bring home 
 with them from school, forms but a very 
 small part of that which they will be expect- 
 
 11 | 
 
 ed to possess. Indeed, such is the illimitable 
 nature of knowledge, that persons can only 
 be said to know much or little by compari- 
 son. It is by comparing ourselves with 
 others, and especially with those who are 
 more advanced in life, that we first learn the 
 important secret of our own deficiencies. 
 And it is good to keep the mind open to this | 
 truth ; for without having clearly ascertained 
 our own inferiority, we should always be lia- 
 ble to make the most egregious mistakes ; 
 not only by telling those around us what 
 they already know, and wearying our ac- 
 quaintance with the most tedious common- 
 place,—but by the worst kind of false as- 
 sumption—by placing ourselves in exalted 
 positions, and thereby rendering our igno- 
 rance more conspicuous. 
 
 All this, however, though a fruitful source 
 of folly and ridicule, is of trifling importance 
 compared with the absolute want—the mental 
 poverty—the moral destitution, necessarily 
 occasioned by an absence of true knowledge; 
 we must begin, therefore, by opening our | 
 minds to the truth, not by adopting the opin- | 
 ions of this or that set of persons, but by 
 reading the works of the best authors, by 
 keeping the mind unbiassed by the writings | 
 or the conversation of persons infected with 
 prejudice, and by endeavoring to view every 
 object in its full extent, its breadth, its reality, 
 
 ual condition, that she seldom makes any 
 equivalent effort to do this. She is not only | 
 too often occupied with the mere frivolities ! 
 of life, to estimate the true value, of general | 
 knowledge; but, she is also too apt to hang 
 her credulity upon her affections, and to take 
 any thing for granted which is believed by 
 those whom she loves. It is true, this ser- 
 vility of mind may appear to some like act- 
 ing out the law of love, which I am so anx- 
 ious to advocate; but how is it, if their dearest | 
 friends are in error, and if they err in such 
 a way as to endanger their temporal and 
 eternal interests? Is it not a higher and no- 
 bler effort of love, to see and rectify such er- 
 ror, than to endeavor to imbibe the same, for 
 
 7 
 
 and its importance. 
 It is the grand defect in woman’s intellect- | 
 
| the sake of being pee Wig? in folly, or in 
 | sin? 
 
 | One of the greatest faults in the system of 
 | education pursued in the present day, is that 
 | of considering youth as the season for read- 
 j ing short and easy books. Although the 
 ablest of female writers—I had almost said 
 the wisest of women—has left on record her 
 
 to be the fashion, to place in the hands of 
 young persons, all kinds of abstracts, sum- 
 I maries, and short means of arriving at facts ; 
 
 as if the only use of knowledge was to be 
 | able to repeat by rote a list of the dates of 
 || public events. 
 Now, if ever an entire history or a com- 
 plete work is worth reading, it must be at an 
 early period of life, when attention and leisure 
 are both at our command. By the early and 
 studious reading of books of this description, 
 those important events which it is of so much 
 consequence to impress upon the mind, be- 
 come interwoven in the memory, with the 
 spirit and style of the author; so that instead 
 of the youthful reader becoming possessed 
 ' of nothing more than a mere table of facts, 
 
 she is in reality associating herself with a be- 
 | ing of the highest order of mind, seeing with 
 the eyes of the author, breathing his atmo- 
 sphere, thinking his thoughts, and imbibing, 
 through a thousand indirect channels, the 
 
 | 
 very essence of his genius. 
 
 This is the only kind of reading which is 
 really worthy of the name. Abstracts and 
 compendiums may very properly be glanced 
 over in after life, for the sake of refreshing 
 the memory as to dates and facts; but unless 
 the works of the best authors have been 
 read in this manner in early life, there will 
 always be something vapid in our conversa- 
 
 | tion, contracted in our views, prejudiced in 
 our mode of judging, and vulgar in our 
 habits of thinking and speaking of things in 
 general. In vain may we attempt to hide 
 this great deficiency. Art may in some 
 measure conceal what is wanting ; but it can- 
 | not bring to light what does not exist. Pru- 
 | dence may seal the lips, and female tact may 
 point out when to speak with safety, and 
 
 sia: aE THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. * 
 
 when to withhold a remark; but all those || 
 enlightened views, all that bold launching |} 
 forth into the region of intellect, all the com- | 
 _panionship of gifted minds, which intelligent |} 
 _women, even in their inferior capacity, may } 
 at least delight in, will be wanting to the hap- }| 
 -_piness of her who chooses to waste the pre- 
 cious hours of youth in idleness or frivolity. 
 testimony against this practice, it continues | 
 
 Nor is it easy for after study to make up 
 the deficiency of what ought to have been 
 acquired in youth. Bare information dragged 
 in to supply the want of the moment, without 
 arrangement, and without previous thought, 
 too often resembles in its crudeness and in- 
 appropriate display, a provision of raw fruits, 
 and undressed food, instead of the luxuries 
 of an elegant and well-furnished board. 
 
 I have heard it pleaded by young women, 
 that they did “not care for knowledge ”—* did 
 not wish to be clever.” And if such persons 
 would be satisfied to fill the lowest place in 
 society, to creep through the world alone, or 
 to have silly husbands, and idiot sons, we 
 should say that their ambition was equal to 
 their destiny. But when we see the same 
 persons jealous of their rights as intellectual 
 beings, aspiring to be the companions of ra- 
 tional men, and, above all, the early instruct- 
 ors of immortal beings, we blush to contem- 
 plate such lamentable destitution of right feel- 
 ing, and can only forgive their presumption 
 in consideration to their ignorance and fol- 
 
 ly. 
 
 oe 
 
 aca” ea lineata tinal Seater fe in 
 
 I cannot believe of any of the young per- 
 sons who may read these pages, that they 
 could be guilty of such an act of ingratitude 
 to the great Author of their being, and the 
 Giver of evey good and perfect gift they pos- 
 sess, as deliberately to choose to consign to 
 oblivion and neglect the intellectual part of 
 their nature, which may justly be regarded 
 as the highest of these gifts. I would rather 
 suppose them already acquainted with the 
 fact, that those passions and emotions, to 
 the exercise of which they believe themselves 
 especially called, are many of them such as 
 are common to the inferior orders of animals, 
 while the possession of an understanding 
 of, of unlimited extension, is an attribute 
 
ECONOMY OF TIME. 
 
 of the Divine nature, and one which raises 
 them to a level with the angels. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 ECONOMY OF TIME. 
 
 In all our pursuits, but especially in the 
 acquisition of knowledge, it is highly impor- 
 
 | tant to habituate ourselves to minute ‘calcu- 
 lations upon the value and progress of time. 
 That writer who could teach us how to esti- 
 mate this treasure, and how to realize its 
 fleetness, would confer a lasting benefit upon 
 his fellow-creatures. We all know how to 
 talk of time flying fast. It is, in short, the 
 subject of our most familiar proverbs, the 
 burden of the minstrel’s song, the theme of 
 the preacher’s discourse, the impress we affix 
 to our lightest pleasures, the inscription that 
 remains upon our tombs. Yet how little do 
 we actually realize of the silent and ceaseless 
 progress of time! It is true, that one of the 
 first exclamations which infant lips are taught 
 to utter is the word “ gone ;” and the beautiful 
 expression, “ gone for ever,” occurs with fre- 
 quency in our poetical phraseology. Clean 
 gone for ever, is the still more expressive lan- 
 guage of Scripture; and if any combination 
 of words could be made to convey to us clear 
 and striking impressions of this idea, it would 
 be found among those of the inspired wri- 
 ters. Yet still we go on from day to day, in- 
 sensible, and unimpressed by this, the most 
 sublime and appalling reality of our existence. 
 The fact that no single moment of our 
 lives, whether happy or miserable, whether 
 wasted or well employed, can ever be recall- 
 ed, is of itself one of the most momentous 
 truths with which we are acquainted—that 
 each hour of our past existence, whether 
 marked by wisdom or by folly, is gone for 
 ever; and that neither ingenuity, nor effort, 
 nor purchase, nor prayer, can call it back. 
 Nay, so far is it removed from the range of 
 possibility, that we should live again for any 
 portion of our past lives, that it was not even 
 
 among the miracles wrought by the Saviour 
 while on earth. Other apparent impossibili- 
 ties he did accomplish before the eyes of 
 wondering multitudes, breaking the bonds of 
 nature, and even raising the dead to life ; yet, 
 we find not among these mighty works, 
 that he said to any single day in man’s ex- 
 perience, “ Thou shalt dawn again.” No. 
 Even the familiar face of yesterday is turned 
 away from us for ever; and though so close- 
 ly followed by the remembrance of the past 
 night, as well might we attempt to grasp the 
 stars, as to turn back and enjoy its sweet re- 
 pose again. 
 
 What then is the consequence? Since time, 
 this great ocean of wealth, is ebbing away 
 from us day by day, and hour by hour; since 
 it must inevitably diminish, and since we 
 know the lowest rate at which it must go, 
 though none can tell how soon it may to them 
 be gone for ever, is it not our first duty to 
 make the best possible use of what remains, 
 and to begin in earnest, before another day 
 shall escape from our hold ? 
 
 We will suppose the case of a man who 
 finds himself the possessor of a vast estate, 
 with the power to cultivate it as he will, and 
 to derive any amount of revenue from it 
 which his ingenuity or labor may obtain for 
 him; yet, with this condition—that an enemy 
 shall be entitled to take away a certain por- 
 tion of it every day, until the whole is gone. 
 The enemy might, under certain circumstan- 
 ces, with which the owner could not be ac- 
 quainted, enjoy the liberty of taking the whole 
 at once; but a certain part he must take 
 every day. Now, would not the man who 
 held this property on such a tenure, look 
 sharply to his own interest, and endeavor to 
 discover by what means he could turn his 
 estate to the best account, before its extent 
 should be so far diminished as to cripple his 
 means ? Reflecting, too, that each day it was 
 becoming less, and that the smaller its extent, 
 the smaller would be the returns he might 
 expect, would he not begin, without the loss 
 of a single day, so to improve his land, to till, 
 to sow, and to prepare for getting in his pro- 
 duce, as that he might derive a lasting rev- 
 
 ~ 13 | 
 
14 
 
 enue of profit from the largest portion, be- 
 fore it should have passed out of his own 
 hands? 
 
 A very common understanding, and a very 
 trifling amount of knowledge, would prompt 
 the possessor of such an estate to do this; 
 yet, with regard to time, that most valuable 
 of earthly possessions, how few of us act 
 upon this principle! With some, the extent 
 of this estate is narrowing to a very small 
 circle ; but with the class of human beings 
 whom I am addressing, there is, in all human 
 probability, a wider field for them to speculate 
 upon. Illness, it is true, may come and 
 snatch away a large portion, and death may 
 be waiting to grasp the whole: how much 
 more important is it, then, to begin to cultivate 
 and reap in time! 
 
 Perhaps it is the apparent extent of our 
 prospect in early life, which deludes us into 
 the belief that the enemy is actually not tak- 
 ing any thing away. Still there are daily and 
 hourly evidences of the lapse of time, which 
 would serve to remind us of the impossibi- 
 lity of calling it back, if we would but regard 
 them in this light. If, for instance, we have 
 committed an egregious folly, if we have act- 
 ed unjustly, thrown blame upon the innocent, 
 or spoken unkindly to a dear friend—though 
 it was but yesterday, last night, or this morn- 
 ing—not all our tears, though we might weep 
 
 word ; because the moment which bore that 
 stain upon it, would be gone—and gone for 
 ever. 
 
 Again, we scarcely. become acquainted with 
 life in any of its serious aspects, before death 
 is presented to our notice. And where are 
 they—“the loved, the lost?” Their days 
 have been numbered—all those long days of 
 companionship in which their friends might 
 have loved, and served them better, are gone 
 forever. “ And why,” we ask, when the blow 
 falls nearest to ourselves—when the delight 
 of our eyes is taken away as with a stroke— 
 “ why do not the sun, and the moon, and the 
 stars, delay their course 1—why do the flow- 
 ers not cease to bloom ?—the light and cheer- 
 ful morning not fail to return? above all, why 
 
 ES 8 A A RE 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 oceans, could wash away that single act or’ 
 
 do those around us continue their accustom- 
 ed avocations? and why do we join them at 
 last, as if nothing had occurred ’ It is be- 
 cause time passes on, and on, and neither life, 
 nor death, nor joy, nor sorrow, nor any of the 
 changes in our weal or wo, present the mi- 
 
 nutest hindrance to his certain progress, or | 
 retard for a single moment his triumphant | 
 
 and irresistible career. 
 
 Nor is it simply as a whole, that we have | 
 to take into account the momentous subject | 
 
 of time. Every year, and month, and day, 
 
 have their separate amount of responsibility ; | 
 
 but especially the season of youth, because 
 
 the habits we acquire during that period, | 
 
 have an influence upon the whole of our 
 after lives. 
 
 The habit of making correct calculations 
 upon how much can be done in any stated 
 
 portion of time, is the first thing to begin with, | 
 
 for without this, we are very apt to go on 
 with any thing that may happen to interest 
 us, to the culpable neglect of more important 
 duties. Thus, though it may be well fora 
 man to pluck the weeds up in his garden for 
 half an hour after breakfast; yet, if his actual 
 business lies in the counting-house, or the 
 exchange, it would be worse than folly for 
 him to remain plucking weeds up for half 
 the day. 
 
 In order to make the best use of time, we - 
 must lay out beforehand the exact amount | 
 
 proportioned to every occupation in which 
 we expect to engage. Casualties will per- 
 petually occur demanding an additional al- 
 lowance, and something must consequently 
 be given up in exchange ; but still our calcu- 
 lations may generally be made with a degree 
 of certainty, which leaves no excuse for our 
 being habitually at a loss what to do. 
 
 _ There is a class of young persons, and I 
 fear not a very small one, who rise every 
 morning trusting to the day to provide its 
 own occupations and amusements. They 
 descend from their chambers with a listless, 
 dreamy hope that something will occur to 
 interest, or enliven them, never imagining 
 that they themselves are called upon to enli- 
 ven and interest others. 
 
 Such individuals : 
 
+ 
 
 being liable to disappointment every day, al- 
 
 | most always learn to look upon themselves as 
 
 unfortunate beings, less privileged than others, 
 and, in short, ill-treated by faith, or rather by 
 Providence, in being placed where they are. 
 
 It is this waiting to be interested, or amus- 
 ed, by any thing that may chance to happen, 
 which constitutes the great bane of a young 
 woinan’s life, and while dreaming on in this 
 most unprofitable state, without any definite 
 object of pursuit, their minds become the 
 prey of a host of enemies, whose attacks 
 might have been warded off by a little whole- 
 some and determined occupation. Their 
 feelings, always too busy for their peace, be- 
 come morbid, restless, and ungovernable, for 
 want of proper exercise; while imagination, 
 allowed to run riot over a boundless field of 
 vague and half-formed observations, leads 
 their affections in her train, to fix upon what- 
 ever object caprice or fancy may select. 
 
 It is not attributing too much importance 
 to ihe right economy of time, to say that it 
 might prevent all this. I presume not to lay 
 down rules for the occupation of every hour. 
 Particular duties must always appertain to 
 particular situations; and since the necessary 
 claims upon our attention are as varied as 
 our individual circumstances, that which in 
 one would be a right employment of time, 
 would be a culpable breach of duty in another. 
 
 There are, however, a few general rules 
 which cannot be too clearly or too deeply im- 
 pressed upon the mind—rules which the 
 rich and the poor would be equally benefited 
 by adopting; which the meanest and the 
 most exalted individual would alike find it 
 safe to act upon; and by which the wisest 
 and best of mankind might increase their 
 means and extend their sphere of usefulness 
 to their fellow-creatures. 
 
 The first of these rules is to accustom 
 yourselves every morning to say what you 
 are intending to do; and every night, with 
 equal faithfulness, to say what you have ac- 
 tually done during the day. If you find any 
 material difference between what you have 
 intended, and what you have achieved, try 
 to eo them better, and the next day, 
 
 either lay out for yourself, or, what is far | 
 This | 
 
 is the more to be recommended, because we | 
 
 better, endeavor to accomplish more. 
 
 learn, both by experience and observation. | 
 that whenever we bring down our good in- | 
 tentions to a lower scale, it is a certain symp- | 
 tom of some failure either in our moral, intel- | 
 Still there is | 
 
 lectual, or physical power. 
 much allowance to be made for the inexperi- 
 
 ence of youth, in not being able to limit good | 
 intentions by the bounds of what is practica- | 
 ble; it is therefore preferable that a little | 
 should be taken off, even from what is good | 
 
 in itself, rather than that you should go on 
 
 miscalculating time, and means, to the end | 
 
 of life. 
 
 There are persons, and some considerably | 
 
 advanced in years, who habitually retire to 
 
 rest every night, surprised and disappointed | 
 
 that the whole of their day’s 
 been done. 
 
 work has not 
 Now, it is evident that such per- 
 sons must be essentially wrong in one of 
 these two things—either in their calculations 
 upon the value and extent of time, or in their 
 estimate of their own capabilities; and in 
 consequence of these miscalculations, they 
 have probably been making the most serious 
 mistakes all their lives. They have-been 
 promising what they could not perform; de- 
 ceiving and disappointing their friends, and 
 those who were dependent upon them; be- 
 sides harassing their own spirits, and de- 
 stroying their own peace, by frightful mis- 
 calculations of imperative claims, when there 
 was no residue of time at all proportioned to 
 such requirements. 
 
 The next rule I would lay down is, if pos- 
 sible, of more importance than the first. It 
 is, that you should always be able to say what 
 you are doing, and not merely what you 
 are going to do. “I am going to be so 
 busy—I am going to get to my work—I am 
 going to prepare for my journey—I am going 
 
 tolearn Latin—I am going to visit a poor. 
 
 neighbor.” These, and ten thousand other 
 “goings,” with the frequent addition of the 
 word “just” before them, are words which 
 
 form a net-work of delusion, by which hun-' 
 dreds of really well-intentioned young persons | 
 
 A I en en ere 
 
 ECONOMY OF TIME. 15 | 
 
 | 
 
ey, 
 
 16 
 are completely entangled. I am just going to 
 do this or that good work,” sounds so much 
 like “I am really doing it,” that the con- 
 science is satisfied for the moment; yet how 
 vast is the difference between these two ex- 
 pressions when habit has fixed them upon the 
 character ! 
 
 To the same class of persons who habitu- 
 ally say, “I am going,” rather than “I am 
 doing,” belong those who seldom know what 
 they really are about; who, coming into a 
 room for a particular purpose, and finding a 
 book there by chance, open it, and sit down 
 to read for half an hour, or an hour, believ- 
 ing all the while that they are going to do the 
 thing they first intended; or who, setting 
 out to walk for the benefit of their health, 
 drop in upon a pleasant acquaintance by the 
 way, still thinking they are going to walk, 
 until the time for doing so has expired, when 
 they return home, with cold feet and aching 
 heads, half fancying that they have really 
 walked, and disappointed that exercise has 
 produced no better effect. 
 
 Now, in these two cases, there may be as 
 little harm in reading the book as in calling 
 upon the acquaintance, and nothing wrong 
 in either: but the habit of doing habitually 
 what we had not intended to do, and leaving 
 undone what we had intended, has so injuri- 
 ous an effect in weakening our resolutions, 
 and impairing our capacity for making ex- 
 act calculations upon time and means, that 
 one might pronounce, without much hesita- 
 tion, upon a person accustomed to this mode 
 of action, the sentence of utter inability to fill 
 any situation of usefulness or importance 
 among mankind. 
 
 I am inclined to think we should all be suf- 
 ficiently astonished, if we would try the ex- 
 periment through a single day, of passing 
 quickly and promptly from one occupation to 
 another. It is, in fact, these “ goings to do,’ 
 which constitute so large an amount of wast- 
 ed time, for which we are all accountable. 
 Few persons deliberately intend to be idle; 
 few will allow that they have been so from 
 choice; yet how vast a proportion of the 
 human race are living in a state of self-de- 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ception, by persuading themselves they are 
 not idle, when they are merely going to act. 
 Promptness in doing whatever it is right to 
 do now, is one of the great secrets of living. 
 By this means, we find our capabilities in- 
 creased to an amazing amount; nor can we 
 ever know what they really are, until this 
 plan of conduct has been fully tried. 
 
 Wisely has it been said, by the greatest of 
 moral philosophers, that there is a time for 
 every thing. Let it be observed, however, 
 that he has not, among his royal maxims, 
 spoken of a time for doing nothing; and 
 itis fearful to think how large a portion of 
 the season of youth is spent in this manner. 
 
 Nor is. it absolute idleness alone which 
 claims our attention. The idleness of self- 
 delusion has already been described. But 
 there is, besides this, a busy idleness, which 
 operates with equal force against the right 
 economy of time. Busy idleness arises chiefly 
 from a restlessness of feeling, which, without 
 any calculation as to the fitness of time or 
 place, or the ultimate utility of what is done, 
 hurries its possessor into a succession of tri- 
 fling or ill-timed occupations, frequently as 
 annoying to others as they are unproductive 
 of any beneficial result. Busy idleness is 
 also a disease most difficult to cure, because 
 it satisfies for the moment that thirst for oc- 
 cupation with which every human being is 
 more or less affected, and which has been 
 implanted in our nature for the wisest of pur- 
 poses. It is under the influence of this pro- 
 _pensity to busy idleness, that, with multitudes 
 who have no extraordinary capability for re- 
 ceiving pleasure, amusement is made to sup- 
 ply the place of occupation, and childish tri- 
 fling that of intellectual pursuit. 
 
 It may be asked, how does the law of love 
 operate here? I answer, precisely in this 
 way— We are never so capable of being use- 
 ful to others, as when we have learned to 
 economize our own time; to make exact cal- 
 ~culations as to what we are able, or not able, 
 to do in any given period; and so to employ 
 ourselves as to make the trifles of the mo- 
 ment give place to more important avocations. 
 Without having cultivated such habits, our 
 
 j 
 
ECONOMY OF TIME. 
 
 i 
 {0 
 
 | intentions, nay, our promises, must often fall 
 | short of what we actually perform; so that 
 in time, and after many painful disappoint- 
 ; ments, our friends will cease to depend upon 
 | our aid, believing, what may all the while be 
 | unjust to our feelings, that we have never 
 ' entertained any earnest desire to promote 
 | their interest. 
 
 | Above all other subjects, however, con- 
 | nected with the consideration of time, the 
 | law of love bears most directly upon that of 
 | punctuality. No one can fail in this point, 
 | without committing an act of injury to an- 
 | other. If the portion of time allotted to us in 
 | this life be aptly compared to a valuable 
 estate, of which an enemy robs us by taking 
 away a certain portion every day; surely it 
 | isa hard case that a friend must usurp the 
 same power, and take away another portion, 
 contrary to our expectations, and without 
 | any previous stipulation that it should be so. 
 Yet, of how much of this precious property 
 do we deprive our friends during the course 
 of a lifetime, by our want of punctuality ? 
 
 and not dur friends only, but all those who’ 
 
 are in any way connected with, or dependent 
 upon us. Our friepds, indeed, might possi- 
 bly forgive us the injury for the love they 
 bear us; but there are the poor—the hard- 
 working poor, whose time is often their 
 wealth; and strangers, who owe us no kind- 
 ness, and who consequently are not able to 
 endure this injury without feelings of irrita- 
 tion or resentment. 
 
 The evil, too, is one which extends in its 
 | consequences, and widens in its influence, be- 
 /yond all calculation. Yet, for the sake of 
 conveying to the youthful and inexperienced 
 reader, some idea of its mode of operation, 
 
 we will suppose the case of a man carrying 
 letters or despatches along one of our public 
 roads, and so calculating his time as to ap- 
 point to be met at some post on the road 
 every hour, by this means to transmit his 
 despatches by other couriers along branch- 
 roads to distant parts of the country. The 
 person whose business it is to place these 
 _despatches in his hand at a certain time and 
 | place, is half an hour too late ; consequently, 
 
 17 
 
 all the couriers along the road are delayed in 
 the same proportion, and there is the loss of 
 half an hour occasioned, not only to each 
 of them, but to all who have depended 
 upon their arrival at a certain time. It is 
 true, that few of us are placed in the same 
 relative position as this man, with regard to 
 our fellow-creatures ; yet, none of us act 
 alone ; and the mistress of a house, who de- 
 tains a poor workman half an hour by her 
 want of punctuality, may be the means of his 
 receiving reproof, nay, even abuse, from oth- 
 ers who have lost their time in consequence 
 of his delay ; while others still, and others 
 yet beyond, through the wider range of a 
 more extensive circle, may have been calcu- 
 lating their time and means in dependence 
 upon the punctuality of this poor man. 
 
 If on particular occasions which recur 
 every day, we find we are generally half an 
 hour too late, the evil to others is sometimes 
 easily remedied by making our appointment 
 half an hour later, and abiding by it. But 
 such is not the plan of those who are habitu- 
 ally negligent of punctuality. They go on, 
 varying from their time, one day perhaps an 
 hour, another a quarter of an hour, and oe- 
 casionally perhaps being before it, until the 
 whole machinery of intercourse with their 
 fellow-creatures is deranged-—those of their 
 dependents who are inclined to indolence 
 taking advantage of their delay ; those who 
 are impatient, fretting themselves into angry 
 passions at this wanton waste of their pre- 
 cious time; and many whose connection 
 might perhaps have been highly valuable, 
 leaving them altogether, in consequence of 
 being wearied or disgusted with the uncer- 
 tainty which attended all their proceedings. 
 
 It is not, therefore, our own time only that 
 is wasted by our want of punctuality, but 
 hours, and days, and months, and years of 
 the precious property of others, over which 
 we had no right, and which was not inten- 
 
 tionally submitted to our thoughtless expen- 
 
 diture. 
 
 It is often alleged by young persons as be- 
 ing of no use for them to be punctual, when 
 others are not so, and that they only waste 
 
 ee 
 
 RE A SS 
 
 a eens nn ne ea a a Ce eR ee ne a eee 
 
aot vey | 
 
 18 
 
 their own time by being ready at the ap- 
 pointed moment. All this may be too true ; 
 for parents and seniors in a family often have 
 themselves to blame for the want of punctu- 
 ality in the junior members. Yet is it of no 
 importance, whether we are the causes or 
 the subjects of injury—whether we practise 
 injustice towards others, or only endure it 
 ourselves? Surely no generous mind can 
 hesitate a moment which alternative to 
 choose, especially when such choice refers 
 not to any single act, but to a course of con- 
 duct pursued through a whole lifetime. Of 
 what material consequence will it appear to 
 us on the bed of death, that certain individ- 
 uals, at different times of our lives, have 
 kept us waiting for a few hours, which 
 might certainly have been better employed? 
 But it will be of immense importance at the 
 close of life, if, by our habitual want of punc- 
 tuality, we have been the cause of an enor- 
 mous waste of time, the property of count- 
 less individuals, to whom we can make no 
 repayment for any single act of such unli- 
 censed robbery. It is the principle of integ- 
 rity, then, upon which our punctuality must 
 be founded, and the law of love will render it 
 habitual. 
 
 As there are few persons who deliberately 
 intend to be idle; so there are perhaps still 
 fewer who deliberately intend to waste their 
 own time, or that of their friends. It is the 
 lapse of years, the growth of experience, and 
 the establishment of character on some par- 
 ticular basis, which tell the humiliating truth, 
 that time has been culpably and Byéntably 
 wasted. There are other delusions, however, 
 besides those already specified, under which 
 this fruitless expenditure is unconsciously 
 carried on ; and none is perhaps, as a whole, 
 more destructive to usefulness, or more fatal 
 to domestic peace, than the habit of being al- 
 ways a little too late—too late to come—too 
 late to go—too late to meet at the place of 
 appointment—too late to be useful—too late 
 to do good—too late to repent and seek for- 
 giveness while the gates of mercy are un- 
 | closed. All these may be the consequences 
 | of setting out in life, without a firm determi- 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 nation never to yield to the dangerous habit 
 of being a little too late. 
 
 In this case it is not so much the absolute 
 waste of time, as the waste of feeling, which 
 is to be regretted ; for no one can be habitual- 
 ly ever so little too late, without experien- 
 cing at times a degree of hurry and distraction 
 of mind, most destructive of domestic com- 
 fort and individual peace. 
 
 To be a few minutes too early, may appear 
 to many as inconsistent with the order of the 
 present day, when every thing is pushed to 
 extremity, and it may consequently be con- 
 sidered as a useless waste of time; yet I am 
 inclined to think that the moments in which 
 we can say, “I am ready,” are among some 
 of the most precious of our lives, as affording 
 us opportunity for that calm survey of human 
 affairs, without which we should pass in a 
 state of comparative blindness along the 
 thickly-peopled walks of life. ‘To be ready a 
 little before the time, is like pausing for a mo- 
 ment to see the great machine of human 
 events at work, to mark the action and the 
 play of every part, and to observe the vast 
 amount of feeling which depends upon every 
 turn ofthe mighty wheel#f time. 
 
 Who that has stood still, and watched the 
 expression of the human countenance during 
 the last struggles of a too late preparation for 
 pleasure, for business, or for trial, has not, in 
 a single moment, read more plain truths on 
 that unguarded page than years of its ordi- 
 nary expression would have unfolded? Be- 
 sides this, however, the great advantage we 
 derive from being habitually too early, is the 
 power it gives us to husband our forces, to 
 make our calculations upon coming events, 
 to see how to improve upon yesterday, and 
 to resolve to do so; but, above all other 
 means of strengthening our better resolutions, 
 it affords us time for those mental appeals 
 for Divine blessing and support, without 
 which we have no right to expect either safe- 
 ty, assistance, or success. Fortified in this 
 manner, it is less likely that any unexpected 
 event should unsettle the balance of our 
 minds, because we go forth with calmness, 
 prepared either to enjoy with moderation and 
 
 See oe 
 
 a 
 
 Sa a a ae ae EDS SESE 
 
ECONOMY OF TIME. 
 
 thankfulness, or to suffer with patience and 
 resignation. 
 
 Young persons are often beguiled into the 
 dangerous habit of being a little too late, by 
 the apparent unimportance of each particular 
 transgression of the kind during the season 
 of youth. If, for instance, they are a little 
 too late for breakfast, the matron of the fami- 
 ly commences operations without them, and 
 they can easily gain time upon some of the 
 senior members. At the dinner-hour it is the 
 same. ‘They have only to calculate upon a 
 few impatient words, and a few angry looks ; 
 and it is not the least unfavorable feature of 
 their case, that to such looks and words they 
 become so accustomed as scarcely to heed 
 them, nor isit often that they bring any more 
 serious consequences upon themselves by 
 their delay, because the young are generally 
 so kindly assisted and cared for by their 
 friends, that by a long, and patient, and often- 
 repeated process of helping, urging, and en- 
 treating, they are, for the most part, got ready 
 for every important occasion, or, in other 
 words, are seldom left behind. 
 
 It is in more advanced life that the evil 
 begins to tell upon the happiness of all around 
 them; and let it never be forgotten, that the 
 more exalted their situation, the wider their 
 sphere of influence, the more extensive are 
 the evils resulting from any wrong line of 
 
 conduct they may choose to pursue. ‘The 
 
 season of early youth is, therefore, the best 
 time for correcting this tendency, before it 
 has begun to bear with any serious effects 
 upon the good or the happiness of others. 
 
 We will suppose the case of a mistress of 
 a family preparing for a journey. Having 
 been a little too late with every thing which 
 had to be done, there is a frightful accumula- 
 tion of demands upon her attention during 
 the last day, but especially the last half-hour 
 before her departure. In this state of hurry 
 and confusion wrong orders are given, which 
 have to be counteracted; messengers are 
 sent hither and thither, they scarcely know 
 for what, and still less where to find the thing 
 they seek. Servants grow disorderly, chil- 
 
 | dren teasing or frightened, the husband is 
 
 eee 
 
 —-| 
 
 angry, and sharp words pass between him 
 and his wife. Accidents, of course, occur, 
 for which the innocent are blamed. ‘Time— 
 pitiless time rolls on, apparently with accele- 
 rating speed. The distant sound of carriage- 
 wheels is heard. At this crisis a string breaks. 
 Why did it never break before? A flash of 
 absolute passion distorts the face of the ma- 
 tron. All dignity islost. The carriage is at the 
 door—little children stretch forth their arms 
 —there is no time for tenderness. Scarce- 
 ly a farewell is heard, as the mother rushes 
 past them, leaving behind her, perhaps for 
 months of absence, the remembrance of her 
 angry countenance, her unjust reproaches, 
 and the apparent want of affection with which 
 she could hurry away from the very beings 
 she loved best in the world. The servants || ™ 
 in such a family as this, can scarcely be blam- 
 
 ed if they rejoice when their mistress is gone ; 
 
 the husband, if he finds abundant consolation 
 
 in the peace his absent partner has bequeathed 
 
 him ; or the children, if they fail to look with 
 
 any very eager expectation to the time of 
 their mother’s return. 
 
 How, then, does the law of love operate 
 here? It operates upon the woman who is 
 seldom too late, so that when a journey is in 
 expectation, all things are arranged in due | 
 
 | 
 
 time, leaving the last day more especially for 
 
 attention to the claims of affection, and the 
 regulation of household affairs, upon which 
 will depend the comfort of her family during 
 herabsence. Rising a little earlier than usual || 
 on that morning, she commends them indivi- | 
 dually and collectively to the care of the Fa- |; 
 ther of all the families of earth; and this very || 
 act gives a depth, a tenderness, and a se- 
 
 renity to the feelings of affection with which 
 
 she meets them, it may be for the last time. 
 
 Kind words are then spoken, which dwell 
 
 upon the memory in after years; provision | 
 is made for the feeble or the helpless; every 
 little peculiarity of character or constitution 
 is taken into account; last charges—those 
 precious memorials of earthly love—are given, 
 and treasured up. There is time even for |! 
 private and confidential intercourse between | 
 the husband and the wife; there is time for } 
 
 i) 
 
 een 
 
 i el 
 
 a 
 
| 20 
 
 ja respectful farewell to every domestic; there 
 | is time, too, for an expression of thankfulness 
 for each one of the many kind offices render- 
 | ed on that sacred day. At last the moment 
 | of separation arrives. Silent tears are seen 
 in every eye, but they are not absolutely tears 
 of sorrow; for who can feel sorrow, when 
 | the cup of human love is so full of sweet- 
 ness ? 
 
 If, during the absence of such a mother, 
 
 sickness or death should assail any member 
 of her family, how will the remembrance of 
 | that day of separation soothe the absent ; 
 while the kind words then uttered, the kind 
 thoughts then felt, the kind services then 
 rendered, will recur to remembrance, invest- 
 ed with a power and a beauty, which never 
 would have been fully known, had no such 
 | separation taken place. 
 It is possible the natural affection of the 
 | wife and the mother, in both these cases, 
 | may have been the same; yet, how different 
 | must be the state of their own feelings, and 
 | of those of their separate families, one hour 
 after their departure ! and not during that 
 hour only, but during weeks and months, 
 nay, through the whole of their lives! for 
 | the specimen we have given, is but one 
 | among the many painful scenes which must 
 perpetually occur in the experience of those 
 who are habitually too late. 
 
 It is true, I have extended the picture a 
 little beyond the season of early youth, but 
 this was absolutely necessary in order to 
 point out the bearing and ultimate tendency 
 of this dangerous habit—a habit, like many 
 | of our wrong. propensities, so insidious 
 | in its nature, as scarcely to tell upon the 
 youthful character ; while, like many other 
 plants of evil growth, its seed. is sown at that 
 period of life, though we scarcely perceive 
 | the real nature of the poisonous tree, until 
 its bitter root has struck too deep to be 
 | eradicated. It is, therefore, the more im- 
 | portant, in all we purpose, and in all we do, 
 | that we should: look to the end, and not 
 | awake, when it is too late, to find that we 
 | have miscalculated either our time or our 
 
 means. 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL. 
 
 CLEVERNESS——LEARNING——-KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 In order to speak with more precision of 
 those attainments which youth is the season | 
 for acquiring, I must class them under three 
 different heads—cleverness, learning, and 
 knowledge. By cleverness, I would be un- 
 stood to mean, dexterity and aptness in doing 
 every thing which falls within the sphere of 
 ordinary duty. Cleverness of the hand. is 
 no mean attainment in a woman. It is, in | 
 fact, of almost as much value to her, as dex- | 
 terity to the surgeon; for though he may || 
 have knowledge to understand what is best || 
 to be done, unless his hand be skilful to do it, | 
 his knowledge will avail him but little in any | 
 case of emergency, where the life of a fellow- | 
 creature is at stake. 
 
 The cleverness of the hand, therefore, |: 
 though almost entirely neglected in modern 
 education, except as relates to practice on the | 
 keys of the piano, is a qualification which, | 
 while it takes nothing away from the charm |} 
 of feminine delicacy, imparts the additional || 
 charm of perpetual cheerfulness, added to a | 
 capability of general usefulness, and a conse- 
 quent readiness for action whenever occasion 
 may require our services. 
 
 To know how to do every thing which can | 
 properly come within a woman’s sphere of | 
 duty, ought to be the ambition of every female || 
 mind. or my own part, I do not believe I | 
 have ever learned any thing, even down to | 
 such a trifle as a new stitch, but I have 
 found a use for it, and that in a surprisingly |! 
 short space of time; for either it has occu- 
 pied what would otherwise have been idle |} 
 time, it has used up what would otherwise |} 
 have been wasted material, or I have taught |} 
 it to others who were more in need of it than | 
 myself. Besides which, there is the grand 
 preventive this dexterity supplies against |) 
 ever being at a loss what to do; the happi- || 
 ness it affords, both to ourselves and others, |; 
 to be perpetually employed ; the calm it dif- |; 
 fuses over a naturally restless temperament ;. |} 
 
 but above all, the ability this habit affords in || 
 cases of sickness, or other emergency, to |} 
 
turn all our means to account in the service 
 of our friends. * 
 
 This, however, can never be so thoroughly 
 effected, as when the cleverness of the hand 
 is aided by the faculty of invention. And 
 here I would ask, how is it, how can it be, 
 that the exercise of this faculty forms so tri- 
 fling a part of female education? Never 
 does a woman enter upon the actual business 
 of life, whatever it may be, but her ingenuity 
 is-taxed in some way or other; and she suf- 
 fers blame, or endures contempt, just so far 
 as she fails in this respect. If, at a critical 
 juncture of time, any accident takes place in 
 household affairs, woman is expected to 
 cover up the defect, or supply the deficiency. 
 If any article of common use is missing when 
 wanted, woman is expected to provide a 
 substitute. If the accustomed supply of 
 comfort or enjoyment fails, it is woman’s 
 fault. No matter how great the deficiency 
 of material with which she has to work, do, 
 mestic comfort, order, and respectability rest 
 with her, and she must be accountable for 
 the falling short in any, or all of these.” It is 
 true that she is endowed by nature with the 
 faculty of invention, in a higher degree, per- 
 haps, than men, and skilfully and nobly does 
 she sometimes use it ; but does not the very 
 fact of this endowment teach us that it has 
 thus been provided by Providence for the 
 part she has to act in life? and ought we not 
 the more sedulously to carry out this merci- 
 ful design, by a higher cultivation of so useful 
 a faculty? Why, for instance, should we 
 not have premiums on a small scale, or other 
 encouragements, in our public seminaries, for 
 the most ingenious and useful inventions? 
 Why should there not be a little museum at- 
 tached to every school, in which such speci- 
 } mens of ingenuity could be kept? We all 
 know there are few simple pleasures which 
 surpass those derived from the exercise of 
 the faculty of invention ; might it not, there- 
 fore, be rendered as profitable as it is amu- 
 sing, by filling up some of the idle hours of 
 a school-girl’s life, and occupying the time 
 too frequently appropriated to mere gossip 
 on subjects by no means calculated to im- 
 
 CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 21 
 
 prove the morals, or enlarge the understand- 
 ing ? 
 
 The little girl of four years old, seated on 
 a footstool beside her mother, is less happy 
 in the rosy cheeks and shining curls of her 
 new doll, than in the shawl she has herself 
 invented for it, or the bonnet her sister is 
 making. It is the same throughout the 
 whole season of early youth. What is draw- 
 ing, that most delightful of all amusements to 
 a child, but the exercise of the faculty of in- 
 vention? Sosoon as this exercise is reduced 
 to a science,—so soon as “perspective 
 dawns,” and the juvenile performer is com- 
 pelled to copy, the charm of the performance 
 in a great measure ceases. It is true, it will 
 be restored a hundredfold. when acquaint- 
 ance with the rules of art shall enable the 
 young student again to design, and with bet- 
 ter effect ; but during her infancy, she has 
 far more enjoyment in her own red-brick 
 house, with a volume of green smoke issuing 
 from every chimney—and in her own round- 
 bodied man, whose nose is emulous of a 
 beak, and his eye in the centre of his head — 
 than in the most elaborate and finished draw- 
 ings which a master could lay before her ; 
 not, certainly, because she sees more sym- 
 metry or likelihood in these creatures of her 
 own formation, but simply because of the 
 pleasure she enjoyed while inventing them. 
 
 It is a subject of delightful reflection, and it 
 ought to be a source of unfailing gratitude, 
 that some of those natural propensities which 
 afford us the greatest pleasure, are, in reality, 
 capable of being made conducive to the 
 greatest good. Thus, when the little quiet 
 girl is so happy and so busy with her pencils, 
 or her scissors, she is indulging that natural 
 propensity of her mind, which is, in after life, 
 to render her still happier, by enabling her to 
 turn to the best account every means of in- 
 creasing the happiness of those around her, 
 of rendering assistance in any social or do- 
 mestic calamity that may occur, of supply in 
 every time of household need, and of com- 
 fort in every season of distress. 
 
 But if the value of invention, and the 
 ready application of existing means, be over- 
 
| 22 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | looked under all other circumstances in a | cupied by a series of inventions for the bene- 
 
 | sick-room, none can doubt its efficacy. The 
 ll visitations of sickness, however unlikely or 
 unlooked for they may be to the young, are 
 liable to all—the gay and the grave, the rich 
 and the poor, the vigorous and the feeble ; 
 and we have only to visit some of those fa- 
 vorite spots of earth which have become the 
 resort of invalids from every land, to see 
 how often the most delicate females are 
 plunged into all the solemn and_ sacred 
 mysteries of the chamber of sickness and 
 death. 
 
 It is under such circumstances that inge- 
 nuity, when connected with kindly feeling, 
 and readiness to assist, is of the utmost pos- 
 sible value. There may be the same kind 
 feeling without it; but how is such feeling to 
 operate ?—by teasing the invalid perpetually 
 about what he would like, or not like? The 
 querulous and fretful state of mind which 
 suffering so often induces, is ill-calculated to 
 brook this minute investigation of its wants 
 and wishes ; and such is the capricious na- 
 ture of a sickly appetite, that every antici- 
 pated relish is apt to pall, before the feeble 
 desire can be gratified. We are therefore in- 
 flicting positive pain upon the sufferer—men- 
 tal pain, in addition to that of the body, by 
 compelling him to choose, and then to appear 
 discontented, or ungrateful, in becoming dis- 
 satisfied with his own choice. 
 
 How thankful, then, ought women to be, 
 that they possess, by nature, the faculty of 
 invention ; and how careful ought to be their 
 cultivation of this precious gift, when it can 
 enable them to relieve from pain and annoy- 
 | ance those who already feel that they have 
 enough of both! How happy, in comparison, 
 is that woman, who, by the habitual exercise 
 of her ingenuity, is able so to make the most 
 of the means within her power, as to supply, 
 without its having to be solicited, the very 
 thing which is most needed ; and though her 
 endeavors may possibly fail again and again, 
 there will sometimes be a smile of grateful 
 | acknowledgment on the lips of the sufferer, 
 that will richly repay her most anxious care ; 
 or; if not, she will still be happier, when oc- 
 
 ae 
 
 -~ 
 
 fit of one she loves, than those can be who 
 think, and think again, and end by only 
 wishing they could think of any thing that 
 could accommmodate or relieve. : 
 
 The faculty of invention, however, will 
 fail of more than half its use, if the hand is 
 not early accustomed to obey the head, in all 
 those little niceties of management which fe- 
 male occupations require. ‘There must be a | 
 facility in the application and movement of 
 the hand, which can only be acquired in 
 early life; and I would humbly suggest the 
 importance of this in our public seminaries 
 for young ladies, for I confess it has often 
 seemed to me a little hard, that young wo- 
 men of the middle ranks of life, should be 
 
 dismissed from these establishments, after |] 
 
 having spent years with little more exercise 
 of the hand than is required by the music- 
 master ; yet are they no sooner plunged into | 
 active life,as women—I do not say, as la- | 
 dies—than the readiest and best, nay, some- 
 times, even the cheapest, method of doing | 
 every thing which a woman can do, is ex- 
 pected of them. In all those cases of failure | 
 which must necessarily ensue, parents and | 
 brothers are equally dissatisfied; while they | 
 themselves, disappointed that their accom- | 
 plishments are no longer valued as they were | 
 at school, and perplexed with the new, and | 
 apparently humbling duties which present ! 
 themselves, sink into a state of profitless de- || 
 spondency ; and all this is owing to the sim- | 
 ple fact of their not having been prepared, | 
 when young, for what is expected of them in | 
 after life. 
 Far be it from me, however, to advocate | 
 the old system of stitching, as the best kind | 
 of education for the daughters of England, | 
 of whom higher. and nobler things are re- } 
 quired. But why should we not choose the | 
 medium between two extremes? and while | 
 we reprobate the elaborate needlework of our | 
 grandmothers, why should we not be equally | 
 solicitous to avoid the evils arising from an | 
 entire disuse of the female hand, until the | 
 age of womanhood? Neither would I be | 
 supposed to advocate that entire absorption | 
 
of the female mind in a world of worsted 
 work, which is now so frequently the case 
 immediately on leaving school, and which I 
 + am inclined to attribute, in a great measure, 
 | to a necessary reaction of the mind, after 
 | having been occupied during the whole term 
 of scholastic discipline, in what is so foreign 
 | to its nature, that the first days—nay, months, 
 || and even years, of liberty, are spent in the 
 | busy idleness of assorting different shades of 
 | Berlin wool. 
 | These, I must allow, are pleasant amuse- 
 | ments in their way, and when the head and 
 || the heart are weary, may have their refresh- 
 | ment and their use ; but even in these occu- 
 | pations, the beaten track of custom is. too 
 | much followed. The hand is more exercised 
 | than the head. To imitate is more the ob- 
 || ject than to invent, while, if the same pains 
 | were taken to create a pattern as to borrow 
 one, new ideas might be perpetually struck 
 out, and the mind, even in this humble 
 sphere of action, might find as much em- 
 | ployment as the hand. 
 It is sometimes made the subject of regret 
 | by learned, well-informed, and highly-gifted 
 women, that the occupations peculiar to our 
 sex are so trifling; or, in other words, that 
 they afford so little exercise for the mind. 
 
 To say nothing here of the folly and the 
 | danger of allowing ourselves to despise such 
 duties as God has set before us, I am dis- 
 posed to question whether it is not in a great 
 measure our own fault that these duties are in- 
 vested with so little mind. Invention issurely 
 no mean ‘faculty, and I have shown how it 
 may be exercised, even upon the most tri- 
 fling affairs of woman’s life. Economy is no 
 mean principle, and this may be acted upon 
 in the application of the humblest means to 
 any particular end. Industry is no mean 
 virtue, and we may be practising this, while 
 filling up every spare moment with some oc- 
 cupation of the hand. Cheerfulness is no 
 mean embellishment to the female character; 
 and seldom is. cheerfulness preserved, when 
 the hand is allowed to be useless and idle. 
 
 I confess there is a listless way of merely 
 “getting through” with female occupations, 
 
 CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 23 
 
 comfort, at the least expense ! 
 
 in which little mind, and still less good feeling, 
 is called into action: but when a lively in- 
 vention is perpetually at work; when a care- 
 ful economy is practised for the sake of mak- 
 ing the most of all our materials, and sparing 
 our money, it may be for the purpose of as- 
 sisting the sorrowful or the destitute. Where || 
 habits of industry are thus engrafted into 
 the character; and where cheerfulness lights 
 
 up every countenance ina family thus em- 
 ployed; especially where there is any con- 
 ( 
 
 siderable degree of talent or illumination of 
 mind, how many brilliant thoughts may arise 
 out of the simplest subject, and how much 
 rational enjoyment may be derived from the 
 humblest occupations ! 
 
 I cannot dismiss the subject of cleverness, 
 or dexterity in doing whatever may come 
 
 within the sphere of female duty, without 
 
 observing that its importance refers in an 
 especial manner to domestic usefulness. Nor 
 let the young lady, who may read this, too 
 hastily turn away with contempt from so 
 humble a strain of advice. It does not fol- 
 low, because she knows how to do every 
 thing, that she must always do it. But it 
 does follow, that if she wishes to stand at the 
 head of her household, to be respected by her 
 own servants, and to feel herself the mistress 
 of her own affairs, that she must be acquainted 
 with the best method of doing every thing 
 upon which domestic comfort depends. 
 These remarks can of course have no ref- 
 erence to families who occupy a higher rank 
 in society, and whose means enable them to 
 employ a housekeeper as the medium of 
 communication between the mistress and the 
 servants. I speak of those who have to give 
 orders themselves, or who, in cases of illness, 
 receiving company, or other derangements 
 of the usual routine of domestic affairs, have 
 to take an active part in household economy 
 themselves. To such, how unfortunate is it not 
 to have learned, before they attempt to direct 
 others, the best method of applying every 
 means so as to be productive of the greatest 
 I would of 
 course be understood to mean, with the least 
 possible risk of absolute waste. Your table 
 
may be sumptuous or simple, your furniture 
 costly or plain—that will depend upon the 
 rate at which you fix your expenditure, and 
 has nothing to do with the point in question. 
 The absolute waste of material, in whatever 
 is manufactured, prepared, or produced, Is 
 an evil of a distinet nature, and can never be 
 allowed to any extent, where it is possible to 
 be avoided, without a deficiency of common 
 sense, or moral rectitude. 
 
 In my observations upon the women of 
 England, I have dwelt so much upon the de- 
 sirableness of domestic usefulness, that I can- 
 not with propriety enlarge uponit here, Yet, 
 such is my view of this subject, that if I were» 
 asked which of the three was most valuable 
 in a woman—cleverness, learning, or know- 
 ledge; and supposing all to have an aqual 
 accompaniment of good sense, good feeling, - 
 and good principle, I believe I should answer 
 in favor of the first, provided the situation of 
 the woman was in the middle rank of life, 
 and she could not enjoy more’than one of 
 these valuable recommendations. 
 
 Youth is considered to be so exclusively 
 the season for acquiring a skilful touch in 
 the practice of music, that scarcely is the ex- 
 periment ever tried of acquiring the same 
 dexterity in after life. If then it is the only 
 time for attaining excellence in what is mere- 
 ly an embellishment to the character, of how 
 much importance must this season be for 
 practising the hand in that ready obedience 
 to the head in all affairs of actual usefulness, 
 which justly entitles its possessor to the dis- 
 tinction of cleverness ! 
 
 In order to convey a more correct idea of 
 my meaning, when I speak of cleverness, I 
 will simply add, that a woman possessed of 
 
 this qualification is seldom at a loss what to 
 
 do; seldom gives wrong orders; seldom 
 mistakes the right means of producing the 
 end she desires; seldom spoils, or wastes, or 
 mismanages the work she undertakes ; never 
 hurries to and fro in a state of confusion, not 
 knowing what is best to be done first; and 
 never yields to her own feelings, so as to in- 
 capacitate her from the service of others, at 
 any critical moment when her assistance may 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 be most needed. Nor are her recommenda- 
 tions only of a negative kind. Her habitual 
 self-possession is a positive good, her cool- 
 ness, her promptitude, her power to adapt 
 herself to circumstances, all give worth and 
 dignity to her character in the estimation of 
 others ; while they afford peace and satisfac- 
 tion to her own mind. 
 
 Learnine, Dr. Johnson tells us, is skill in 
 languages or science. With regard to the 
 time spent in the acquisition of languages, I 
 fear I must incur the risk of being thought 
 neither liberal nor enlightened ; for I confess, 
 I do not see the value of languages to a 
 woman, except so far as they serve the pur- 
 pose of conversation with persons of different 
 countries, or acquaintance with the works of 
 authors, whose essential excellences cannot 
 be translated into our own tongue; and how 
 far these two objects are carried out by the 
 daughters of England, either from necessity 
 or inclination, I must leave to their own con- 
 sideration. 
 
 With regard to the dead languages, the 
 former of these two motives cannot apply. 
 It may, however, be justly considered as a 
 wholesome exercise of the mind, provided 
 there is nothing better to be done, for young 
 women to learn Greek and Latin; but be- 
 yond this, I feel perfectly assured, that for 
 any knowledge they will acquire through the 
 medium of the best Greek and Latin authors, 
 our most approved translations would more 
 than answer their purpose. It is true, that 
 a knowledge of these languages gives an in- 
 sight into the meaning of many important 
 words inour own; yet, an early and exten- 
 sive reading of our standard books would 
 unquestionably give the same, along with a 
 greater fund of useful and practical informa- 
 tion; and for every purpose of female elocu- 
 tion, I strongly suspect that good Saxon- 
 English would be found as clear, impressive, 
 and convincing, as any which can boast a 
 more classical construction. 
 
 There is one motive assigned in the pre- 
 sent day, for young ladies learning Greek, 
 but especially Hebrew, which I should be 
 sorry to treat with irreverence or disrespect, 
 
CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 because it has weight with some of the most 
 serious and estimable of their sex. I mean 
 the plea of being thus enabled to read the 
 Scriptures in the original. Now, if such 
 _young ladies have really nothing better to 
 do, or if from the high order of their natural 
 capabilities they have a chance, even the re- 
 motest, of being able to throw some addi- 
 tional light upon our best translations, far be 
 it from me to wish to put the slightest ob- 
 stacle in their way. Yet, I own it does ap- 
 pear to me a little strange, that after consider- 
 ing the length of time required for attaining 
 a sufficient knowledge of these languages, 
 
 li} and the number of learned commentators 
 
 and divines, who have spent the best part of 
 their valuable lives, in laboring to ascertain 
 the true meaning of the language of the 
 Scriptures, and when the result of those la- 
 bors is open to the public,—it does appear to 
 me a little strange, that any young woman, 
 of moderate abilities, should enter into the 
 field with such competitors, in the hope of 
 attaining a nearer approach to the truth than 
 they have done; and I have been led to 
 question, whether it would not be quite as 
 well for such individuals to be content to 
 take the Bible as it is, and to employ the ad- 
 ditional time they would thus become pos- 
 sessed of, in disseminating its truths and 
 acting out its principles, so far as they have 
 already been made clear to the humblest un- 
 derstanding. ! 
 
 These remarks, however, have especial 
 reference to moderate abilities ; because there 
 is with some persons a peculiar gift for the 
 acquisition of languages; and believing, as 
 I do, that no gift is bestowed in vain, I 
 would not presume to question the propriety 
 of such young persons spending at least some 
 | portion of their lives, in endeavoring to ac- 
 quire the power of doing foy themselves, 
 what has already been done for them. 
 
 It is a remarkable phenomenon in our na- 
 ture, that some of those persons who: have 
 the greatest facility in acquiring languages, 
 have the least perception of the genius or 
 spirit of such languages when they are ac- 
 quired. The knowledge of many languages 
 
 obtains for its possessor the distinction of 
 being learned; but if she goes no further, if 
 she never expatiates in the new world of 
 literature, into which her knowledge might 
 have introduced her; she is but like a curi- 
 ous locksmith, who opens the door upon 
 some hidden treasure, and who, instead of 
 examining or appropriating the precious store 
 to which he has cbtained access, goes on to 
 another door, and then another, satisfied 
 with merely being master of-the keys, and 
 knowing how to unlock at his pleasure. 
 
 To women of this class of mind, provided 
 they belong to the middle rank of life, and 
 are not intended either for teachers or trans- 
 lators, of what possible use can be the learn- 
 ing of the dead languages? and to others 
 similarly circumstanced, but without this pe- 
 culiar talent, there are excellent translations 
 in almost every library, from which they will 
 acquire a greater number of ideas, and be- 
 come more intimately acquainted with the 
 spirit of the writer, and the customs and the 
 times of which he wrote, than it is probable 
 they ever could have been from their own 
 reading of the same works in the original. 
 
 With regard to modern languages, the case 
 is very different. Facilities of communica- 
 tion between one country and another are 
 now so great, that it has become no longer a 
 dream of romance, but a matter of reasonable 
 calculation, with our young women, even in 
 the humble ranks of life, that they should. 
 some time or other go abroad. With our 
 modern writers, too, it is so much the custom 
 to indulge in the use of at least three lan- 
 guages, while professing to write in one, as 
 to render it almost a necessary part of female 
 education to learn both French and Italian. 
 If these languages have not been sufficiently 
 attended to at school, they may, therefore, 
 with the utmost propriety, be added to such 
 studies as it is desirable to continue for some 
 years afterwards; and while their more per- 
 fect acquisition is an object of laudable de- 
 sire, the mind, as it expands in its progress. 
 towards maturity, will be better able to ap- 
 preciate the beauties they unfold. 
 
 I have been compelled, during the course | 
 
a A TT 
 
 . 
 ae Ee 
 TLIO 
 ee 
 Se ee 
 = 
 
 20 
 
 of these remarks, to use an expression which 
 requires some explanation. I have said, that 
 a young woman may with propriety learn 
 even the dead languages, provided she has 
 nothing better to do; by which, I would be 
 understood to mean, provided she does not 
 consequently leave undone what would ren- 
 der her more useful or amiable as a woman. 
 The settlement of this question must depend 
 entirely upon the degree of her talent, and 
 ihe nature of her position in life. If she has 
 no other talent likely to make her so useful 
 as that which is employed in learning Greek, 
 Latin, and Hebrew, this settles the point at 
 once, or if she has no duties so important to 
 her as to ascertain the derivation of words, 
 or to study the peculiarities of heathen writers, 
 then by all means let her be a learned lady, 
 for every study, every occupation of mind, 
 provided it does not include what is evil, 
 must be preferable to absolute idleness. — 
 
 But may we not turn to the consideration 
 of science as opening a wide field of interest- 
 ing study, which does more to enlarge the 
 mind, and give right views of common things, 
 than the mere acquisition of language? 
 
 “Science !—what have we to do with sci- 
 ence?” exclaim half a dozen soft voices at 
 once. Certainly not to give public lectures, 
 nor always to attend them, unless you go 
 with your understanding prepared by some 
 previous reading, or acquaintance with the 
 subjects, which in the lecture-room are neces- 
 sarily rather illustrated, than fully explained. 
 Neither is it necessary that you should sacri- 
 fice any portion of your feminine delicacy by 
 diving too deep, or approaching too near the 
 professor’s chair. A slight knowledge of 
 science in general is all which is here recom- 
 
 | mended, so far as it may serve to obviate 
 
 some of those groundless and irrational fears, 
 which arise out of mistaken apprehensions 
 of the phenomena of nature and art; but, 
 above all, to enlarge our views of the great 
 and glorious attributes of the Creator, as ex- 
 
 hibited in the most sublime, as well as the | 
 
 most insignificant, works of his creation. 
 Perhaps one of the lowest advantages, and 
 
 I am far from thinking it a low one either, 
 
 Nee 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 which is derived by women from a general | 
 
 t 
 i 
 
 knowledge of science, is, that it renders them | 
 
 more companionable to men. 
 solicitous to charm the nobler sex by their 
 
 If they are | 
 
 appearance, dress, and manners. surely it is 4] 
 of more importance to interest them by their | 
 
 conversation. By the former they may please; 
 
 by the latter they may influence, and that to |, 
 
 the end of their lives. i 
 ble to interest by their conversation, without 
 
 Yet, how is it possi- : 
 
 some understanding of the subjects which | 
 
 chiefly occupy the minds of men? 
 
 Most |. 
 
 kindly, however, has it been accorded by | 
 man to his feeble sister, that it should not be | 
 necessary for her to talk much, even on his | 
 
 favorite topics, in order to obtain his favor. 
 
 An attentive listener is generally all that he | 
 requires ; but in order to listen attentively, | 
 and with real interest, it is highly important 
 
 that we should have considerable under- 
 
 standing of the subject discussed; for the || 
 interruption of a single foolish or irrelevant | 
 
 question, the evidence of a wandering thought, 
 the constrained attitude of attention, or the 
 rapid response which conveys uo proof of 
 having received an idea, are each sufficient 
 to break the charm, and destroy the satisfac- 
 tion which most men feel in conversing with 
 really intelligent women. 
 
 It is also worth some attention to this sub- 
 ject, if we can thereby dispel many of the 
 idle fears which occupy and perplex the 
 female mind. I have known women who 
 were quite as much afraid of a gun when it 
 was not loaded, as when it was; others who 
 thought a steam-engine as likely to explode 
 when it was not working, as when it was; 
 and others still, who avowedly considered 
 thunder more dahgerous than lightning. 
 Now, to say nothing of the irritation which 
 fears like these are apt to occasion in minds 
 of a more masculine order, it is surely no in- 
 significant attaimment to acquire a habit of 
 feeling at ease, when there is really nothing 
 to be afraid of. 
 
 But, far beyond this, the use of science is 
 to teach us not to 
 
 “ Wrong thee, mighty Nature! 
 With whom adversity is but transition ; 
 a, 
 
 uss: — insbbdeesie lr a 
 
 cecal | 
 
and higher still, to teach us how the wisdom 
 and goodness of God pervade all creation. 
 Women are too much accustomed to look at 
 the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms 
 with eyes that may almost literally be said 
 not to see. An insect is to them a little 
 troublesome thing, which flies or creeps; a 
 flower is a petty ornament, with a sweet per- 
 fume; and a mine of coal or copper, some- 
 thing which they read about in their geog- 
 raphy, as belonging to Newcastle or Wales. 
 I do not say that their actual knowledge is 
 | thus limited; but that they are too much in 
 the habit of regarding these portions of the 
 creation as such, and no more. 
 
 Chemistry, too, is apt to be considered by 
 young women as far too elaborate and mas- 
 culine a study to engage their attention ; and 
 thus they are satisfied, not only to go on 
 through life unacquainted with those won- 
 derful combinations and properties, which in 
 some of the most familiar things would throw 
 light upon their real nature, and proper use ; 
 but also to remain unenlightened in that no- 
 blest school of knowledge, which teaches the 
 sublime truth, that the wonder-working power 
 of God has been employed upon all the fa- 
 miliar, as well as the astonishing objects we 
 | perceive ; and that the same power continues 
 to be exemplified in their perpetual creation, 
 their order, adaptation, and use. 
 
 Chiefly, however, would I recommend to 
 the attention of youth, an intimate acquaint- 
 ance with the nature and habits of the ani- 
 mal world. Here we may find a source of 
 rational and delightful interest, which can 
 never fail us, so long as a bird is heard to 
 sing upon the trees, or a butterfly is seen to 
 sport among the flowers. 3 
 
 I will not go the length of recommending 
 to my young countrywomen to become col- 
 lectors, either of animals or of insects; be- 
 cause, as in the case of translations from the 
 best of ancient writers, this has already been 
 done for them, better than they are likely to 
 do it for themselves; and because I am not 
 | quite sure, that simply for our own amuse- 
 || ment, and without any reference to serving 
 the purpose of science, we have a right to 
 
 CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 ETE Pe Seek eS A MRINRS DION een A IY A B ST hte arto Sp TOE eR RR CONT 
 
 re 
 
 ee 
 
 27 
 
 make even a beetle struggle to death upon 
 the point of a pin, or to crowd together boxes 
 
 | full of living creatures, who, in the agony of 
 
 their pent-up sufferings, devour and destroy 
 one another. 
 
 Happily for us, there are ably written 
 books on these subjects, from which we can 
 learn more than from our own observation ; 
 and museums accessible to all, where differ- 
 
 { 
 
 ent specimens of insects, ard other animals, | 
 
 are so arranged as materially to assist in un- 
 derstanding their nature and classification ; 
 and far more congenial it surely must be to 
 the heart and mind of. woman, to read all 
 
 | which able and enlightened men have told 
 
 us of this world of wonder, and then to go 
 forth into the fields, and see the busy and 
 beautiful creatures by which it is inhabited, 
 sporting in the joyous freedom of nature, un- 
 harmed, and unsuspicious of harm. Yes, 
 there is an acquaintance with the animal cre- 
 ation, which might be cultivated, so as to do 
 good to the heart, both of the child and the 
 philosopher—an acquaintance which seems 
 to absolve these helpless creatures from the 
 curse of estrangement from their sovereign 
 man—an acquaintance which brings them 
 near to us in all their natural peculiarities, 
 their amazing instincts, and in the voiceless, 
 and otherwise unintelligible secrets of their 
 mysterious existence. . 
 
 And it is good to be thus acquainted with 
 that portion of creation which acknowledges, 
 in common with ourselves, the great princi- 
 ple of animal life, to know that enjoyment is 
 enjoyment, and that pain is pain, to myriads 
 and myriads of beings, in some respects more 
 beautiful, in others more curious, and in all 
 more innocent, than ourselves. It is good to 
 know, so far as men can know, for what pur- 
 pose Almighty power has created them. Itis 
 
 | good to behold their beauty, to understand 
 
 their wonderful formation, and to examine 
 the fairy fancy-work of some of their sacred 
 little homes. It is good to be acquainted 
 with the strength of the mother’s love, when 
 she stoops her wing to the spoiler, and offers 
 her own life to save her tender brood. It is 
 good to know that the laws of nature, in 
 
 beni a 
 rr S 
 
28 
 
 their filial and parental influences, cannot be 
 violated without sorrow as intense, though 
 not as lasting, as that which tortures the hu- 
 man heart on the separation of parent and 
 child. It is good to know how these crea- 
 tures, placed by Divine wisdom under the 
 power and dominion of man, are made to 
 suffer or to die when he neglects or abuses 
 them. 
 
 The earth and the air, the woods and the 
 streams, the gardens and the fields, tell us of 
 all this. When we sit under the shade of a 
 lofty tree, in the stillness of summer’s balmy 
 noon, the note of the wood pigeon salutes us 
 from above. We look up, and the happy 
 couple are nestling on a bough, as closely, 
 side by side, as if the whole world to them 
 was nothing, so long as their faithful love 
 was left. On a lower branch of the same 
 tree, or on a broken rail close by, the little 
 robin sits and sings, looking occasionally 
 askance into the face of that lordly crea- 
 ture whom instinct teaches him to shun. 
 Yet is :t iess a reproachful, than an inquir- 
 ing glance, as if he would ask, whether you 
 could really wish to frighten him with all the 
 terrors which agitate his little breast on your 
 approach. And then he sings to you again, 
 a low soft warble; though his voice is never 
 quite so sweet as in the autumn, when other 
 birds are silent, and he still sings on amidst 
 the falling leaves and faded flowers. Next, 
 the butterfly comes wavering into sight, yet 
 hastening on to turn its golden wings once 
 more up to the sunshine. The bee then hur- 
 ries past, intent upon its labors, and attracted 
 only for a moment by the nosegay in your 
 hand; while the grasshopper, that master of 
 ventriloquism, invites your curiosity—now 
 here, now there, but never to the spot where 
 his real presence is to be found. And all 
 this while, the faithful dog is at your feet. If 
 you rise, at the same moment he rises too; 
 and if you sit down, he also composes him- 
 self to rest. Liver ready to go, or stay, he 
 watches your slightest movement; and so 
 closely and mysteriously is his being absorb- 
 ed in yours, that, although a ramble in the 
 | fields affords him a perfect ecstasy of delight, 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 — ee 
 
 he never allows himself this indulgence, with- 
 out your countenance and companionship. 
 
 But it is impossible so much as to name 
 one in a thousand of the sweet and cheering 
 influences of animal life upon the youthful 
 heart. ‘The very atmosphere we live in 
 teems with it; the woods are vocal—the 
 groves are filled with it; while around our 
 doors, within our homes, and even at our 
 social hearth, the unfailing welcome, the tran- 
 sient glimpses of intelligence, the instinct, the 
 love of these creatures, are interwoven with 
 the vast chain of sympathy, which, through 
 the whole of what may be a wandering and 
 uncertain life, binds us to that spot of earth 
 where we first awoke to a feeling of compan- 
 ionship with this portion of the creatures of 
 our heavenly Father’s care. 
 
 Nor must we forget the wonderful and 
 mysterious affection which some animals are 
 capable of feeling for man. Often as we 
 may have failed to inspire the love we have 
 sought for among our fellow-creatures, we 
 are all capable of inspiring attachment here ; 
 nor does the fact of our being unattractive, 
 or comparatively worthless among mankind, 
 operate in the slightest degree to our disad- 
 vantage with this class of beings. Witness 
 the outcast from society—the wanderer on 
 the public roads—the poor and_ houseless 
 mendicant; he still has his dog—yes, and he 
 bears the cold repulse he meets with when 
 he asks for bread, better than he could bear 
 the desertion of that faithful animal: but he 
 fears it not. The proud may pass him by 
 unheeded, the rich may spurn him from their 
 doors, the vulgar and the unfeeling may 
 make a mockery of his rags and wretched- 
 ness; but when the stormy night comes on, 
 and he seeks the almost roofless shed to rest 
 his weary limbs, he is followed even there by 
 one friend, who creeps beside him with a 
 love as watchful and as true as if he shared 
 the silken couch of luxury and ease. 
 
 There are little motherless children, too, 
 and others not unacquainted with a feeling 
 of almost orphan solitude, who have felt, at 
 times, how the affection of a dumb animal 
 could supply the disappointed yearnings of a 
 
 i 
 { 
 
ed 
 
 CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 young warm heart. In after life, we may 
 learn to look upon these creatures with re- 
 spect, because our heavenly Father has 
 thought them worthy of his care; but youth 
 is the season when we love them for their 
 own sakes; and because we then discover 
 that they can be made, by kindness, to love 
 us. In youth alone can we feel to unite them 
 with ourselves in that bond of sympathy, 
 which will never afterwards allow us to treat 
 their sufferings with indifference, or to regard 
 their happiness as beyond the sphere of our 
 duty to promote. 
 
 Here, then, the law of love is made to 
 operate through innumerable channels of 
 sweet and natural feeling, extending over a 
 wide field of creation, and reaping its reward 
 of satisfaction wherever a poor animal is res- 
 cued from oppression, hunger, or pain. 
 
 The study of natural history is, perhaps, 
 the most congenial pursuit to which the mind 
 of youth can be introduced ; and it never can 
 begin with this too soon. The history and 
 nature of plants is the next most pleasing 
 study—though far inferior to the first, for 
 this important reason: our acquaintance 
 with animals involves a moral feeling,—and 
 
 not one feeling only, but a vast chain of sym- 
 
 pathies and affections, which, if not touched 
 in early life, are seldom afterwards called 
 forth with any degree of earnestness or 
 warmth; and for a woman to be insensible 
 or indifferent to the happiness of the brute 
 creation, is an idea too repulsive to be dwelt 
 upon for a moment. ; 
 
 There is, however, a sickly sensibility in- 
 dulged in by some young ladies, which I 
 should be the last to recommend. Many, for 
 instance, will nurse and fondle animals, with- 
 out ever taking the trouble to feed them. 
 Others shrink away with loathing. at the 
 sight of pain, which, if they would but exert 
 themselves to remove, might easily be reme- 
 died. J remember a young girl with whom 
 I was well acquainted, having watched a cat 
 
 torment a mouse until she could bear it no 
 | longer, when at last, with a feeling of the ut- 
 | most repugnance to the act, she snatched up 
 | the poor lacerated mouse, and killed it in a 
 
 moment. On seeing her do this, two very 
 delicate and estimable young ledies gave 
 themselves up to shrieks and hysterics, al- 
 though they had known for the previous 
 half hour that the little helpless animal had 
 been enduring the most cruel torture in the 
 claws of the cat, and they had borne this 
 knowledge with the greatest composure. 
 
 It is not, then, a delicate shrinking from 
 the mere sight of pain, which constitutes that 
 kindly feeling towards the animal creation, 
 that forms so estimable a part. of the female 
 character ; but that expansive sentiment of 
 benevolence towards all the creatures of 
 God’s formation, which is founded on the 
 principle of love, and which operates as a 
 principle in prompting us to promote the 
 good of all creatures that have life, and to 
 promote it on the widest possible scale. 
 
 But to return to the subject of botany. A 
 woman who does not love flowers, suffers a 
 great want in her supplies of healthy and 
 natural enjoyment. How could the poet 
 Milton, when he pictured woman in her 
 highest state of excellence, have employed 
 our mother Eve, had he made her indifferent 
 to the beauty of the plants of paradise, or 
 negligent of the flowers which bloomed 
 around her? Still, I must acknowledge that 
 there is, to many minds, something the re- 
 verse of attractive in the first aspect of the 
 study of botany, as it is generally presented 
 to our attention. In this 1am supported by 
 one of the most gifted of modern authors, 
 when he speaks of the “ ponderous nomen- 
 clature”’ of botany having frightened many a 
 youthful student back from the portals of this 
 study. There are many persons now ad- 
 vanced in life, who deeply regret their want 
 of what is called a taste for botany, when the 
 fault has not been in their natural taste, so 
 much as in the form under which this study 
 
 was introduced to their notice in youth ; and | 
 
 thus they have been shut out through the . 
 
 whole of life, from the pleasure of expatia- || 
 
 ting in a field, as boundless in its extent as 
 
 inexhaustible in its attractions. 
 
 These difficulties, however, are not insur- | 
 
 ‘mountable to all; and youth is unquestiona- | 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 bly the season for forming an intimate ac- 
 quaintance with this, the loveliest aspect of 
 nature ; so that’in after life, when duties are 
 more imperative, and occupations more seri- 
 ous, and there is consequently less time for 
 minute investigation, every flower and every 
 plant may be met as a member of a well- 
 known family, and, as such, bear somewhat 
 of the character of a familiar friend. 
 
 It is the same with every part of the crea- 
 tion, whether natural history, or botany, or 
 geology, have occupied our attention, or 
 chemistry, or electricity, that great mystery 
 of the visible world, whose all-powerful 
 agency, the most sublime as well as the most 
 insignificant phenomena of nature are daily 
 and hourly tending to develop,—an early 
 and intimate acquaintance with each and all 
 of these, must so far enlighten and enlarge 
 the mind, as to. lead eur thoughts beyond the 
 narrow limits of material existence, up to that 
 higher region of wonder and of love, where 
 to behold is to admire—to feel is to adore. 
 
 From the consideration of the different ad- 
 vantages arising from such studies as it is 
 important should be pursued at an early pe- 
 riod of life, we are necessarily led to ask, 
 “What is the use of KNowLEDGE in gener- 
 al?” 
 
 Nothing can well be more vague than the 
 notions popularly entertained of the meaning 
 of knowledge. Dr. Johnson has called it 
 “general illumination of mind.” But, if I 
 might be allowed to do so, I should prefer 
 restricting my use of the word knowledge, to 
 that. acquaintance with facts, which, in con- 
 nection with the proper exercise of a healthy 
 mind, will necessarily lead to general illumi- 
 nation. A knowledge of the world, there- 
 fore, as I propose to use the expression, 
 must consequently mean, a knowledge of 
 such facts as the general habits of society 
 | develop. 
 
 This is universally allowed to be a dan- 
 gerous knowledge, beause it cannot be ac- 
 quired without the risk of being frequently 
 deceived by the false aspect which society 
 assumes, and the still greater risk of having 
 our moral being too deeply absorbed in the 
 
 interest and excitement which the study 
 itself affords. No one can obtain a know- 
 ledge of the world, by being a mere specta- 
 tor. It is, therefore, safer and happier to 
 leave this study until the judgment is more 
 matured, and the habits and principles more 
 formed ; or rather I should say, to leave it as 
 a study altogether. Time and experience 
 teach us all it is necessary to know on this 
 subject; and even duty urges us forward on 
 the theatre of life, when little enough pre- 
 pared for the temptations and the conflicts 
 we must there encounter. By absolute ne- 
 cessity, then, we acquire as much knowledge 
 of the world as any rational being needs de- 
 sire, and that is just sufficient to enable us to 
 judge of the consequences of certain princi- 
 ples, or modes of action, as they operate 
 upon the well-being of individuals, and of 
 society at large. Destitute of this degree of 
 worldly knowledge, we must ever be liable to 
 make the most serious mistakes in applying 
 the principle of benevolence, in forming: our 
 estimate of the moral condition of mankind, 
 as well as in regulating our scale of social 
 and relative duty. 
 
 A general knowledge of the political and. 
 
 ‘social state of the country in which we live, 
 
 and indeed of all countries, is of great impor- 
 tance, not only to men, but to women. Nor 
 let my fair readers be startled when I speak 
 of the political state of countries. You have 
 been accustomed to make history your study. 
 An acquaintance with the most important 
 eras in history is considered an essential part 
 of a female education. And can it be less 
 essential to know what events are taking 
 place in your own times, than what trans- 
 pired in past ages? “Do not, however, mis- 
 understand me on this important subject. 
 Do not suppose it would add any embellish- 
 ment to your conversation, for you to discuss 
 what are called politics, simply as such, es- 
 pecially when, as in nine cases out of ten, }! 
 you do not really understand what you are 
 talking about. Do not take up any question 
 as belonging to your side, or your party, 
 while ignorant what the principles of that 
 party are. Above all, do not allow yourself 
 
CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 to grow warm in your advocacy of any par- 
 ticular candidate for a seat in parliament, be- 
 cause he is a handsome man or has made a 
 fine speech. All this may supply an oppo- 
 site party with food for scandal, orggor jest, 
 but has nothing at all to do with that patri- 
 otic and deep feeling of interest in the happi- 
 ness and prosperity of her own country, 
 which a benevolent and enlightened woman 
 must naturally entertain. 
 
 Destitute as some women are of every 
 spark of this feeling, it is but natural that 
 their conversation should at times be both 
 trifling and vapid; and that when subjects 
 of general importance are discussed, they 
 should be too much occupied with a pattern 
 of worsted work, even to listen. 
 
 I one day heard a very accomplished and 
 amiable young lady lamenting that she had 
 nothing to talk about, except a subject which 
 had been playfully forbidden. “ Talk about 
 the probability of 2 war,” said I. “ Why 
 should J talk abou’ thet?’ she replied. “It 
 is nothing to me whether there is war or not.” 
 Now, this was said in perfect sincerity, and 
 yet the lady was a Christian woman, and one 
 who would have been very sorry to be sus- 
 pected of not knowing the dates of most of 
 the great battles recorded in history. 
 
 I am perfectly aware that there are intri- 
 cate questions, brought before our senate, 
 which it may require a masculine order of 
 intellect fully to understand. But there are 
 others which may, and ought to engage the 
 attention of every female mind, such as the 
 extinction of slavery, the abolition of war in 
 general, cruelty to animals, the punishment 
 .of death, temperance, and many more, on 
 which, neither to know, nor to feel, is almost 
 equally disgraceful. 
 
 I must again observe, it is.by no means 
 necessary that we should éal/k much on these 
 subjects, even if we do understand them ; 
 but to listen attentively, and with real interest 
 when they are discussed by able and liberal- 
 minded men, is an easy and agreeable method 
 | of enlarging our stock of valuable knowledge ; 
 and, by doing this when we are young, we 
 shall go on with the tide of public events, so 
 
 ol 
 
 as to render ourselves intelligent companions 
 in old age; and when the bloom of youth is 
 gone, and even animal spirits decline, we 
 shall have our conversation left, for the en- 
 tertainment and the benefit of our friends. 
 For my own part, I know of no interest 
 more absorbing, than that with which we 
 listen to a venerable narrator of by-gone facts 
 —facts which have transpired under the ac- 
 
 tual observation of the speaker, in which he 
 
 took a part, or which stirred the lives, and 
 influenced the conduct, of those by whom he 
 was surrounded. When such a person has 
 been a lover of sterling truth, and a close ob- 
 server of things as they really were in early 
 youth, his conversation is such as sages listen 
 to, and historians make the theme of their 
 imperishable pages. Yet, such a companion 
 
 every woman is capable of becoming; and. 
 
 since old age is not rich in its attractions, is 
 it not well worthy the attention of youth, to 
 endeavor tolay up, as a provision for the fu- 
 ture, such sterling materials for rational and 
 lasting interest? 
 
 It is worthy of observation, however, that 
 such information can never be of half the 
 value when collected in a vague and indefi- 
 nite form. The lover of sterling truth alone 
 is able to render the relation of facts of any 
 real value. The mere story-teller, who paints 
 the truth in his own colors, may amuse for 
 an evening; but unless we choose truth— 
 absolute truth, as our companion in early life, 
 the foundation of our opinions, as well as of 
 our principles, will be ever liable to give way. 
 We must, therefore, cultivate a willingness 
 to see things as they really are. Not as our 
 friends do, or as our enemies do not see 
 them; but simply as they are, and, as such, 
 to speak of them, without the bias of party 
 feeling, or the coloring of our own selfishness. 
 
 The local customs of the place in which 
 we live, and the habits of thinking of the 
 persons with whom we associate, will natural- 
 ly, in the course of time, produce considera- 
 ble effect upon our own views. But in youth, 
 the mind is free to choose, open to conviction, 
 uninfluenced by prejudice, and comparative- 
 ly unoccupied by previous impressions. It 
 
Se eT 
 
 = = - <= = += 
 
 32 
 
 is, therefore, of the utmost importance, in this 
 early stage of life, to cultivate that love of 
 truth which will enable us to see every ob- 
 ject as it really is, and to see it clearly ; for 
 there are vague impressions, and indefinite 
 
 ' perceptions, which create in the mind a suc- 
 
 cession of shapeless images, as perplexing in 
 their variety, as they are uncertain in their 
 form. 
 
 Of persons whose minds are thus occupied, 
 it can scarcely be said that they love the 
 truth, because they seldom endeavor to as- 
 certain what the truth is; and their conse- 
 quent deviations from the exact line of recti- 
 tude in thought and action, brings upon them, 
 not unfrequently, the charge of falsehood, 
 when they have all the while been true to the 
 image floating before them, but which assum- 
 ed a different character as often as interest or 
 inclination clothed it in fresh colors. 
 
 Vague and uncertain habits of thinking 
 and talking in early life, almost necessarily 
 lead to false conclusions; nor is it the least 
 part of the evil, that those who indulge them 
 are extremely difficult to correct when wrong, 
 or rather when not exactly right; because 
 conviction cannot be proved upon uncertain- 
 ty. All we can say of such persons is, that 
 they are as little wrong as right. We can- 
 not help them. ‘They are perpetually falling 
 into difficulties, and, so long as they live, will 
 be liable to incur the suspicion of falsehood. 
 
 That a little knowledge is a dangerous 
 thing, may be proved by the observation of 
 every day. A little knowledge is generally 
 more talked about than a great deal—more 
 dragged forward into notice, and, in short, 
 more gloried in by its possessor. We will 
 take, as an instance, the subject of phrenolo- 
 gy. Dabblers in this study who like the eclat 
 of pronouncing upon the characters of their 
 neighbors, as discovered through that opaque 
 medium, the skull, are not a little pleased to 
 entertain themselves and others with the 
 phraseology of Gall and Spurzheim; while, 
 with an air of oracular wisdom, they tell how 
 this person is covetous, another prone to kill, 
 a third fond of music, and a fourth in the 
 
 | habit of making comparisons. Now, although 
 
 aay 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 a correct knowledge of the exact situation || 
 of these different organs in the head, is more 
 difficult to attain than most young persons 
 are aware of; yet, even this part of the stu- 
 dy is nagre play, when compared with that 
 exercise of mind, which alone would justify 
 any one, even the profoundest philosopher, 
 in pronouncing upon individual character, 
 according to the principles of phrenology. 
 Would any of these fair oracles, for instance, 
 be kind enough to tell us what would be the 
 result, in summing up the elements of human 
 character, where there was an extraordinary 
 development of combativeness, connected 
 with half as much benevolence, nine-tenths 
 of the same amount of hope, one-third of 
 self-esteem, three-fourths of causality, and 
 one-third of constructiveness. And yet, cal- 
 culations as intricate, as minute, and far more 
 extensive than this, must be entered into, be- 
 fore the science of phrenology, however true, 
 can enable any individual to pronounce upon 
 the character of another. 
 
 And thus it is throughout. A little know- 
 ledge makes people talk, a little more induces 
 them to think ; and women, from the careless 
 and superficial manner in which their studies 
 are frequently carried on, are but too apt to 
 be found among the class of talkers. But let 
 us pause a moment, to inquire whether the 
 smallness of their stock of knowledge is re- 
 ally the cause why it is sometimes so unne- 
 cessarily brought forward. Is not the evil of 
 a deeper nature? and may it not arise from 
 false notions popularly entertained respecting | 
 the real use of knowledge? I will not say | 
 there are any women who absolutely believe | 
 that the use of knowledge is to supply them | 
 with something to talk about; but are we | 
 not warranted in suspecting that this is the | 
 rule by which the value of knowledge is too || 
 frequently estimated ? | 
 
 Now, one simple view of this subject might |] 
 
 settle the question at once, as to the desira- || 
 bleness, or even utility, of women bringing 
 forward their knowledge for.the purpose of 
 display. It so happens, that few of our sex, 
 under ordinary circumstances, have an op- 
 portunity of acquiring as much general know- 
 
 —— 
 
 ne renee 
 
EP al 
 
 ledge as a man of common attainments, or 
 even as a mere boy. If we mix in country 
 circles, the village schoolmaster has stores of 
 knowledge far beyond our own; and in the 
 society of towns, the man of business, nay, 
 even the mechanic, knows more than we do. 
 The nature of their employments, the associ- 
 ations they form, and the subjects which en- 
 gage their attention, all tend to give to the 
 minds of men in general, a clearness of un- 
 derstanding on certain points, and an ac- 
 quaintance with important facts, beyond what 
 is possessed by one woman in a thousand ; 
 though, at the same time, women have a 
 vast advantage over them in this respect, 
 that the liveliness and facility of their intel- 
 lectual powers enable them-to invest with 
 interest many of the inferior and less im- 
 portant topics of conversation. 
 
 General knowledge, however, is not less 
 important to them, than to men, in the effect 
 it produces upon their own minds and feel- 
 ings. <A well-informed woman may generally 
 be known, not so much by what she tells 
 you, as by what she does not tell you; for 
 she is the last to take pleasure in mere gos- 
 | sip, or to make vulgar allusions to the ap- 
 pearance, dress, or personal habits, of her 
 
 friends and neighbors. Her thoughts are not 
 in thuve things. Dheo traia vf hivi reflections 
 
 goes not along with the eating, drinking, vis- 
 iting, or scandal, of the circle in which she 
 moves. She has a world of interest beyond 
 her local associations ; and while others are 
 wondering what is the price of her furniture, 
 or where she bought her watch, she, perhaps, 
 is mentally solving that important question, 
 whether civilization ever was extinguished in 
 a Christian country. 
 
 Nor is it merely to be able to say, when 
 asked, in what year any particular sovereign 
 reigned, that knowledge is worth acquiring. 
 Its highest use is to be able to assist on all 
 occasions in the establishment of truth, by a 
 clear statement of facts; to say what expe- 
 rience has proved; and to overcome preju- 
 dice by just reasoning. It enables us also to 
 take expansive views of every subject upon 
 which our minds can be employed, so as 
 
 CLEVERNESS, LEARNING, KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 % 
 % 
 
 never to argue against general principles, 
 from opposite impressions produced merely 
 upon our own minds. : 
 
 As a further illustration of this narrow kind 
 of reasoning, we will suppose a case. A well- 
 meaning, but ignorant man, derives a consid- 
 erable income from a sugar plantation in the 
 West Indies, by which he supports a number 
 of poor relations. He argues thus—*TIfsla- 
 very be abolished, it will injure my profits ; 
 and I shall no longer be able to support my 
 relations. It is good that I should exercise 
 my benevolent feelings through this channel ; 
 consequently, the slave-trade must also be 
 good. I will, therefore, neither vote for the 
 abolition of slavery, nor give my countenance 
 to those who do.” Amore truly enlightened 
 man, though no more influenced by kindly 
 feeling, would know, that it must always be 
 right to uphold right principles, and that God 
 may safely be trusted with the consequences 
 to ourselves. 
 
 Nor is it from our own personal feelings 
 alone, that we become liable to this perver- 
 sion of judgment, with regard to things in 
 general. Prejudice has ever been found more 
 
 ‘infectious than the plague, and scarcely less 
 fatal. We hear our friends speak warmly on 
 subjects we do nut understand. They argue 
 vehemently, and our minds, from want of 
 knowledge, are open to receive as truth, the 
 greatest possible absurdities, which, in our 
 turn, we embrace and defend, until they be- 
 come more dear to us than truth itself’ The 
 probable conclusion is, that in the course of 
 time, we prefer to remain in error, rather 
 than be convinced that we have all the while 
 been wrong. Thus, it is often ignorance 
 alone which lays the foundation of many of 
 those serious mistakes in opinion and con- 
 duct, for which we have to bear all the blame, 
 and suffer all the consequences, of moral cul- 
 pability. 
 
 Want of general knowledge is also a very 
 sufficient reason why some persons, when 
 they mix in good society, live in a state of 
 perpetual fear lest their deficiencies should 
 be found out. Theirs is not that amiable 
 modesty which arises from a sense of the 
 
Il 34 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 | superiority of others; for to admire our 
 friends, or even our fellow-creatures, is al- 
 ways a pleasurable sensation; while a con- 
 | viction of our own ignorance of such topics 
 as are generally interesting in good society, 
 carries with it a feeling of disgraceful humil- 
 iation, perfectly incompatible with enjoyment. 
 Uneasiness, timidity, and shyness, with an 
 awkward shrinking from every office of re- 
 sponsibility, or post of distinction, are the 
 unavoidable accompaniments of this convic- 
 tion ; and from this cause, how many oppor- 
 tunities of extending our sphere of usefulness 
 are lost! How many opportunities of rational 
 | and lawful enjoyment, too, especially if, from 
 
 a consciousness of our own inferiority, we 
 
 refuse to associate with persons of better in- 
 | formation and more enlightened minds. Our 
 | sufferings are then of a twofold nature, arising 
 ! from a sense of mortification at our loss, and 
 
 from the fretfulness and irritation of temper 
 | which such privations naturally occasion. 
 It is well, too, if envy does not steal in to 
 poison the little comfort we might otherwise 
 | have left—well if we do not look with evil 
 eye upon the higher attainments of our friends 
 —well if, while we professedly admire, we 
 do not throw out some hint that may tend to 
 } diminish their value in the estimation of 
 others. 
 
 Thus, there is no end to that culpable want 
 of knowledge, which must be the consequence 
 of an idle or wasted youth. We may, and 
 we necessarily must, learn much in after 
 years by experience, observation, reading, and 
 conversation. But we are then, perhaps, in 
 middle. age, only acquiring a bare knowledge 
 of those facts which ought, in by-gone years, 
 to have been forming our judgment, fixing 
 our principles, and supplying our minds with 
 intellectual food. 
 
 If there is no calculation to be made of the 
 evils arising from a want of knowledge, as 
 little can we estimate the amount of good, of 
 which knowledge lays the foundation. Per- 
 haps one of its greatest recommendations to 
 a woman, is the tendency it has to diffuse a 
 calm over the ruffled spirit, and to supply 
 subjects of interesting reflection, under cir- 
 
 en 
 PSA REIL PT SO Sn 
 
 cumstances the least favorable to the acqui- 
 sition of new ideas. 
 
 Such is the position in society which many 
 estimable women are called to fill, that unless 
 they have stored their minds with general 
 knowledge during the season of youth, they | 
 never have the opportunity of doing so again. |} 
 How valuable, then, is such a store, to draw 
 upon for thought, when the hand throughout | 
 the day is busily employed, and sometimes |, 
 when the head is also weary! It is then that | 
 knowledge not only sweetens labor, but often, | 
 when the task is ended, and a few social | 
 friends are met together, it comes forth un- | 
 bidden, in those glimpses of illumination 
 which a well-informed, intelligent woman, is 
 able to strike out of the humblest material. 
 It is then that, without the slightest attempt 
 at display, her memory helps her to throw in 
 those apt allusions, which clothe the most fa- |}. 
 miliar objects in borrowed light, and make us | 
 feel, after having enjoyed her society, as if 
 we had been introduced to a new, and more 
 intellectual existence than we had enjoyed 
 before. 
 
 It is impossible for an ignorant, and con- 
 sequently a short-sighted, prejudiced woman, 
 to exercise this influence over us. We soon 
 perceive the bounds of the narrow circle 
 within which. she reacans. with self ever in 
 the centre; we detect the opinions of others, 
 
 in her own; and we feel the vulgarity with 
 which her remarks may turn upon ourselves, 
 the moment we are gone. 
 
 How different is the enjoyment, the repose 
 we feel in the society of a well-informed wo- 
 man, who has acquired in early youth the 
 habit of looking beyond the little affairs of 
 every-day existence—of looking from mat- 
 ter to mind—from action to principle—from 
 time to eternity! The gossip of society, that 
 many-toned organ of discord, seldom reaches 
 her; even slander, which so often slays the 
 innocent, she is in many cases able to disarm. 
 
 ‘Under all the little crosses and perplexities 
 
 which necessarily belong to household care, 
 she is able to look calmly at their comparative 
 insignificance, and thus they can never dis- 
 turb her peace ; while in all the pleasures of 
 
MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. 
 
 | intellectual and social intercourse, it is her 
 privilege to give as bountifully as she re- 
 ceives. 
 
 It must not be supposed that the writer is 
 one who would advocate, as essential to wo- 
 man, any very extraordinary degree of intel- 
 lectual attainment, especially if confined to 
 one particular branch of study. “I should 
 | like to excel in something,” is a frequent, and, 
 | to some extent, laudable expression; but in 
 what does it originate, and to what does it 
 tend? ‘To be able to do a great many things 
 | tolerably well, is of infinitely more value to a 
 | woman, than to be able to excel in one. By 
 | the former, she may render herself generally 
 | useful; by the latter, she may dazzle for an 
 | hour. By being apt, and tolerably well skilled 
 in every thing, she may fall into any situation 
 | in life with dignity and ease—by devoting her 
 | time to excellence in one, she may remain 
 | incapable of every other. } 
 
 So far as cleverness, learning, and know- 
 ledge are conducive to woman’s moral ex- 
 cellence, they are therefore desirable, and no 
 further. All that would occupy her mind to 
 the exclusion of better things, all that would 
 involve her in the mazes of flattery and ad- 
 | miration, all that would tend to draw away 
 her thoughts from others and fix them on 
 herself, ought to be avoided as an evil to her, 
 | however brilliant or attractive it may be in 
 itself. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY 
 
 As a picture which presents to the eye of 
 the beholder those continuous masses of 
 | light and shade usually recognised under the 
 \| characteristic of breadth, though it may be 
 | striking, and sometimes even sublime in its 
 effect, yet, without the more delicate touches 
 of art, must ever be defective in the pleasure 
 it affords; so the female character, though 
 invested with high intellectual endowments, 
 ‘must ever fail to charm, without at least a 
 taste for music, painting, or poetry. 
 
 30 
 
 The first of these requires no recommen- 
 dation in the present day. Indeed, the danger 
 is, that the fair picture which woman’s charac- 
 ter ought to present, should be broken up into 
 that confusion of petty lights and shades, 
 which, in the phraseology of paintings, is said 
 to destroy its effect as a whole. May we not 
 carry on the similitude still further, and com- 
 pare the more important intellectual endow- 
 ments of human character to the broad lights 
 and massive shadows of a picture; music, 
 to the richness and variety of its coloring; 
 painting, to correctness and beauty of its 
 outline; and poetry, to general harmony of 
 the whole, consisting chiefly in the aerial or 
 atmospheric tints which convey the idea of 
 morning, noon, or evening, a storm, a calm, 
 or any of the seasons of the year; with all 
 the varied associations which belong to each. 
 
 I have said that music requires no recom- 
 mendation in the present day, when to play 
 like a professor ranks among the highest at- 
 tainments of female education. Since, then, 
 music is so universally regarded both by the 
 wise and good, not only as lawful, but desira. 
 ble, it remains to be considered under what 
 circumstances the practice of it may be ex- 
 pedient or otherwise. 
 
 In the first place, “Have you what is called 
 an ear for music?” If you are not annoyed 
 by discord, nor made to suffer pain by a false 
 note, nor disturbed by errors in time, let no 
 persuasion ever induce you to touch the keys 
 of a piano, or the chords of a harp again. 
 
 Perhaps you may reply, “ But I am so fond 
 of music.” I question it not: for though 
 difficult to be accounted for, many persons, 
 who have no ear, are fond of music. Yet, 
 why not, under such circumstances, be con- 
 tent to be a listener for the rest of your lives, 
 and thankful that there are others differently 
 constituted, who are able to play for your 
 amusement, and who play with ease in a 
 style superior to what you would have at- 
 tained by any amount of labor? All have 
 not the same ‘natural gifts. You, in your 
 turn, may excel in something else; but as 
 well might an automaton be made to dance, 
 as a woman destitute of taste for music, be 
 
et ng 
 
 36 
 
 taught to play with any hope of attaining 
 excellence, or even of giving pleasure to her 
 friends. It is possible that by an immense 
 expenditure of time and money, a wooden 
 figure might be so constructed, to dance so 
 as to take the proper steps at the right time ; 
 but the grace, the ease, indeed all that gives 
 beauty to the movements of the dancer, must 
 certainly be wanting. Itis thus with music. 
 By a fruitless waste of time and application, 
 the hand may acquire the habit of touching 
 the right keys; but all which constitutes the 
 soul of music must be wanting to that per- 
 formance, where the ear is not naturally at- 
 tuned to “the concord of sweet sounds.” 
 
 It is a good thing to be a pleased and at- 
 tentive listener, even in music And far 
 happier sometimes is the unpretending girl, 
 who sits apart silently listening to another’s 
 voice, than any one of the anxious group of 
 candidates for promotion to the music-stool, 
 whose countenances occasionally display the 
 conflicting emotions of hope and fear, tri- 
 umph and disappointment. 
 
 There are, however, among men, and wo- 
 men too, certain individuals whose souls may 
 be said to be imbued with music as an in- 
 stinct. It forms a part of their existence, and 
 they only live entirely in an atmosphere of 
 sound. ‘To such it would be a cold philoso- 
 phy to teach the expediency of giving up the 
 cultivation of music altogether, because of the 
 temptations it involves; and yet to such in- 
 dividuals, above all others, music is the most 
 dangerous. To them it may be said, that, 
 like charity, though in a widely different 
 sense, it covers a multitude of sins; for such 
 is its influence over them, that while carried 
 away by its allurements, they scarcely see or 
 feel like moral agents, so as to distinguish 
 good from evil; and thus they mistake for an 
 intellectual, nay, even sometimes for a spirit- 
 ual enjoyment, the indulgence of that passion, 
 which is but too earthly in its associations. 
 
 I will not say that music is a species of in- 
 toxication, but I do think that an inordinate 
 love of it may be compared to intemperance, 
 in the fact of its inciting the passions of the 
 human mind so much more frequently to evil 
 
 a ET — “eas cep 
 
 aS SS --=Snss<ssetn psnessnceen cose an oS 
 pe: - 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 than to good. We are warranted by the lan- 
 guage of Scripture to believe, that music is a 
 powerfully pervading principle in the uni- 
 verse of God. The harmony of thé spheres 
 is figuratively set forth under the idea of the 
 morning stars singing together, and the Apoc- 
 alyptic vision abounds with allusions to ce- 
 lestial choirs. Indeed, so perfectly in unison 
 is music with our ideas of intense and ele- 
 vated enjoyment, that we can scarcely ima- 
 gine heaven without the hymning of the 
 praises of the Most High by the voices of an- 
 gels and happy spirits. But let it be remem- 
 bered, that all this is in connection with a pu- 
 rified state of being. It is where the serpent 
 sin has never entered, or after he has been 
 destroyed. Solong as the evil heart is unsub- 
 dued—so long as there are desperate passions 
 to awaken—so long as the hand of man is 
 raised against his brother—so long as the cup 
 of riotous indulgence continues to be filled— 
 so long as temptation lurks beneath the rose- 
 leaves of enjoyment, music will remain to be 
 a dangerous instrument in the hands of those 
 who are by nature and by constitution its 
 willing and devoted slaves. 
 
 Even to such, however, I would fain be- 
 lieve, that when kept under proper restric- 
 tions, and regulated by right principles, music 
 may have its use. There can be no need to 
 advise such persons to cultivate, when young, 
 their talent for music. The danger is, that 
 they will cultivate no other. 
 
 Between these individuals, and the per- 
 sons first described, there is a numerous class 
 of human beings, of whom it may be said, 
 that they possess by nature a litile taste for 
 music; and to these the cultivation of it may ! 
 be dasirable, or otherwise, according to their 
 situation in life, and the views they enter- 
 tain of the use of accomplishments in general. 
 If the use of accomplishments be to make a 
 show of them in society, then a didéle skill in 
 music is certainly not worth its cost. But if 
 the object of a daughter is to soothe the | 
 weary spirit of a father when he returns home 
 from the office or the counting-house, where 
 he has been toiling for her maintenance ; to 
 beguile a mother of her cares; or to charm 
 
a suffering sister into forgetfulness of her 
 | pain; then a very little skill in music may 
 often be made to answer as noble a purpose 
 | asa great deal; and never does a daughter 
 appear to more advantage, than when she 
 cheerfully lays aside a fashionable air, and 
 strums over, for more than the hundredth 
 time, some old ditty which her father loves. 
 To her ear it is possible it may be altogether 
 divested of the slightest charm. But of what 
 importance is that? ‘The old man listens un- 
 \| til tears are glistening in his eyes, for he sees 
 | again the home of his childhood—he hears 
 his father’s voice—he feels his mother’s wel- 
 | come—all things familiar to his heart in early 
 youth come back to him with that long re- 
 membered strain; and, happiest thought of 
 all! they are revived by the playful fingers 
 of his own beloved child’ The-brother too— 
 the prodigal—the alien from the paths of 
 peace; in other lands, that fireside music 
 haunts his memory. The voice of the stran- 
 | ger has no melody for him. His heart is 
 chilled. He says, “I will arise and go to my 
 father’s home,’’ where a welcome, a heart- 
 warm welcome, still awaits him. Yetso wide 
 | has been the separation, that a feeling of 
 ) estrangement still remains, and neither words, 
 | nor looks, nor affectionate embraces can 
 make the past come back unshadowed, or 
 | dispel the cloud which settles upon every 
 | heart. The sister feels this. She knows the 
 | power'of music, and when the day is closing 
 | in, that first strange day of partial reconcilia- 
 tion, she plays a low soft air. Her brother 
 knows it well. It is the evening hymn they 
 | used to sing together in childhood, when they 
 || had been all day gathering flowers. His 
 || manly voice is raised. Once more it mingles 
 || with the strain. Once more the parents and 
 || the children, the sister and the brother, are 
 |! united as in days gone by. 
 
 It requires no extraordinary skill in exe- 
 || cution to render music subservient to the 
 purposes of social and domestic enjoyment ; 
 || but it:does require a willing spirit, and a feel- 
 ing mind, to make it tell upon the sympathies 
 || and affections of our nature. 
 
 _ There is a painful spectacle occasionally 
 
 MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. 
 
 exhibited in private life, when a daughter re- 
 fuses to play for the gratification of her own 
 family, or casts aside with contempt the mu- 
 sic they prefer; yet when a stranger joins 
 the circle, and especially when many guests 
 are met, she will sit down to the piano with 
 the most obliging air imaginable, and play 
 with perfect good-will whatever air the com- | 
 pany may choose. What must the parents 
 of such a daughter feel, if they recollect the 
 fact, that it was at their expense their child 
 acquired this pleasing art, by which she ap- 
 pears anxious to charm any one but them? 
 And how does the law of love operate with 
 her? Yet, music is the very art, which by 
 its mastery over the feelings and affectibns, 
 calls forth more tenderness than any other. 
 Surely, then, the principle of love ought to 
 regulate the exercise of this gift, in propor- 
 tion to its influence upon the human heart. 
 Surely, it ought not to be cultivated as the 
 medium of display, so much as the means of 
 home enjoyment; not so much as a spell to 
 charm the stranger, or one who has no other 
 link of sympathy with us, as a solace to 
 those we love, and a tribute of gratitude and 
 affection to those who love us. 
 
 With regard to the application and use of | 
 the art of painting, or perhaps we ought to | 
 say drawing, there is a very serious mistake | 
 generally prevailing among young persons, | 
 as well as among some who-are more ad- | 
 vanced in life. Drawing, as well as music, 
 is not only considered as something to enter- 
 tain company with, but its desirableness as 
 an art is judged of precisely by the estimate 
 which is formed of those pieces of polished 
 pasteboard brought home from school, and 
 exhibited as specimens of genius in the de- 
 lineation of gothic arches, ruined cottages, 
 and flowers as flat and dry as the paper on 
 which they are painted. The use of draw- 
 ing, in short, is almost universally judged of 
 among young ladies, by what it enables them 
 to produce; and no wonder, when ‘such are 
 the productions, that its value'should be held 
 rather cheap. 
 
 It has often been said with great truth, 
 that the first step towards excellence in the 
 
 a 
 
ND: 
 
 ee 
 
 38 
 
 art of drawing, is to learn to see; and cer- 
 tainly, nothing can be more correct than that 
 the quickening of the powers of observation, 
 the habit of regarding, not only the clear out- 
 line, but the relative position of objects, with 
 the extension of the sphere of thought which 
 is thus obtained, is of infinitely more value in 
 forwarding the great work of intellectual ad- 
 vancement, than all the actual productions 
 of female artists since the world began. 
 
 There are many very important reasons 
 why drawing should be especially recom- 
 mended to the attention of young persons, 
 and I am the more anxious to point them 
 out, because, among the higher circles of so- 
 ciety, it appears to be sinking into disrepute, 
 in comparison with music. Among such 
 persons, it is beginning to be considered as a 
 sort of handicraft, or as something which 
 artists can do better than ladies. In this 
 they are perfectly right; but how then are 
 they to reap the advantage to themselves, 
 which [ am about to describe as resulting 
 from an attentive cultivation of the graphic 
 art? ie 
 
 Among these advantages, I will begin with 
 the least. It isquiet. It disturbs no one; for 
 
 however defective the performance may be, - 
 
 it does not necessarily, like music, jar upon 
 the sense. It is true, it may when seen of- 
 fend the practised eye; but we can always 
 draw in private, and keep our productions 
 to ourselves. In addition to this, it is an em- 
 ployment which beguiles the mind of many 
 cares, because it never can be merely me- 
 chanical. The thoughts must go along with 
 it, for the moment the attention wanders, the 
 hand ceases from its operations, owing to the 
 necessity there is that each stroke should be 
 different from any which has previously been 
 made. Under the pressure of anxiety, in 
 seasons of protracted suspense, or when no 
 effort can be made to meet an expected 
 calamity, especially when that calamity is 
 exclusively our own, drawing is of all other 
 occupations the one most calculated to keep 
 the mind from brooding upon self, and to 
 maintain that general cheerfulness which is 
 a part of social and domestic duty. 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Drawing, unlike most other arts, may be 
 taken up at any time of life, though certainly 
 with less prospect of success than when it 
 has been pursued in youth. It can also be 
 laid down and resumed, as circumstance or 
 inclination may direct, and that without any 
 serious loss; for while the hand is employed 
 in other occupations, the eye may be learn- 
 ing useful lessons to be worked out on some 
 future day. 1 
 
 But the great, the wonder-working power 
 of the graphic art, is that by which it enables 
 us to behold, as by a new sense of vision, 
 the beauty and the harmony of the creation. 
 Many have this faculty of perception in their 
 nature, who never have been taught, perhaps 
 not allowed, to touch a pencil, and who re- 
 main to the end of their lives unacquainted 
 with the rules of painting as an art. To 
 them this faculty affords but glimpses of the 
 ideal, in connection with the real; but to 
 such as have begun to practise the art, by 
 first learning to see, each succeeding day un- 
 folds some new scene in that vast picture, 
 which the ever-varying aspect of nature pre- 
 sents. As the faculty of hearing, in the sav- 
 age Indian is sharpened to an almost incred- 
 ible degree of acuteness, simply from the fre- 
 quent need he has for the use of that partic- 
 ular sense; so the eye of the painter, from 
 the habit of regarding every object with refer- 
 ence to its position and effect, beholds ten 
 thousand points of interest, which the un- 
 practised in this art never perceive. There 
 is not a shadow on the landscape, not a 
 gleam of sunshine in the fields, not a leaf in 
 the forest, nor a flower on the lea, not a sail 
 upon the ocean, nor a cloud in the sky, but 
 they all form parts of that unfading picture, 
 
 upon which his mind perpetually pose wile 
 
 without satiety or weariness. 
 
 It is a frequent complaint with sabelleks, 
 that they find the scenery around them in- 
 sipid; but this can never occur to the artist, 
 through whatever country he may roam. A 
 
 turn in the road, with a bunch of furze on | 
 
 one side, and a stunted oak on the other, is 
 sufficient to arrest his attention, and occupy 
 a page in his sketch-book. A willowy brook 
 
 rare 
 
MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. 
 
 in the deep meadows, with cattle grazing on 
 its banks, is the subject of another. The tat- 
 tered mendicant is a picture, of himself; or 
 the sturdy wagoner with his team, or the sol- 
 itary orphan sitting in the porch of the vil- 
 lage-church. Every group around the door 
 of the inn, every party around the ancient 
 elm in the centre of the hamlet, every beast 
 of burden feeding by the way-side, has to 
 him a beauty and acharm, which his art en- 
 ables him to revive and perpetuate. 
 
 It is the same when he mingles in society. 
 Hundreds and thousands of human beings 
 may pass by the common observer without 
 exciting a single thought or feeling, beyond 
 their relative position with regard to himself. 
 But the painter sees in almost every face a 
 picture. He beholds a grace in almost every 
 attitude, a scene of interest in every group; 
 and, while his eye is caught by the classic 
 beauty of an otherwise insignificant counte- 
 nance, he arrests it in the position where 
 light and shadow are most harmoniously 
 bleaded ; and, behold! it lives again beneath 
 his touch—another, yet the same. 
 
 In every object, however familiar in itself, 
 or unattractive in other points of view, the 
 painter perceives at once what is striking, 
 characteristic, harmonious, or graceful; and 
 thus, while associating in the ordinary affairs 
 of life, he feels himself the inhabitant of a 
 world of beauty, from which others are shut 
 out. 
 Would that we could dwell with more 
 satisfaction upon this ideal existence, as it 
 affects the morals of the artist’s real life! 
 Whatever there may be defective here, how- 
 ever, as regards the true foundation of hap- 
 piness, is surely not attributable to the art it- 
 self; but to the necessity under which too 
 | many labor, of courting public favor, and 
 sometimes of sacrificing the dignity of their 
 profession to its pecuniary success. 
 
 Nor is it an object of desirable attainment 
 | to women in general, that they should study 
 the art of painting to this extent. Amply 
 sufficient for all their purposes, is the habit 
 of drawing from natural objects with correct- 
 ness and facility. Copying from other draw- 
 
 ings, though absolutely necessary to the learn- 
 er, is but the first step towards those innu- 
 merable advantages which arise from an easy 
 and habitual use of the pencil. Yet here 
 how many stop, and think their education in 
 the graphic art complete! They think also, 
 what is most unjust of drawing, that it is on- 
 ly the amusement of an idle hour, incapable 
 of producing any happier result than an ex- 
 act fac-simile of the master’s lesson. No 
 wonder, that with such ideas, they should 
 evince so little inclination to continue this 
 pursuit on leaving school. For though it isa 
 common thing to hear young ladies exclaim, 
 how much they should like to sketch from 
 nature, and how much they should like to 
 take likenesses, it is very rarely that we find 
 one really willing to take a hundredth part 
 of the pains which are necessary to the at- 
 tainment even of mediocrity in either of 
 these departments. That it is in reality 
 easier, and far more pleasant, to sketch 
 from nature, than from another drawing, is 
 allowed by all who have made the experi- 
 ment on right principles; which, however, 
 few young persons are able to do, because 
 they are so seldom instructed in what, if I 
 might be allowed the expression, I should 
 call the philosophy of picture-making, or, in 
 other words, the relation of cause and effect 
 in the grouping and general management 
 of objects, so as to unite a number of parts 
 into a perfect and pleasing whole. 
 
 Perspective is the first step in this branch 
 of philosophy, but the nature and effect of 
 light and shade, with the proportions and re- 
 lations of different objects, and harmony, that 
 grand feature of beauty, must all have be- 
 come subjects of interest and observation, be- 
 fore we can hope to sketch successfully ; and 
 especially, before we can derive that high 
 degree of intellectual enjoyment from the art 
 of painting, which it is calculated to afford. 
 Yet all these, by close and frequent attention, 
 may be learned from nature itself, though an 
 early acquaintance with the rules of art will 
 greatly assist the understanding in this school 
 of philosophy. 
 
 Among the numerous mistakes made by 
 
40 
 
 | young people on the subject of drawing, none 
 isa greater hindrance to their efforts, than, 
 } an. idea which generally prevails, that not 
 only drawing itself, but each different branch 
 of the art, requires a natural genius for that 
 particular study. ‘Thus, while one excuses 
 herself from drawing because she has no 
 genius for it ; another tells you, that although 
 she can draw landscapes with great facility, 
 she has no genius for heads. Now, if genius 
 be, as Madame de Stael informs us, “ en- 
 thusiasm operating upon talent,” I freely 
 grant that it is essential to success in this, as 
 well as every other art. You must not only 
 learn it, but you must absolutely dove it, was 
 the frequent expression of a very clever mas- 
 ter to his pupil. And it is this very love, 
 which of itself will carry on the young student 
 to any point of excellence, which it is desir- 
 able for a woman to attain. 
 
 It is true, there are greater difficulties to 
 some than to others; just as the eye is more 
 or less acute in its perceptions, or the com- 
 munication between that and the hand more 
 or less easy. Yet, with the same amount of 
 genius and a little more patience, with a little 
 more humility too, for that has more to do 
 with success in painting than the inexperi- 
 enced are aware of, these difficulties may 
 easily be overcome. 
 
 I have ‘said that humility is necessary to 
 | our success, and it operates precisely in this 
 manner. It always happens that the eye 
 | has been in training for observation, long be- 
 
 | fore the hand begins to trace so much asa, 
 
 | bare outline of what the eye perceives. Thus, 
 | our first attempts at imitation fall so far short, 
 not only of the real, but also of the ideal 
 | which the mind retains, that if praise or ad- 
 miration have had any thing to do with inci- 
 ting us to draw, the mortification which en- 
 sues will probably be more than a young art- 
 ist can endure. She must, therefore, be 
 humble enough to be willing to proceed with- 
 out praise, sometimes without commendation, 
 and occasionally with a more than comfort- 
 able share of ridicule, as the reward of her 
 first endeavors; all which might possibly be 
 borne with equanimity, if she did not herself 
 
 ne 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 perceive a fearful want of resemblance to the 
 thing designed. 
 
 The practice of drawing the human face 
 and figure, is a sufficient illustration of this 
 fact. For one who succeeds in this. branch 
 
 landscapes; because, those who fail assure. 
 you, itisso much more difficult to draw faces 
 and figures. This statement, however, is al- 
 together unsupported by reason, since it re- 
 quires just the same use of the eye and the 
 hand, and just the same exercise of the mind, 
 to draw one object as another; and provided 
 only the object drawn is stationary, it is quite 
 as easy to trace with accuracy the outiine of 
 a head, as of a tree, or a mountain. 
 
 There is, however, a wide difference in the 
 result. By a slight deviation from the true 
 outline of a mountain, no great injury to the 
 general effect of a landscape is produced; 
 while the same degree of deviation from the 
 outline of a face, will sometimes entirely de- 
 stroy, not only the likeness, but the beauty of 
 the whole. Even a branch of a tree, and 
 sometimes a whole tree, may be omitted in 
 a landscape; but if a nose, or an eye, were 
 found wanting in the drawing of a face, it 
 would be difficult to treat the performance 
 with any thing like gravity. 
 
 Thus, then, the vanity of the young stu- 
 dents is more severely put to the test in delin- 
 eations of the human form, than it can be in 
 landscape drawing; and thus they are apt 
 to say, they have no. genius for heads or fig- 
 ures, because their love of excellence, though 
 sufficient for the purposes of landscape draw- 
 ing, is not strong enough to support them 
 under the mortification of having produced a 
 badly drawn face or figure. 
 
 It is not the least among the advantages 
 
 of drawing, that it induces a habit of perpet- | 
 
 ually aiming at ideal excellence; in other 
 words, that it draws the mind away from 
 considering the grosser qualities of matter, 
 to the contemplation of beauty as an abstract 
 idea; that it gives a definiteness to our no- 
 tions of objects in general, and enables us to 
 describe, with greater accuracy, the character 
 and appearance of every thing we see. 
 
 Nagi 
 
 of drawing, there are twenty who succeed in !) 
 
MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. 
 
 41 
 
 Nor ought we by any means to overlook 
 the value of that which the pencil actually 
 produces. Sketches of scenery, however 
 defective as works of art, are among the pre- 
 cious memorials of which time, the great de- 
 stroyer, is unable to deprive us. In them the 
 traveller lives again, through all the joys and 
 sorrows of his distant wanderings. He 
 breathes again the atmosphere of that. far 
 world which his eye will never more behold. 
 He treads again the mountain-path where 
 his step was never weary. He sees the sun- 
 shine on the snowy peaks which rise no more 
 tohim. He hears again the shout of joyous 
 exultation, when it bursts from hearts as young 
 and buoyant as his own; and he remembers, 
 at the same time, how it was with him in 
 those by-gone days, when, for the moment, 
 he was lifted up above the grovelling cares 
 of every-day existence. 
 
 But, above all, the art which preserves to 
 us the features of the loved and lost, ought 
 to be cultivated as a means of natural and 
 enduring gratification. 
 back to the portrait of infancy, or even youth, 
 when the same countenance is stamped with 
 the deep traces of experience, when the ven- 
 erable brow is ploughed with furrows, and 
 the temples are shaded with scattered locks 
 of silvery hair. It is interesting—deeply in- 
 teresting, to behold the likeness of some dis- 
 tinguished character, with whose mind we 
 have long been acquainted, through the me- 
 dium of his works; but the beloved counte- 
 nance, whose every line of beauty was min- 
 gled with our young affections, when this can 
 be made to live before us, after death has 
 done his fearful work, and the grave has 
 claimed its own—we may well say, in the 
 language of the poet, of that magic skill which 
 has such power over the past, as to call up 
 buried images, and clothe them again in beau- 
 ty and in youth, 
 
 “ Bless’d be the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffles 'Time’s tyrannic claim 
 To quench it.” 
 
 Beyond these, however, there are uses in 
 the art of drawing so well worthy the consid- 
 
 It is curious to look: 
 
 eration of every young woman of enlighten- 
 ed mind, that we cannot too earnestly recom- 
 mend this occupation to their attention, even 
 although it should be at some sacrifice of that 
 labyrinthine toil of endless worsted-work, 
 with which, in the case of modern young 
 ladies, both head and hand appear to be so 
 perseveringly employed. I freely grant the 
 charm there is in weaving together the many 
 tints of German wool, but what does this 
 amusement do for the mind, except to keep 
 it quiet, and not always that? Now, the sub- 
 stitute I would propose for this occupation, 
 is equally pleasing in the variety of colors 
 employed, and yet calculated to be highly 
 beneficial in its influence upon the mind, by 
 increasing its store of knowledge, and sup- 
 plying a perpetual source of rational interest, 
 even at times when the occupation itself can- 
 not well be carried on. : 
 
 My proposition, then, is this: that, in pur- 
 suing the study of botany, instead of the un- 
 attractive hortus siccus, which pleases no one 
 but the scientific beholder, correct and natu- 
 ral drawings should be made of every speci- 
 men, just as it appears when growing, or 
 when freshly gathered. Insiead of the 
 colorless, distorted, hot-pressed specimens, 
 which the botanist now displays, to the utter 
 contempt of all uninitiated in his lore, we 
 
 should then have beautiful and imperishable 
 
 pictures of graceful, delicate, or curious 
 plants, looking just as they did when the 
 mountain-wind blew over them, or when 
 the woodland stream crept in among their 
 thousand stems, and kissed’ the drooping 
 blossoms that hung upon its banks. We 
 might then have them placed before us in all 
 their natural loveliness, either the flower, the 
 
 branch, or the entire plant; and sometimes, 
 
 to render the picture more complete, the 
 characteristic scenery by which it is usually 
 surrounded. 
 
 But if in botany the practice of this art is 
 so desirable, how much more so does it be- 
 come in entomology, where the study can 
 scarcely be carried on without a sacrifice of 
 life most revolting to the female mind. 
 What beautiful specimens might we not 
 
SS 
 
 | 42 
 
 have of the curious caterpillar, with a branch 
 
 of the tree on which it feeds; then the larva 
 and its silken bed ; and lastly, the splendid 
 butterfly, whose expanded wings no cruel 
 touch could ruffle ; all forming pictures of 
 the most interesting and delightful character, 
 and powerfully contrasted in the associations 
 they would excite, with those regular rows 
 of moths and beetles pricked on paper, which 
 our juvenile collectors now exhibit. 
 
 It may be said, that even such specimens 
 of insects could scarcely be obtained without 
 some sacrifice of life or liberty ; but we all 
 know that when the eye and the hand are 
 habituated to catch the likeness of any object, 
 it is done with increasing facility each time 
 the experiment is made, until a comparative- 
 ly slight observation of the general appear- 
 ance, position, and characteristic features of 
 the living model, is sufficient for the artist in 
 the completion of his likeness. 
 
 ~The same facility of delineation would as- 
 sist our researches through the whole range 
 of natural history. By such means we should 
 not only be supplied with endless amuse- 
 ment, but might at the same time be adding 
 to our store of useful knowledge. We 
 should not only be making ourselves better 
 acquainted with the poetry of nature, but 
 with its reality too. For what is there, either 
 practical or real, in the specimens of plants 
 and insects as.we generally find them? Real 
 they unquestionably are, in one sense, as the 
 mummy is a real man; but who would point 
 to that pitiful vestige of mortality as exhibit- 
 ing the real characteristics of a human being? 
 
 It seems to me a perfectly natural subject 
 of repulsion, when the poet exclaims— 
 
 * Nor would I like to spread 
 My thin and withered face, 
 The hortus siccus, pale and dead, 
 A mummy of my race.” 
 And few there are who would not prefer to 
 such miserable memorials, as actually more 
 | real, a well-painted likeness of a departed 
 friend, with the expression of countenance, 
 the dress, the position, and the circumstances 
 | with which the memory of that friend was 
 
 | associated. 
 
 _— 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ns 
 
 Drawing is, unfortunately, one of: those 
 accomplishments which are too frequently. 
 given up at the time of life when they. might 
 be most useful to others,—when they: might i 
 really be turned to good account, in that 
 
 early expansion and development of mind, 
 which belong exclusively to woman in her |} 
 maternal capacity; but as this view of the || 
 subject belongs more properly tc a later stage || 
 of the present work, we will pass on to ask, 
 In what degree of estimation poetry is, and |}, 
 ought to be held, by the daughters of Eng- || 
 land in the present day ? 
 
 There have been eras in our history, when 
 poetry assumed a more than reasonable 
 sway over the female mind; when an ac- |, 
 quaintance with the Muses. was considered 
 
 essential to a polished education, and when 
 the very affectation of poetic feeling proved 
 how. high a value was attached to the reality. 
 It would be useless now to speak of the ab- 
 surdities into which the young and sensitive 
 were often betrayed by this extreme of pub- 
 lic taste. Such times are gone by, and the 
 opposite extreme is now the tendency of | 
 popular feeling. It is not to be wondered at 
 that this should be the case with men ; be- 
 cause, as a nation, our fathers, husbands, 
 sons, and brothers are becoming more and 
 more involved in the necessity of providing 
 for mere animal existence. No woniler, 
 then, that in our teeming cities poetry should 
 be compelled to hide her diminished head ; 
 or that even, pursuing the man of business 
 home to his suburban villa, she should leave 
 him to his stuffed armchair, in the arms of 
 that heavy, after-dinner sleep, which so 
 frequently succeeds to his short and busy 
 day of unremitting struggle and excitement. 
 Nor is this all. If poetry should seek the 
 quiet fields, as in the days of their pastoral 
 beauty, even from these, her green and flow- 
 ery haunts, she is scared away by the steam- 
 ing torrent, the reeking chimney, and the fiery 
 locomotive ; while on the wide ocean, where 
 her ancient realm was undisputed, her silvery 
 trace upon the bosom of the deep waters is 
 now ploughed up by vulgar paddles; and | 
 all the voiceless mystery of “ viewless winds,” 
 
MUSIC, PAINTING, AND. POETRY. 
 
 43 
 
 which in the old time held the minds of ex- 
 pectant thousands under their command, is 
 now become a thing of no account—a by- 
 word, or a jest. 
 
 I speak not with childish or ignorant re- 
 pining of these things. We are told by: po- 
 litical economists. that it is good they should 
 be so, and I presume not to dispute the fact. 
 Yet, surely, if it be the business of man to 
 give up the strength of his body, the energy 
 of his mind, and the repose, of his soul, for 
 his country’s prosperity or—his own; it is 
 for woman, who labors under no such press- 
 ing necessity, to make a stand against the 
 encroachments of this popular tendency,—I 
 had almost said, this national disease. 
 
 What is poetry? is a question which has 
 been asked a thousand times, and perhaps 
 never clearly answered. I presume not to 
 suppose my own definition more happy than 
 others ; but in a work* already before the 
 public, I have been at some pains to place 
 | this subject in a point of view at once clear 
 | and attractive. My idea of poetry as ex- 
 plained in this work, and it remains to be the 
 same, is, that it is best understood by that 
 chain of association which connects the intel- 
 lects with the affections ; so that whatever is 
 so far removed from vulgarity, as to excite 
 | ideas of sublimity, beauty, or tenderness, 
 | may. be said to be poetical; though the force 
 of such ideas must depend upon the man- 
 ner in which they are presented to the 
 mind, as well as to the nature of the mind 
 itself. 
 
 When the character of an individual is 
 deeply imbued with poetic feeling, there is 
 a corresponding disposition to look beyond 
 the dull realities of common life, to the ideal 
 relation of things, as they connect them- 
 _selves with our passions and feelings,.or with 
 the previous impressions we have received 
 of loveliness or grandeur, repose or excite- 
 ment, harmony or beauty, in the universe 
 around us. ‘This disposition, it must be 
 granted, has been in some instances a for- 
 midable obstacle to the even tenor of the 
 
 * The Poetry of Life. 
 
 | Yet this mystery reveals more truly than the 
 | clearest proofs, or mightiest deductions of 
 
 wise man’s walk on earth; but let us not, 
 while solicitous to avoid the abuse of poetic 
 feeling, rush into the opposite excess of neg- | 
 lecting the high and heaven-born principle 
 altogether. 
 
 It is the taste of the present times to invest 
 the material with an immeasurable extent of ||. 
 importance beyond the ideal. It is the ten- | 
 dency of modern education to instil into the 
 youthful mind the necessity of knowing, ra- 
 ther than the advantage of feeling. And, to 
 a certain extent, “knowledge is power ;” but | 
 neither is knowledge all that we live for, nor 
 power all that we enjoy. There are deep 
 mysteries in the book of nature which all can 
 feel, but none will ever understand, until the 
 veil of mortality shall be withdrawn. There 
 are stirrings in the heart of man which con- 
 stitute the very essence of his being, and 
 which power can neither satisfy nor subdue. 
 
 science, that a master-hand has been for 
 ages, and is still at work, above, beneath, 
 and around us; and this moving principle is 
 forever reminding us, that, in our nature, 
 we inherit the germs of a future existence, 
 over which time has ne influence, and the 
 grave no victory.* 
 
 If, then, for man it be absolutely necessary 
 that he should sacrifice the poetry of his na- 
 ture for the realities of material and animal 
 existence, for woman there is no excuse— 
 for woman, whose whole life, from the cradle 
 to the grave, is one of feeling, rather than of 
 action; whose highest duty is so often to |i 
 suffer, and be still; whose deepest enjoy- 
 ments are all relative; who has nothing, and |: 
 is nothing, of herself; whose experience, if 
 unparticipated, is a total blank; yet, whose 
 world of interest is wide as the realm of hu- 
 manity, boundless as the ocean of life, and 
 enduring as eternity! For woman, who, in 
 her inexhaustible sympathies, can live only 
 in the existence of another, and whose very 
 smiles and tears are not exclusively her own 
 —for woman to cast away the love of poetry, 
 
 * The Poetry of Life. 
 
A a a er 
 
 = 
 Ne a I ee 
 
 ee 
 
 44 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 is to pervert from their natural course the 
 sweetest and loveliest tendencies of a truly 
 
 feminine mind, to destroy the brightest charm’ 
 
 which can adorn ber intellectual character, to 
 blight the fairest rose in her wreath of youth- 
 ful beauty. 
 
 A woman without poetry is like a land- 
 scape without sunshine. We see every ob- 
 ject as distinctly as when the sunshine is 
 upon it; but the beauty of the whole is 
 wanting—the atmospheric tints, the harmony 
 of earth and sky, we look for in vain; and 
 we feel that though the actual substance of 
 hill and dale, of wood and water, are the 
 same, the spirituality of the scene is gone. 
 
 A woman without poetry! The idea is a 
 paradox; for what single subject has ever 
 been found so fraught with poetical associa- 
 tions as woman herselft “Woman, with 
 her beauty, and grace, and gentleness, and 
 fulness of feeling, and depth of affection, and 
 her blushes of purity, and the tones and 
 looks which only a mother’s heart can inspire.” 
 
 The little encouregement which poetry 
 meets with in the present day, arises, I ima- 
 gine, out of its supposed opposition to utility ; 
 and certainly, if to eat and to drink, to dress 
 as well or better than our neighbors, and to 
 amass a fortune in the shortest possible space 
 of time, be the highest aim of our existence, 
 then the less we have to do with poetry the 
 better. But may we not be mistaken in the 
 ideas we habitually attach to the word util- 
 ity? There is a utility of material, and an- 
 other of immaterial things. There isa utility 
 in calculating our bodily wants, and our re- 
 sources, and in regulating our personal ef- 
 forts in proportion to both; but there is a 
 higher utility in’sometimes setting the mind 
 free, like a bird that has been caged, to 
 spread its wings, and soar into the ethereal 
 world. There is a higher utility in some- 
 times pausing to feel the power which is in 
 the immortal spirit to search out the principle 
 of beauty, whether it bursts upon us with the 
 dawn of rosy morning, or walks at gorgeous 
 noon across the hills and valleys, or lies, at 
 
 evening’s dewy close, enshrined within a 
 folded flower. 
 
 re rvenneseereennen, ancesumeesT™ 
 
 It is good, and therefore it must be useful, 
 to see and to feel that the all-wise Creator 
 has set the stamp of degradation only upon 
 
 those things which perish in the using; but 
 
 that all those which enlarge and elevate the 
 soul, all which afford us the highest and 
 purest enjoyment, from the loftiest range of 
 sublimity, to the .softest emotions of tender- 
 ness and love, are, and must be, immortal. 
 Yes, the mountains may be overthrown, and 
 the heavens themselves may melt away, 
 but all the ideas with which they inspired 
 us—their vastness and their grandeur, will 
 remain. Every flower might fade from the 
 garden of earth, but would beauty, as an es- 
 sence, therefore cease to exist? Even love 
 might fail us here. Alas! how often does it fail 
 us at our utmost need! But the principle of 
 love is the same; and there is no human 
 heart so callous as not to respond to the lan- 
 guage of the poet, when he says— 
 
 “'They sin who tell us love can die 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Its holy flame for ever burneth, 
 
 From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; 
 Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
 
 At times deceived, at times opprest, 
 
 It here is tried and purified, 
 
 And hath in heaven its perfect rest; 
 
 It soweth here with toil and care, 
 
 But the harvest-time of love is there.” 
 
 All these ideas are excited, and all these 
 impressions are made upon the mind through 
 the medium of poetry. By poetry, I do not 
 mean that vain babbling in rhyme, which 
 finds no echo, either in the understanding or 
 the heart. By poetry, I mean that ethereal 
 fire, which touched not the lips only, but the 
 soul of Milton, when he sung of 
 
 “‘ Man’s first disobedience,” 
 
 and which has inspired all who ever walked 
 the same enchanted ground, from the father 
 of poetry himself, down to as 
 
 “ The simple bard, rough at the rustic plough.” 
 
 Thousands have felt this principle of poetry 
 within them, who yet have never Jearned to 
 lisp in numbers; and perhaps they are the 
 wisest of their class, for they have thus the 
 full enjoyment which poetic feeling affords, 
 
it 
 ie 
 
 l without the disappointment which so_ fre- 
 | quently attends upon the efforts of those 
 il who venture to commit. themselves in verse. 
 | Men of business, whose hearts and minds 
 \| are buried in their bales. of goods, and who 
 | know no relaxation from the office or the 
 counter, except what the daily newspaper 
 | affords, are apt to conclude that poetry does 
 
 / takes charge of their domestic affairs. 
 |} though I should be the last person to recom- 
 || mend poetry as a substitute for household 
 |} economy, or to put even the brightest ema- 
 | nations of genius in the place of domestic 
 duty, I do not see why the two should not 
 
 that, although a vast proportion of mankind 
 have lost their relish for poetry, it would not 
 in reality be better’ for them to be convinced 
 by their companions of the gentler sex, that 
 poetry, so far from being incompatible with 
 social or domestic comfort, is capable of being 
 associated with every rational and lawful en- 
 | joyment. - 
 | Yes, it is better for every one to have their 
 minds elevated, rathed than degraded—raised 
 up to a participation in thoughts and feelings 
 | in which angels might take a part, rather than 
 ' chained down to the grovelling cares of mere 
 corporeal existence; and never do we feel 
 more happy than when, in the performance 
 of any necessary avocation, we look beyond 
 the gross material on which we are employed 
 to those relations of thought and feeling, that 
 | connect the act of duty which occupies our 
 ' hands with some being we love, that teach 
 } us to realize, while thus engaged, the smile 
 of gratitude which is to constitute our reward, 
 | or the real benefit that act will be the means 
 | of conferring, even when no gratitude is there. 
 | What man of cultivated mind, who has 
 ever tried the experiment, would choose to 
 | live with a woman, whose whole soul was 
 : absorbed in the strife, the tumult, the perpet- 
 | ual discord which constant occupation in the 
 | midst of material things so inevitably pro- 
 | duces; rather than with one whose attention, 
 | equally alive to practical duties, had a world 
 
 ey 
 A I 
 
 MUSIC, PAINTING, AND POETRY. ya 
 
 |} nothing for them; because it never keeps. 
 | their accounts, prepares their dinner, nor 
 Now, 
 
 experience of deep. poetic feeling, is rather a |} 
 | principle, which, while it inspires the love of | 
 | beauty in general, forgets not the beauty of t 
 fitness and order; and therefore can never i 
 sanction that which is grotesque or out of ! 
 place. It teaches us, that nothing which of- | 
 
 } fends the feelings of others can be estimable | 
 exist together; nor am I quite convinced | 
 
 | that woman can be in herself poetical. She |} 
 
 lent in others. 
 
 of deeper feeling in her “heart of hearts,” 
 with which no selfish, worldly, or vulgar 
 thoughts could mingle? 
 
 It is not because we love poetry, that we 
 must be always reading, quoting, or compos- 
 ing it Far otherwise. For that bad. taste, 
 which would thus abuse and misapply so sa- 
 cred a gift, is the very: opposite of poetical. 
 The love of poetry, or in other words, the 
 
 or praiseworthy in ourselves; for it is only || 
 in reference to her association with others, | 
 
 may even fill a book with poetry, and not be 
 poetical in her own character; because she 
 may at the same time be selfish, vain, and 
 worldly-minded. | 
 To have the mind so imbued with poetic 
 feeling that it shall operate as a charm upon 
 herself and others, woman must be lifted out 
 of self, she must see in every thing material a |j 
 relation, an essence, and an end, beyond its 
 practical utility. She must regard the little | 
 envyings, bickerings, and disputes about com- || 
 mon things, only as weeds in the pleasant 
 garden of life, bearing no comparison in im- 
 portance with the loveliness of its flowers. 
 She must forget even her own personal at- 
 tractions, in her deep sense of the beauty. of 
 the whole created universe, and she must 
 lose the very voice of flattery to herself,-in 
 her own intense admiration of what is excel- 
 
 This it is to be poetical; and I ask again, 
 whether it is not good, in these practical and 
 busy times, that the Daughters of England 
 should make a fresh effort to retain that 
 high-toned_ spirituality of character, which 
 has ever been the proudest distinction of 
 their sex, in order that they may possess | 
 that influence over the minds of men, which | 
 the intellectual and the refined alone are ca- | 
 pable of maintaining ? 
 
46 
 
 RELATED REE DUETS AR na Sm arena Bea oe eR TTS Dj i ag ore 
 
 Let them look for a moment at the condi- 
 tion of woman wherever this high tone of 
 character has been wanting, where she has 
 been identified merely with material things, 
 and, as a necessary consequence, regarded 
 as a soulless and degraded being, essential to 
 society only in her ministration to the general 
 good of man. 
 is fully unfolded. The Daughters of Eng- 
 land must feel within themselves that a high- 
 er and a nobler destiny is theirs. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 
 
 In the cursory survey we have now taken 
 of what may properly be called the intellect- 
 lectual groundwork of the female character, 
 our attention has been directed not only to 
 those scholastic attainments which are gen- 
 erally comprehended in a good education, 
 but to that general knowledge, which can 
 only be acquired by after-study, by observa- 
 tion, py reading, and by association with good 
 society. 
 
 All these, however, are but the materials 
 of character, materials altogether useless, and 
 sometimes worse than “useless, without the 
 operation of a master-power to select, im- 
 prove, and turn them to the best account. 
 With men, this power is most frequently self- 
 interest—with women it is that bias of feel- 
 ing towards what they are most inclined to 
 
 love, which is generally recognised under the 
 
 name of taste; and both these principles be- 
 gin to exercise their influence long before the 
 mind has attained any high degree of intel- 
 lectual cultivation, and long before we are 
 aware of our own motives. I have called 
 
 this principle in woman, taste, because so 
 far as it is biassed by the affections, taste in- 
 volves a moral; and it is a peculiar feature 
 in the female character, that few things are 
 esteemed which do not recommend them- 
 selves in some way or other to the affections. 
 
 Thus, women are often said to be deficient 
 
 But we close the scene ere it | 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 in judgment, simply from this reason, that 
 judgment is the faculty by which we are en- 
 abled to decide what is intrinsically best, 
 while taste only influences us so far as to 
 
 choose what is most agreeable to our own” 
 
 feelings. 
 
 It is no uncommon thing among young 
 women, to hear them say, they like a thing 
 they do not know why—nay, so warm are 
 their expressions, one would be led to sup- 
 pose their preference arose from absolute 
 love, and yet, 
 
 “ The reason why, they cannot tell.” 
 
 It is that habitual tendency of feeling or tone 
 of mind, which I have called taste, that de- 
 cides their choice; and it is thus that our 
 moral worth or dignity depends upon the ex- 
 ercise of good taste, in the selection we make 
 of the intellectual materials we work with in 
 the formation of character, and the general 
 arrangement of the whole, so as to render the 
 trifling subservient to the more important, 
 and each estimable according to the purpose 
 for which it is used. 
 
 I am aware that religious principle is the 
 only certain test by which character can be 
 tried; but Iam speaking of things as they 
 are, not as they ought to be; and I wish to 
 prove the great importance of taste, by show- 
 ing that it is.a principle busily at work in di- 
 
 recting the decisions of the female mind on. 
 
 points supposed to be too trifling for the oper- 
 ation of religious feeling, and often before 
 any definite idea of religion has been formed. 
 It is strictly in subservience to religion, that I 
 would speak of good taste as being of ex- 
 treme importance to woman; because it 
 serves her purpose in all those little varia- 
 tions of human life, which are too sudden in 
 their occurrence, and too minute in them- 
 selves, for the operation of judgment; but 
 
 ee 
 : ; ; - nee Tmt Aral * 
 
 —_—_——— 
 
 which at the same time constitute so large a | 
 
 sum of woman’s experience. 
 
 It may be said, that the rules of good taste 
 are so arbitrary, that no one can fully under- 
 stand them. I can only repeat, what I have 
 said on this subject in “The Poetry of Life,” 
 and I think the rule is sufficient for women 
 
in general. It is, that the majority of opinion 
 among those who are best able to judge, may 
 safely be considered as most in accordance 
 with good taste. ‘Thus, when your taste has 
 received from your parents a particular bias, 
 which you are afterwards led to suspect is 
 not a correct one, inquire with all respect, 
 whether, on that’particular subject, your pa- 
 rents are the persons best qualified to judge. 
 Or when you find in society that any thing is 
 universally approved or condemned, before 
 accommodating your own taste to this exhi- 
 bition of popular feeling, ask whether the 
 judges who pronounce such sentence are 
 competent ones, and if there be a higher tri- 
 bunal at which the question can be tried—or 
 | in other words, judges who understand the 
 subject better, let it be referred to them, be- 
 fore you finally make up your mind. 
 
 Perhaps it may be objected that this is a 
 tedious process, and that taste is a thing of 
 sudden conclusion. But let it be remem- 
 bered, I am now sper king of the formation 
 of a good taste, as a part of the character ; 
 not of the operation of taste where it has 
 been formed. Nor, indeed, is the suddenness 
 with which some young persons decide in 
 matters of taste, any proof of their good 
 ‘sense. So far from this, we often find them, 
 under the influence of better judges, reduced 
 to the mortifying necessity of changing their 
 opinions to the direct opposite of what they 
 have too hastily expressed. 
 
 Still, though the process of forming the 
 taste upon right principles, may at first be 
 slow; and though it may sometimes appear 
 too tedious for juvenile impetuosity, the ex- 
 ercise of good taste will in time become so 
 easy, and habitual, as to operate almost like 
 an instinct; and, until it is so, the process I 
 have recommended, will have the great ad- 
 vantage of preventing young ladies from be- 
 ing too forward in expressing their senti- 
 ments; and what is of far greater impor- 
 tance, they will be cautious in making their 
 selection of what they admire, and what 
 they condemn. 
 
 Have we not all seen in society the ridicu- 
 lous spectacle of a young and forward girl 
 
 TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 
 
 belongs to all pleasurable feeling, held in 
 
 exhibiting all the extravagance of juvenile 
 importance in her condemnation of a book, 
 which has not happened to please her fancy ; 
 when, had she waited a few minutes longer, 
 the conversation would have taken such a 
 turn, as would have convinced her that 
 among wise men, and enlightened women, 
 the work was considered justly worthy of 
 high commendation? With what grace could 
 she, then, after having thus committed her- 
 self,either defend, or withdraw her own 
 opinions? or with what complacency could 
 she reflect upon the exposure she had made 
 of her bad taste, before persons qualified to 
 judge? Far wiser is the part, perhaps, of 
 her more diffident companion, who having 
 equally failed in discovering the merits of the 
 work in question, goes home and reads it 
 again, with her attention more directed to its 
 beauties ; and who, even if she fails at last 
 in deriving that pleasure from the book which 
 she had hoped, has the humility to conclude 
 that the fault is in her own taste, which she 
 then begins to regulate upon a new principle, 
 and with a determination to endeavor to ad- 
 mire what the best judges pronounce to be 
 really excellent. 
 
 We must not, however, attach too much 
 importance to good taste, nor require it to 
 operate beyond its legitimate sphere. ‘Taste, 
 unquestionably, gives a bias to the character, 
 in its tendency to what is elevated or low, 
 refined or vulgar; but after all, the part of 
 taste is only that of a witness called into a 
 court of justice, to test the value of an arti- 
 cle, which has some relation to the great and 
 momentous decision in which the judge, the 
 jury, and the court, are so deeply interested. 
 As taste is that witness, religion is that judge; 
 and it is only as the one is kept subservient 
 to the other, that it can be rendered condu- 
 cive to our happiness or our good. | 
 
 The province of taste, then, includes all 
 the minute affairs of woman’s life—which | 
 
 subordination to religious principle—all which 
 belongs to dress, manners, and social habits, 
 so far as they may be said to be ladylike, or 
 otherwise. Should any consideration, rela- 
 
|| 48 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ting to one or all of these points, be allowed 
 to interfere in the remotest degree with the 
 requirements of religion, it is a proof, when- 
 ever they do so, that the standard of excel- 
 lence is a wrong one; and the individual 
 who commits so fatal an error, would do well 
 to look to the consequences, and remedy the 
 evil before it shall be too late. Religion 
 never yet was injured by permitting good 
 taste to follow in her train; but that lovely 
 handmaid can deserve the name of taste no 
 longer, if she attempts to step before religion, 
 orin any respect to assume her place. 
 
 Above every other feature which adorns 
 the female character, delicacy stands foremost 
 whithin the province of good taste. Not 
 that delicacy which is perpetually in quest of 
 something to be ashamed of, which makes a 
 merit of a blush, and simpers at the false 
 construction its own ingenuity has put upon 
 
 || an innocent remark; this spurious kind of 
 
 | delicacy is as far removed from good taste, 
 
 || as from good feeling, and good sense; but 
 || that high-minded delicacy which maintains 
 
 || its pure and undeviating walk alike among. 
 
 {| Women, as in the society of men; which 
 
 | shrinks from no necessary duty, and can | 
 
 i| speak, when required, with seriousness and 
 
 kindness of things at which it would be 
 
 || ashamed indeed to smile or to blush—that 
 {| delicacy which knows how to confer a benefit 
 || without wounding the feelings of another, 
 | and which understands also how and when 
 
 || to receive one—that delicacy which can give. 
 
 || alms without display, and advice with6but as- 
 
 sumption; and which pains not the most 
 
 |} humble or susceptible being in creation. 
 
 | This is the delicacy which forms so impor- 
 
 tanta part of good taste, that where it does 
 
 not exist as a natural instinct, it is taught as 
 the first principle of good manners, and con-- 
 sidered as the universal passport to good so- | 
 | voice has altered, when an unwelcome > 
 
 ciety. : 
 
 Nor-can this, the greatest charm of female | 
 character, if totally neglected in youth, ever | 
 When the mind | 
 | cumstance which has just transpired. 
 
 be acquired in after life. 
 has been accustomed ‘to what is vulgar, or 
 
 gross, the fine edge of feeling is gone, and 
 
 nothing can restore it. It is comparatively 
 
 easy, on first entering upon life, to maintain 
 the page of thought unsullied, by closing it 
 against every improper image; but when 
 once such images are allowed to mingle with 
 the imagination, so as to be constantly reviv- | 
 ed by memory, and thus to give their tone to 
 the habitual mode of thinking and conversing, 
 the beauty of the female character may in- 
 deed be said to be gone, and its glory de- 
 parted. k 
 
 But we will no longer contemplate: so un- 
 lovely—so unnatural a picture. Woman, 
 happily for her, is gifted by nature with a 
 quickness of perception, by which she is able | 
 to detect the earliest approach of any thing 
 which might tend to destroy that high-toned 
 purity of character, for which, even in the 
 days of chivalry, she was more reverenced 
 and adored, than for her beauty itself ‘This 
 quickness of perception in minute and deli- 
 cate points, with the power which woman 
 also possesses of acting upon it instantaneous- | 
 ly, has, in familiar phraseology, obtained the 
 name of tact; and when this natural gift is 
 added to good taste, the two combined are 
 of more value to a woman in the social and 
 domestic affairs of every-day life, than the — 
 most brilliant intellectual endowments could | 
 be without them. 
 
 When a woman is possessed of a high | 
 degree of tact, she sees, as if by a kind of sec- 
 ond-sight, when any little emergency is like. | 
 ly to occur ; or when, to use a more familiar | 
 expression, things do not seem likely to go | 
 right. She is thus aware of any sudden turn | 
 in conversation, and prepared for what it 
 may lead to; but, above all, she can pene- | 
 trate into the state of mind of those with whom | 
 she is placed in contact, so as to detect the 
 gathering gloom upon another’s brow, before 
 the mental storm shall have reached any for- 
 midable height; to know when the tone of | 
 
 thought has presented itself, and when the | 
 pulse of feeling is beating higher or lower in | 
 consequence of ‘some apparently trifling cir- 
 
 In these and innumerable instances of a 
 similar nature, the woman of tact not only 
 
TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 
 
 anaes mie 
 
 perceives the variations which are constantly 
 taking place in the atmosphere of social life, 
 but she adapts herself to them with a facility 
 which the law of love enables her to carry 
 out, so as to spare her friends the pain and 
 annoyance which so frequently arise out of 
 the mere mismanagement of familiar and 
 apparently unimportant affairs. And how 
 often do these seeming trifles— 
 
 “ The lightly uttered, careless word’’--- 
 
 the wrong construction put upon a right 
 meaning—the accidental betrayal of what 
 there would have been no duplicity in con- 
 cealing—how often do these wound us more 
 than direct unkindness ! Even the young feel 
 this sometimes too sensitively for their own 
 peace. But while the tears they weep in 
 private attest the severity of their sorrow, let 
 
 | them not, like the misanthrope, turn back 
 
 with hatred or contempt upon the world 
 
 | which they suppose to have injured them ; 
 
 but let them rather learn this wholesome Jes- 
 son, by their own experience, so to meet the 
 peculiarities of those with whom they asso- 
 ciate, as to soften down the asperities of tem- 
 per, to heal the wounds of morbid feeling, 
 and to make the current of life run smoothly, 
 so far as they have power to cast the oil of 
 peace upon its waters. 
 
 Such then is the general use of tact. Par- 
 ticular instances of its operation would be too 
 minute, and too familiar, to occupy, with pro- 
 priety, the pages of a book; for, like many 
 other female excellences, it is more valued, 
 and better understood, by the loss a character 
 sustains without it, than by any definite form 
 it assumes, even when most influential upon 
 the conversation and conduct. This valu- 
 able acquirement, however, can never be at- 
 tained without the cultivation in early life of 
 habits of close observation. It is not upon 
 
 the notes of a piece of music only, not upon 
 a pattern of fancy-work, nor even upon the 
 pages ofan interesting book, that the atten- 
 tion must alone be brought to bear; but upon 
 \| things in general, so that the faculty of obser- 
 vation shall become so sharpened by constant 
 use, that nothing can escape it. 
 
 49 
 
 Far be it from me to recommend that idle 
 and vulgar curiosity, which peeps about 
 without a motive, or, worse than that, with a 
 view to collect materials forscandal. Obser- 
 vation isa faculty which may be kept perpet- 
 ually at work, without intrusion or offence 
 to others; and at the same time, with infinite 
 benefit to ourselves. very object in crea- 
 tion, every sound, every sensation, every pro- 
 duction either of nature or of art, supplies 
 food for observation, while observation in its 
 turn supplies food for thought. I have been 
 astonished in my association with young 
 ladies, at the very few things they appear to 
 have to think about. Generally speaking, 
 they might be all talked up in the course of 
 a week. And what is the consequence? It 
 is far beyond a jest, for the consequence too 
 frequently is, that they grow weary of them- 
 selves, then weary of others, and lastly wea- 
 ry of life—of life, that precious and immortal 
 gift, which they share with angels, and which 
 to them, as to the angelic host, has been 
 bestowed in order that therewith they may 
 glorify the gracious Giver. 
 
 Now, this very weariness, which at the 
 same time is the most prevalent disease, and 
 the direst calamity, we find among young 
 women; since it not only makes them use- 
 less and miserable, but drives them perpetual- 
 ly into excitement as a momentary relief— 
 this weariness arises out of various causes 
 with which young people are not sufficiently 
 made acquainted, and one of the most power- 
 ful of which is, a neglect of the habit of ob- 
 servation. 
 
 “J have seen nobody, and heard nothing 
 to-day,” is the vapid remark of one to whom 
 the glorious heavens, and the fruitful earth, 
 might as well be so much paint and patch- 
 work. 
 exclaims another, who has never looked a 
 second time at some fine expressive counte- 
 nance, where deep feeling tells its own im- 
 passioned story. 
 
 whose household library is stored with books, 
 and whose parents have within themselves 
 a fund of intelligence, which they would be 
 
 “What an uninteresting person !’ 
 
 “J wish some one would. 
 come and invite us out to tea,” says a third, 
 
 | 
 
* atl ele SRR Pe. ti 
 
 but too happy to communicate, could they 
 find an attentive listener in their child. “ But 
 my life is so monotonous,” pleads a fourth, 
 ‘and my range of vision so limited, that I 
 have nothing to observe.” With those who 
 live exclusively in towns, I confess this ar- 
 gument might have some weight; and for 
 this reason, I suppose it is, that town-bred 
 young women are often more ignorant than 
 those who spend a portion of their early life 
 in the country—not certainly because there 
 is really less to be observed in towns, but be- 
 cause the mind, in the midst of a multitude 
 of moving images, is comparatively unim- 
 pressed by any. I confess, too, there is some- 
 
 thing in the noise and tumult of a crowded | 
 
 city, which stupifies the mind, and blunts its 
 perception of individual things, until the 
 whole shifting pageant assumes the charac- 
 ter of some vast panorama, upon which we 
 look, only with regard to the whole, and for- 
 getful of each individual part. 
 
 “Jt is true, I have taken my accustomed 
 walk in the city,” observes a fifth young wo- 
 man, “but I have found nothing to think 
 about.” What! was there nothing to think 
 about in the squalid forms of want and misery 
 which met you at every turn ?—nothing in the 
 disappointed look of the patient mendicant 
 as you passed him by !—nothing in the pale 
 and half-clad mother, seated on the step at 
 the rich man’s door, folding her infant to her 
 bosom, and shrouding it with the “ wings of 
 care ?’—-was there nothing in all that was 
 doing among those busy thousands, for sup- 
 plying the common wants of man; the droves 
 of weary animals goaded, stupified, or mad- 
 dened, none of which would ever tread 
 again the greensward on the mountain’s side, 
 or slake its thirst beside the woodland brook ? 
 —was there nothing in the bold and beauti- 
 ful charger, the bounding steed, or the sleek 
 and well-fed carriage-horse, contrasted with 
 the galled and lacerated victims of oppres- 
 sion, waiting for their round of agony to 
 come again ?—was there nothing in the vast- 
 ness of man’s resources, the variety of his 
 inventions, the power of combined effort, as 
 displayed in that perpetual succession of lux- 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 uries both for the body and the mind ?1—was 
 there nothing in that aspect of order and in- 
 dustry, so important to individual, as well as 
 national prosperity 7—was there nothing, in 
 short, in that mighty mass of humanity, or in 
 the millions of pulses beating there, with 
 health or sickness, weal or wo ?—was there 
 nothing in all this to think about? Why, 
 one of our late poets was wont to weep as he 
 walked along Fleet-street arid the Strand ; so 
 intense were his sympathies with that mov- 
 ing host of fellow-beings. And can young 
 and sensitive women be found to pass over 
 the same ground, and say they find nothing 
 to think about? Still less could we expect 
 to meet with a being thus impervious in the 
 country ; for there, if human nature pleases 
 not, she may find 
 
 ¢_______books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.” 
 
 Whether it arises from an intellectual, or a 
 moral defect, that this happy experience is 
 so seldom realized, is a question of some im- 
 portance in the formation of character. If 
 young ladies really do not wish to be close 
 observers, the evil is a moral one, and I can- 
 not but suspect that much truth lies here. 
 They wish, undoubtedly, to enjoy every 
 amusement which can be derived from ob- 
 servation, but they do not wish to observe ; 
 because they either have some little pet sor- 
 row which they prefer brooding over to them- 
 selves, or some favorite subject of gossip, 
 which they prefer talking over with their 
 friends, or they think it more ladylike not to 
 notice common things, or more interesting to. 
 be absorbed, to start when spoken to, and to 
 spend the greatest portion of their time in a 
 state of revery. 
 
 If such be the choice of any fair reader of 
 these pages, I can only warn her that the 
 punishment of her error will eventually come 
 upon her, and that as surely as she neglects 
 in youth to cultivate the expansive and pleas- 
 ure-giving faculty of observation, so surely 
 will life become wearisome to her in old age, 
 if not before. There are, however, many 
 whose error on this point arises solely out of 
 
TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 
 
 their ignorance of the innumerable advan- 
 tages to be derived from a close observation 
 of things in general. Their lives are void of 
 interest, their minds run to waste, they are 
 constantly pining for excitement, without 
 being conscious of any definite cause for 
 what they suffer. They see their more en- 
 ergetic and intelligent companions anima- 
 ted, interested, and amused, with something 
 which they are consequently most anxious to 
 be made acquainted with, supposing it will 
 afford the same pleasure to them; when, to 
 their astonishment, they find it only some ob- 
 ject which has for a long time met their daily 
 gaze, without ever having made an impres- 
 sion upon their own minds, or excited a single 
 idea in connection with it. To such individ- 
 uals it becomes a duty to point out, as far as 
 we are able, the obstacles which stand in the 
 way of their deriving that instruction and 
 amusement from general and individual ob- 
 servation, which would fill up the void of 
 their existence, and render them at the same 
 time more companionable and more happy. 
 
 There is a word in our language of most 
 incaplivable meaning, Which by universal con- 
 
 sent has become a sort of test-word among 
 young ladies, and by which they try the 
 worth of every thing, as regards its claim 
 upon their attention. I mean the word in- 
 teresting. In vain have I endeavored to at- 
 tach any definite sense to this expression, as 
 generally used by the class of persons ad- 
 dressed in this work. I can only conjecture 
 
 that its signification is synonymous with ex-. 
 
 citing, and that it is applicable to all which 
 awakens sentiment, or produces emotion. 
 However this may be, the fact that a person 
 or thing is considered among young ladies as 
 uninteresting, stamps it with irremediable 
 obloquy, so that it is never more to be spoken, 
 or even thought of; while, on the other 
 hand, whatever is pronounced to be interest- 
 ing, is considered worthy of their utmost at- 
 tention, even though it should possess no 
 other recommendation ; and thus not only 
 heroes and heroines, but books, letters, con- 
 versation, speeches, meetings public and pri- 
 vate, friends, and even lovers, are tried by 
 
 —————— SS 
 51 
 
 this universal test, and if they fail here, wo 
 betide the luckless candidate for femalé fa- 
 vor! 
 
 Of those who have hitherto been slaves to’ 
 this all-potent word, I would now ask one 
 simple question—Is it not possible to create 
 their own world of interest out of the mate- 
 rials which Providence has placed before 
 them? or must they by necessity follow in 
 the train of those who languish after the ex- 
 citement of fictitious sorrow, or who luxuri- 
 ate in the false sentiment of immoral books, 
 and the flattery of unprincipled men, simply 
 because they find them interesting ? 
 
 Never has there been a delusion more in- 
 sidious, or more widely spread, than that 
 which arises out of the arbitrary use of this 
 dangerous and deceitful word, as it obtains 
 among young women. Ask one of them why 
 she cannot read a serious book ; she answers, 
 “the style is so uninteresting.” Ask another 
 why she does not attend a public meeting for 
 the benefit of her fellow-creatures; she an- 
 swers that “such meetings have lost their 
 interest.’ Ask a third why she does not 
 make a frivud of her sister; she tells you 
 that her sister “ does notinterest”” her. And 
 so on, through the whole range of public and 
 private duty, for there is no call so impera- 
 tive, and no claim so sacred, as to escape 
 being submitted to this test : and on the other 
 hand, no sentiment that cannot be reconciled, 
 no task that cannot be undertaken, and no 
 companionship that cannot be borne with, 
 under the recommendation of having been 
 introduced in an interesting manner. 
 
 Of all the obstacles which stand in the 
 way of that exercise of the faculty of obser- 
 vation, which I would so earnestly recom- 
 mend, I believe there is none so great as the 
 importance which is attached to the word 
 “interesting,” among young women. Upon 
 whatever interests them, they are sufficiently 
 ready to employ their powers of observation ; 
 but with regard to what does not, they pass 
 through the pleasant walks of daily life, as if 
 surrounded by the dreary wastes of a desert. 
 Of want of memory, too, they are apt to 
 complain, and from the frequency with which 
 
52 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 this grievance is spoken of, and the little ef- 
 fort that is made against it, one would rather 
 suppose it an embellishment to the character 
 than otherwise, to be deficient in the power 
 of recollecting. It is a fact, however, which 
 personal experience has not been able to con- 
 trovert, that whatever we really observe, we 
 are able to remember. Ask one of these fair 
 complainers, for instance, who laments her 
 inability to remember, what colored dress was 
 worn by some distinguished belle, for what 
 piece of music she herself obtained the most 
 applause, or what subject was. chosen by 
 some beau-ideal of a speaker, and it is more 
 than probable her memory will not be found 
 at fault, because these are the things upon 
 which she has employed her observation ; 
 and, had the subjects themselves been of a 
 higher order, an equal effort of the same use- 
 ful faculty, would have impressed them in 
 the same imperishable characters upon her 
 memory. _ 
 
 After considering the subject in this point 
 of view, how important does it appear that 
 we should turn our attention to the power 
 which exists in every human being, aud 
 especially during the season of youth, of cre- 
 ating a world of interest for themselves, of 
 deviating so far from the tendency of popu- 
 lar taste, as sometimes to leave the Corsairs 
 of Byron to the isles of Greece, and the Gyp- 
 sies of Scott to the mountains of his native 
 land; and while they look into the page of 
 
 | actual life, they will find that around them, in 
 
 their daily walks, beneath the parental roof, 
 or mixing with the fireside circle by the 
 homely hearth, there are often feelings as 
 deep, and hearts as warm, and experience 
 as richly fraught with interest, as ever glowed 
 
 Fin verse, or lived in story. There is not, 
 
 there cannot be any want of interest in the 
 exercise of the sympathies of our nature 
 upon common things, when no novel has 
 ever exhibited scenes of deeper emotion, 
 than observation has revealed to every hu- 
 man being, whose perceptions have been 
 habitually alive to the claims of weak and 
 suffering humanity; nor has fiction ever por- 
 trayed such profound wretchedness as we 
 
 the poor and simple-hearted 1 
 
 may daily find among the poor and the de- 
 praved; and not wretchedness alone, for 
 what language of mimic feeling has ever 
 been found to equal the touching pathos of 
 Nay, so far 
 does imagination fall short of reality, that the 
 highest encomium we can pass upon a wri- 
 ter of fiction, is, that his expressions are 
 “true to nature.” 
 
 This is what we may find every day in 
 actual life, if we will but look for it—intensi- 
 
 ty of feeling under all its different forms; | 
 
 the mother’s tender love; the father’s high 
 
 ambition; hope in its early bud, its first 
 7 . : 
 
 blight, and its final extinction; the joy of 
 
 youth; the helplessness of old age; pa- 
 
 tience under suffering; disinterested zeal ; 
 strong faith, and calm resignation. And 
 shall we say that we feel no interest in reali- 
 ties of which the novel and the drama are 
 but feeble imitations? It is true that heroes 
 and heroines do not strike upon their hearts, 
 or fall prostrate, or tear their hair before us, 
 every day; but I repeat again, that the touch- 
 
 ing pathos of true feeling, which all may be- 
 come acquainted with, 1f they will emmipluy 
 
 their powers of observation upon human life 
 
 as it exists around us, has nothing to equal it 
 in poetry or fiction. If, then, we would turn 
 our attention to human life as it is, and em- 
 ploy our powers of observation upon com- 
 mon things, we should find a never-failing 
 source of interest, not only in the sympathies 
 of our common nature, but in all which dis- 
 
 plays the wisdom and goodness of the Cre- 
 
 ator; for this ought ever to be our highest 
 and ultimate aim in the exercise of every 
 faculty we possess, to perceive the impress 
 of the finger of God upon all which his will 
 has designed, or his hand has created. ' 
 
 All I have yet said on this subject, how- 
 ever, has reference only to the benefit, or the 
 enjoyment, of the individual who employs 
 the faculty of observation. The law of love 
 directs us to a happier and holier exercise of 
 this faculty. No one can be truly kind, with- 
 out having accustomed themselves in early 
 life to habits of close observation. They 
 may be kind in feeling, but never in effect ; 
 
 — AS 
 
 ml; 
 
rT | 
 
 for kindness is always estimated, not by the 
 
 TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 
 
 53 
 
 peculiar temper of her husband’s mind, as 
 
 good it desires, but by that which it actually | well as to discover the characteristic peculiar- 
 
 produces. A woman who isa close observer, 
 under the influence of the law of love, knows 
 so well what belongs to social and domestic 
 comfort, that she never enters a room occu- 
 pied by a family whose happiness she has at 
 heart, without seeing in an instant every tri- 
 fle upon which that comfort depends. If the 
 sun is excluded when it would be more cheer- 
 ful to let it shine in—if the cloth is not spread 
 at the right time for the accustomed meal— 
 
 these things, will be more likely to lose the 
 point of a clever remark, and to fail to per- 
 ceive the most interesting features in the so- 
 ciety with which she associates. The facul- 
 ty of observation is the same, whatever ob- 
 ject it may be engaged upon; and that which 
 is minute, may sharpen its powers, and stim- 
 ulate its exercise, as well as that which is 
 
 if the fire is low, or the hearth unswept—if | more important, 
 
 the chairs are not standing in the most invi- 
 ting places, her quick eye detects in an instant 
 what is wanting to complete the general air 
 of comfort and order which it is woman’s bu- 
 siness to diffuse over her whole household ; 
 while, on the other hand, if her attention has 
 never been directed to any of these things, she 
 enters the room without looking around her, 
 and sits down to her own occupations with- 
 
 out once perceiving that the servants are be- 
 
 hindhand with the breakfast, that the blinds 
 are still down on a dark winter’s morning, 
 that a window is still open, that a chair is 
 standing with its back to the fender, that the 
 fire is smoking for want of better arrange- 
 ment, or that a corner of the hearth-rug <s 
 turned up. 
 
 With regard to kindness, it is impossible 
 so to adapt our expressions of good-will, as 
 to render them acceptable, unless we minute- 
 ly observe the characters, feelings, and situa- 
 tion of those around us. Inappropriate kind- 
 ness is not only a waste of good things, it is 
 sometimes an annoyance—nay, even an of- 
 fence to the sensitive and fastidious, because 
 it proves that the giver of the present, or the 
 actor in the intended benefit has been more 
 solicitous to display his own generosity, than 
 to promote their real good; or he might have 
 seen, that, with their habits, tastes, and pecu- 
 liarities, such an act must be altogether useless. 
 
 A woman wanting the habit of cbserva- 
 tion, though influenced by the kindest feel- 
 ings, will be guilty of a vast amount of in- 
 
 Now, provided all other things are equal, | consistencies, which, summed up together by 
 
 which of these two women would be the 
 
 those whom they have offended, will, in time, 
 
 most agreeable to sit down with? The an- | obtain for her the reputation of being any 
 
 swer is clear; yet, nothing need be wanting 
 
 thing but kind in her treatment of others. 
 
 in the last, but the habit of observation, to | Such, for instance, as walking away at a 
 
 It 
 
 render her a more inviting companion. 
 
 brisk pace, intent upon her own business, 
 
 may perhaps be surmised, if not actually | and leaving behind some delicate and nerv- 
 said, of the other, that her mind must be. | ous invalid to endure all the mortification of 
 
 filled with trifles, to enable her habitually to | neglect. 
 
 When told of her omission, she 
 
 see such as are here specified; but it is a | may hasten back, make a thousand apolo- 
 
 fact confirmed by experience, and knowledge 
 of the world, that a quick and close observa- 
 tion of little things, by no means precludes 
 
 gies, and feel really grieved at her own con- 
 duct; but she will not easily convince the in- 
 valid that it would not have shown more real 
 
 observation of greater ; and that the woman | kindness to have observed from the first that 
 
 who cannot comfortably sit down until all 
 these trifling matters are adjusted, will be 
 more likely than another, whose faculties 
 have not been thus exercised, to perceive, 
 
 she was left behind. No; there is no way 
 of being truly kind, without cultivating habits 
 of observation. Nor will such habits come 
 to our aid in after life, if they have been 
 
 by an instantaneous glance of the eye, the | neglected in youth. Willingness to oblige, is 
 
aa Tae 3 aw 
 
 54 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ‘not all that is wanted, or this might supply 
 the defect. Where this willingness exists 
 without observation, how often will a well- 
 meaning person start up with a vague con- 
 sciousness of some omission, look about with 
 awkward curiosity to see what is wanted, 
 blunder upon the right thing at the wrong 
 time, and then sit down again, after having 
 made every one else uncomfortable, and him- 
 self ridiculous! 
 
 In connection with the habit of observa- 
 tion, how much real kindness may be prac- 
 tised, even by the most insignificant mem- 
 ber of a family! I have seen a little child, 
 far too diffident to speak to the stranger- 
 guest, still watch his plate at table with such 
 assiduity, that no wish remained ungratified, 
 simply from having just what the child per- 
 ceived he most wanted, placed silently beside 
 him. 
 
 From this humble sphere of minute obser- 
 vation, men are generally and very properly 
 considered as excluded. But to women they 
 look, and shall they look in vain, for the fill- 
 ing up of this important page of human ex- 
 perience? Each particular item of the ac- 
 count may be regarded as beneath their 
 notice ; but well do they know, and deeply 
 do they regret, if the page is left blank, or if 
 the sum-total is not greatly to their advan- 
 tage. 
 
 Observation and attention are so much the 
 same in their results, that I shall not consider 
 them separately, but only add a few remarks 
 on the subject of attention as it applies to 
 reading. 
 
 There is no social pleasure, among those 
 it has been my lot to experience, which I 
 esteem more highly than that of listening to 
 
 an interesting book well read; when a fire- 
 side circle, chiefly composed of agreeable and 
 intelligent women, are seated at their work. In 
 the same way asthe lonely traveller, after gain- 
 ing some lofty eminence, on the opening of 
 | some lovely valley, or the closing of some 
 sunset scene, longs to see the joy he is then 
 feeling reflected in the face of the being he 
 loves best on earth; so, a great portion of 
 the enjoyment of reading, as experienced by 
 
 a social disposition, depends upon the same 
 impressions being made upon congenial minds 
 at the same time. J have spoken of an in- 
 teresting book, well read, because I think the 
 art of reading aloud is far too rarely culti- 
 vated; and I have often been astonished at 
 the deficiency which exists on this point, 
 after what is called a finished education. 
 
 To my own feelings, the easy and judi- 
 cious reading of a well-written book, on a 
 
 favorite subject, is even more delightful than 
 
 music ; because it supplies the mind with 
 ideas, at the same time that it gratifies the 
 ear and the taste. Little do they know of 
 this pleasure, who pass in and out of a room 
 unnecessarily, or who whisper about their 
 thimble or their thread, while this music of 
 the mind is thrilling the souls of those who 
 understand it; and little do they know of 
 social enjoyment, who prefer poring over the 
 pages of a book alone, rather than allowing 
 others to share their pleasure at the same 
 time. Iam aware that many books may be 
 well worth reading alone, which are not cal- 
 culated for general reading ; and Iam aware 
 also, that every fireside circle is not capable 
 of appreciating this gratification: but I speak 
 of those which are; and I think that wo- 
 man, as a peculiarly social being, should be 
 careful to arrange and adjust such affairs, as 
 to create the greatest amount of social pleas- 
 ure. Of this, however, hereatter. 
 
 It is more to my present purpose, to speak 
 of those habits of inattention to which many 
 young persons unscrupulously yield, when- 
 ever a book is read aloud. It may be re- 
 marked, as a certain proof of their want of 
 interest, when they rise to leave the room, 
 and request the reader not to wait for them; 
 for though politeness may require some con- 
 cession on their part, it is a far higher com- 
 pliment to the reader, and indeed to the 
 company in general, to evince an interest so 
 great, than rather than lose any part of 
 the book, they will ask, as a personal favor, 
 that the reading of it may be suspended until 
 their return, provided only their absence is 
 brief. I have often felt with sympathy for 
 the reader on these occasions, the disap- 
 
Were 
 
 Pail 
 
 pointment he must experience when assured 
 by one of his audience, that to her at least 
 his efforts to give pleasure, and excite inter- 
 est, have been in vain. 
 
 Beyond this there is a habit of secretanat- 
 tention, of musing upon other things when- 
 ever a book is read aloud, which grows upon 
 the young, until they lose the power to com- 
 mand their attention, even when they would. 
 This, however, I imagine to arise in great 
 
 measure out of the want of cultivating the’ 
 
 art of reading ; for the monotonous tone we 
 so frequently hear, the misplaced emphasis, 
 and, worse than all, the affectation of reading 
 well, when the reader and not the book is 
 too evidently intended to be noticed, are of 
 themselves sufficient to repel attention, and 
 to excite a desire to do any thing rather than 
 listen. 
 
 Truly has it been said, that “the sport of 
 musing is the waste of life,” for though oc- 
 casional seasons of mental retirement are 
 profitable to all, the habit of endless and 
 aimless revery, which some young persons 
 indulge in, is as destructive to mental energy, 
 as to practical usefulness! Hour after hour 
 glides on with them unmarked, while thought 
 is just kept alive by a current of undefined 
 images flowing through the mind—And 
 what remains? “A weary, stale, flat, and 
 unprofitable” existence; as burdensome to 
 themselves, as unproductive of good to 
 others. 
 
 As a defence against the encroachments of 
 this insidious enemy, it is good to be in earn- 
 est about every thing we do—earnest in our 
 studies—earnest in our familiar occupations— 
 earnest in our attachments—but above all, 
 earnest in our duties. There is a listless, 
 dreamy, halfish way of acting, which evades 
 the stigma of direct indolence, but which 
 never really accomplishes one laudable pur- 
 pose, Enthusiasm is the direct opposite of 
 this; but in the safe medium between this 
 extreme and enthusiasm, is that earnestness 
 which I would recommend to all young per- 
 sons asa habit. Enthusiasm, to the mind of 
 youth, is vastly more taking than sober earn- 
 estness ; yet, when we look to the end, how 
 
 ee 
 
 TASTE, TACT, AND OBSERVATION. 
 
 . astray, that resolution cannot be fixed, that 
 
 5d 
 
 often do we find that the one is discouraged 
 by difficulties, and finally diverted from its 
 object, where the other perseveres, and ulti- 
 mately succeeds ! 
 
 Habitual earnestness is directly opposed to 
 habitual trifling; and this latter may truly 
 be said to be the bane of woman’s life. To 
 be in earnest is to go steadily to work with 
 whatever we undertake; counting the cost, 
 and weighing the difficulty, and still enga- 
 ging in the task, assured that the end to be 
 attained will repay us for every effort we 
 make. ‘To do one thing and think about 
 another, to begin and not go on, to change 
 our plan so often as to defeat our purpose, or 
 to act without having formed a plan at all, | 
 this it is to trifle, and consequently to waste | 
 both time and effort. 
 
 By cultivating habitual earnestness in 
 youth, we acquire the power of bringing all 
 the faculties of the mind to bear upon any 
 given point, whenever we have a purpose to 
 accomplish. We do not then find, at the 
 time we want to act, that attention has gone 
 
 fancy has scattered the materials with which’ || 
 we were to work, that taste refuses her sanc- 
 tion, that inclination rebels, or that industry 
 chooses to be otherwise engaged. No; such 
 is the power of habit, that, when accustomed 
 from early youth to be in earnest in what- 
 ever we do, no sooner does an opportunity 
 for making any laudable effort occur, than all 
 these faculties and powers are ready at our 
 call; and with their combined and willing 
 aid, how much may be attained either for 
 ourselves or others! 
 
 The great enemy we have to encounter, 
 both in the use of the faculty of observation, 
 and in the cultivation of habits of earnest- 
 ness, is indolence; an enemy which besets 
 our path from infancy to age, which stands 
 in the way of all our best endeavors, and 
 even when a good resolution has been 
 formed, persuades us to delay the execution 
 of it. Could we prevail upon the young to 
 regard this enemy as it really is—a greedy 
 monster, following upon their steps, and ever 
 
 grasping out of their possessign, their time, 
 
Lae 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 with in their leisure hours—what a service 
 would be done to the whole human race ! for, 
 to thore who have been the willing slaves of 
 indolence in youth, it will most assuredly be- 
 come the tyrant of old age. 
 
 The season of youth, then, is the time to 
 oppose this enemy with success; and those 
 who have quickened their powers of obser- 
 vation by constant exercise, and applied 
 themselves with habitual earnestness to un- 
 remitting efforts of attention and industry, 
 will be in no danger of finding life, as it ad- 
 vances, either uninteresting or wearisome ; 
 or their own portion of experience destitute 
 of utility and enjoyment. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND. TEMPER. 
 
 THESE are personal qualifications univer- 
 sally considered to be of great importance to 
 the female sex; yet is there something sad 
 in the contemplation of the first of these, so 
 great is the disproportion between the esti- 
 mation in which it is regarded by young 
 people in general, and its real value in the 
 ageregate of human happiness. Indeed, 
 when we think of its frailty, its superficial 
 character, and the certainty of its final and 
 utter extinction—and connect these consider- 
 ations with the incalculable amount of am- 
 bition, envy, and false applause, which beauty 
 has excited—we should rather be inclined to 
 consider it a bane than a blessing to the hu- 
 man race. 
 
 Female beauty has ever been the theme of 
 inspiration with poets, and with heroes, since 
 the world began ; and for all the sins and the 
 follies, and they are many, for which beauty 
 has formed the excuse, has not man been the 
 abettor, if not the cause? Of his habitual 
 and systematic treachery to his weak sister 
 on this one point, what page, what book 
 shall contain the record? Would that some 
 
 their talents, and their strength,—instead of a 
 pleasant fireside companion, to be dallied 
 
 pen more potent than ever yet was wielded 
 by a human hand, would transcribe the dark 
 history, and present it to his view ; for hap- 
 py, thrice happy will be that era, if it shall 
 ever, come, in the existence of woman, when 
 man shall be true -to her real interests, and 
 when he shall esteem it his highest privilege 
 to protect her—not from enchanted castles, 
 from jealous rivals, or from personal foes, 
 but from the more insidious and fatal ene- 
 mies which lurk within her own heart—from 
 vanity, from envy, and from love of admira- 
 tion. . 
 
 To prove that I lay no unfounded charge 
 at the door of man in this respect, let us look 
 into society as it is. Thé beautiful woman ! 
 What court is paid to her! What extrava- 
 gances are uttered and committed by those 
 who compose her circle of admirers! She 
 opens her lips: men of high intellectual pre- 
 tensions are proud to listen. Some trifling 
 or vapid remark is all she utters. They ap- 
 plaud, if she attempts to be judicious; they 
 laugh, if she aims at being gay; or they 
 evince the most profound reverence for her 
 sentiments, if the tone of her expression is 
 grave. Listen to the flattery they offer at the 
 shrine of this idol of an hour. No! it is too 
 gross, too absurd for repetition. One thing, 
 however, makes it serious. Such flattery is 
 frequently at the expense of rivals, and even 
 of friends; so that, while these admirers 
 foster vanity, they are not satisfied without 
 awaking the demon of envy in a soul, an 
 immortal soul, which it ought to have been 
 their generous and noble aim to shield from 
 every taint of evil, and especially from so 
 foul a taint as that of envy. 
 
 But let us turn to another scene in the 
 drama of society. The very same men are 
 disclaiming their unsuccessful efforts to ob- 
 tain the favor of this beauty, and ridiculing 
 the emptiness and the folly of the remarks 
 they so lately applauded. ‘Time passes on. 
 The beauty so worshipped begins to wane. 
 Other stars shine forth in the hemisphere, 
 and younger belles assert superior claims to 
 admiration. Who, then, remains of all that 
 prostrate circle? Not one! They are all 
 
BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 
 
 gone over to the junior claimant, and are 
 laughing with her at the disappointment of 
 the faded beauty. 
 
 This is a dark and melancholy picture, but 
 for its truth I appeal to any who have mixed 
 much in general society, who have either 
 been beautiful themselves, or the confidants 
 of beauty, or who have been accustomed to 
 hear the remarks of men on these subjects, 
 when no beauty was present. I might ap- 
 peal also to the fact, that personal beauty 
 among women alone, receives no exaggera- 
 ted or undue homage. Were there no men 
 in the world, female beauty would be valued 
 as a charm, but by no means as one of the 
 highest order; and happily for women, an 
 idea prevails among them, that those who 
 want this charm, have the deficiency made 
 up to them in talent, or in some other way. 
 
 Still, there is so natural and irresistible a 
 delight in gazing upon beauty, that I never 
 could understand the philosophy of those 
 moralists who would endeavor to keep from 
 a lovely girl, the knowledge that she was so. 
 Her mirror is more faithful, and unless that 
 
 be dostroyod, tho dangor is, that she will 
 
 suspect such moral managers of some sinis- 
 ter design in endeavoring to deceive her on 
 this point, and that, in consequence, she will 
 be put upon thinking still more of the value 
 of a gift, with the possession of which she is 
 not to be trusted. Far wiser is the part of 
 that counsellor of youth, who, convinced that 
 much of the danger attendant upon beauty, 
 
 | as a personal recommendation, arises out of 
 
 low and ignorant views of the value of beau- 
 ty itself, thus endeavors to show the folly of 
 attaching importance to that which the touch 
 of disease may at any hour destroy, and 
 which time must inevitably efface. 
 
 ~ The more the mind is expanded and en- 
 lightened, the more it is filled with a sense of 
 what is admirable in the creation at large; 
 and the more it is impressed with the true 
 image of moral beauty, the less it will be oc- 
 
 -cupied with the consideration of any personal 
 claim to flattery or applause. There will al- 
 
 ways be a circle of humble candidates for fa- 
 vor surrounding the unguarded steps of youth, 
 
 o7 
 
 whose influence will be excited on the side 
 of personal beauty, perhaps more than in 
 any other way. Without disrespect to the 
 valuable class of servants, to which I allude, 
 for lam convinced they know not what. they 
 do, 1 must express my fears, that they are 
 often busily at work upon the young mind, 
 long before the age of womanhood, instilling 
 into it their own low views of beauty as a 
 personal distinction; and itis against this in- 
 fluence, more especially as it begins the earli- 
 est, that I would call up all the power of mor- 
 al and intellectual expansion, in order to fill 
 the mind as early as possible with elevated 
 thoughts of the creation in general, and of 
 admiration for that part of it which is sepa- 
 rate from self. 
 
 A being thus enlightened, will perceive that 
 admiration is one of the higher faculties of 
 our nature unknown to the brute creation, 
 and one, the lawful exercise of which, affords 
 us perhaps more enjoyment than any other. 
 Upon the right employment of this faculty 
 depends much of the moral tendency of hu- 
 man character. It is, therefore, of the utmost 
 
 ipurtauve Mat wa‘chnanld learn in carly life 
 to admire only what is truly excellent; and 
 as there is an excellence of beauty, which it 
 is consonant with the higher attributes of our 
 nature that we should admire, it necessarily 
 follows, that to search for beauty as an es- 
 sence pervading the universe, is an employ- 
 ment not unworthy of an intelligent and im- 
 mortal being. 
 Let us then examine, so far as we are able 
 to do so, “the treasures of earth, ocean, and 
 air ;’’ and we shall see that it has pleased the 
 all-wise Creator, to diffuse the principle of 
 beauty over every region of the world. The 
 deep sea, into whose mysterious caves no 
 human eye can penetrate, is full of it. The 
 blue ether, and the sailing clouds, sun, moon, 
 and stars, are they not beautiful? and the 
 fruitful garden of the earth, wherever nature 
 smiles ? . 
 
 “ How beautiful is all this visible world!” ~ 
 
 Not beautiful in its brightness and sublimity 
 alone, but beautiful wherever the steps of 
 
58 
 
 Deity have trod—wherever the hand of the 
 divine artificer has been employed, from the 
 golden glory of a sunset cloud, to the gossa- 
 mer thread on which are strung the pearls of 
 morning dew. 
 
 Now, let me ask whether a mind, habitually 
 engaged in the contemplation of subjects such 
 as these, would be likely to be diverted from 
 its noble but natural exercise, by vulgar cal- 
 culations upon the comparative beauty of a 
 face? No. It would be perfectly aware, 
 where such beauty did exist; but it would 
 also be impressed with the important fact, 
 that in relation to the wondrous and magnifi- 
 cent whole, its own share of beauty consti- 
 tuted so small a part, as scarcely to be worthy 
 of a passing thought. 
 
 Those who are accustomed to enlightened 
 views on this subject, will know also that 
 there are different kinds of personal beauty, 
 among which, that of form and coloring holds 
 a very inferior rank. There is a beauty of 
 expression, for instance, of sweetness, of no- 
 bility, of intellectual refinement, of feeling, of 
 animation, of meekness, of resignation, and 
 
 many other kinds of beauty, which may all 
 be allied to the plainest features, and yet may 
 
 remain, to give pleasure long after the bloom- 
 ing cheek has faded, and silver gray has 
 mingled with the hair. And how far more 
 powerful in their influence upon others, are 
 some of these kinds of beauty! for, after all, 
 beauty depends more upon the movements 
 of the face, than upon the form of the features, 
 when at rest ; and thus, a countenance habit- 
 ually under the influence of amiable feelings 
 acquires a beauty of the highest order, from 
 the frequency with which such feelings are 
 the originating cause of the movements or 
 expressions which stamp their character 
 upon it. 
 
 Who has not waited for the first opening 
 of the lips of a celebrated belle, to see whether 
 her claims would be supported by 
 
 “'The mind, the music breathing from her face ;”’ 
 
 and who has not occasionally turned away 
 repelled by the utter blank, or worse than 
 blank, which the simple movement of the 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 mouth, in speaking, or smiling, has re- 
 vealed? 
 
 The language of poetry describes the loud 
 laugh as indicative of the vulgar mind; and 
 certainly there are expressions, conveyed 
 even through the medium of a smile, which 
 need not Lavater to inform us that refine- 
 ment of feeling, or elevation of soul, have 
 little to do with the fair countenance on which 
 they are impressed. On .the other hand, 
 there are plain women sometimes met with 
 in society, every movement of whose features 
 is instinct with intelligence; who, from the 
 genuine heart-warm smiles which play about 
 the mouth, the sweetly modulated voice, and 
 the lighting up ofan eye that looks as if it 
 could “comprehend the universe,’ become 
 perfectly beautiful to those who understand 
 them, and still more so to those who live with 
 them, and love them. Before such preten- 
 sions to beauty as these, how soon do the 
 pink and white of a merely pretty face vanish 
 into nothing! iy : 
 
 Yet, if the beauty of expression should be 
 less popular among women, from the circum- 
 
 stance of its being less admired by men than 
 that of mere form and complexion, they do 
 
 well in this, as in every other disputed ques- 
 tion of ultimate good, to look to the end. Men 
 have been found whose admiration of beauty 
 was so great, that they have actually married 
 
 _for that alone, content, for its sake, to dis- 
 
 pense with the presence of mind. And what 
 has been the end to them, or rather to the 
 luckless beings whose misfortune it was to 
 be the objects of their choice 1—A neglected 
 and degraded lot, embittered by the fretful- 
 ness of disappointment on the part of their 
 husbands ; while, on the other hand, women, 
 whose attractions have been of a more intel- 
 lectual nature, have maintained their hold upon 
 the affections of their companions, through 
 life, even to the unlovely season of old age. 
 
 But, in addition to the insufficiency of 
 mere beauty, there is another cause why 
 men are so frequently disappointed in select- 
 ing merely pretty wives. They have a 
 habit of supposing that if a woman is pretty, 
 and not very clever, she must be amiable. 
 
Yet, how often do we find that the most 
 wayward temper, the most capricious will, 
 and beyond all calculation the most provok- 
 ing habits, are connected with a weak and 
 unenlightened mind. And added to all this, 
 there is the false position the young beauty 
 has held in society, the flattery to which she 
 has been exposed, the dominion she has 
 been permitted to assert, the triumph she has 
 been accustomed to feel over others, the 
 strength her inclinations from constant: in- 
 dulgence have attained—all these have to be 
 contended with, in addition to the incapacity 
 of her imbecile and undisciplined mind ; and 
 surely of this catalogue of evils, any one 
 might be sufficient to counterbalance the 
 advantages of mere personal beauty. in a 
 companion for life—a campanion who is to 
 tread with her husband the rough road of 
 experience, and whose influence upon his 
 character and feelings will not end on this 
 side the grave. 
 
 Let us, however, not think hardly of the 
 feeble-minded beauty, simply as such. She 
 
 is as little to be blamed for the natural imbe- 
 || cility of her mental powers, as to be com- 
 || mended for her personal charms. Both are 
 “11 to her the appointments of a wise Provi- 
 | dence; but as both combined are means of 
 exposing her to evils for which she is really 
 to be pitied, so she ought to be kindly pro- 
 tected from the dangers to which she is ex- 
 posed ; and since she possesses not in her- 
 self sufficient perception to know, that in 
 consequence of her beatity she is made to 
 occupy a false position in society, from which 
 she will assuredly have to descend, it be- 
 comes the duty of all who have her happi- 
 ness at heart, to warn her, that in her inter- 
 course with the world, she must not look for 
 a sincere and disinterested friend in man. 
 Tam far from asserting that there are not 
 instances of noble and generous-hearted 
 men, who know how to be the friend of wo- 
 || man, and the protector of her true interests ; 
 || yet, such is the general tone of social inter- 
 course, that these instances are lamentably 
 rare. 
 
 The most objectionable part, however, of 
 
 ec ceeneneeeenereeeeneeeeereeee eT 
 
 BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 
 
 59 
 
 what I would call the minor morals of social 
 life, as regards the subject of female beauty, 
 has not yet been alluded to. Man is sincere 
 in One sense, in his admiration of real beauty 
 while it lasts; and if when the ruling star 
 begins to wane, he suns himself in the rays 
 of another luminary, he is still faithful to 
 beauty as the object of his worship, though 
 the supposed divinity may be invested in a 
 different shrine. If, then, his professions of 
 admiration were offered only to the really 
 beautiful, scarcely one woman in a hundred 
 would be injured by the personal flattery of 
 man. But, unfortunately, that large propor- 
 tion of the female sex, who are not exactly 
 pretty, nor altogether plain, are exposed to 
 the same system of flattery, for charms which 
 they really do not possess. I have often 
 wondered whether there ever was a woman 
 so destitute of personal attractions, that no 
 man, at some time or other of her life, had ever 
 told her she was beautiful ; and it is a well- 
 known fact, that the more we doubt our pos- 
 session of any particular attraction, the more 
 agreeable is every assurance from others 
 that such attraction does exist. 
 
 Thus there is an endless train of mischief 
 let in upon the minds of the young and inex- 
 perienced, by what men are accustomed to 
 regard in the light of harmless pleasantry, or 
 as an almost necessary embellishment. to 
 polished manners. It may be said that the 
 plain woman has her glass, to which she can 
 refer for never-failing truth. It is true, she 
 has; but there is a vast difference between 
 looking for what we do not wish to see, and for 
 what we do. Besides which, when a young 
 plain woman first mixes in society, she sees 
 the high distinction which mere beauty ob- 
 tains for its possessor, and she finds herself 
 comparatively neglected and forgotten. In 
 her home she is doubtless valued in propor- 
 tion to her merits; but in company, what 
 avail the kind and generous heart which 
 
 beats within her bosom, the bright intelligence | 
 
 of her- mind, the cordial response she would 
 offer in return for kindness, the gratitude, 
 the generous feeling which animate her soul? 
 Who, in all that busy circle, cares to call forth 
 
any of these 1 Nay, so little do all or any of 
 them avail her in society, that she begins in 
 time to suspect she is perscnally repulsive ; 
 and what woman of sensitive or delicate 
 feelings ever conceived this idea of herself, 
 without experiencing, along with it, a strange 
 sense of loneliness and destitution, as if ’ex- 
 cluded from the fellowship of social kindness 
 --shut out from the pale of the lovely, and the 
 beloved? If, then, the treacherous voice of 
 man but whispers in her ear, that these hard 
 thoughts about herself have no foundation, 
 who can wonder if she is found too ready to 
 “lay the flattering unction” to her heart? or 
 who can wonder if the equanimity of her 
 mind becomes disturbed by a recurrence of 
 those painful doubts, occasionally to be dis- 
 pelled by a recurrence of that flattery too? 
 To young women thus circumstanced, I 
 would affectionately say—-Beware! Beware 
 of the unquiet thoughts, the disappointment, 
 the rivalry, the vain competition, the fruitless 
 decoration, and ali that train of evils which 
 ensue from vacillating between the two ex- 
 tremes of flattering hopes and mortified am- 
 Go home, then, and consult your 
 mirrror; no falsehood will be there. Go 
 home, and find, as you have often done be- 
 fore, that even without beauty, you can make 
 the fireside circle happy there; nor deem 
 your lot a hard one. From many dangers 
 attendant upon beauty you are safe, from 
 
 bition. 
 
 many sorrows you are exempt; above all, 
 should you become a wife, from that which 
 is, perhaps, the greatest calamity in woman’s 
 history, the loss of her husband’s love, be- 
 cause the charms for which alone he valued 
 her, have vanished. This never can be your 
 experience, and so far you are blest.. 
 
 If personal beauty beso great a good as 
 men persuade us it is, how important does it 
 become to know that there is no certain way 
 of preserving this treasure but by a strict 
 regard to health! We hear of the beauty 
 
 | ofextreme delicacy, of the beauty of a slight 
 | hectic, and sometimes of the beauty of con- 
 | stitutional debility and languor, but who ever 
 
 ventured to speak of the beauty of disease ? 
 
 And yet, all these, if not treated judiciously, 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. .. 
 
 or checked in time, will infallibly become 
 disease. On the other hand, we hear of vul- 
 gar health, of an unlady-like bloom, and of 
 too much ‘strength, giving an air of indepen- | 
 dence unbecoming to the female character. 
 
 Sincerely wishing that all who hold these- 
 sentiments may make the best use of the ad- 
 
 vantages of illness, when it does fall to their 
 
 lot, we will pass on to consider the advan- 
 
 tages of health as one of the ore of 
 
 earthly blessings. 
 
 Perfect health was the portion of our fret 
 parents while Paradise was yet untrodden, 
 save by the steps of sinless men and angels. 
 Since that time, it has become rarely the ex- 
 perience of any of the human family to be 
 altogether exempt from disease ; yet, so much 
 are the sufferings of illness mitigated by the | 
 skill of modern science, and the comforts of 
 civilized life, that a slight degree of bodily in- 
 disposition is looked upon as an evil scarcely - 
 worth the pains which any systematic means 
 of remedy would require. 
 
 It is only when health is lost, and lost be-. 
 yond the hope of regaining it, that we be- 
 come sensible of its real value. It is then 
 we tax the ingenuity of the physician, and | 
 the patience of the nurse, to bring us back, 
 if only so near as to stand upon the verge of 
 that region of happiness from which we are 
 expelled. It is then we see the folly of those 
 
 who play upon the brink of the precipice | 
 which separates this beautiful and blessed || 
 
 region from the troubled waters below. It is | 
 then we resign our wealth, our friends, our 
 country, and our home, in the hope of pur-— 
 chasing this treasure. It is then we feel that, 
 
 although, when in the possession of health, | 
 
 we neglected many opportunities of kindness, 
 benevolence, and general usefulness, yet 
 when deprived of this blessing, we would 
 kneel at the footstool of mercy, to ask those 
 opportunities. again, in order that we may 
 use them better. 
 
 In early youth, 
 knowledge can be e2 
 Little does the pampered child of fond and 
 indulgent parents know what illness is to the 
 poor and the destitute ; or what it may be to 
 
 SS TN eT CR ET TG Fags eee a ee Se 
 
 wever, little of this | 
 
 Se 
 
BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 61 
 
 her when her mother’s hand is cold and help- 
 less in the tomb, and when her own head is 
 no longer sheltered by a father’s roof. Thus 
 we find young girls so often practising a cer- 
 
 tain kind of recklessness, and contempt of 
 
 health,—nay, even encouraging, I will not 
 say affecting, a degree of delicacy, feebleness, 
 and liability to bodily ailments, which, if they 
 were not accustomed to the kindest atten- 
 tions, would be the last calamity they would 
 wish to bring upon themselves. How im- 
 “portant is it for such individuals to remem- 
 ber, that the constitution of the body, as well 
 {| as that of the mind, is, in a good degree, of 
 their own forming ; that the season of youth 
 is the time when the seeds of disease are 
 ‘most. generally sown ; and that no one thus 
 -circumstanced, can suffer a loss of health 
 without inflicting the penalty of anxious so- 
 licitude,. and, frequently, of unremitting per- 
 sonal exertion, upon those by whom she is 
 surrounded, or beloved! 
 
 Fanciful and ill- disciplined young women 
 are apt to think it gives them an attractive 
 air, and looks like an absence of selfishness, 
 to be indifferent about the preservation of 
 their health ; and thus they indulge the most 
 absurd capriciousness with respect to their 
 diet, sometimes refusing altogether to eat at 
 proper times, and eating most improperly ; 
 at others, running about upon wet grass with 
 _thin shoes, as if they really wished to take 
 || cold, making no difference between their 
 Summer and their winter clothing, or casting 
 off a warm dress for an evening party ; re- 
 fusing to\ take medicine when necessary, or 
 taking it unsanctioned by their parents, or 
 their best advisers ; all these they appear to 
 consider as most engaging features in the fe- 
 male character. But there are those who 
 could tell them such conduct is, in reality, the 
 most consummate selfishness, because it in- 
 evitably produces the effect of making them 
 the objects of much. necessary attention, and 
 of inflicting an endless catalogue of troubles 
 ’ | and anxieties upon their friends. How soon 
 | does the stern discipline of life inflict its own 
 punishment for this folly! but, unfortunately, 
 
 | not soon enough, in all instances, to stop the 
 
 progress of the host of maladies which are 
 thus produced. 
 
 Let it not for a moment be supposed, that 
 I would recommend to young women over- 
 solicitude on the score of health; for I be- 
 lieve nothing is more likely than this to in- 
 duce real or fancied indisposition. Neither 
 would I presume to interfere with the proper 
 province of the physician ; yet am I strongly 
 disposed to think, that if the rules I am 
 about to lay down were faithfully adhered to, 
 that worthy and important personage would 
 much less frequently be found beside the 
 couch where the bloom of youthful beauty 
 wastes away. 
 
 My first rule is, to let one hour every day, 
 generally two, and sometimes three, be spent 
 in taking exercise in the open air, either on 
 horseback, or on foot. Let no weather pre- 
 vent this ; for, with strong boots, waterproof 
 cloak, and umbrella, there are few situations 
 where an hour’s walk, at some time or other 
 of the day, may not be accomplished ; and 
 when the air is damp, there is sometimes 
 more need for exercise, than when it is dry. 
 I am perfectly aware of the unpleasantness 
 of all this, unless when regarded as a duty ; 
 I am aware, too, that where the health is 
 good, it appears, at times, a work of superer- 
 ogation ; but I am aware, also, of the differ- 
 ence there is in the state both of mind and 
 body, between sitting in the house, or by the 
 fire all day, and taking, during some part of 
 it, a brisk and healthy walk. 
 
 How often have I seen a restless, weary, 
 discontented being, moving from chair to 
 chair, finding comfort in none, and tired of 
 every employment ; with contracted and un- 
 easy brow, complexion dry and gray, and 
 eyes that looked as if their very vision was 
 scorched up ;—how often have I seen sucha 
 being come in from a winter’s walk, with the 
 countenance of a perfect Hebe, with the en- ! 
 ergy of an invigorated mind beaming forth 
 from eyes as beautiful as clear, and with 
 the benevolence of a young warm heart re- 
 flected in the dimpling freshness of a sunny 
 smile! How pleasant is it then to resume 
 the half-finished work—how refreshing the 
 
62 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 social meal—how inviting the seat beside the 
 \| glowing hearth—how frank and free the in- 
 ) tercourse with those who form the circle 
 \| there! And if such be the effect of one sin- 
 gle walk, how beneficial must be that of ha- 
 || bitual exercise, upon the condition both of 
 mind and body! 
 
 Were it possible for human calculation to 
 | sum up all the evils resulting from want of 
 
 exercise, the catalogue would be too appal-. 
 
 | ling. All those disorders which in common 
 | parlance, and for want of a more definite and 
 scientific name, are called bilious, (and, truly, 
 their name is legion,) are mainly to be attrib- 
 uted to this cause. 
 of appetite, pains under the shoulders, side- 
 ache, cold feet, and irregular circulation, pro- 
 vided there is no positive disease, might, in. 
 time, be remedied by systematic attention to 
 exercise. Of its effect upon the temper, and 
 the general tone of the mind, we have yet to 
 speak ; but certain I am, that no actual ca- 
 lamity inflicted upon woman, ever brought 
 with it more severe or extended sufferings, 
 than those which result from the habitual 
 neglect of exercise. 
 
 My next rule is, to retire early to rest. 
 Wherever I meet with a pale, melancholy 
 young woman, highly nervous, easily excited, 
 unequal in her temper ; in the early part of 
 the day languid, listless, discontented, and fit 
 for nothing,—but when evening comes on, 
 disposed for conversation, brisk and lively ; 
 I feel morally certain, that such a one is in 
 the habit of sitting up late—perhaps of 
 making herself extremely interesting to her 
 friends beside the midnight fire; but I know, 
 also, that such a one is eminently in danger 
 of having recourse to stimulants to keep up 
 the activity of her mind; and that during 
 more than half her life—during the morning, 
 that most valuable portion of every day— 
 she is of little value to society ; and well will it 
 be for her friends and near connections, if her 
 listlessness and discontent do not render her 
 | companionship worse than valueless to them. 
 
 My next rule is to eat regularly, so far as 
 it can be done conveniently to others—at 
 regular times, and in regular quantities ; and 
 
 All headaches, want. 
 
 this I believe to be of more consequence than | 
 to be very particular about the nature of the | 
 food partaken of, provided only it is simple | 
 and nutritious. I know that with a sickly 
 appetite, or where the constitution is under 
 the influence of disease, it is impossible to do | 
 this; but much may be done while in a state | 
 of health, by striving against that capricious 
 abstinence from food, especially in the early | 
 part of the day, which by certain individuals | 
 is thought rather lady-like and becoming. I 
 doubt not but this may be the case, so far as _ 
 it is becoming to look pale, and lady-like to 
 be the object of attention—to be pleaded with 
 by kind friends, and pitied by strangers ; but 
 the wisdom and the utility of this system is 
 what I am not the less disposed to call in | 
 question. 
 
 It is a great evil in society, that the neces- 
 sary act of eating is looked upon too much 
 as a luxury and an indulgence. If we re- 
 garded it more as a simple act, the frequent 
 recurrence of which was rendered necessary — 
 by the absolute wants of the body, we should 
 be more disposed to consider the proper reg- 
 ulation of this act, as a duty within our 
 power to neglect or attend to. We should 
 consequently think little of each particular | 
 portion of food set before us, and the busi- | 
 ness of eating would then be despatched as |! 
 a regular habit, attention to which could 
 afford no very high degree of excitement or |; 
 felicity, while at the same time it could not |! 
 be neglected without serious injury. : 
 
 My next rule is, to dress according to the - 
 season ; a rule so simple and so obvious in | 
 its relation to health, as to need no comment. 
 
 Thus far my remarks have applied only 
 to the subject of health, where it is enjoyed. |; 
 The loss of health is a theme of far deeper |; 
 interest, as it separates us from many of the 
 enjoyments of this world, and brings: us 
 nearer to the borders of the world which is 
 to come. ig | 
 
 It is a remarkable feature in connection | 
 with the constitution of woman, that she is’ 
 capable of enduring patience and forti- 
 tude, far beyond that of the stronger sex, al- 
 most every degree of bodily suffering. It is 
 
 re 
 
BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 
 
 true, that she is more accustomed to such 
 suffering than man; it is true also that a 
 slight degree of indisposition makes less dif- 
 ference in her amusements and occupations 
 than in his. Still there is a strength and 
 a beauty in her character, when laboring un- 
 der bodily affliction, of which the heroism 
 of fiction affords but a feeble imitation. 
 Wherever woman is the most flattered, 
 courted, and indulged, she is the least ad- 
 mirable ; but in seasons of trial her highest 
 excellences shine forth ; and how encourag- 
 ing is the reflection to the occupant of a sick- 
 chamber, that while the busy circles, in which 
 she was wont to move, close up her vacant 
 place, and pursue their cheerful rounds as 
 gaily as when she was there—that while ex- 
 cluded from participation in the merry laugh, 
 the social meeting, and the cordial inter- 
 course of former friends, she’is not excluded 
 from more intimate communion with those 
 who still remain; that she can still exercise 
 a moral and religious .nfluence over them, 
 and deepen the impression of her affectionate 
 and earnest counsel, by exhibiting the Chris- 
 tian graces of patience under suffering, and 
 resignation to the will of God. 
 
 Yes, there are many enjoyments in the 
 chamber of sickness—enjoyments derived 
 from the absence of temptation, from proofs 
 of disinterested affection, and from the un- 
 speakable privilege of having the vanity of 
 earthly things, and the realities of the eternal 
 world, brought near, and kept continually in 
 view. How are we then made acquainted 
 with the hollowness of mere profession! 
 {low much that appeared to us plausible 
 and attractive when we mingled in society, 
 is now stripped of its false coloring, and 
 
 rendered repulsive and odious! while, on 
 
 the other hand, how much that was lightly 
 esteemed by the world in which we moved, 
 is discovered to be worthy of our admi- 
 ration and esteem! How much of human 
 love, where we most calculated upon finding 
 it, has escaped from our hold! but then, 
 how much is left to succor and console us, 
 from those upon whose kindness we feel to 
 have but little claim! 
 
 63 
 
 Experience is often said to be the only | 
 true teacher ; but illness often crowds an age | 
 of experience into the compass of a few short 
 days. Often while engaged in the active 
 avocations of life, involved in its contending | 
 interests, and led captive by its allurements, | 
 we wish in vain that a just balance could be 
 maintained between the value of the things 
 of time and of eternity. It is the greatest 
 privilege of illness, that, if rightly regarded, 
 it adjusts this balance, and keeps it true. 
 From the bed of sickness, we look back upon 
 the business, which, a short time ago, ab- 
 sorbed our very being. What is it then? 
 A mere struggle for the food and clothing of 
 a body about to mingle with the dust. We 
 look back at the pleasures we have left. 
 What are they? The sport of truant chil- 
 dren, when they should have been learning 
 to be wise and good. We look back upon 
 the objects which engaged our affections. 
 How is it? Have the stars all vanished 
 from our heaven? Have the flowers all 
 faded from our earth? How can it bet? 
 Alas! our affections have been misplaced. 
 We have not loved supremely only what 
 was lovely in the sight of God: and merci- 
 ful, most merciful is the warning voice, not 
 yet too late, to tell us that He who formed 
 the human heart, has an unquestionable 
 right to claim his own. 
 
 I am not one of those who would speak of 
 religion as especially calculated for the cham- 
 ber of sickness, and the bed of death; be- 
 cause I believe it is equally important to 
 choose religion as our portion in illness, as 
 in health—in the bloom of youth, as on the 
 border of the grave. I believe also, that in 
 reality, that being is in as awful a cohdition, 
 who lives on from day to day in the possess- 
 ion of all temporal blessings, without religion, 
 as he who pines upon a bed of suffering, 
 without it. But if the necessity of religion | 
 be the same, its consolations are far more 
 powerfully felt, when deprived by sickness of | 
 every other stay ; and often do the darkened | 
 chamber, and the weary couch, display such | 
 evidence of the power and the condescen- | 
 sion of Divine love, that even the stranger 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 acknowledges it is better to go the house of 
 mourning than of feasting. 
 
 It is when the feeble step has trod for the 
 last time upon nature’s verdant carpet, when 
 the dim eye has looked its last upon the 
 green earth and sunny sky, when the weary 
 body has almost ached and pined its last, 
 when human skill can do no more, and kind- 
 ness has offered its last relief—it is then, that 
 we see the perfect adaptation of the promises 
 of the gospel to feeble nature’s utmost need ; 
 and while we contemplate the depths of the 
 Redeemer’s love, and hear in anticipation the 
 welcome of angels to the pardoned sinner, 
 and see upon his faded lips the smile of ever- 
 lasting peace, we look from that solemn 
 scene once more into the world, and wonder 
 at the madness and the folly of its infatuated 
 slaves. 
 
 All these are privileges, if only to feel them 
 as amere spectator; and never ought such 
 scenes to be avoided on account of the pain- 
 ful sympathy which the sight of human suf- 
 fering naturally occasions. Young people 
 are apt to think it is not their business to 
 wait upon the sick, that their seniors are bet- 
 ter fitted for such service, that they shall 
 make some serious mistake, or create some 
 inconvenience by their want of knowledge ; 
 or at all events, they hold themselves ex- 
 cused. Yet is there many a sweet young 
 girl, who, in consequence of family affliction, 
 becomes initiated in these deep mysteries of 
 Christian charity, before her willing step has 
 lost the playful elasticity of childhood ; and 
 never did the maturer virtues of the. female 
 character appear less lovely from such pre- 
 cocious exercise. I should rather say, there 
 was a tenderness of feeling, and a power of 
 
 sympathy derived from early acquaintance . 
 
 with human suffering, which remains with 
 woman till the end of life, and constitutes 
 alike the charm of youth and the attraction 
 of old age. 
 
 I have dwelt long upon the privileges of 
 illness, both to the sufferer and her friends, 
 because I believe that all which is:noble, and 
 sweet, and patient, and disinterested in wo- 
 man’s nature, is often thus called forth; as 
 
 So .”"“"7—.’r-’-’-’--- —-— ren 
 
 well as all that is most encouraging in the 
 exemplification of the Christian character. 
 But I must again advert to ste 
 
 ‘* Woman in our hours of ease ;” 
 
 and here I am sorry to say, we sometimes 
 find a fretfulness and petulance under the in- 
 fliction of slight bodily ailments, which are as 
 much at variance with the moral dignity of 
 woman, as opposed to her religious influence. 
 
 The root of the evil, however, lies not so oft- | 
 
 en in her impatience, as in a deeper secret 
 of her nature. It lies most frequently in what 
 I am compelled to acknowledge as the beset- 
 
 ting sin of woman—her desire to be an ob- | 
 
 ject of attention. rom this desire, how 
 many little coughs, slight headaches, sud- 
 den pains, attacks of faintness, and symp- 
 toms of feebleness are complained of, which, 
 
 if alone, or in the company of those whose |, 
 
 attentions are not agreeable, would scarcely 
 occupy a thought. 
 such habits gain ground, and remain with 
 those who have indulged them in youth, 
 long after such complaints have ceased to 
 call forth a single kind attention, or to en- 
 gage a single patient ear. 
 
 Youth is the only time to prevent this habit 
 fixing itself upon the character ; and it might 
 be a wholesome truth for all <vomen to bear 
 in mind, that although politeness may some- 
 times compel their friends to appear to listen, 
 nothing is really so wearisome to others, as fre- 
 quentand detailed accounts of our own little ail- 
 ments. It is good, therefore, whenever temp- 
 tations arise to make these trifling grievances 
 the subject of complaint, to think of the poor, 
 and the really afflicted. It is good to visit 
 them also, so far as it may be suitable in 
 their seasons of trial, in order that we may 
 go home, ashamed before our families, and 
 ashamed in the sight of God, that our com- 
 paratively slight trials should excite a single 
 murmuring thought. 
 
 Besides, if there were no other check upon 
 these habitual complainers, surely the cheer- 
 fulness of home might have some effect; for 
 who can be happy seated beside a compan- 
 ion who is always in “excruciating pain,” or 
 
 Yet it is astonishing how | 
 
 ! 
 
BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 
 
 | who fancies herself so? ‘There are, besides, 
 many alleviations to temporary suffering, 
 
 which it is not only lawful, but expedient 
 | to adopt. Many interesting books may be 
 read, many pleasant kinds of work may be 
 done, during a season of slight indisposition ; 
 while on the other hand, every little pain is 
 made worse by dwelling upon it, and especial- 
 ly by doing nothing else. 
 
 The next consideration which occurs in 
 | connection with these views of health, is that 
 of temper ; and few young persons, I believe, 
 are aware how much the one is dependent 
 upon the other. Want of exercise, indiges- 
 tion, and many other causes originating in 
 the state of the body, have a powerful effect 
 in destroying the sweetness of the temper; 
 while habitual exercise, regular diet, and oc- 
 casional change of air, are among the most 
 certain means of restoring the temper from 
 any temporary derangement. 
 
 Still, there are constitutional tendencies of 
 | mind, as well as body, which seriously affect 
 the temper, and which remain with us to the 
 end of life, as our blessing or our bane; just 
 in proportion as they are overruled by our 
 own watchfulness and care, operating in 
 connection with the work of religion in the 
 heart. 
 
 It would require volumes, rather than 
 
 pages, to give any distinct analysis of tem- 
 per, so various are the characteristics it as- 
 sumes, so vast its influence upon social and 
 domestic happiness. We will, therefore, in 
 the present instance, confine our attention to 
 a few important facts, in connection with this 
 | subject, which it is of the utmost consequence 
 | that the young should bear in mind. 
 
 | In the first place, ill-temper should always 
 | be regarded as a disease, both in ourselves 
 || and others; and as such, instead of either 
 irritating or increasing it, we should rather 
 |} endeavor to subdue the symptoms of the 
 || disease by the most careful and unremitting 
 | efforts. A bad temper, although the most 
 pitiable of all infirmities, from the misery it 
 | entails upon its possessor, is almost invaria- 
 
 | bly opposed by harshness, severity, or con- 
 
 | tempt. It is true, that all symptoms of dis- 
 
 5 
 
 ease exhibited by a bad temper, have a strong 
 tendency to call forth the same in ourselves ; 
 
 65 
 
 but this arises in great measure from not }} 
 
 looking at the case as it really is. 
 or a relative, for instance, is afflicted with the 
 gout, how carefully do we walk past his foot- 
 stool, how tenderly do we remove every thing 
 
 If a friend | 
 
 which can increase his pain, how softly do | 
 we touch the affected part! And why should | 
 
 we not exercise the same kind feeling towards 
 
 a brother or a sister afflicted with a bad tem- } 
 
 per, which of all human maladies is unques- 
 tionably the greatest ? 
 
 I know it is difficult—nay, almost ifapossi- | 
 ble, to practise this forbearance towards a | 
 
 bad temper, when not allied to a generous 
 
 heart—when no atonement is afterwards of- | 
 fered for the pain which has been given, and | 
 when no evidence exists of the offender be- | 
 ing so much as conscious of deserving blame. | 
 But when concession is made, when tears of | 
 
 penitence are wept, and when, in moments 
 of returning confidence, that luckless tenden- 
 cy of temper is candidly confessed, and sin- 
 cerely bewailed ; when all the different acts 
 
 committed under its influence, are acknow- | 
 
 ledged to have been wrong, how complete 
 ought to be the reconciliation thus begun, and 
 
 how zealous our endeavors for the future to | 
 avert the consequences of this sad calamity! | 
 Indeed, if those who are not equally tempted | 
 
 to the sins of temper, and who think and 
 
 q 
 
 speak harshly of us for such transgressions, | 
 could know the agony they entail upon those | 
 
 who commit them—the yearning of an affec- 
 tionate heart towards a friend thus estranged 
 
 —the humiliation of a proud spirit after hav- 
 ing thus exposed its weakness—the bitter re- | 
 flection, that not oneof all those burning words | 
 
 we uttered can ever be recalled—that they 
 
 have eaten like a canker into some old at- | 
 
 tachment, and stamped with ingratitude the |} 
 
 aching brow, whose fever is already almost 
 
 aa 
 
 more than it can bear ;—oh! could.our.calm- |} 
 
 tempered friends become acquainted with all 
 this—with the tears and the prayers to.which 
 the overburdened soul gives vent, when no 
 eye seeth its affliction, surely they would pity 
 our infirmity ; and not only pity, but assist. 
 
 ; / 
 q 
 
 t 
 
a ae—aeeoom—_,0€0€0@0€0€0€—0059 
 
 66 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 when the secrets of all hearts shall be laid 
 open. Itis perhaps more to our present pur- 
 pose, to consider what is the effect upon oth- 
 ers, of encouraging wrong tempers in our- 
 selves. Young people are apt to think what 
 they do, of little importance, because they 
 are perhaps the youngest in the family, or at 
 least too young to have any influence. They 
 should remember that no one is too young to 
 be disagreeable, nor too insignificant to an- 
 noy. A fretful child may disturb the peace 
 of a whole household, and an ill-tempered 
 young woman carries about with her an at- 
 mosphere of repulsion wherever she goes. 
 The moment she enters a room, where a so- 
 cial circle are enjoying themselves, conversa- 
 tion either ceases or drags on heavily, as if a 
 stranger or an enemy were near; and kindly 
 thoughts, which the moment before would 
 have found frank and free expression, are 
 suppressed, from the instinctive feeling that 
 she can take no part in them. Each one of 
 the company, in short, feels the worse for her 
 presence, a sense of contraction seizes every 
 heart, a cloud falls upon every countenance ; 
 and so powerful are the sympathies of our 
 | nature, and so rapidly does that which is evil 
 extend its contaminating influence, ‘that all 
 this will sometimes be experienced, when not 
 a word has been spoken by the victim of ill- 
 temper. | 
 
 It is easy to perceive when most young 
 women are out of temper, even without the 
 | interchange of words. ‘The pouting lip, the 
 door shut with violence, the thread suddenly 
 snapped, the work twitched aside or thrown 
 down, are indications of the real state of the 
 mind, at least as unwise, as they are unlove- 
 ly. Others who are not guilty of these ab- 
 surdities, will render themselves still more 
 
 These, however, are among the deep things 
 of human ‘experience, never to be clearly re- 
 vealed, or fully understood, until that day 
 
 patience ; by conversing only upon humilia- 
 ting or unpleasant subjects, complaining in- 
 cessantly about grievances which all have 
 | equally to bear, prolonging disputes about the 
 
 merest trifles beyond all bounds of reason and 
 propriety ; and by finally concluding with a 
 direct reproach for some offence which had 
 far better have been spoken of candidly at 
 first. 3 
 
 tracing out the symptoms of this malady. 
 Suffice it that a naturally bad temper, or even 
 a moderate one badly disciplined, is the great- 
 est enemy to the happiness of a family which 
 can be admitted beneath any respectable roof || 
 —the greatest hindrance to social intercourse 
 —the most fatal barrier against moral and 
 religious improvement. 
 
 temper, if long encouraged, and thoroughly 
 
 | annoying, by a captiousness of conduct, most 
 difficult to bear with any moderate degree of 
 
 But there would be no end to the task of |} 
 
 Like all other evils incident to man, a bad 
 
 rooted in the constitution, becomes in time 
 impossible to be eradicated. In youth it is 
 comparatively easy to stem the rising tide of 
 sullenness, petulance, or passion; but when 
 the tide has been allowed to gain ground so 
 as to break down every barrier, until its des- 
 olating waters habitually overflow the soul, 
 no human power can drive them back, or 
 restore the beauty, freshness, and fertility 
 which once existed there. 
 
 No longer, then, let inexperienced youth 
 believe this tide of evil can be stayed at will. 
 The maniac may say, “I am now calm, I 
 will injure you no more:” yet, the frenzied 
 fit will come to-morrow, when he will turn 
 again and rend you. In the same way, the 
 victim of ungoverned temper may even beg 
 forgiveness for the past, and promise, with 
 the best intentions, to offend no more; but 
 how shall a daughter in her mood of kind- 
 ness heal the wound her temper has inflicted 
 on a mother’s heart, or convince her parent 
 it will be the last? How shall the woman, 
 whose temper has made desolate her house- 
 hold hearth, win back the peace and con- 
 fidence she has destroyed? How shall the 
 wife, though she would give all her bridal 
 jewels for that purpose, restore the links her . 
 temper has rudely snapped asunder in the 
 chain of conjugal affection t 
 
 No, there are no other means than those 
 adopted and pursued in youth, by which to 
 overcome this foe to temporal and eternal 
 
 a y 
 
BEAUTY, HEALTH, AND TEMPER. 
 
 happiness. 
 cult. 
 
 Nor let the task appear too diffi- 
 There is one curious fact in connection 
 with the subject, which it may be encourag- 
 ing to my young friends to remember. Stran- 
 gers never provoke us—at least, not in any 
 degree proportionate to the provocations of 
 our near and familiar connections. They 
 may annoy us by their folly, or stay too long 
 when they call, or call at inconvenient times ; 
 but how sweetly do we smile at all their re- 
 marks, how patiently do we bear all their al- 
 lusions, compared with those of our family 
 circle! ‘The fact is, they have less power 
 over us, and for this reason, because they 
 do not know us so well. Half the provoca- 
 tions we experience from common conver- 
 sation, and more than half the point of every 
 bitter taunt, arise out of some intended or 
 imagined allusion to what has been known 
 or supposed of us before. Ifa parent speaks 
 harshly to us in years of maturity, we think 
 he assumes too much the authority which 
 governed our childhood; if a brother would 
 correct our folly, we are piqued and morti- 
 fied to think how often he must have seen it; 
 if a sister blames us for any trifling error, we 
 know what her condemnation of our whole 
 conduct must be, if all our faults are blamed 
 in the same proportion. Thus it is that our 
 near connections have a hold upon us, which 
 strangers cannot have ; for, besides the cases 
 in which the offence is merely imagined, there 
 
 )} are but too many in which past folly or trans- 
 | gression is made the subject of present re- 
 
 proach. And thus the evil grows, as year 
 after year is added to the catalogue of the 
 past, until our nearest connections have 
 need of the utmost forbearance to avoid 
 touching upon any tender or forbidden 
 point. 
 
 Now, it is evident that youth must be com- 
 paratively exempt from this real or imagina- 
 ry source of pain; just in proportion as the 
 past is of less importance to them, and as 
 fewer allusions can be made to the follies or 
 the errors of their former lives. Thus the 
 
 season of youth has greatly the advantage 
 over that of maturer age, in cultivating that 
 evenness of temper which enables its pos- 
 
 67 
 
 sessor to pass pleasantly along the stream of 
 life, without unnecessarily ruffling its own 
 course, or that of others. 
 
 The next point we have to take into ac- 
 count in. the right government of temper, is 
 the important truth, that habitual cheerful- 
 ness is a duty we owe to our friends and to 
 society. We all have our little troubles, if 
 we choose to brood over them, and even 
 youth is not exempt; but the habit is easily 
 acquired of setting them aside for the sake 
 of others, of evincing a willingness to join in 
 general conversation, to smile at what is gen- 
 erally entertaining, and even to seek out sub- 
 jects for remark which are likely to interest 
 and please. We have no more right to in- 
 flict our moodiness upon our friends, than 
 we have to wear in their presence our soiled 
 or cast-off clothes; and, certainly, the latter 
 is the least insulting and disgraceful of the 
 two. 
 
 A cheerful temper—not occasionally, but 
 habitually cheerful—is a quality which no 
 wise man would be willing to dispense with 
 in choosing a wife. Itis like a good fire in 
 winter, diffusive and genial in its influence, 
 and always approached with a confidence 
 that it will comfort, and do us good. Atten- 
 tion to health is one great means of main- 
 taining this excellence unimpaired, and atten- 
 tion to household affairs is another. The 
 state of body which women call bilious, is 
 most inimical to habitual cheerfulness; and 
 that which girls call having nothing to do, 
 but which I should call idleness, is equally 
 so. Ina former part of this chapter, I have 
 strongly recommended exercise as the first 
 rule for preserving health ; but there is an 
 exercise in domestic usefulness, which, with- 
 out superseding that in the open air, is high- 
 ly beneficial to the health, both of mind and 
 body, inasmuch as it adds to other benefits, 
 the happiest of all sensations, that of hav- 
 ing rendered some assistance, or done some 
 good. 
 
 How the daughters of England—those who 
 have but few servants, or, perhaps, only one 
 —can sitin their fathers’ homes with folded 
 hands, when any great domestic movement 
 
 aul 
 
68 
 
 is going on, and not endeavor to assist, is a 
 mystery I have tried in vain to solve; espe- 
 | cially when, by so doing, they become habit- 
 ually listless, weary, and unhappy; and 
 when, on the other hand, the prompt and 
 willing domestic assistant is almost invaria- 
 bly distinguished by the characteristics of 
 energy and cheerfulness. Let me entreat my 
 young readers, if they ever feel a tendency 
 to causeless melancholy, if they are afflicted 
 with cold feet and headache, but, above all, 
 with impatience and irritability, so that they 
 can scarcely make a pleasant reply when 
 spoken to, let me entreat them to make trial 
 of the system I am recommending; not sim- 
 ply to run into the kitchen and trifle with 
 the servants, but to set about doing some- 
 thing that will add to the general comfort of 
 the family, and that will, at the same time, 
 relieve some member of that family of a por- 
 tion of daily toil. 
 
 I fear it is a very unromantic conclusion to 
 come to, but my firm conviction is, that half 
 the miseries of young women, and half their 
 ill tempers, might be avoided by habits of 
 domestic activity; because (I repeat the fact 
 again) there is no sensation more cheering 
 and delightful, than the conviction of having 
 been useful; and I have generally found 
 young people particularly susceptible of this 
 pleasure. 
 
 A willing temper, then, is the great thing 
 to be attained ; a temper that does not object, 
 | that does not resist, that does not hold itself 
 
 excused. A temper subdued to an habitual 
 | acquiescence with duty, is the only temper 
 
 worth calling good; and this may be the 
 portion of all who desire so great a blessing, 
 who seek it in youth, and who adopt the 
 only means of making it their own—watch- 
 fulness and prayer. 
 
 I have said nothing of the operation of love, 
 as it relates to the subject of this chapter; 
 but it must be understood to be pre-eminently 
 the life-spring of our best endeavors in the 
 regulation both of health and temper, since 
 none can fail in the slightest degree in either 
 of these points, without materially affecting 
 
 | the happiness of others. 
 
 SO LT 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL. 
 
 SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 
 
 -Society is often to the daughters of a 
 family, what business or a profession is to the 
 sons ; at least so far as regards the importance 
 attached to it, and the opportunity it affords 
 of failure or success. Society! what a ca- 
 pacious and dignified idea this word presents 
 to the girl just entering upon womanhood! 
 What a field for action and sensation! What 
 an arena for the display of all her accomplish- 
 ments! How much that is now done, thought, 
 and uttered, has society for its object! How 
 much is left undone, for the sake of so- 
 ciety! But let us pause a moment, and ask 
 what society is. Is it a community of tried 
 and trusted friends, united together by the 
 ties of perfect love? Listen to the remarks 
 of those, even of your own family, who re- | 
 turn from the evening party, or the morning 
 call. Is it a community of beings with whom 
 mind ‘is all in all, and intellectual improve- 
 ment the purpose for which they meet? 
 Observe the preparations that are made—the 
 dress, the furniture, the food, the expense 
 that is lavished upon these. Is it a commu- 
 nity who even love to meet, and who really 
 enjoy the social hours they spend together? 
 Ask them in what mood or temper they enter 
 upon the fatigues of the evening, or how often 
 they wish that some event would occur to 
 render their presence unnecessary. 
 
 There is, however, one class of beings, | 
 who generally go into society with no want of | 
 inclination, but who rather esteem no trouble 
 too great which is the means of bringing them | 
 in contact with it, or which enables them to 
 pass with credit the ordeal which society | 
 presents. This class of beings consists of 
 young women who have not had experience 
 enough to know what society really is, or 
 what is the place assigned to them by the 
 unanimous opinion of society, in the circles 
 with which they exchange visits. What an 
 event to them is an evening party! One 
 would think each of the young aspirants to 
 distinction expected to be the centre of a cir- 
 
SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 
 
 69 
 
 cle, so intense is the interest exhibited by 
 every act of preparation. The consequence 
 of all this, is a more than ordinary degree of 
 causeless depression on the following day, or 
 else an equal degree of causeless elevation, 
 arising perhaps out of some foolish attention, 
 or flattering remark, which has been repeat- 
 ed to half the ladies in the room. 
 
 Of all the passions which take possession 
 of the female breast, a passion for society is 
 one of the most inimical to domestic enjoy- 
 ment. Yet, how often does this exist in con- 
 nection with an amiable exterior! It is not 
 easy to say, whether we ought most to pity 
 or to blame a woman who lives for society— 
 a woman who reserves all her good spirits, 
 all her becoming dresses, her animated looks, 
 her interesting conversation, her bland be- 
 havior, her smiles, her forbearance, her gen- 
 tleness for society—what imposition does she 
 practise upon those who meet her there! 
 Follow the same individual home, she is im- 
 patient, fretful, sullen, weary, oppressed with 
 headache, uninterested in all that passes 
 around her, and dreaming only of the last 
 evening’s excitement, or of what may consti- 
 tute the amusement of the next; while the 
 mortification of her friends at home, is in- 
 creased by the contrast her behavior exhibits 
 in the two different situations, and her ex- 
 penditure upon comparative strangers, of 
 feelings to which they consider themselves as 
 having a natural and inalienable right. 
 
 As a cure for this passion, I would propose 
 a few remarks, founded both on observation 
 and experience. In the first place, then, we 
 seldom find that society affords us more 
 pleasing or instructive intercourse than awaits 
 us at home; and as to kindly feeling towards 
 ourselves, if not excited in our nearest con- 
 nections, how can we expect it from those 
 wno know us less, without having practised 
 upon them some deception? 
 
 In the next place, we ought never to forget 
 our own extreme insignificance in society. 
 Indeed, it may be taken as a rule with young 
 people in ordinary cases, that one half of the 
 persons they meet in society are not aware 
 of their having been present, nor even con- 
 
 scious of the fact of their existence; that 
 another half of the remaining number have 
 seen them without any favorable impression ; 
 that another half of those who still remain, 
 have seen them with rather unfavorable feel- 
 ings than otherwise ; while, of those who re- 
 main beyond these, the affectionate feelings, 
 indulgence, and cordial interest, can be as 
 nothing, compared with what they might en- 
 joy at home. 
 
 “How can this be?’ exclaims the young 
 visitor, ‘ when so many persons look pleased 
 to see me, when so many invitations are sent 
 me, when some persons pay me such flatter- 
 ing compliments, and others appear so de- 
 cidedly struck with my appearance?” JI 
 should be truly sorry to do any thing to cool 
 down the natural warmth and confidence of 
 youth ; but, in such cases, my rule for judg- 
 ing is a very simple one, depending upon the 
 result of the following inquiries :—What is 
 the proportion of persons you have noticed in 
 the same company? What is the proportion 
 of those by whom you have felt yourself re- 
 pelled? What is the proportion of those you 
 have really admired? and the proportion of 
 those to whom you have been attracted by 
 sympathy, or affection? Ask yourselves 
 these questions, and remember, that whatever 
 may be the flattering aspect of society, you 
 have no right to expect to receive, in admi- 
 ration, or good-will, more than you give. 
 
 There is another class of young women, 
 who appear to think the only reason for their 
 being invited in society, is, that another place 
 may be occupied, another chair filled, and 
 another knife and fork employed ; for as to 
 any effort they make in return for the com- 
 pliment of inviting them, they might, to all 
 intents and purposes, have been at home. 
 Now, where persons cannot, or dare not, con- 
 verse—or where that which alone deserves 
 the name of conversation is not suited to the 
 habits or the ways of thinking of those who 
 have been at the trouble of inviting guests— 
 Iam a great advocate for cheerful, easy, so- 
 cial chat; provided only, it gives place the 
 instant that something better worth listening 
 to is commenced. ‘That all ingenious, warm- 
 
70 
 
 hearted, unaffected young women, can chat, 
 and some of them very pleasantly too, wit- 
 “ness their moments of unrestrained confidence 
 in the company of their friends. There is, 
 then, no excuse for those who go into com- 
 pany, and return from it, without having con- 
 tributed in any way to the enjoyment of the 
 party they had been invited to meet. 
 
 All young persons, however insignificant, 
 must occasionally meet the eye of the mis- 
 tress of the house where they are visiting, 
 and then is the time to say something expres- 
 sive of interest in her, or hers; such as in- 
 quiring for some absent member of the family: 
 or, at any rate, proving in some way or other, 
 that she and her household have interests 
 with which you are not wholly unacquaint- 
 ed. 
 
 One of the most genuine, and at the same 
 time one of the most pleasing compliments 
 ever paid, is that of proving to those we visit, 
 or receive as Visitors, that we have been pre- 
 viously aware of their existence. There are 
 many delicate ways of doing this; and while 
 it injures no one, it seldom fails to afford a 
 certain degree of gratification. Social chat, 
 is that which sets people at liberty to talk on 
 their favorite subjects, whatever they may be. 
 In society, too, we meet with a large propor- 
 tion of persons, who want listeners ; and the 
 young, who cannot be supposed to have 
 amassed so large a sum of information as 
 others, ought to consider themselves as pe- 
 culiarly called upon to fill this respectable de- 
 partment in society, remembering at the same 
 time, that the office ofa good listener can never 
 be that of a perfectly silent one. There must 
 be occasionally an animated and intelligent re- 
 sponse, intervals of attentive and patient hear- 
 ing, with a succession of questions, earnestly, 
 but modestly put, and arising naturally out 
 of the subject, to render the part of the listener 
 of any value in general conversation. The 
 vapid response effectually repels; the flatand 
 uninterested expression of countenance soon 
 wearies ; and the question not adapted to the 
 subject cuts short the narration. 
 
 Let me not, however, be understood to re- 
 
 commend the mere affectation of interest, or 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 attention; though perfectly aware that such 
 affectation is the current coin, by which the 
 good-will of society is generally purchased. 
 My view of the case is this—that the absence 
 of vanity and selfishness in our own feelings, 
 and benevolence towards others, will induce 
 a real interest in every thing which concerns 
 them, at least, so far as it may occupy the 
 conversation of an evening; and are we not 
 as much bound in duty to be social, frank, 
 and talkative to little-minded and common- 
 place persons, provided they have been at 
 the pains to invite and to entertain us, as if 
 they were more intellectual, or more dis- 
 tinguished? ‘Besides, how often do we find 
 in conversation with such persons, that they 
 are able to give us much useful information, 
 which individuals of a higher grade of intel- 
 lect would never have condescended to give ; 
 and, after all, there is a vast sum of practi- 
 cal and moral good effected by persons of 
 this description, whose unvarnished details 
 of common things afford us clearer views of 
 right and wrong, than more elaborate state- 
 ments. 
 
 I have said, already, that the indulgence of 
 mere chat should never «be carried too far. 
 In the society of intelligent and enlightened 
 men, nothing can be more at variance with 
 good taste, than for women to occupy the at- 
 tention of the company with their own little 
 affairs ; but especially when serious conversa- 
 tion is carried on, no woman of right feeling 
 would wish to interrupt it with that which is 
 less important. Nor ought this humble 
 substitute for conversation, which I have re- 
 commended to those who cannot do better, 
 or appreciate what is higher, on any occasion 
 to be considered as the chief end at which to 
 aim in society. Women possess pre-emi- 
 nently the power of conversing well, if this 
 power is rightly improved and exercised ; 
 but as this subject is one which occupies so 
 large a portion of a previous work,* I will 
 only add, that my opinion remains the same 
 as therein expressed, that the talent of con. 
 versation is one which it is woman’s especial 
 
 *'The Women of England. 
 
duty to cultivate, because the duties of con- 
 versation are among those for which she is 
 peculiarly responsible. 
 
 When we think of what society might be 
 to the young, and to the old, it becomes a 
 painful task to speak to the inexperienced, 
 the trusting, and the ardent, of what it is. 
 When we think of the seasons of mental and 
 spiritual refreshment, which might thus be 
 enjoyed, the interchange of mutual trust and 
 kindness, the awakening of new ideas, the 
 correction of old ones, the sweeping away of 
 | prejudice, and the establishment of truth, the 
 general enlargement of thought, the extension 
 
 | of benevolence, and the increase of sympathy, 
 | confidence, and good faith, which might thus. 
 
 | be brought about among the families of man- 
 || kind; we long to send forth the young and 
 
 || the joyous spirit, buoyant with the energies. 
 
 of untried life, and warm with the generous 
 
 flow of unchecked feeling, to exercise each. 
 | growing faculty, and prove each genuine im- | 
 
 pulse, upon the fair and flowery field which 
 || society throws open, alike for action, for feel- 
 | ing, and for thought. 
 
 But, alas! such is society as it now ex-_ 
 
 | ists, that no mother venturing upon this ex- 
 | periment, would receive back to the peaceful 
 nést the wing so lately fledged unruffled by 
 its flight, the snowy breast unstained, or the 
 beating heart as true as when it first went 
 forth, elated with the glowing hope of finding 
 in society what it never yet was rich enough 
 to yield. 
 
 An old and long-established charge is 
 brought against society for its flattery and its 
 falsehood, and we go on from year to year 
 complaining in the same strain; those who 
 have expected most, and have been the most 
 deceived, complaining in the bitterest terms. 
 But, suppose the daughters of England should 
 . now determine that they would bring about 
 | a reformation in society, how easily would 
 this be done! for, whether they know it or 
 not, they have the social morals of their coun- 
 try in their power. If the excellent, but 
 humble maxim, “Let each one mend one,” 
 were acted up to in this case, we should have 
 no room left to find fault with others, for all 
 
 —— 
 
 SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 
 
 71 | 
 
 would be too busily and too well occupied in | 
 examining their own motives, and regulating 
 their own conduct, to make any calculations 
 upon what might be done or left undone by 
 others. 
 
 In the first place, each young woman act- 
 ing upon this rule, would live for home, 
 trusting that society would take care of its. 
 own interests. She would, however, enter 
 into it as a social duty, rather than a personal |. 
 gratification, and she would do this with kind |} 
 and generous feelings, determined to think 
 the best she could of her fellow-creatures, © 
 and where she could not understand their } 
 motives, to give them credit for good ones. 
 She would mix with society, not for the pur- 
 pose of shining before others, but of adding 
 her share to the general enjoyment; she 
 would consider every one whom she met 
 there, as having equal claims upon her at- 
 tentions; but her sympathies would be es- 
 pecially called forth by the diffident, the un- 
 attractive, or the neglected. Above all, she 
 would remember that for the opportunities 
 thus afforded her, of doing or receiving good, } 
 she would have to render an account asa 
 Christian, and a woman; that for every 
 wrong feeling not studiously checked, for 
 every falsehood however trifling, or calcula- 
 ted to please, for every moral truth kept 
 back or disguised for want of moral courage 
 to divulge it, for every uncharitable insinua- | 
 tion, for every idle or amusing jest at the ex- || 
 pense of religious principle, and for every 
 chance omitted of supporting the cause of 
 virtue, however unpopular, or discounte- 
 nancing vice, however well received, her sit- 
 uation was that of a responsible being, of 
 whom an account of all the good capable of 
 being derived from opportunities like these, 
 would be required. 
 
 Need we question for a moment whether 
 such are the feelings, and such the resolu- 
 tions, of those who enter into society in gener- 
 al? We doubt not but some are thus influ- 
 enced, and that they have their reward; but 
 with others, old associations and old habits 
 are strong, and they think that one can do 
 nothing against the many; and thus they | 
 
72 
 
 wait, and wish things were otherwise, but 
 never set about the reformation themselves. 
 Yet, surely these are times for renovated ef- 
 fort on the part of women, to whom the in- 
 terests of society belong ; for let men rule, as 
 they unquestionably have a right to do, in 
 the senate, the camp, and the court; it is 
 women whose sentiments and feelings give 
 tone to society, and society which in its turn 
 influences the sentiments and feelings of 
 mankind. Each generation, as it arises, ma- 
 tures, and consolidates into another series of 
 social inter¢éourse, bears the impress which 
 society has stamped upon the last; and so 
 powerful is the influence thus derived, that 
 the laws of a nation would be useless in de- 
 fence of virtue, if the voice of society was 
 raised against it. 
 
 How often has the tender and anxious mo- 
 ther had to deplore this influence upon the 
 minds of her children! Until they mingled 
 with society, they were respectful, attentive, 
 and obedient to her injunctions, confiding im- 
 plicitly in the rectitude and the reasonable- 
 ness of her requirements. But society soon 
 taught them that the views of their parents 
 were unenlightened, old-fashioned, or absurd ; 
 that even the motives for enforcing them 
 might not be altogether pure; and that none 
 who mixed in good society, ought to submit 
 to regulations so childish and humiliating. 
 
 If then, such be the influence of society, 
 how important is it that so powerful an agent 
 should be engaged on the side of virtue and 
 of truth! And that it already is so in many 
 most important cases, I acknowledge, to the 
 honor of my country, believing that the gen- 
 eral tone of society is highly favorable to that 
 high moral standard, for which England is 
 pre-eminent over every nation of the world. 
 i allude particularly to the preservation of the 
 character of woman from the slightest taint. 
 
 The rules, or rather the opinions of society, 
 
 as to what is correct or incorrect in female 
 conduct, extending down to the most minute 
 points of behavior, are sometimes considered 
 to be too strict, and even rebelled against by 
 high-spirited ignorant young women as being 
 too severe. But let no one, in her blindness 
 
 ee ee EN SL Pea I Tay i ce A OP 
 
 or temerity, venture upon the slightest trans- 
 gression of these rules, because in her young 
 wisdom she sees no cause for their existence. 
 Society has good reasons for planting this 
 friendly hedge beside the path of woman, and 
 the day will come when she will be thankful 
 —truly thankful that her own conduct, even 
 in minute and apparently trifling matters, was 
 not left in early life to the decision of her 
 own judgment, or the guidance of her own 
 will. 
 
 It ought rather to be the pride of every 
 English woman, that such are the conditions 
 of society in her native land, that whether 
 motherless or undisciplined in her domestic 
 lot, she cannot become a member of good so- 
 ciety, or at least retain her place there, with- 
 out submitting to restrictions; which, while 
 they deprive her of no real gratification, are 
 at once the safeguard of her peace, the sup- 
 port of her moral dignity, and the protection 
 of her influence as a sister, a wife, a mother, 
 and a friend. 
 
 Let us then be thankful to society for the 
 good it has done, and is doing, to thousands 
 who have perhaps no watchful eye at home, 
 no warning voice to tell them how far to go, 
 and when to go no further. Nor can we for 
 a moment hesitate to yield our assent to these 
 restrictions imposed upon our sex, when we 
 look at the high moral standing of the women 
 of England, and think how much the tone of 
 society has to do with the maintenance of 
 their true interests. 
 stop here. 
 
 Let us not, however, 
 If there is so much that is good 
 in society, why should there not be more? 
 Why should there still remain the trifling, the 
 slander, the envy, the low suspicion, the false- 
 hood, the flattery, which ruffle and disfigure 
 the surface of society, and render it too much 
 like a treacherous ocean, on which no well- 
 wisher to the young would desire to trust an 
 untried bark ? 
 
 A feeling of moral dignity taken with us in- 
 to society, would be a great preservative 
 against much of this; because it would lift 
 us out of the littleness of low observations, 
 and petty cavillings about dress and manners. 
 A spirit of love would do more, extending 
 
 a an Ee a MN INT, MS OR) re | 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
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through all the different channels of forbear- 
 ance, benevolence, and mutual trust. But 
 a Christian spirit would do still more; _be- 
 cause it would embrace the whole law of love, 
 at the same time that it would impress the 
 seal of truth upon all we might venture 
 to say ordo. Thus might a great moral ref- 
 ormation be effected, and effected by the 
 young—by young women too, and effected 
 without presumption, and without display ; 
 for the humble and unobtrusive working out 
 of these principles, would be as much at va- 
 riance with ostentation, as they would be fa- 
 vorable to the cultivation of all that is estima- 
 ble in the female character, both at home and 
 abroad. 
 
 One of the greatest drawbacks to the good 
 influence of society, is the almost unrivalled 
 power of fashion upon the female mind. 
 Wherever civilized society exists, fashion ex- 
 ercises her all-pervading influence. All stoop 
 to it, more or less, and appear to esteem it a 
 merit to do so; while a really fashionable wo- 
 man, though both reprobated and ridiculed, 
 has an influence in society which is little less 
 than absolute. Yet, if we would choose out 
 the most worthless, the most contemptible, 
 and the least efficient of moral agents, it would 
 be the slave of fashion. 
 
 Say the best we can of fashion, it is only an 
 imaginary or conventional rule, by which a 
 certain degree of order and uniformity is 
 maintained ; while the successive and fre- 
 quent variations in this rule, are considered 
 to be the means of keeping in constant exer- 
 cise our arts and manufactures. I am not 
 political economist enough to know whether 
 | the same happy results might not be brought 
 about by purer motives, and nobler means ; 
 but it has always appeared to me one of 
 the greatest of existing absurdities, that a 
 whole community of people, differing in com- 
 plexion, form, and feature, as widely as the 
 same species can differ, should not only de- 
 sire to wear precisely the same kind of dress, 
 but should often labor, strive, and struggle, 
 deceive, envy, and cheat, and spend their own 
 substance, and often more than they can law- 
 fully call their own—to do what? To obtain 
 
 Loge ee 
 Ss eee 
 
 SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 
 
 a dress, which is to them most unbecoming, 
 or an article of furniture wholly unsuited to 
 themselves and their establishment. 
 
 My own idea, and I believe it is founded | 
 upon a long-cherished, and perhaps too ar- 
 dent admiration of personal beauty, is, that 
 fashion ought to favor all which is most be- 
 coming. Itis true, we should at first be great- 
 ly ata loss to know what was becoming, be- 
 cause we should have the power and the pre- 
 judice of fashion to contend with ; but there 
 can be no doubt that individual, as well as 
 public taste, would be improved by such ex- 
 ercise, and that our: manufactures would in 
 the end be equally benefited, though for some 
 
 time it might be difficult to calculate upon 
 the probable demand. Nor can I think that 
 female vanity would be more encouraged 
 than it now is, by thus consulting personal 
 and relative fitness; because the young wo- 
 man who now goes into company fashiona- 
 bly disfigured, believes herself to be quite as 
 beautiful as if she was really so. Neither can 
 I see that we are not bound to study how to 
 make the best of our appearance, for the sake 
 of our friends, as well as how to make the 
 best eof our manners, our furniture, and our 
 food. 
 
 Fashion, however, never takes this into 
 account. According to her arbitrary law, the 
 woman of sallow complexion must wear the 
 same color as the Hebe; the contracted or 
 misshapen forehead must be laid as bare as 
 that which displays the fairest page of beau- 
 ty; the form with square and awkward shoul- 
 ders, must wear the same costume as that 
 which boasts the contour of the Graces; and 
 oh! most pitiful of all, old age must be 
 “ pranked up’’ in the light drapery, the flow- 
 ers, and the gauds of youth! In addition to 
 all this, each one, as an indispensable requi- 
 site, must possess a waist considerably below 
 the dimensions which are consistent either 
 with symmetry or health. 
 
 It will be an auspicious era in the experi- 
 ence of the daughters of England, when they © 
 shall be convinced, that the Grecians had a 
 higher standard of taste in female beauty, 
 than that of the shopkeepers and dressma- 
 
 t 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 I NE 
 
 kers of London. They will then be willing | 
 to believe, that to be within the exact rule of 
 proportion, is as important a deviation from 
 perfect beauty, as to be beyond it; and that 
 nothing which destroys the grace of easy and 
 natural movement, which deprives any bodi- 
 ly function of its necessary exercise, which 
 robs the youthful cheek of its bloom, or, in 
 short, which ungratefully throws back from 
 our possession the invaluable blessing of 
 health, can be consistent with the good taste 
 or right feeling of an amiable, intelligent, or 
 rational woman. 
 
 These remarks are applicable, in their full- 
 est force, to every deviation which is sanc- 
 tioned by fashion, from the strict and holy 
 law of modesty and decorum. And of this 
 most injurious tendency of fashion, how in- 
 sidious is every encroachment, yet how cer- 
 tain its effect upon the female mind! It is 
 no uncommon thing to hear women express 
 the utmost abhorrence of the costume of 
 some old portrait, who, in the course of a 
 few years, perhaps months, are induced by 
 fashion to adopt, with unblushing satisfac- 
 tion, an equally, or more objectionable dress. 
 
 The young girl cannot too scrupulously 
 shroud her modest feelings from the unspa- 
 ring test of fashion. The bloom of modesty 
 is soon rubbed off by vulgar contact; but 
 what is thus lost to the young female can 
 never be restored. And let her look to the 
 risk she incurs. What is it? On the one 
 hand, to be thought a little less fashionable 
 than her friends and neighbors—on the other, 
 to be thought a little more exposed than a del- 
 icate woman ought to be. Is there any com- 
 parison between the two? Or is there one 
 of the daughters of England, who would not 
 rather be known to choose the former? 
 
 If possessed of any genuine feeling on 
 these important points, a young woman will 
 know by a kind of instinct, that a bare shoul- 
 der protruding into sight, is neither a delicate 
 nor a lovely object; that a dress, either so 
 made, or so put on, as not tolook secure and 
 neat, is, to say the least of it, in bad taste; 
 and that the highest standard at which a 
 
 to dress, is, that it should be becoming, and 
 not conspicuous. In order to secure this 
 last point of excellence, it is unquestionably 
 
 necessary to conform in some measure to the 
 
 fashion of the times in which we live, and 
 the circle of society in which we move; yet, 
 surely this may be done to an extent suffi- 
 cient to avoid the charge of singularity, with- 
 out the sacrifice either of modesty or good 
 taste. 
 
 Whatever may be the beneficial influence 
 of fashion upon the interests of the country 
 at large, its effects upon individual happiness 
 are injurious in proportion to their extent ; 
 and in what region of the world, or among 
 what grade of humanity, has not this idol of 
 the gilded shrine, this divinity of lace and 
 ribbons, wielded the sceptre of a sovereign, 
 and asserted her dominion over mankind? 
 All bow before her, though many of her sub- 
 jects disclaim her title, and profess to despise 
 her authority. Nor is her territory less ex- 
 tensive, because her empire is one of trifles. 
 From the ermine of the monarch to the san- 
 dal of the clown ; from the bishop’s lawn, to 
 the itinerant’s*cravat; from the hero’s man- 
 tle, to the mechanic’s apron; it is fashion 
 alone which regulates the form, the quality, 
 and the cost. 
 
 Fashion is unjustly spoken of as presiding 
 only in the festive dance, the lighted hall, the 
 crowded court. Would that her influence 
 were confined to these alone! but, alas! we 
 find her in the most sedate assemblies, cool- 
 ing down each tint of coloring that else might 
 glow too warmly, smoothing off excrescences, 
 
 and rounding angles to one general uniformi- | 
 
 ty of shape and tone. Her task, however, is 
 but a short one here, and she passes on 
 through all the busy haunts of life, neglect- 
 ing neither high nor low, nor rich nor poor, 
 until she enters the very sanctuary, and bows 
 before the altar, not only walking with the 
 multitude who keep holy day, but bending in 
 sable sorrow over the last and dearest friend 
 committed to the tomb. Yes, there is some- 
 thing monstrous in the thought, that we can- 
 not weep for the dead, but fashion must dis- 
 
 rightly-minded woman can aim with regard | guise our grief; and that we cannot stand 
 
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 a. 
 
 ; Tonge TN 
 
 Gt t/. 
 
 Z 
 Up 
 
 fe 
 
 Lib 
 
 WA 
 
 A 
 
 De! Yt tip 
 
 J Yi 
 
 Md 
 
 Mie? 
 
 V), 
 OL 
 
—————- Se = 
 ot, SESS: eer oS a Se es Se ee 
 
 SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 75 
 
 before the altar, and pronounce that solemn 
 vow, which the deep heart of woman alone 
 can fully comprehend, but fashion must be 
 especially consulted there. 
 
 Yet worse even than all this, is the influ- 
 ence which our love of fashion has upon our 
 servants, and upon the poor. Every Chris- 
 tian woman sees and deplores the evil, and 
 many wholesome restrictions are laid upon 
 poor girls, in their attendance at Sunday- 
 schools, and other establishments for their 
 instruction ; but are not the plans most fre- 
 quently adopted for the correction of this evil, 
 like telling little children at table that good 
 things are not safe for them, yet eating them 
 ourselves, and making much of them too, as 
 if they were the greatest treat ? 
 
 Christians, I believe, will find they have 
 much to give up yet, before the cause of 
 Christ will prosper as they wish it in our 
 native land. Never will the young servant 
 cease to walk the streets with pride and sat- 
 isfaction in the exhibition of her newly-pur- 
 chased and fashionable attire, so long as she 
 sees the young ladies, in the family she 
 serves, make it their greatest object to be 
 fashionably dressed. They may say, and 
 with some justice, that she has no right to 
 regulate her conduct by their rule ; they may 
 reason with, and even reprove her too; but 
 neither reasoning nor reproof will have the 
 power to correct, so long as example weighs 
 down the opposite scale. The vanity, the 
 weakness of woman is the same in the kitch- 
 en as in the drawing-room; and if fashion is 
 omnipotent in one, we cannot expect it to be 
 powerless in the other. 
 
 The question then has come to this: shall 
 we continue to compete with our servants in 
 dress, now that excess has become an evil; 
 or shall we endeavor, for their sakes as well 
 as our own, to compete with them in self- 
 
 denial, and in courage to do right? How 
 
 can we pause—how can we hesitate in such 
 a choice? Our decision once made on this 
 important point, we shall soon find that fash- 
 
 ion has been with us, as well as with them, a 
 
 hard mistress. Yes, fashion has often de- 
 manded of us the only sum of money we had 
 
 been able to lay by for the needy poor; 
 while with them it has wrung the father’s 
 scanty pittance from his hand, to supply the 
 daughter with the trappings of her own dis- 
 grace. Fashion with us has often set on fire 
 the flame of envy, and embittered the shafts 
 of ridicule ; while with them: it has been a 
 fruitful source of deceit, dishonesty, and 
 crime. Fashion with us has often broken 
 old connections, made us ashamed of valua- 
 ble friends, and proud of those whose friend- 
 ship was our bane; while with them it has 
 been the means of introducing the young 
 and the unwary to the companionship of the 
 treacherous and the depraved. 
 
 I have said that fashion is a hard mistress: 
 when we contemplate some scenes exhibited, 
 not to the eye of the stranger, but within the 
 circle of private families in this prosperous 
 and enlightened country, we are often led to 
 doubt, whether its boasted happiness is really 
 so universal as patriot poets and patriot ora- 
 tors would teach us to believe. There is a 
 state of things existing behind the scenes in 
 many English homes, an under-current be- 
 neath the fair surface of domestic peace, to 
 which belong some of the most pressing anx- 
 ieties, the darkest forebodings, and the bit- 
 terest reflections of which the human mind is 
 capable, and all arising out of the great na- 
 tional evil of competing with our neighbors 
 in the luxuries and elegances of life, so as to 
 be living constantly up to the extent of our 
 pecuniary means, and too frequently beyond 
 them. 
 
 It is not likely that young women should 
 understand this evil in its full extent, or be 
 aware of the many sad consequences result- 
 ing from it, but they do understand that it is 
 not necessity, nor comfort, nor yet respecta- 
 bility, which makes them press upon their 
 parents the often-repeated demand for money, 
 where there is none to spare. No; it is 
 fashion, the tyrant-mistress upon whose ser- 
 vice they have entered, who calls upon them 
 to be dressed in the appointed livery of all 
 her slaves; and thus they wring a father’s 
 heart with sorrow, perhaps deprive him of 
 the necessary comforts of old age; or they 
 
76 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 {| send away unpaid a poor and honest trades- 
 
 man, because they cannot, “absolutely ¢an-— 
 
 not,” appear in company with an unfashion- 
 able dress. 
 
 Now, does it never occur to the amiable, 
 and the affectionate, that a particular color 
 or form of dress is hardly worth a parent’s 
 heartache? I know it does; and they feel 
 : sorry sometimes to be thus the cause of what 
 they would persuade themselves was unne- 
 cessary pain. But fashion is a cruel, as 
 well as a hard mistress ; and she tells them 
 that, despite the remonstrances of parental 
 love, despite the legal claims of those whose 
 need is greater than their own, despite the 
 stain upon their father’s house and name, if 
 found unable to discharge his lawful debts, 
 her rule is absolute, and she must be obeyed. 
 Yes, I know it does come home to the hearts 
 of the feeling and the kind, to make these 
 frequent and these urgent applications, where 
 they know that the pecuniary means of the 
 family are small; and sometimes they do try 
 to go forth into company again, with a dress 
 not cut according to the newest mode. But 
 fashion is revengeful, as she is cruel; and 
 she turns upon them with the ridicule of 
 gayer friends, and asks whether the garb 
 they wear was the costume of the ark ; and, 
 instantly, all that is noble, and generous, and 
 disinterested in their nature, sinks, and they 
 become subject, perhaps, to as much real 
 suffering for the time, as if they had destroyed 
 a mother’s peace, or involved a father in pe- 
 cuniary difficulty. 
 
 But let them not be discouraged at thus 
 being deprived for an instant of moral dig- 
 nity, and moral power. The better feelings 
 of their nature will rally, the vitality of higher 
 principles will revive, if they will but make 
 a stand against the enemy ; or, rather, if they 
 will but reflect, that fashion, under whose 
 tyranny they are quailing, is, in reality, an 
 enemy, and not a friend. She is an enemy, 
 because she has incited them to much evil, 
 and to no good. She is an enemy, because 
 when they sink into poverty or distress, led 
 on by her instigation, she immediately for- 
 sakes, and leaves them to their fate. Fashion 
 
 never yet was on the side of suffering, of sor- 
 
 row, or of want. Her favorite subjects are 
 the successful, the arrogant, the vain-glorious ; 
 the objects of her contempt are the humble, 
 the afflicted, and the poor. 
 
 Let the young, then, bear about with them 
 the remembrance of this fact, that there are 
 strong influences which obtain even in good 
 society, but which are not really to be weighed 
 in the balance against the minutest fraction 
 of Christian duty ; and that fashion, although 
 approved, and even courted by all classes 
 and denominations of mankind, and present, 
 by general invitation, at all places of public 
 resort, even on occasions the most sacred 
 and solemn, so far from having part or lot in 
 any thing pertaining to religion, can only dis- 
 play the symbols of her triumph in the house 
 of prayer, as a badge of human weakness, 
 and a proof that our follies and infirmities 
 are with us even there. 
 
 Beyond the love of fashion, which is com- 
 mon to all classes of society, there some- 
 times exists in the female breast a passion of 
 a deeper and still more dangerous nature, 
 which society has a powerful tendency to 
 call forth; I mean the love of distinction. 
 In man, this passion is ambition. In woman, 
 it is a selfish desire to stand apart from the 
 many ; to be something of, and by, herself; 
 to enjoy what she does enjoy, and to appro- 
 priate the tribute which society offers her, 
 distinct from the sisterhood to which she be- 
 longs. Of such women it may truly be said, 
 “they have their reward.” __ 
 
 The first and most frequent aim to which 
 this passion directs itself, is to be the idol of 
 society ; which is synonymous with being the 
 butt of ridicule, and the mock of envy, to all 
 who witness her pretensions, especially to 
 all who have failed in the same career. No 
 sooner does a woman begin to feel herself 
 the idol of society, than she finds around her 
 daily path innumerable temptations, of which 
 she had never dreamed before. Her exalted 
 position is maintained, not by the universal 
 suffrage of her friends, for at least one half 
 
 of them would pluck her down if they were | 
 
 able ; but by. the indefatigable exercise of her 
 
 \ 
 
 i 
 
 | 
 
 a Se AS 
 
ingenuity in the way of evading, stooping, 
 conciliating, and sometimes deceiving; as 
 well as by a continued series of efforts to be 
 cheerful when depressed, witty when abso- 
 Jutely dull, and animated, brilliant, and amu- 
 sing, when disappointed, weary, or distressed. 
 
 When we think that all this must be gone 
 through, evening after evening, in the same 
 company, as well as among strangers, and 
 without excitement as well as with, in order 
 to prevent the title of the occupant of that 
 distinguished place from being disputed, we 
 are led to exclaim, that the miner, the con- 
 vict, and the slave have an easier and a hap- 
 pier lot than hers. Nor is this all. The 
 very eminence on which she stands, renders 
 all her faults and failures so much the more 
 conspicuous ; while’it enables every stander- 
 by to test the validity of her pretensions, and 
 to triumph over every flaw. 
 
 What a situation for a woman!—for a 
 young, affectionate, trusting, and simple- 
 hearted woman! No, never yet was sim- 
 plicity of heart allied to ambition. And the 
 woman who aspires to be the idol of society, 
 must be satisfied to give up this fair hand- 
 
 coronet—this white rose from her wreath. 
 When a woman’s simplicity of heart is gone, 
 she is no longer safe as a friend, faithful as a 
 sister, or tender and true as a wife. But as 
 a mother! nature revolts from the thought, 
 that infant weakness should be cradled in the 
 bosom whose simplicity is gone. 
 
 Another form which the love of distinction 
 assumes, is that of singularity. I have al- 
 ready said much on the subject of good 
 taste, to show that it holds an important 
 place among the excellences of woman, so 
 much so, as almost to supply the want of 
 judgment, where that quality is deficient. 
 
 Nothing, however, can more effectually prove 
 the absence of good taste in women, than to 
 be singular by design. Many are so consti- 
 tuted as to be unavoidably singular; but 
 even this is only reconciled by their friends 
 on the ground that they would lose much in 
 originality and strength of character, by study- 
 
 ing to be more like the generality of women. 
 
 SOCIETY, FASHION, AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 
 
 maid from her train—this pearl from her. 
 
 77 
 
 One of the most wholesome and effectual 
 checks upon this juvenile and ill-judged de- 
 sire*to be singular, might be derived from the 
 fact, that singularity in woman invariably 
 excites remarks, that such remarks almost 
 as invariably degenerate into scandal, and 
 that scandal always destroys good influence. 
 However innocent a woman may be, how 
 much soever she may desire to be useful to 
 others, the fact of her being the subject of scan- 
 dal effectually destroys her power ; for no one 
 likes to be dictated to by a person of whom 
 strange things are spoken ; and the agent of 
 Christian benevolence is always less efficient, 
 for being generally considered odd. Still, if 
 the world would pause here, all might be . 
 well. But our oddities, while they provoke 
 the laughter of the gay, seem unaccountably 
 to have the effect of awakening the anger of 
 the grave; so that we not unfrequently find 
 persons more severely reflected upon for 
 comparatively innocent peculiarities, than for 
 acts of real culpability. 
 
 A repetition of such reflections and injuri- 
 ous remarks passing through society, upon 
 the principle of a snow-ball over a drifted 
 plain, obtains in time a sort of bad name, or 
 questionable character, for the individual 
 against whom they are directed, which no 
 explanation can do any thing to clear away ; 
 because founded on facts of so singular a 
 nature, that few people understand how, in 
 the common course of things, they could 
 have happened, and consequently few have 
 charity enough to believe they could origi- 
 nate in any thing but evil. It is thus that the 
 character of woman so often suffers unjustly 
 from her oddities. Strangers cannot under- 
 stand why we acted as we did, enemies sug- 
 gest a bad motive as the most probable, gos- 
 sips take up the scandal, and friends in their 
 
 turn believe it true; while we, surprised and 
 
 indignant that so innocent a mode of action 
 should bear so injurious a construction, are 
 unable to defend it, simply because it was 
 out of the ordinary pale of human conduct, 
 though prompted by the same motives which 
 influence the rest of mankind. 
 
 It may justly be said of the world, that in 
 
78 
 
 one sense it is a cruel censor of woman ; but 
 in another it is kind. It is, as I have just 
 described, unjustly severe upon indivfdual 
 singularity ; but by its harsh and ready cen- 
 sures, how many does it deter from entering 
 upon the same course of folly, so sure to end 
 in wounded feeling, if not in loss of influ- 
 ence and respectability ! 
 
 Let it then be kept in mind, that woman, if 
 she would preserve her peace, her safe foot- 
 ing in society, her influence, and her unblem- 
 ished purity, must avoid remark as an indi- 
 vidual, at least in public. The piquant amuse- 
 ments of home, consist much in the display 
 of originality of character, and there it is safe. 
 There her feelings are understood, her mo- 
 tives are trusted to, because they have been 
 long known, and there the brooding wing of 
 
 || parental love is ever ready to shroud her 
 || peculiarities from too dangerous an exposure. 
 In the world it is not so. Society is very 
 false to us in this respect. For the sake of 
 an evening’s entertainment, singularity is en- 
 couraged and drawn out. The mistress of 
 the house, who wishes only to see her party 
 amused, feels no scruple in placing this 
 temptation before unguarded youth. But let 
 not the ready laugh, the gay response, the 
 flattering attention fora moment deceive you 
 as to the real state of the case. It is “seem- 
 ing all,”’ and those who have been the most 
 amused by your singularities, will not be the 
 last to make them the subject of bitter and 
 injurious remark. 
 
 If these observations upon society should 
 appear to any, cynical or severe, or calcula- 
 ted to depress the natural ardor of youth, 
 rather than direct it into safer and more 
 wholesome channels; it must be remembered, 
 that my design throughout this work, is to 
 speak of the world as it is, not merely as it 
 ought to be; and though I know there are 
 circles of society, where aims, and motives, 
 and laws.of union exist, of a far higher order 
 than to admit of the falsehood or the little- 
 ness to which I have alluded; yet such, it 
 must be acknowledged, is the general tone of 
 | Ordinary visiting or mixing in company, that 
 | the follies of unguarded youth meet with little 
 
 fest. 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 candor, and still less kind correction, even 
 among those who are associated with us ‘as 
 friends. I know that the voice of experience 
 is an unwelcome one, when thus lifted up 
 against that of the world, which speaks so 
 smoothly in its first intercourse with the young 
 and inexperienced ; and far more delightful 
 would it be, to send forth the joyous spirit 
 into social life with all its native energies un- 
 checked. ‘There is one grateful and welcome 
 thought, however, which reconciles the task 
 I have imposed upon myself. Itis, that none 
 of these energies need therefore be destroyed, 
 or deprived of natural and invigorating exer- 
 cise. There are home-societies, and little cho- 
 sen circles of tried and trusted friends ; meet- 
 ings, perhaps, but rarely occurring, or only 
 accidental, among those who speak with dif- 
 ferent voices the warm familiar language of 
 one heart; and here it is that the genuine 
 feelings of unsophisticated nature may safely 
 be poured forth; here it is that youth may 
 live, and breathe, and be itself, alike without 
 affectation, and without reserve; here it is, 
 that the spirit of joy may bound and revel 
 unrestrained, because all around it is the at- 
 mosphere of love, and the clear bright radi- 
 ance of the sunshine of truth. . 
 
 There is yet another flight of female ambi- 
 tion, another course which the love of distine- 
 tion is apt to take, more productive of folly, 
 and of disappointment, perhaps, than all the 
 It is the ambition of the female author 
 who writes for fame. Could those young 
 aspirants know how little real dignity there is 
 connected with the trade of authorship, their 
 harps would be exchanged for distaffs, their 
 rose-tinted paper would be converted into 
 ashes, and their Parnassus would dwindle to 
 a molehill. 
 
 Still there is something which the young 
 heart feels in being shut out from intellectual 
 sympathies at home—something in burning 
 and throbbing with unexpressed sensations, 
 until their very weight and intensity become 
 a burden not to be endured; something in 
 the strong impulse of a social temperament, 
 which longs to pour forth its testimony to the 
 force of nature and of truth ;\'something in 
 
—— eS Se Oe + rnin ei 
 
 | OS Re ee, MAY RR Se VN TA A ote 
 
 AND LOVE OF DISTINCTION. 
 
 SOCIETY, FASHION, 
 
 ee ictoiiorehib audrey those mysterious, but deep convictions, which 
 belong to every child of earth, that some- 
 where on this peopled globe, beneath the 
 glow of sunnier skies; or on the frozen plain, 
 || the desert, or the ocean; amidst the bowers 
 of beauty, or the halls of pride; within the 
 hermit’s cave, the woodman’s cot, or wan- 
 dering with the flocks upon the distant hills ; 
 there is—there must be, some human or 
 spiritual intelligence, whose imaginations, 
 powers, and feelings, operate in concert with 
 our own. And thus we feel, and thus we 
 write in youth, without any higher motive, 
 because within our homes, tracing our daily 
 walks, or mixing with the circle called socie- 
 ty, we find no chord of sympathy which 
 answers to the natural music of our secret 
 - souls. 
 All this, however, is but juvenile romance. 
 The same want of sympathy which so often 
 | inspires the first effort of female authorship, 
 ;| might often find a sweet and abundant inter- 
 change of kindness in many a faithful heart 
 beside the homely hearth. And after all, 
 there is more true poetry in the fireside affec- 
 tions of early life, than in all those sympa- 
 thetic associations with unknown and untried 
 developments of mind, which ever have ex- 
 isted either among the sons or the daughters 
 of men. 
 
 Taking a more sober view of the case, there 
 are, unquestionably, subjects of deep interest. 
 
 with which women have opportunities pecu- 
 liar to themselves of becoming acquainted, 
 
 and thus of benefiting their fellow-creatures. 
 But, 
 after all, literature is not the natural channel 
 for a woman’s feelings; and pity, not envy, 
 
 through the medium of their writings. 
 
 ought to be the meed of her who writes for 
 the public. 
 
 commendations, of amateur or professional 
 critics! How much of what no woman loves 
 to say, except to the listening ear of domestic 
 affection, by her must be told—nay, blazoned 
 to the world! And then, in her seasons of 
 depression, or of wounded feeling, when her 
 
 How much of what with other | 
 women is reserved for the select and chosen 
 intercourse of affection, with her must be laid 
 bare to the coarse cavillings, and coarser 
 
 79 
 
 spirit yearns to sit in solitude, or even in dark- 
 ness, so that it may be still; to know and feel 
 that the very essence of that spirit, now em- 
 bodied in a palpable form, has become an ar- 
 ticle of sale and bargain, tossed over from the 
 hands of one workman to another, free alike 
 to the touch of the prince and the peasant, 
 and no longer to be reclaimed at will by the 
 original possessor, let the world receive it as it 
 may ! 
 
 Is such, | ask, an enviable distinction? I 
 will offer no remarks of my own upon the 
 unsatisfactory nature of literary fame. No 
 mah, or woman either, could write for the 
 public, and not feel thankful for public appro- 
 bation; thankful for having chosen a subject 
 generally interesting to mankind, and thank- 
 ful that their own sentiments had met with 
 sympathy from those for whose sake they had 
 been expressed. But, on this subject, I will 
 quote the eloquent language of one,* who bet- 
 ter knew what contradictory elements exist 
 in a young, an ardent, and an affectionate 
 heart, combined with an aspiring and com- 
 
 manding intellect. 
 
 “What is fame to woman, but a dazzling 
 degradation. She is exposed to the pitiless 
 gaze of admiration ; but little respect, and no 
 love, blends with it. However much as an 
 individual she may have gained in name, in 
 rank, in fortune, she has suffered as a woman. 
 In the history of letters, she may be associated 
 with men, but her own sweet life is lost; and 
 though, in reality, she may flow through the 
 ocean of the world, maintaining an unsullied 
 current, she is nevertheless apparently ab- 
 sorbed, and become one with the elements of 
 tumult and distraction. She is a reed shaken 
 with the wind; a splendid exotic, nurtured 
 for display ; an ornament only to be worn on 
 birth-nights and festivities; the aloe, whose 
 blossom is deemed fabulous, because few can 
 be said to behold it; she is the Hebrew whose 
 songs are demanded in a ‘strange land ;’ 
 Ruth, standing amid the ‘alien corn;’ a 
 flower, plunged beneath a petrifying spring ; 
 her affections are the dew that society ex- 
 
 * Miss Jewsbury. 
 
hales, but gives not back to her in rain; she 
 is a jewelled captive, bright, and desolate, 
 and sad!” 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL. 
 
 GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 
 
 As one who has been conducting an inex- 
 perienced traveller through an enemy’s coun- 
 try, joyfully enters with him upon the territory 
 of a well-known and familiar friend ; so the 
 writer, whose stern duty it has been to dis- 
 close the dangers and deceitfulness of the 
 world to the unpractised eye of youth, de- 
 lights to open to it that page of human life, 
 which develops all that is most congenial to 
 unsophisticated nature. And can any thing 
 be more so to woman, than gratitude and af- 
 fection? How much of her experience— 
 of the deepest well-sprihgs of her feeling—of 
 those joys peculiar to herself, and with which 
 no stranger can intermeddle—are embodied 
 in these two words! 
 
 If our sense of obligation in general bears 
 any proportion to our need of kindness, then 
 has woman, above all created beings, the 
 greatest cause for gratitude. The spirit of 
 man, even in early life, bears a widely differ- 
 ent impress from that of woman. The high- 
 spirited and reckless boy flings from him half 
 the little grievances which hang about the 
 girl, and check her infant playfulness, send- 
 ing her home to tell her tale of sorrow, or to 
 weep away her griefs upon her mother’s bo- 
 som. There is scarcely a more affecting 
 sight presented by the varied scenes of hu- 
 man life, than a motherless or neglected little 
 girl; yet so strong is the feeling her situation 
 inspires, that happily few are thus circum- 
 stanced, without some one being found to 
 care for and protect them. It is true, the lot 
 of woman has trials enough peculiar to itself 
 and the look of premature sedateness and 
 anxiety, which sometimes hangs upon the 
 brow of the little girl, might seem to be the 
 shadowing forth of some vague apprehensions 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 as to the nature of her future destiny. These 
 trials, however, seldom arise out of unkind- 
 ness or neglect in her childhood. The voice 
 of humanity would be raised against such 
 treatment; for what living creature is so help- 
 less and inoffensive as a little girl? The 
 voice of humanity, therefore, almost univer- 
 sally speaks kindly to her in early life. The 
 father folds her tenderly in his arms, toils for 
 her subsistence and comfort, and watches 
 over her expanding beauty, that he may shield 
 it from all blight. The mother’s heart yearns 
 fondly as she, too, watches with more intense 
 anxiety, lest a shadow should fall, or a rude 
 wind should blow, upon her opening flower. 
 Thus, while the sons in a family may perhaps 
 call forth more of the pride and the ambition 
 of their parents, the daughters claim almost all 
 the tenderness, and more than an equal por- 
 tion of watchfulness and care. 
 
 And can the object of so much solicitude 
 be otherwise than grateful? Oh, no. Itmay 
 be more consonant with the nature and with 
 the avocations of man, that he should go forth 
 into the world forgetful of these things; but 
 woman, in the quiet brooding of her secret 
 thoughts—can she forget, how, in the days 
 of helpless infancy, she was accustomed to 
 escape from the rude gaze, or harsh rebuke, 
 to find a never-failing refuge on her father’s 
 knee; how every wish and want was whis- 
 pered to her mother’s ear, which never turn- 
 ed away; how all things appropriated to her 
 use, were studiously made so safe, so easy, 
 so suited to her taste—her couch of rest, her ; 
 favorite meal, her fairy-world of toys—all 
 these arranged according to her fancy, or her 
 good ; until, all helpless, and feeble, and de- 
 pendant as she was, no fear could break the 
 charm of her security, nor sorrow, save what 
 originated in her own bosom, could cast a 
 shadow over the fireside pleasures of her 
 sunny home? 
 
 * No; woman is not—cannot be ungrate- 
 ful,”? exclaim a thousand sweet voices at 
 once! Gratitude forms a part of her nature, 
 and without it she would be unworthy of a 
 name among her sex! I freely grant that 
 gratitude is a part of her nature, because 
 
there can be no generous or noble character, 
 where gratitude is wanting. But I am not 
 so sure that it is always directed to proper 
 objects. 
 
 Young women are almost always grateful 
 for the notice of ladies of distinction; they 
 are grateful for being taken out in carriages, 
 when they have none at home; they are 
 erateful for presents of ornaments, or articles 
 of fashionable clothing which they cannot af- 
 ford to buy; they are grateful for being invi- 
 ted out to pleasant parties: and, indeed, for 
 what may they not be said to be grateful— 
 extremely grateful? but especially so, for acts 
 of kindness from strangers, or from persons 
 occupying a higher station than themselves. 
 
 There is a familiar saying, that charity be- 
 gins at home; and if by home is meant the 
 circle immediately surrounding ourselves, 
 surely gratitude ought also most especially to 
 begin at home, and for this simple reason— 
 strangers may know, or imagine us to have 
 great merits; but with our demerits, or per- 
 haps [ ought rather to say, with that part of 
 our character which comes under the head 
 of disagreeableness, they must necessarily be 
 unacquainted, because no one chooses to be 
 disagreeabie to strangers. Against them, too, 
 we have never offended, either by word or 
 act, so that they can have nothing to forgive. 
 But it is not so at home. All our evil tempers 
 and dispositions have been exhibited there, 
 and consequently the kindness received at 
 home is the more generous. There is no one 
 member of the family circle against whom 
 we have not, at one time or another, offend- 
 ed, and consequently we owe them a double 
 share of gratitude, for having kindly over- 
 looked the past, and for receiving us as cor- 
 dially to their favor as if we had never cost 
 them an uneasy thought. It is nothing, in 
 comparison, to win the good-will of strangers. 
 The bare thought of how soon that good-will 
 might be withdrawn, did they know us better, 
 is sufficient of itself to pain a generous mind. 
 But it is much to continue daily and hourly 
 
 | to receive the kind attentions, the forbearance 
 | and the love of those who know our meanest 
 faults, who see us as we really are, who have 
 
 ee Se RL A 
 Sea 
 RG SS a ad 
 
 | GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 81 
 
 borne with us in all our different moods for 
 months and years, whom our unkindness 
 
 could not estrange, whom our indifference 
 could not alienate, whom our unworthiness 
 could not repel—it is, indeed, much to be still 
 followed by their affection, to be protected by 
 their anxious care, and to be supported by 
 their unremitting industry and toil. Yes, and 
 there may come a day when the young in 
 their turn will feel 
 
 “ How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is 
 To have a thankless child :” 
 
 when they will see the smile of gratitude 
 which ought to be their own, worn only for 
 strangers, they will think then of the days of 
 unmurmuring labor—the nights of untiring 
 watchfulness—the ages of thought and feel- 
 ing they have lived through, and would will- 
 ingly experience again—the suffering and 
 the shame they would endure, if that were 
 necessary, for the sake of the beloved of their 
 souls; and they will wonder—for to blame, 
 they will scarce know how—why nature 
 should have left the heart of their child so 
 void, that for all they have so lavishly bestow- 
 ed they should receive nothing in return. 
 
 If gratitude were looked upon more than 
 it is, as a distinct duty—a debt to be dis- 
 charged without involving any other pay- 
 ment, [ am inclined to think its claims would 
 be more frequently attended to, than they now | 
 are. But few young persons are in the habit 
 of sufficiently separating gratitude from ad- 
 miration, and thus they hold themselves 
 above being grateful in due proportion to the 
 aged, the unenlightened, or the insignificant ; 
 because they do not often feel disposed to 
 offer to such persons the tribute of their praise. 
 Perhaps they are a little ashamed to have 
 owed any thing to so inferior a source ; while, | 
 on the other hand, they are but too proud to | 
 acknowledge that they are deeply indebted 
 to those whom they admire. 
 
 Now, it is against such encroachments of 
 vanity and selfishness, that the amiable and 
 the high-principled are perpetually on their 
 guard. hat gratitude will not grow up with 
 us without culture, is sufficiently evident from 
 
82 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 a 
 
 the indifference with which all young children 
 treat the donors of their little gifts; receiving 
 them rather as their right, than as a favor. 
 It is, therefore, an excellent habit for young 
 people, 1o bear perpetually in mind a sort of 
 memorial, or catalogue, of the names of those 
 by whom every article of their own personal 
 property was given, so that even the most 
 insignificant individual to whom they have 
 been thus indebted, may not be forgotten. 
 “Tam naturally,” says a celebrated Ger- 
 man writer, “as little’ inclined to gratitude 
 as any one; and it would even be easy for 
 the lively sense of a present dissatisfaction to 
 lead me first to forget a benefit, and next to 
 ingratitude. In order to avoid falling into 
 | this error, I early accustomed myself to take 
 pleasure in reckoning up all I possessed, and 
 ascertaining by whose means I acquired it. 
 I think on the persons to whom I am indebt- 
 ed for the different articles in my collections ; 
 I reflect on the circumstances, chances, and 
 most remote causes, owing to which [ have 
 obtained the variors things I prize, in order 
 to pay my tribute of gratitude to whomso- 
 ever itis owing. All that surrounds me is 
 thus animated in my sight, and becomes con- 
 nected with affectionate remembrances. It 
 is with still greater pleasure that I dwell on 
 the objects, the possession of which does not 
 fall within the dominion of the senses; such 
 as the sentiments I have imbibed, and the 
 | instruction I have received. ‘Thus my pres- 
 ent existence is exalted and enriched by the 
 memory of the past; my imagination recalls 
 to my heart the authors of the good I enjoy ; 
 a sweet reminiscence attends the recollection, 
 and I am rendered incapable of ingratitude.” 
 How beautiful is the simplicity of this con- 
 fession, from one whose mind was capacious 
 beyond the ordinary extent of man’s under- 
 standing, and to whose genius the literary 
 and the distinguished of all nations were 
 proud to offer the tribute of their praise ! 
 How completely does this passage prove to 
 us, that he who knew so many of the secrets 
 of human nature, knew also that it is not 
 possible to begin too humbly with the ex- 
 ercise of gratitude! The nurse who bore the 
 
 our payment of it. 
 
 burden of our childhood, the old servant fallen 
 into poverty and want, the neighboring cot- 
 tager who used to let us share her orchard’s 
 scanty produce, the poor relations who took | 
 us to their lowly home when rich ones were 
 less kind, the maiden aunt who patiently in- 
 structed us in all her curious arts, the bache- 
 lor uncle who kindly permitted us to derange 
 the order of his house—above all, the vener- 
 able grandfather, and his aged helpmate, who 
 used to tell us of the good old ways, and 
 warn us against breaking down the ancient 
 landmarks—all these are pleasant household 
 memories, which ought to cling about the 
 heart until they grow into our very being, and 
 become identified with the elements of thought, 
 and feeling, which constitute our life. There 
 is in fact a species of cruelty, as well as in- 
 justice, in disentangling the memory from 
 these early associations. To have received 
 
 .our very nature, our principles, the bias of 
 
 our sentiments, all that which is understood 
 by distinctiveness of character, from the 
 hands of these old friends, and not to look 
 back and acknowledge it with thankfulness, | 
 though the casual notice of a passing stran- 
 ger furnishes food for gratitude—the fact is 
 scarcely to be thought of, still less believed ; 
 and we look to the daughters of England to 
 show us that they know better how to bestow 
 their gratitude. | 
 
 When the nature of gratitude is considered | 
 in its proper light, as a debt which we have 
 contracted, and which consequently must be 
 discharged, we see at once that the merit or 
 demerit of the individual to whom we owe 
 this debt, has nothing whatever to do with 
 A generous mind would 
 perhaps feel more bound to discharge it to an 
 unworthy object, simply because where re- 
 spect or love was wanting, grateful feeling 
 would be all that could with propriety be of- 
 fered. But, as in all such cases, the debt, 
 though just, must still be painful and humili- 
 ating, it is of the utmost importance, both to 
 young and old, that they should be careful 
 never to be. the willing recipients of obliga- 
 tions from persons whom they neither love 
 
 /noresteem. The young need great watch- 
 
GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 
 
 ‘ 
 
 fulness in this respect, and sometimes, from 
 their over-willingness to incur obligations, 
 involve themselves in connections and asso- 
 ciations highly disadvantageous. 
 
 It is an excellent plan for young women, 
 always to put this question to themselves be- 
 fore they accept an offered kindness. “Is 
 the person who offers it, one whom I should 
 like to feel indebted to ? or am J prepared to 
 make all the return of gratitude to that per- 
 son, which would, under similar circum- 
 stances, be due to the mo:# praiseworthy and 
 
 distinguished individual of my acquaint- 
 
 ance?” If the answer be in the negative, 
 nothing but a meanness of spirit, of which I 
 cannot believe the daughters of England to 
 be capable, could lead to the acceptance of 
 such an obligation. 
 
 In this, therefore, as well as in ,all other 
 cases, it is of the utmost importance that 
 gratitude should be considered as a distinct 
 feeling, in no way involving any other. It 
 sometimes happens, however, and especially 
 during the present rapid march of intellect, 
 that the junior members of a family are far 
 in advance of their parents in the cultivation 
 of their intellectual powers, and this differ- 
 ence occasionally leads to a want of respect 
 towards the heads of the family, which is 
 alike distressing and disgraceful. On the 
 other hand, there are young women, (and 
 happy would it be for our nation, if all the 
 daughters of England were such,) who, re- 
 
 | membering that their parents, however hum- 
 
 ble and unenlightened, are their parents still ; 
 that by their self-denial and their toil, and as 
 the highest proof of their regard, they have 
 received the education which makes them so 
 much to differ—make it their constant study 
 to offer to them tokens of respect and regard 
 of such a nature as not to draw forth their 
 intellectual deficiencies, but to place them 
 on the higher ground of moral excellence. 
 How beautiful, how touching is the solicitude 
 of such young persons, to guard the venera- 
 ted brow from shame ; and to sacrifice even 
 something of the display of their own en- 
 
 ~dowments, rather than outshine those who, 
 
 with all their deficiencies, still were the ora- 
 
 83 
 
 € 
 
 cles of their infant years, and who unques- 
 tionably did more during the season of child- 
 hood, towards the formation of their real 
 character, than has since been done by 
 the merely intellectual discipline of schools. 
 Yes, we may owe our grammiar, our geogra- 
 phy, our music, and our painting, to what 
 are called the instructors of our youth; but 
 the seeds of moral character are sown by 
 those who surround us in infancy ; and how 
 much soever we may despise the hand by 
 which that seed is scattered, the bias of our 
 moral being is derived from that agent more 
 than from any other- 
 
 How just, then, and how true, is that de- 
 
 velopment of youthful gratitude which looks | 
 
 back to these early days, and seeks to return 
 into the bosom of parental love, the treasures 
 of that harvest which parental love has sown! 
 
 And it is meet that youth should do this— 
 youth, whose very nature it is to be redun- 
 dant with the rills of life, and fruitful in joy, 
 and redolent in bloom, from the perpetual 
 flowing forth of its own glad waters—youth, 
 which is so rich in all that gladdens and ex- 
 hilarates ; how can it be penurious and nig- 
 gardly in giving out? No, nature has been 
 so munificent to youth, it cannot yet have 
 learned the art of grudging ; and gratitude, 
 the most liberal, the most blessed of all hu- 
 man feelings, was first required of us as a 
 debt, that we might go on paying according 
 to our measure, through all the different sta- 
 ges of existence; and though we may never 
 have had money or rich gifts, the poorest 
 among us has been able to vay in kindness, 
 and sometimes in love. 
 
 In the cultivation and exercise of the be- 
 nevolent feelings of our nature, there is this 
 beautiful feature to be observed in the order 
 of divine providence—that expenditure never 
 exhausts. Thus the indulgence of gratitude, 
 and the bestowment of affection, instead of 
 impoverishing, render more rich the fountain 
 whence both are derived ; while, on the other 
 hand, the habit of withholding our generous 
 affections, produces the certain effect of 
 checking their growth, and diminishing the 
 spontaneous effusion of kindness. 
 
 SE i Ee 
 
 A 
 
84 
 
 The habit of encouraging feelings of grati- 
 | tude towards our fellow-creatures, of recall- 
 | ing their friendly and benevolent offices to- 
 | wards ourselves, of thinking what would 
 
 | have been our situation without them, and, 
 | in short, of reckoning up the items of the 
 | great debt we all have incurred, especially in 
 | infancy and youth, has a most beneficial effect 
 | upon the mind, in the bias it gives towards 
 the feeling and expression of gratitude in 
 _|| general, not only as confined to the inter- 
 course of social life, or the “interchange of 
 kindness among our fellow-creatures, but 
 with regard to the higher obligations of grati- 
 tude, which every child of sin and sorrow 
 must feel, on being admitted to participation 
 in the promises of the gospel, and the glori- 
 | ous hopes which the gospel was sent to in- 
 | spire. 
 | LD have said, that women, above all created 
 | beings, have cause for gratitude. Deprived 
 | of the benefits of the Christian dispensation, 
 | woman has ever been, and will be ever the 
 most abject, and the most degraded of crea- 
 tures, oppressed in proportion to her weak- 
 ness, and miserable in proportion to her capa- 
 bility of suffering. Yet, under the Christian 
 | dispensation, she who was the first in sin, is 
 | raised to an equality with man, and made. 
 his fellow-heir in the blessings of eternal life. 
 Nor is this all. A dispensation which had 
 permitted her merely to creep, and grovel 
 through this life, so as to purchase by her 
 | patient sufferings a title to the next, would 
 | have been unworthy of that law of love by 
 | which pardon was offered to a guilty world. 
 In accordance with the ineffable benevolence 
 of this law, woman was therefore raised to a 
 moral, as well as a spiritual equality with 
 man ; and from being first his tempter, and 
 then his slave, she has become his helpmate, 
 his counsellor, his friend, the object of his 
 most affectionate solicitude, the sharer of his 
 | dignity, and the partaker in his highest enjoy- 
 ments. 
 
 When we compare the situation of wo- 
 man, too, in our privileged land, with what it 
 is even now in countries where the Christian 
 
 | religion less universally prevails, we cannot 
 
 ———_ 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS. Of ENGLAND. 
 
 help exclaiming, that of all women upon 
 earth, those who live under the salutary in- 
 fluence of British laws and British institu- 
 tions, have the deepest cause for gratitude. 
 And can the daughters of Britain be regard- 
 less of these considerations? Will they not 
 rather study how to pay back to their coun- 
 try, in the cultivation and exercise of their 
 best feelings, the innumerable advantages 
 they are thus deriving. And what is the 
 sacrifice? Oh, blessed dispensation of love ! 
 —that we are never so happy as when feel- 
 ing grateful, and never so well employed, as 
 when acting upon this feeling ! 
 While, then, they begin first by retracing 
 all the little rills of kindness by which their 
 cup of benefit has been filled, let them not 
 pause in thought, until they have counted up 
 every item of that vast catalogue of blessings 
 which extend from human instrumentality, to 
 divine; nor let them pause in action, until 
 they have rendered every return which it is 
 possible for a finite being, aided by watchful- 
 ness and prayer, to make. 
 What a subject for contemplation does this 
 view of gratitude afford, to those who say 
 they find nothing to terest them in human 
 life! What a field of exercise for those who 
 complain that they find nothing to do! 
 Affection, too, is a subject in which the in- 
 terests of woman are deeply involved, be- 
 cause affection in a peculiar manner consti- 
 tutes her wealth. Beyond the sphere of her 
 affections, she has nothing, and is nothing. 
 Let her talents be what they may, without aft 
 fection they can only be compared to a splen- 
 did casket, where the gem is wanting. Af- | 
 fection, like gratitude, must begin at home. 
 Let no man choose for the wife of his bosom, 
 _a woman whose affections are not warm, and 
 cordial, and ever flowing forth at her own 
 fireside. Yetthere are young women whose 
 behavior in society, and among those whom 
 they call their friends, exhibits every sign of 
 | genuine affection, who are yet cold, indiffer- 
 ent, and inconsiderate to their brothers, sis- 
 ters, and parents. These are the women | 
 | against whom men ought to be especially | 
 warned, for sure I am, that such affection 
 
 | 
 | 
 ae 
 
 A 
 
 EE RS I TR 
 
 eee 
 a | ET 
 
GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 
 
 re ce never to be trusted to, as that which 
 is only called into life by the sunshine of so- 
 ciety, or the excitement of transient inter- 
 course with comparative strangers. 
 
 Affection also resembles gratitude in this, 
 that the more we bestow, the more we feel, 
 provided only it is bestowed upon safe and 
 suitable objects. It is the lavish and reckless 
 
 expenditure of this treasure in early life, and 
 | simply under the direction of fancy, without 
 ptogaad to natural claims, which so often leaves 
 ine heart of its possessor poor, and cold, and 
 joyless. | 
 Here, then, the claims of nature and of 
 home may always be attended to with safety. 
 _\| No young girl can be too affectionate at home, 
 because the demerits of a brother, a sister, or 
 a parent, except in some rare and peculiar 
 instances, constitute no disqualification for be- 
 ing the recipients either of her gratitude or 
 her affection. But her approval and her ad- 
 miration must still be kept distinct, lest her 
 affection for an unworthy relative should ren- 
 der her insensible to the exact line of demar- 
 cation between moral good and evil. Were 
 it not thus wisely and mercifully permitted us 
 to continue to love our nearest connections, 
 
 | 
 even when not deserving of general esteem, 
 
 where would the prodigal, or the outcast, be 
 able to find a shelter, when tae horrors of a 
 wounded conscience might drive them back 
 from the ways of guilt? 
 is subject to a higher, holier law than that 
 which separates her erring child from the fel- 
 lowship of mankind ; the father meets his re- 
 turning son while yet afar off; and the sister 
 —can she withhold her welcome *—can she 
 neglect the study of all those little arts of love, 
 by which a father’s home may be rendered as 
 alluring as the world? 
 
 While the young of both sexes are suffer- 
 ing from the consequences of a system of ed- 
 ucation, under which the cultivation of moral 
 principle bears no proportion te the cultiva- 
 tion of the intellectual powers, it is desirable 
 | to offer all the assistance we can in the im- 
 provement of that portion of human charac- 
 ter which is at once the most important and 
 the most neglected. In order to strengthen 
 
 The mother’s heart: 
 
 the good resolutions of those who are really | 
 desirous of paying the attention and the re- |) 
 spect to old age which is justly its due, I would 
 suggest to the accomplished young reader, an 
 idea which it-is highly probable may never 
 before have crossed her mind, but which I 
 feel assured will stain her cheek with shame, 
 if she has ever allowed herself to treat her pa- 
 rents, or even her grand-parents with con- 
 tempt, as inferior in the scale of consideration 
 to herself, because of their want of mental 
 cultivation. 
 
 Let her remember, then, whatever their de- 
 ficiency in other points of wisdom may be, 
 that there is one in which they must be her 
 superiors. She may occasionally be obliged 
 to correct their grammatical inaccuracies ; 
 she may be able not only to dazzle them with 
 her accomplishments, but even to baffle them 
 in argument; yet there is one fundamental 
 part of true knowledge, in consideration of 
 which, every youthful head must bow to age. 
 Not ten thousand times the sum of money 
 expended on your education would be suffi- 
 cient to purchase this treasure of human wis- 
 dom for you. And there sits the aged wo- 
 man, with her white locks, and her feeble. 
 hands, a by-word, and perhaps a jest, from 
 the very helplessness of worn-out nature ; yet, 
 all the while, this humble and neglected being 
 may be rich in the wealth which princes are 
 too poor to buy ; for she is rich in experience, 
 and that is where you are poor. The simple 
 being you despise has lived to see the work- 
 ing out of many systems, the end of many 
 beginnings, the detection of much falsehood, 
 the development of much truth; in short, 
 the operation of principles upon the lives and 
 conduct of men; and here, in this most im- 
 portant point of wisdom, you are—you must 
 be her inferior. 
 
 The wisdom of experience, independently 
 of every other consideration, presents a strong 
 claim upon the respectful attention of youth, 
 in cases where propriety of conduct is a dis- 
 puted point between parent and child. Young 
 persons sometimes think their parents too se- 
 vere in the instructions they would enforce ; 
 but let it ever be remembered, that those pa- 
 
 a 
 
86 
 
 rents have experience to direct them; and 
 that, while the child is influenced only by in- 
 clination, or opinion, founded upon what 
 must at least be a very limited and superfi- 
 | cial knowledge of things in general, the opin- 
 ! ion of the parent is founded upon facts, 
 
 which have occurred during a far longer ac- 
 quaintance with human nature, and with 
 
 '| what is called the world. 
 Let the experience of the aged, then, be 
 
 weighed against your modern acquirements, 
 and even without the exercise of natural af- 
 fection, we find that they are richly entitled 
 to your respectful attention. But there is 
 something beyond this consideration in the 
 overflowing of the warm and buoyant feel- 
 ings of youth, which so naturally and so beau- 
 tifully supply the requirements of old age, that 
 scarcely can we picture to ourselves a situa- 
 tion more congenial to the daughters of Eng- 
 land, than one of those fireside scenes, where 
 | venerated age is treated with the gratitude 
 | and affection which ought ever to be consid- 
 | ered as its due. 
 | It sometimes happens that the cares and 
 | the anxieties of parental love have a second 
 time to be endured by those who have had to 
 | mourn the loss of their immediate offspring. 
 | Perhaps a family of orphan sons and daugh- 
 ters have become their charge, at a time of 
 | life when they had but little strength of body, 
 | or buoyancy of spirit, to encounter the turbu- 
 | lence of childhood, and the waywardness of 
 | youth. How admirably, then, are the char- 
 | acter and the constitution of woman adapted 
 i} to the part which it becomes her duty and 
 her privilege toact. Even the kindest among 
 | boys would scarcely know how to accommo- 
 date himself to the peculiarities of old age. 
 | But woman has an intuitive perception of 
 | these things ; and the little playful girl can be 
 gentle and still, the moment she sees that her 
 restlessness or loud mirth would offend. 
 
 And what woman, I would ask, was ever 
 less estimable for this early exercise of self- 
 discipline? None can begin too soon. The 
 labor of love is never difficult, except to those 
 who have put off compliance with this sacred 
 duty until too late in life; or who, while the 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. | 
 
 affections of the heart were young and warm, 
 have centred them in self, and lived for self 
 alone. 
 nation loves to dwell, are those where self 
 has never found a place among the house- 
 hold gods. 
 ters of a family, from the oldest to the very 
 infant, are all too happy in the exercise of 
 their affections, to think of self. Theirs is a 
 relative existence, and their enjoyments con- 
 
 young so seldom enter into close and intimate 
 
 The social scenes upon which imagi- 
 
 | 
 They are those where the daugh- | 
 | 
 
 tions thus cherished in the cordial intercourse 
 
 of home, may early be sent forth on errands | 
 of kindness to all who are fortunate enough {| 
 to come within the sphere of their opera- | 
 tions; and happy is the man who chooses 
 
 from such a family the companion of his | 
 earthly lot! 
 
 | 
 
 sist more in giving than receiving. Affec- | 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 
 
 How much of what is most lovely, and 
 most valuable to us in the course of our 
 earthly experience, arises out of the poverty 
 and the feebleness of our nature. Friend- 
 ship would never have existed, but for the 
 absolute want of the human heart, from its 
 utter inability to perform the functions of life | 
 without a participator in its joys, a recipient 
 of its secrets, and a soother of its sorrows. 
 
 Youth is the season when we most feel this 
 want; later in life, we learn as it were to 
 stand alone. Interests and claims, which 
 have little to do with the affections, press up- 
 on us on every hand, and hem us into a nar- 
 row and accustomed path, from which there 
 is little temptation to deviate. But in youth 
 we seem to walk at large, with no boundary 
 to our horizon ; and the fear and uncertain- 
 ty which necessarily attend our movements, 
 render a companion, with whom we may con- 
 sult, deliberate, and sympathize, absolutely 
 necessary to our cheerfulness and support. 
 
 It is a subject of surprise to many, that the 
 
friendship with the members of their own 
 family. Were this more frequently the case, 
 how much more candor and simplicity of 
 | heart would mingle with the intercourse of 
 friends! ‘To the members of our own fami- 
 ly, we must of necessity appear as we reaily 
 are. No false or flattering aspect can de- 
 ceive those whose eyes are constantly upon 
 our conduct ; and we are consequently less 
 tempted to put forward our best feelings before 
 them, in the hope of concealing our worst. 
 In such intimacies the nearest friends have 
 the least suspicion of each other’s truth. Af- 
 ter-circumstances can bring forth no unex- 
 pected development of character on either 
 side; nor can there be the wounded feeling, 
 which falsehood, however unpremeditated or 
 unconsciously practised, never fails to pro- 
 duce. Again, there would be the strength of 
 natural ties to mingle with this bond the rec- 
 ollections of childhood, the oft-repeated for- 
 giveness, the gratitude to which allusion has 
 already been made—all these would blend to- 
 gether in a union the most sacred, and the 
 most secure, which perhaps is ever found on 
 earth. 
 Nor do I scruple to call this union the most 
 secure, because it is the only intimacy in 
 which every thing can with propriety be told. 
 
 There are private histories belonging to every 
 
 family, which, though they operate powerful- 
 ly upon individual happiness, ought never to 
 be named beyond the home-circle ; and there 
 are points of difference in character, and 
 mutual misapprehensions, with instances of 
 wounded feeling, and subjects of reproof and 
 correction, which never can be so freely 
 touched upon, even in the most perfect union 
 of conjugal affection. On this subject, how- 
 ever, I have already spoken so fully in an- 
 other work,* that little room is left for further 
 notice here: I will, therefore, only allude to 
 some of the causes which I believe most fre- 
 | quently operate against young persons choos- 
 ing their confidants at home, and especially 
 for the communication of their religious feel- 
 ings or impressions. 
 
 * The Women of England. 
 
 Es ee 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 
 
 | 
 | 
 H 
 } 
 4 
 | 
 to be to that friend exactly what she is at 
 
 87 
 
 — 
 
 It isa melancholy thought, that the want of 
 consistency in the private and domestic habits 
 of religious professors, may possibly be the 
 means of inducing young persons to seek their 
 spiritual advisers among those with whom 
 they are less intimately acquainted, and of 
 whom they have consequently formed a high- 
 er estimate; while, on the other hand, a dif- 
 fidence of themselves, perhaps a misgiving, 
 both as to their past and future conduct, ren- 
 ders them unwilling to communicate fully and 
 freely with those who daily watch their steps, 
 lest the suspicion of hypocrisy should fall up- 
 on them for having given utterance to senti- 
 ments and emotions, so much at variance 
 with the general course of their lives. 
 
 ‘That these hindrances to home-confidence hi 
 should sometimes exist, where the parties are | 
 perfectly sincere in their good intentions, | am | 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 a i i 
 Ree ee = oe a el 
 
 SE SR Sn ee es 
 
 quite prepared to believe; but there are oth- | 
 
 -er cages, and perhaps more frequent ones, in 
 
 which the sincerity is less perfect, where the 
 dread of being committed to any particular 
 line of conduct consistent with the sentiments 
 or emotions expressed, operates against their 
 being so much as spoken of to any who com- 
 pose the family circle. 
 
 It would be taking a dark view of human 
 nature, indeed, to suppose that those who 
 know us best are less disposed than strangers | 
 to attach themselves to us; yet, Il would ask 
 the young aspirant to intimacy with a new 
 acquaintance, whether she is entering upon 
 that intimacy with a sincere and candid wish 
 
 home? If not, she is, to all intents and pur- 
 poses, a deceiver. And there is much deceit 
 in all our early friendships, though I am far | 
 from supposing it to be all intentional. In- 
 deed, | am convinced it is not, because this 
 heart-searching process is what few young 
 persons submit to, before commencing an in- 
 timacy. 
 
 In friendship, as well as in all other recip- 
 rocal engagements, it is highly important to 
 limit our expectations of benefit according to 
 the exact measure of our deserts; and by 
 this means we may avoid many of those bit- 
 ter disappointments, for which the world is 
 
88 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 so unjustly and unsparingly blamed. ‘The 
 
 H world is bad enough; but let us be honest, 
 (| and take our share of condemnation, for 
 
 making at least one item of the world such 
 
 as itis; and by thus acquiring the habit of | with equal injustice. 
 
 strict and candid self-examination in early 
 
 | life, we see that we have little right to charge 
 i the world with falsehood, when our first en- 
 
 gagement, beyond the circle of our own fam- 
 
 | ily, has been entered into by a system of de- 
 
 aon 
 
 ceit. 
 
 in worldly circumstances ; because they must 
 always be incapable of judging of persons 
 more highly gifted than themselves, and thus 
 they will bestow their praise and their blame 
 The ignorant, too, are 
 always prejudiced; and, therefore, in the 
 choice of friends whose minds are unen- 
 lightened, the young must necessarily incur 
 the risk of imbibing opinions formed upon 
 false conclusions, which in all probability will 
 exercise a powerful influence upon the whole 
 
 There is, too, a rashness and impetuosity | of their subsequent lives. 
 | in the formation of early friendships, which 
 | of themselves are sufficient to render such 
 | intimacies uncertain, and of short duration. 
 
 Few characters can be considered as really 
 
 formed, under the age of twenty-one, or 
 
 twenty-five; yet friendships sometimes be- 
 gin ata much earlier date. It is not in na- 
 
 | ture; then, that the friend we loved at sixteen, 
 | Should be the same to us at twenty-six; or 
 that the features of our own character should | advise, as well as pity ! 
 
 have undergone no change during that pe- 
 riod. Yet it must not be called falsehood, or 
 fickleness either, which causes such friend- 
 ships to fail. It is consistent with the laws 
 
 Young people are too apt to think the 
 only use of talent is to interest in conversa- 
 tion; if; then, they find themselves interested 
 without it, they are satisfied to dispense with 
 this quality in a friend. But how empty— 
 how unprofitable must become that intimacy 
 where mind is not taken into account—how 
 worthless, how unsatisfactory in every case 
 of trial, the society of that friend who cannot 
 
 Were it not for equality being requisite to 
 the mutual participation of the pleasures of 
 friendship, I should strongly recommend all 
 young persons to seek a friend among those 
 
 | of reason, and of nature, that they should | who are older, and more experienced than 
 
 do so; for had the same individuals who 
 thus deplore each other’s falsehood, met for 
 the first time at the age of twenty-six, they 
 would probably each have been the very last 
 which the other would have chosen as a 
 
 {| friend. 
 | Again, there must be an equality in friend- | of relationship should render the office of the 
 
 } ship, to render it either lasting or desirable— 
 an equality not only in rank and station, but, 
 
 as far as may be, in intellectual advantages. 
 However warm may be the attachment of 
 
 themselves. In this case, however, too much 
 must not be expected in return, for it is 
 scarcely possible that the ccnfiding intimacy 
 of a young girl should always be interesting, || 
 or even acceptable to a woman more ad- | 
 vanced in life; unless, indeed, the kindness 
 
 elder confidant a welcome duty. 
 
 Regardless of these wholesome rules, it is 
 more than probable that the greater part of 
 my young readers will go on forming inti- 
 
 two friends of different rank in society, they | macies according to circumstances, or indi- 
 
 must occasionally be involved. in dilemmas, 
 from which it is impossible to escape without 
 wounded feeling, either on one side or both. 
 
 | Each of these friends, it must be remembered, 
 
 will have her relatives and connections, 
 
 through whom her pride will be perpetually | deavor to retain as friends?’ 
 
 vidual fancy, and with little reference to fu- 
 ture consequences. In time, however, some 
 of these intimacies will become irksome, 
 while others will die away. It will then be- 
 come a serious question, “ Whom shall I en- 
 Try, then, to 
 
 subject to imaginary insult, and her suscepti- | ascertain, in this stage of your short experi- 
 
 bility to real pain. ‘Those who are inferior in 
 
 ence, whose society has had the happiest 
 
 as friends, than those who are inferior only | this great question remain unsettled, until 
 
 mind are, however, much more objectionable | effect upon your own character ; and let not 
 
FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 89 
 
 a ————_—_ 
 An 
 
 | you have ascertained, with regard to each one 
 
 of the individuals who have composed your 
 circle of nominal friends, whether they have 
 | generally left you better or worse for a day 
 | spent in their company—more willing to 
 | submit to the requirements of religious duty, 
 | or more disposed to consider those require- 
 | ments unreasonable and severe. 
 
 The pleasure or amusement immediately 
 | derived from the society of an individual, is 
 | a dangerous and deceitful test by which to 
 | try the value of their friendship; but the di- 
 | rect influence of their society upon our own 
 | state of mind, not while they are with us, 
 | but after the charm of their society is with- 
 
 drawn, is a means of judging, which no ra- 
 tional and responsible being ought to neglect. 
 
 If, for instance, in the circle of our favorite 
 associates, there is one who habitually awa- 
 kens the laughter of merriment, and charms 
 into magic fleetness the hours you pass to- 
 gether; yet if the same individual leaves 
 you flat, and dull, and indisposed for the use- 
 ful and less pleasing occupations of life; be- 
 ware of making her your friend. But if 
 there be another who, possibly less amusing 
 at the time you converse together, yet leaves 
 you raised above the common level of expe- 
 rience, by the support of true and lofty prin- 
 ciples; disposed to reject what is false or 
 mean, and to lay hold on what is good; 
 lifted out of the slavery of what is worldly 
 or trifling, and made stronger in every gen- 
 erous purpose, and every laudable endeavor; 
 let the friendship of that individual be bound 
 around your heart, and cherished to the end 
 of life, as one of the richest blessings per- 
 mitted us to enjoy on earth. 
 
 By this rule, those who are candidates for 
 
 our friendship, may safely be tried ; but there 
 is yet a closer test, which must be applied. to 
 friendship itself Ifthe friend you have cho- 
 ‘sen, never attempts to correct your faults, or 
 make you better than you are, she is not 
 worthy of the name; nor ought she to be 
 “fully confided in, whatever may be the ex- 
 tent of her kindness to you, or the degree of 
 her admiration of your character. 
 
 Having well chosen your friend, the next 
 
 thing is, to trust her, and to show that you 
 doso. Mutual trust is the strongest cement 
 of all earthly attachments. We are so con- 
 scious of weakness ourselves, that we need 
 this support from others ; and no compliment 
 paid to the ear of vanity was ever yet so 
 powerful in its influence, as even the sim- 
 plest proof of being trusted. ‘The one may 
 excite a momentary thrill of pleasure, the 
 other serves, for many an after day, to nour- | 
 ish the life-springs of a warm and generous 
 heart. 
 
 It is needless to say how effectually a sus- 
 picious, or a jealous temper, destroys this | 
 truth. If we really loved our friends as we 
 ought, and as we probably profess to love 
 them, we should be less watchful of their 
 conduct towards ourselves, than of ours to } 
 them ; nor should we grudge them the inti- 
 macy of other friends, when conducive to 
 their enjoyment, if our own attachment was 
 based upon pure and disingerested affection. 
 Friendship, which is narrowed up between 
 two individuals, and confined to that number 
 alone, is calculated only for the intercourse 
 of married life, and seldom has been main- 
 tained with any degree of lasting benefit or 
 satisfaction, even by the most romantic and 
 affectionate of women. True friendship is 
 of a more liberal and expansive nature, and 
 seldom flourishes so well as when extended 
 through a circle. A circle of young female 
 friends, who love and trust each other, who 
 mutually agree to support the weak in their 
 little community, to confirm the irresolute, to 
 reclaim the erring, to soothe the irritable, and 
 to solace the distressed; what a realization 
 does this picture present of the brightest 
 dreams of imagination, when we think what 
 woman might be in this world to her own 
 sex, and to the community at large! 
 
 And is this, then, too much to expect from 
 the daughters of England—that woman should 
 be true to woman? In the circle of her pri- 
 vate friends, as well as from her own heart, 
 she learns what constitutes the happiness and 
 the misery of woman, what is her weakness. 
 and what her need, what her bane and what. 
 her blessing. She learns to comprehend the 
 
 i a 
 Se a ee ES 
 
 A 2 
 
| 
 
 | 90 : THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 deep mystery of that electric chain of feeling | given or received, or even of the number of 
 
 which ever vibrates through the heart of wo- 
 man, and which man, with all his philosophy, 
 can never understand. ‘She learns that every 
 touch of that chain is like the thrilling of a 
 nerve; and she thus acquires a power pecu- 
 liar to herself, of distinguishing exactly be- 
 tween the links which thrill with pleasure, 
 and those which only thrill with pain. 
 
 Thus, while her sympathy and her tender- 
 ness for a chosen few is strengthened by the 
 bond of friendship into which she has entered, 
 though her confidence is still confined to them, 
 a measure of the same sympathy and tender- 
 ness is extended to the whole sisterhood of 
 her sex, until, in reality, she becomes what 
 woman ever must be—in her noblest, purest, 
 holiest character—the friend of woman. 
 
 What should we think of a community of 
 slaves, who betrayed each other’s interests ? 
 of a little band of shipwrecked mariners upon 
 a friendless shore, who were false to each 
 other? of the inhabitants of a defenceless na- 
 tion, who would not unite together in earnest- 
 ness and good faith against a common enemy? 
 We are accustomed to hear of the meanness 
 of the powerful, when they forsake the weak ; 
 but there is a meanness of a lower grade— 
 when the weak forsake each other. 
 
 No party, however, can be weak, which 
 has truth for its element, and love for its bond 
 of union. Women are only weak in their 
 vanity, their selfishness, their falsehood to 
 each other. In their integrity, their faithful- 
 ness, their devoted affection, they rise to an 
 almost superhuman eminence; because they 
 are strong in the elements of immaterial be- 
 ing, and powerful in the nature which is ca- 
 pable, when regenerated, of being shared 
 with angels. 
 
 From the nature of true friendship, we turn 
 to the consideration of what are its require- 
 ments. These, also, are mutual. If we ex- 
 
 pect to receive, we must be studious to give. 
 An interchange of kind offices and evident 
 proofs of affection are essential to the vitality 
 of friendship ; avoiding, however, the slightest 
 approach to any thing like a debtor and 
 creditor account of the number of presents 
 
 letters exchanged. 
 
 It seems a strange anomaly in friendship, 
 that young persons, however ardently attach- 
 ed, should so seldom write, except when a 
 letter is considered to be due by a certain 
 length of time having elapsed since the last 
 was received. It often happens, that one 
 friend is particularly engaged, while the other 
 has an abundance of unoccupied time; but 
 a letter is still required by the idle party, or 
 the love which she thinks so glowing and so 
 tender, finds no channel of expression to her 
 friend. Perhaps a friend is ill; and then is 
 the time, above all others, when real love 
 would dictate a succession of kind letters, 
 such as would not tax the afflicted, or the 
 feeble one, with the effort of making any re- 
 turn. There is, in fact, a mystery about the 
 letter-writing of young women, which I have 
 never been able fully to understand. It oc- 
 cupies their time; it used to drain their purses, 
 or the purses of their friends! it calls forth 
 more complaining than almost any thing else 
 they have to do; the letters they receive are 
 seldom fraught with much interest; and yet 
 they plunge into this reciprocity of annoyance, 
 as if the chief business of life was to be wri- 
 ing or receiving letters. 
 
 Still, I am very far from supposing that 
 this means of interchanging sentiment and 
 thought, might not be rendered highly bene- 
 ficial to the youthful mind ; because I believe 
 writing is of great importance as a branch of 
 education. Without this habit, few persons, 
 and especially women, think definitely. The 
 accustomed occupation of their minds is that 
 of musing ; and they are, consequently, sel- 
 dom able to disentangle a single clear idea 
 from the current of vague thoughts, which 
 they suffer perpetually to flow, and which 
 affords them a constant, but, at the same time, 
 a profitless amusement, in the variety of ideas 
 it presents, alike without form, and void. 
 But, in order to write with any degree of per- 
 spicuity, we are, to a certain extent, compel- 
 led to think; and consequently, the habit of 
 writing letters, if the subject-matter be well 
 chosen, might be rendered highly advantage- 
 
' 
 
 ous to young women, who, on the termina- 
 tion of their scholastic exercises, require, more 
 than at any other time of life, some frequently 
 recurring mental occupation, to render their 
 education complete. 
 
 The art of writing a really good letter ranks 
 unquestionably among the most valuable ac- 
 complishments of woman, and next to that 
 of conversing well. In both cases, the first 
 thing to be avoided, is common-place ; be- 
 cause, whatever partakes of the nature of com- 
 mon-place, is not only vulgar, but ineffective. 
 
 I know not how I can better define this 
 term, so frequently used, and so little under- 
 stood, than by saying that common-place con- 
 sists chiefly in speaking of things by their 
 little qualities, rather than their great ones. 
 Thus it is common-place to speak of religious 
 persons as using cant, to speak of distinguish- 
 ed characters as being well or ill-dressed, and 
 to speak of the works of Shakspeare as be- 
 ing peculiar in their style. It is also common- 
 place to use those expressions of kindness, or 
 sympathy, which custom has led us to expect 
 as a matter of course. And we never feel 
 this more, than in cases of affliction or death ; 
 because there is a kind of set phraseology 
 made use of on such occasions, which those 
 who really feel would often be glad to vary, 
 if they only knew how. It is common-place 
 to speak of some fact.as recently discovered, 
 to those who have long known it. But above 
 all that is genuine in common-place, the kind 
 of flattery generally adopted by men, when 
 they mean to address themselves pleasantly 
 to women, deserves the credit of pre-emi- 
 nence. Indeed, so deficient, for the most 
 part, is this flattery, in point, originality, and 
 adaptation, that 1 have known sensible wo- 
 men, who felt more really flattered by the 
 most humiliating truths, even plainly spoken ; 
 because such treatment implied a confidence 
 in their strength of mind and good sense, in 
 being able to bear it. 
 
 Common-place letters are such as, but for 
 the direction, would have done as well for 
 any other individual as the one to whom they 
 are addressed. In description especially, it 
 is desirable to avoid common-place. A cor- 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 
 
 91 
 
 respondent making a tour of the Lakes, tells 
 you that on sucha day she set off to the sum- 
 mit of Helvellyn. That the first part of the 
 ascent was steep and difficult, the latter more 
 easy; that the view from the summit was 
 magnificent, extending over so many lakes, 
 and so many other mountains; and there 
 
 -ends the story; and well for you, if it does 
 But such writers unfortunately | 
 
 end there. 
 often go on through a whole catalogue of 
 b@auties and sublimities, no single one of 
 which they set before you in such a manner 
 as to render it one whit more attractive, or in- 
 deed more peculiar in any of its features, 
 than the king’s highway. 
 
 In the vain hope of avoiding common- 
 place, some young writers have recourse to 
 
 extravagant expressions when describing lit- 
 
 tle things ; a mode of writing, which, besides 
 being the medium of falsehood, leaves them 
 in the uncomfortable predicament of having 
 no language adequate to what is great. 
 
 lt is difficult to say what is the direct 
 opposite of common-place, without giving 
 lengthened quotations from the best style of 
 epistolary correspondence, with which the lit- 
 erature of our country during the last cen- 
 tury abounds. ‘There is a quality both in 
 writing and conversation, to which I can 
 give no other name than freshness, which is 
 not only opposite in its nature and effect to 
 common-place, but on which I believe de- 
 pends more than half the pleasure and amuse- 
 mentewe derive from the intercourse of mind 
 with mind. Few persons possess this charm ; 
 because few are humble enough to suppose 
 that it would be any advantage to them; 
 and those who do, are always in danger of 
 losing it by writing too much. The letters of 
 a woman of moderate abilities, and limited 
 sphere of observation, may possess this great 
 beauty ; while those of a more highly gifted, 
 or accomplished writer, may want it; be- 
 cause it must ever depend upon a capability 
 of receiving vivid impressions, combined with 
 a certain degree of simplicity of heart. 
 
 The first consideration in commencing a 
 
 letter should be, “ What is my object in wri- |: 
 
 ting it?” Ifsimply for the relief of your own 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
| mind you take up the pen, remember that 
 / such a communication can only be justified 
 ‘by pressing and peculiar circumstances, and 
 
 that it ought only to be addressed to the 
 1 nearest, and dearest of your friends, whose 
 love for you is of such a nature as to pardon 
 || so selfish an act. 
 
 A higher object in writing, is to give pleas- 
 | ure, or afford benefit, to an absent friend; it 
 is therefore necessary to place yourself in 
 | idea in her circumstances, and consider wMat 
 
 she would most wish to know. If her affec- 
 | tion for you be such, and such I am aware 
 affection often is, that she has no desire be- 
 yond that of receiving intelligence concerning 
 '! yourself, let your descriptions of your state 
 and circumstances be clear and fresh ; so that 
 |; she‘may see you as you really are, and, as it 
 were, live with you through the enjoyments 
 or the trials of every day. How strong and 
 lively may be the impressions thus conveyed 
 —how deep the interest they excite, provided 
 only the writer will condescend to be suffi- 
 ciently simple—sufficiently sincere ! 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 4 
 
 | 
 
 It is, however, only under peculiar circum- 
 
 tion, that young persons can have much of 
 this kind to communicate. What then are 
 they to say? Shall the minute details of fam- 
 ily affairs be raked up, to fill their letters? 
 This is at least a dangerous alternative, more 
 especially as it too frequently induces a habit 
 of exaggeration, in order to make what is 
 called “a good story” out of a mere trifle ; 
 and thus, that worst kind of falsehood, which 
 is partly true, becomes perpetuated through 
 the medium of pen and paper. © 
 
 To avoid this danger on the one hand, 
 and the weariness of writing without any 
 thing to say, on the other, would it not be 
 practicable for young women to agree, for 
 their own improvement and that of their 
 friends, to correspond on some given subject, 
 and if unequal to the task of treating it ina 
 style of an essay, they might at least relate 
 to each other some important or amusing 
 
 I ie IS eh EDAD SESS * UIE OE OT ETE TL DEA A TE 
 
 of their reading, and by relating them in their 
 ;| Own language, and then comparing them with 
 
 |e 
 
 | 92 | THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 stances, such as change of scene and situa- | 
 
 facts, which they had met with in the course - 
 
 that of the author, they would be learning 
 valuable lessons in the art of composition ? 
 for of all kinds of style, that of easy narrative || 
 is the most useful. 
 The study of nature in this department of | 
 mental improvement, might be made to afford 
 a never-failing source of interest, both for in- | 
 dividual thought and familiar communication. | 
 The peculiarities of plants and animals, and 
 even the different traits of human character 
 developed by people of different countries 
 and grades of society, might all contribute to 
 the same object, so as in time to displace 
 from the page of female correspondence, the 
 trifling, the common-place, or the more mis- 
 chievous gossip, which that page too gener- 
 ally unfolds. | 
 In speaking of a mutual interchange of 
 tokens of affection being essential to the vi- | 
 tality of friendship, I am far from including 
 under this head, those expressions of endear- 
 ment which are sometimes used by young 
 women, so indiscriminately, as entirely to 
 lose their individual force and value. Indeed, 
 Tam not quite sure that terms of endearment 
 made use of as a matter of course, are desi- 
 rable under any circumstances ; because there 
 will be occasions, even with the most warmly 
 attached, when the tones of the voice, and 
 the expression of the countenance, indicate 
 any thing but love ; and having heard these 
 tender epithets still made use of on such oc- 
 casions, it is scarcely possible to retain our | 
 value for them when applied with real ten- 
 derness and respect. It also frequently hap- | 
 pens, where these epithets are commonly || 
 used, that the very individual who has just |, 
 been speaking to us injuriously of another, 
 
 turns to the injured party with the same ex- 
 pression of endearment so frequently applied 
 to ourselves, and which we consequently be- 
 
 come extremely willing to dispense with for 
 the future. 
 
 It is the peculiar nature of friendship, that 
 it will not be mocked. All manner of weak- 
 ness, and a fearful sum of follies and trans- 
 gressions, it is willing to bear with ; but faith- 
 fulness is a requisite without which it is im- |} 
 possible it should continue to exist. It is not |! 
 
 ‘ 
 
FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 93 | 
 
 necessary, in order to be faithful to our friends, 
 that we should be always praising them, nor 
 yet that we should praise them more than 
 they deserve. So far from this, we do them 
 real injury by too much praise, because it al- 
 ways occasions disappointment in those who 
 cultivate their acquaintance upon the strength 
 of our evidence in their. favor. Nor is it 
 necessary, when we hear their characters 
 discussed in company, to defend them against 
 every charge; at least to deny their having 
 those faults which are conspicuous to every 
 eye. But one thing is necessary on such 
 occasions—that a friend should be ever 
 prompt and anxious to bring forward the 
 evidence which remains on the side of virtue, 
 so far as it may be done with prudence and 
 delicacy. 
 
 The indulgence of caprice is another evil 
 prevalent among the young, with which 
 friendship disdains that her claims should be 
 put in competition. 
 those who frequently choose to act under a 
 ‘momentary impulse, in a manner opposed to 
 the general and acknowledged rule of their 
 conduct and feelings. ‘Thus the social com- 
 panion of yesterday, may choose to be a 
 stranger to-day. She may have no unkind- 
 ness in her heart towards you, yet it may 
 suit her mood to meet as if you had never 
 met before. She may have no desire to give 
 you pain, yet her looks may be as forbidding, 
 and her manners as repulsive, as if she had 
 never loved you. She may be habitually 
 cheerful, yet her humor may be to hang 
 her head, and lower her brow, and hardly 
 articulate an answer when you speak to her. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to say, that few 
 things are more ruinous to friendship, and to 
 domestic and social happiness in general, 
 than caprice ; because its very nature is to 
 render every one uncertain, and to chill, to 
 wound, or to irritate all with whom it comes 
 in contact; while friendship requires that 
 you should always be the same ; and nothing 
 can be more painful to the feelings of a friend, 
 than to find that caprice, or the indulgence 
 of your own humor, is a matter of more 
 importance to you than her happiness. Such 
 
 Capricious persons are | 
 
 wounds, however, are happily not incurable. | 
 Friendship, thus repulsed, is soon withdrawn ; 
 and the capricious woman has the satisfac- 
 tion of finding herself left at last to the enjoy- 
 ment of her different moods alone. There 
 is, in short, something in the very nature of || 
 caprice so selfish and ungenerous, so opposed 
 to all the requirements of affection, that in 
 no connection in life, except where the tie is 
 indissoluble, can it long be endured. 
 
 But while we are justified in acting upon 
 the repulsion which caprice so naturally ex- 
 cites, there are other trials which, if true, 
 friendship must submit to endure; because 
 they necessarily spring out of the nature of 
 the human heart, and, instead of being 
 checked by the influence of society, they are 
 fostered by it, and subsist upon the very ele- 
 ments of which it is composed. One of these 
 evils is a spurious kind of social intercourse, 
 falsely denominated friendship, which, unfor- 
 tunately, sometimes links itself with the true. 
 I say falsely, for that friendship is not worthy 
 the name, which is founded upon tale-bear- 
 ing and detraction. Yet, how much of the 
 intimacy of young women consists in the 
 magnifying and telling of little troubles, par- 
 ticularly of a domestic nature, and most com- 
 
 -monly injurious to some member of the 
 
 household to which they belong. 
 
 Let the young be especially warned against 
 this most insidious and most dangerous 
 temptation; and let them be assured, that 
 there are few causes of more bitter repent- 
 ance in after life, than the reflection that they 
 have thus wantonly made themselves enemies 
 to those of their own house. ‘There is one 
 fact which ought of itself to deter them from 
 the indulgence of this habit. It is, that 
 friendship based on such a foundation is 
 never lasting. No; friendship must have 
 love, not hate, for its element. If the inti- 
 macy of youth consists in evil speaking, and 
 injurious thoughts, it soon becomes assimi- 
 lated with the poisonous aliment on which it 
 feeds. The friend becomes an enemy; and 
 what is the consequence? The shafts of 
 slander are turned against yourself, and the 
 dark secrets you have revealed, go forth to 
 
 ' 
 
——————— 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ence cee et TT a TT Te Te eee ee am ee nee ee ee ea ee og 
 
 94 
 
 the world as swift witnesses against you, as 
 well as against those to whom duty and nat- 
 ural affection should have kept you true. 
 Besides which, there are few cases of hu- 
 man conduct where inexperienced youth can 
 be a correct or sufficient judge. It may ap- 
 pear to you at the time you speak of family 
 grievances, that a parent has been too severe, 
 that a sister has been selfish, or that a brother 
 has been unjust. But you are not even ca- 
 pable of judging of yourself, as regards the 
 impression produced by your own behavior 
 upon others; how then can you pronounce 
 upon the motives of others in their behavior 
 to you? more especially how are you to lift 
 the veil of experience, and penetrate the deep 
 mysteries of parental love? yet, how other- 
 wise are you to understand 
 
 — 
 
 * The secrets of the folded heart 
 That nesined to thee so stern it 
 
 ‘ o 
 ay 
 
 — 
 ce TE ES 
 
 heres, are hom of human beings, once’ 
 “partakers. with us. in the privileges and en- 
 joyments of our native land, now branded 
 with infamy, and toiling in chains upon a dis- 
 tant shore, who have to regret, when too late, 
 | some guilty theft committed in early youth 
 upon the property of a confiding and indul- 
 gent master. And the voice of our country 
 cries out against them for the injury and in- 
 gratitude, as well as for the injustice, of what 
 ‘they have done. And is it possible that with- 
 in the fair and polished circles of the same 
 favored land, where woman blooms and 
 smiles, and youth is radiant with joy, and 
 happy in the security of domestic peace—is 
 it possible that woman can so far forget her 
 | heart-warm affection, her truth, her devoted- 
 ness of soul, as, while her hands are pure 
 from the contamination of so foul a crime as 
 theft, to permit her tongue to be the instru- 
 ment of injury more deep than robbery— 
 more bitter than the loss of wealth? 
 
 We will not—we cannot believe it; be- 
 | cause the time is coming when the daughters 
 || of England, admonished of their duties on 
 
 every hand, will learn to look, not to the 
 
 mere gratification of an idle moment, in what 
 they say, and what they do, but to the eter- 
 
 ee ee 
 
 nal principles of right and wrong ; and to the 
 great balance in which human actions are 
 weighed, in reference not only to time, but to 
 eternity. 
 
 It is good for many reasons that youth 
 should early acquire a habit of checking its | 
 own'‘impulses, and never is this more impor- 
 tant than when under temptation to speak 
 injuriously of others. A few years more of 
 experience, a few more instances of personal 
 trial, a little more self-knowledge, and a little 
 more observation of others, will in all proba- 
 bility open your understandings to an entirely 
 altered view of human nature, of the motives 
 which influence the conduct of mankind, as 
 well as of the claims of affection, when com- 
 bined with those,of duty. You will then see — 
 how unjust have been your first conclusions, 
 how your thoughts have wronged those 
 whom you were unable to understand ; and 
 happy will it be for you when making this dis- 
 covery, to reflect that you have scrupulously 
 kept your erroneous views and, injurious 
 suspicions confined to the knowledge of your 
 own heart. 
 
 Friendship, if true, has much to bear from 
 the idle and mishievous gossip of society. 
 Indeed, gossip may justly be considered as 
 having destroyed more youthful attachments, 
 than selfishness, falsehood, or vanity ; though 
 all these three have done their part in the 
 work of destruction. It is easy to say, “I 
 care not for such and such injurious reports ;”” 
 “'The opinion of the world is of no conse- 
 quence to me;’’ and it is undoubtedly the 
 part of wisdom not to allow such causes to 
 operate against our peace of mind. Unfor- 
 tunately, however, for us, the world is made 
 up of our friends, as well as of those who 
 are strangers to us; and in this world it is 
 the malignant office of gossip to set afloat 
 rumors of what is evil, rather than statements 
 of what is good. Were such rumors wel- 
 comed only by the credulity of strangers, 
 they would certainly be of little consequence 
 to us; but, alas for the faithfulness of affec- 
 tion! our friends, though at first surprised, 
 at last believe them; and then comes the 
 trial of friendship, for to be injuriously and 
 
unjustly thought of by those who ought to 
 know us better, and simply because common 
 || report has circulated some charge against us, 
 | is that, which, perhaps more than any thing 
 else, destroys our confidence in the profes- 
 sion, the language, the very name of friend- 
 ship. 
 
 in life, has ever been found most admirable, 
 when most severely tried; and I know that 
 _ her friendship is equal to remaining unshaken 
 '| by difficulties and dangers, which might well 
 be supposed to move a firmer nature than 
 hers. But I speak of the little trials of mi- 
 nute and every-day experience, for it is 
 against these that wornan seldom brings her 
 highest principles and best feelings to bear. 
 It is in the sunshine of society that friendship 
 most frequently withers, because the “love 
 that tempests never shook” may expire un- 
 der the deadly breathing-upon of common 
 slander. 
 On the first view of this subject, it seems 
 impossible to believe that mere gossip, which 
 “we unanimously agree to regard as being in 
 so many instances false, should operate with 
 such potency in dissolving the tenderest ties 
 of early life. YetI appeal to experience, and 
 observation too, when I ask, whether the 
 ranks of society are not thronged with indi- 
 viduals closely assimilated in their habits and 
 ways of thinking, mutually in. want of the 
 consolations of friendship, and adapted to 
 promote each other’s happiness, of whom it 
 may be said with melancholy truth, 
 
 « Alas ! they had been friends in youth, 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth.” 
 
 What then is the part which friendship 
 | ought to act in a case where rumor is strong 
 | against a friend? 
 | ship is always a straightforward and decided 
 one. First ask whether the charge brought 
 
 eee Fat ES CO 
 
 | with the principles you know to regulate her 
 
 | conduct in general, wholly at variance with 
 
 the sentiments uniformly expressed in her 
 
 confidential intercourse with you, and wholly 
 
 | at variance with the tenor of her previous life. 
 
 The character of woman in every situation » 
 
 The part of true friend- | 
 
 against your friend be wholly at variance 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 95 
 
 If such be the case, reject it with a noble in- 
 dignation ; for even if in one instance your 
 friend has actually departed from the general 
 principles of her conduct, her habitual senti- 
 ments, and her accustomed mode of action— 
 and if in the end you find that the world has 
 all the while been right, while you have been | 
 mistaken—it is better a thousand times to 
 have felt this generous, though misplaced 
 confidence, than to have been hastily drawn 
 in to entertain an injurious suspicion of a 
 friend. 
 
 Still, where the evidence is strong against 
 a friend, where it increases and becomes con- 
 firmed, it would be blindness and folly to 
 continue to disregard it. But before you 
 yield even to such accumulating evidence, 
 more especially before you act upon it, or | 
 suffer one syllable to pass your lips in sup- 
 port of the charge, or even of other charges 
 of a similar nature to that openly alleged, 
 fail not, as you value every thing that is just 
 and equitable in the conduct of one human 
 being towards another—fail not to appeal di- 
 rectly to the injured party, so as to allow her 
 an opportunity of exculpating, or at least of 
 excusing, herself. 
 
 If this had but been done in one instance 
 out of a thousand, where slander has scat- 
 tered her poison upon the foundation of hu- 
 man love, what a different position would 
 woman now maintain in the scale of moral 
 excellence! How much of real good the 
 hand of friendship might by this means have 
 drawn out from seeming evil; how many a 
 wounded bosom the balm of friendship might 
 have healed; how many of those who are 
 now lonely and unloved might have been 
 linked together in the endearing fellowship 
 of mutual affection ! 
 
 People talk as if the worst thing that could 
 happen to us, was to be deceived ; they dare 
 not be genérous, they dare not trust, because 
 
 they should thereby incur the risk of being 
 deceived. That this theory may very prop- 
 erly be acted upon in business, I am quite | 
 disposed to allow ; but if in friendship there 
 is no other alternative than to listen to injuri- 
 ous rumor, to lean to the side of suspicion, 
 
ES ) 
 
 anu) 
 
 96 
 
 and to believe the first report against a friend, 
 let me rather be deceived a thousand times, 
 for.then I shall at least enjoy the conscious- 
 ness of having known what it was to trust, 
 as well as -ove. 
 
 Friendship has many trials. Though 
 vanity and selfishness are at the root of 
 
 | many of these, they are for the most part 
 
 too minute, and apparently too trifling for 
 description. Perhaps the greatest of these 
 arises out of the undue value attached by 
 women to the general attentions of men. 
 For the assistance, the protection, and the 
 disinterested kindness of the other sex, all 
 women ought to be deeply grateful; but for 
 those common attentions which good breed- 
 ing dictates, without reference to the indi- 
 vidual on whom they are bestowed, I own I 
 cannot see why they should ever be so much 
 the subject of envy among women, as to 
 cast a shade upon their intercourse with each 
 other. 
 
 This part of my subject necessarily leads 
 me to the consideration of what, for want of 
 a more serious name, I am under the neces- 
 sity of calling flirtation; by which I would 
 be understood to mean, all that part of the 
 behavior of women which, in the art of pleas- 
 ing, has reference only to men. It is easy 
 to understand whether a woman is guilty of 
 flirtation or not, by putting her conduct to 
 this simple test: whether, in mixed society, 
 she is the same to women as to men. 
 
 Although nothing could be more revolting 
 to the feelings of a true-hearted woman, than 
 needlessly to make a public exposure of the 
 weaknesses and follies of her own sex, yet 
 something of this is not only justifiable, but 
 necessary in the present case, in order to 
 contrast the conduct of those who are truly 
 admirable, with that which is only adopted 
 for the purpose of courting admiration. Nor 
 would I speak uncharitably, when I confess 
 that, like others, I have often seen a droop- 
 ing countenance suddenly grow animated, an 
 oppressive headache suddenly removed, and 
 many other symptoms of an improved state 
 of health and spirits as suddenly exhibited, 
 when the society of ladies has become 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 varied by that of the nobler sex; and never 
 does female friendship receive a deeper 
 insult, than when its claims are thus su- 
 perseded by those, perhaps, of a mere stran- 
 ger. 
 
 Though the practice of flirtation, or the 
 habit of making use of certain arts of pleasing 
 in the society of men, which are not used in 
 that of women, is a thing of such frequent 
 occurrence, that few can be said to be wholly 
 exempt from it—yet we rarely find a woman 
 so lost to all sense of delicacy, as to make an 
 open profession of flirtation. Indeed, I am 
 convinced that some do actually practise it 
 unconsciously to themselves; and for this 
 reason J am the more anxious to furnish 
 them with a few hints, by which they may be 
 better able to detect the follies of their own 
 conduct. 
 
 In the first place, then, allow me to ask, 
 why it is necessary, or even desirable, for 
 young women to do more to please men than 
 women? ‘Their best friends, as friends only, 
 will ever be found among their own sex. 
 There is but one relation in life in which any 
 of the men whom they meet with in mixed 
 society can be any thing to them; and surely 
 they can have no thought of marrying half 
 those whom they take more pains to please, 
 than they take in their intercourse with their 
 own sex. What, then, can be the state of 
 mind of her who exercises all her powers of 
 fascination upon beings in whom she can have 
 no deep or real interest? She must have 
 some strong motive, or why this total change 
 in her behavior, so that her female friends 
 can scarcely recognise in her the same indi- 
 vidual, who, an hour before, was moping, 
 fretful, listless, and weary of herself and 
 them? She must have some strong motive, 
 and it can be no other than one of these 
 two—either to gain the admiration, or the 
 affection, of’ all those whom sh¢ favors with 
 the full exhibition of her accomplishments in 
 the art of pleasing. If her motive be simply 
 to gain their admiration, it is a blind and 
 foolish mistake into which her vanity has be- 
 trayed her, to suppose that admiration is to 
 be purchased by display, or to imagine that 
 
 an 
 
 _ 
 
on 
 
 } 
 the gratification of this desire. 
 
 the open and undisguised claims she makes 
 upon it, are not more calculated to disgust 
 than attract. 
 But there remains the second, and stronger 
 motive ; and this would seem, at first sight, 
 to demand more delicacy of treatment, since 
 it is generally considered an amiable propen- 
 sity in woman’s nature to desire to be be- 
 loved. Let her, however, be honest, sincere, 
 and honorable, in the means she adopts for 
 Let her re- 
 quire nothing for which she is not prepared 
 to make an adequate return. The kindness, 
 the generosity, the integrity of her character 
 demand this. If, therefore, her desire be to 
 obtain the love of all those with whom she 
 engages in the business of flirtation, she is 
 either on the one hand involved in a very 
 serious and alarming outlay of affection, or, 
 on the other, in a system of selfishness and 
 meanness, for which every honest-hearted 
 woman ought to blush. I have used the 
 words selfishness and meanness, because the 
 
 no better ; because it is selfish to endeavor to 
 obtain that for which we know that a return 
 will be expected, which we are not the least 
 prepared to make ; because it is mean to use, 
 in obtaining it, a degree of art which makes 
 us appear better, or more admirable, than we 
 really are. 
 
 Is it not good, then, for woman to bear 
 about with her, even in early life, the convic- 
 tion that her only business with men in society, 
 is to learn of them, and not to captivate or 
 dazzle them? for there is a boldness—an in- 
 delicacy, in this exercise of her influence, as 
 much at variance with good taste, as with 
 right principle, and real feeling. Is it not 
 good, also, to bear about with her the remem- 
 brance that no woman ought to be so bril- 
 liant, or so agreeable in mixed society, as in 
 her own domestic circle? There is no harm in 
 pleasing, it is at once her privilege, and her 
 power; but let her influence through the exer- 
 ‘cise of this means be what it may, there will 
 come in after life sore trials, under which she 
 will need it all; and poor indeed is that woman, 
 who, when affection wanes, and disappoint- 
 
 art of flirtation deserves to be described by 
 | 
 
 i, 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 
 
 97 
 
 ment chills the glow of youthful ardor, feels 
 that she has expended all her powers of pleas- 
 ing in public, or upon comparative strangers. 
 I have said, that all women plead not guil- 
 ty to the charge of flirtation in themselves ; 
 yet, all are ready to detect and despise it ‘in 
 their friends. All can detect in others, when 
 the bland and beaming smile is put on for the 
 occasion; when expressive looks are inter- 
 changed ; when glittering curls are studious- 
 ly displayed ; when songs are impressively | 
 sung; when flowers which have been pre- 
 sented, are preserved and worn; when un- | 
 necessary attentions are artfully called forth ; |} 
 but, above all, for it is best to cut short this ) 
 catalogue of folly, when conversation is so in- 
 geniously turned as to induce, and almost 
 compel some personal allusion, in which a 
 compliment must almost unavoidably be 
 couched. | 
 And in all this system of absurdity, contain- 
 ing items of folly too numerous for tongue or 
 pen to tell, from the glance of a beautiful eye, 
 to the expression of a mutual sentiment; from 
 the gathering of a favorite flower, to the awa- 
 kening of a dormant passion ; from the pas- 
 time of an idle moment, to the occupation of 
 years ; in all this, it is deeply to be regretted, } 
 that the influence of man is such, as to excite, 
 rather than to repress—to encourage this | 
 worse than folly, rather than to warn and to 
 correct. Indeed, whatever may be the excel- 
 lences of man in every other walk of life, it 
 is a subject of something more than regret, 
 that these excellences are so little called forth 
 in his intercourse with woman in mixed soci- |. 
 ety. Asa father, a husband, a brother, and 
 a friend, his character assumes a totally dif- 
 ferent aspect. And why, I would ask of him, 
 if his eye should ever deign to glance over 
 these pages,—why is he not the friend of wo- 
 man in’ society, as well as in the more inti- 
 mate relations of social and domestic life? 
 Time was, when warriors and heroes deem- 
 ed it not incompatible with glory or renown, 
 to make the cause of helpless woman theirs. 
 Nay, such was the respect in which her claims 
 were held, that the banner could not wave in 
 battle, nor the laurel wreath in peace, so 
 
proudly as when lances were broken, and 
 lays were sung, in defence of her fair fame. 
 
 On what did that fame then rest ?—on what 
 
 must itrest forever? On her moral purity— 
 on her exemption. from mean and grovelling 
 thoughts, and on her aspirations after what 
 is noble, and refined, and true. And is wo- 
 man less deserving now, than she was a 
 thousand years ago, of the kindness, the pro- 
 tection, the honorable and fair dealing, of man? 
 So far from this, she has made rapid progress 
 in the work of moral renovation, having gain- 
 ed in real worth, more than she has lost 
 in romantic feeling. But one hindrance to 
 her improvement still remains—one barrier 
 against her progress in the path of wisdom 
 and of truth. It is the influence of man, in 
 his intercourse with her in general society. 
 Perhaps he is not aware how powerful and 
 extensive this influence is, or he would sure- 
 ly sometimes endeavor to turn it to better ac- 
 count. ‘I wish not to describe it in too flatter- 
 ing a manner, by telling how many a young 
 heart is made to throb for the first time with 
 vanity, and idle thoughts, and foolish calcu- 
 
 lations, in consequence of his flattery and at- 
 
 tentions ; but it is most important he should 
 
 know, that while women naturally and ne-| 
 cessarily look to the stronger sex to give char- 
 acter and decision to their own sentiments ; 
 it is in the common intercourse of society, 
 
 that such sentiments are implanted, fostered, 
 and matured. 
 
 To speak of the popular style of conversa- 
 tion used by gentlemen when making them- 
 
 selves agreeable to young ladies, as trifling, 
 
 is the best thing we can say of it. Its worst 
 characteristic is its fa'sehood, while its worst 
 
 tendency is to call forth selfishness, and to 
 
 foster that littleness of mind, for which man 
 is avowedly the despiser of woman. 
 lectual conversation occupies the*company, 
 how often does he turn to whisper nonsense 
 
 : | to woman ; if he sees her envious of the beau- 
 f ty of her friend, how often does he tell her 
 that her own charms .are unrivalled; if he 
 discovers that she is foolishly elated with the 
 triumph of having gained his attentions, how 
 studiously does he feed her folly, waiting only 
 
 If intel-. 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 for the next meeting with a boon companion, 
 to treat the whole with that ridicule which it 
 deserves—deserves, but not from him. 
 
 It may be—I would fain believe it is, his 
 wish that woman should be simple-hearted, 
 intelligent, generous, frank, and true ; but how 
 is his influence in society exercised to make 
 her any one of these? Woman is blamed, 
 and justly so, for idle thoughts, and trifling 
 conversation ; but, | appeal to experience, and 
 ask, whether, when a young girl first goes in- 
 to society, her most trifling conversation is not 
 that which she shares with men? It is true 
 that woman has the power to repel by a look, 
 a word, or even a tone of her voice, the ap- 
 proach of falsehood or folly; and admirable 
 are the instances we sometimes find of wo- 
 
 -man thus surrounded as it were by an atmo- 
 
 sphere of moral purity, through which no vul- 
 gar touch can penetrate. Butall are not thus 
 happily sustained, and it seems hard that the 
 weaker sex should not only have to contend 
 with the weakness of their own hearts; but 
 that they should find in this conflict, so much 
 of the influence of man on the side of evil. 
 In speaking of friendship, I have said noth- 
 ing of that which might be supposed to ex- 
 ist between the two sexes; because:I believe, 
 that, in early youth, but little good can accrue > 
 to either party from making the experiment ; 
 and chiefly for reasons already stated, that 
 man, in his intercourse with woman, seldom. 
 studies her improvement; and that woman, | 
 in hers with man, is too much addicted to 
 flirtation. ‘The opinion of the world, also, is |} 
 opposed to this kind of intimacy; and it is 
 seldom safe, and never wise, to do what.soci- 
 ety unanimously condemns. Besides which, | 
 it is exceedingly difficult for a young and in- | 
 experienced girl to. know when a. man is real- 
 ly her friend, and when he is only endeavor- | 
 ing to gain her favor; the most serious mis- | 
 takes are, therefore, always liable to be made, - 
 which can only be effectually guarded against, - 
 by avoiding such intimacies altogether. | 
 Again, it is no uncommon thing for mento — 
 betray young women into ‘little deviations | 
 from the strict rule of propriety, for their own | 
 sakes, or in connection with them; which | 
 
FRIENDSHIP AND FLIRTATION. 
 
 "deviations they would be the first to con- 
 
 || demn, if they were in favor of another. Be 
 assured, however, that the man who does 
 
 _this—who, for his own gratification betrays 
 you into so much as the shadow of an error 
 —who even willingly allows you to be placed 
 in an exposed, a questionable, or even an 
 undignified situation—in short, who subjects 
 you, for his own sake, to the slightest breath 
 of censure, or even of ridicule, is not your 
 
 | real friend, nor worthy so much ‘as to be 
 called your acquaintance. 
 
 Fain would we hope and trust, that men 
 who would do this, are exceptions to a gen- 
 eral rule ; and, honorable it is to the sex, that 
 there are those, who, without any personal 
 interest. of their own being involved, are 
 truly solicitous to raise the moral and intel- 
 lectual standard of excellence among wo- 
 men; men who speak the truth, and noth- 
 ing but the truth, even to the trusting and 
 too credulous; who never, for the gratifi- 
 cation of an idle moment, stoop to lead the 
 unwise still further into folly, the weak 
 into difficulty, or the helpless into distress ; 
 men who are not satisfied merely to pro- 
 tect the feeble portion of the community, 
 but who seek to promote the safety and the 
 happiness of woman, by placing her on the 
 sure foundation of sound principle; men 
 who are ready to convince her, if she would 
 but listen to their faithful teaching, that she 
 possesses no beauty so attractive as her sim- 
 plicity of heart, no charm so lasting as her 
 deep and true affection, and no influence so 
 powerful as her integrity and truth. 
 
 I cannot leave the subject of the general 
 behavior of women to the other sex, without 
 adverting to a popular tendency among the 
 young and inexperienced, to attach undue 
 importance to the casual notice of distin- 
 guished men; such as popular speakers, elo- 
 quent ministers of religion, or any who hold 
 
 | conspicuous situations in society. The most 
 objectionable feature which this tendency as- 
 sumes, is an extravagant and enthusiastic 
 attachment to ministers of religion. I am 
 | aware there is much in the character and of- 
 | fice of a faithful minister, justly calculated to 
 
 you may not only materially promote her 
 
 call forth the respectful admiration both of 
 young and old; that there is also much in 
 his pastoral care of the individual members 
 of his flock equally calculated to awaken 
 feelings of deep and strong attachment ; and 
 when such feelings are tempered with rev- 
 erence, and kept under the proper restraint 
 of prudence and good taste, it is unquestion- 
 ably right that they should be cherished. 
 ‘My remarks can have no reference to young 
 women whose conduct is thus regulated ; but 
 there are others, chiefly of enthusiastic tem- 
 perament, who, under the impression that it 
 is right to love and admire to the utmost of 
 their power, whoever is worthy of admira- 
 tion, give way to a style of expression, when 
 speaking of their favorite ministers, and a 
 mode of behavior towards them, which is not 
 only peculiarly adapted to expose them, as 
 religious professors, to the ridicule of the 
 world; but which, of itself, too plamly be- 
 trays their want of reverence and right feel- 
 ing on the subject of religion in general. 
 
 But the duties of friendship remain yet to 
 be considered in their highest and most im- 
 portant character. We have never been in- 
 timately associated with any one, even in 
 early youth, without having received from 
 them some bias of feeling, either towards good 
 or evil; and the more our affections were 
 engaged in this intimacy, the more decided 
 this bias has been. What, then, has been the 
 nature of our influence upon them ?—upon 
 all to whose bosom-confidence we have been 
 admitted? Is this solemn query to be re- 
 served for the hour of death? or is it not the 
 wiser part of youth to begin with its practical 
 application, while the character is yet fresh 
 and pliant, and before the traces of our influ- 
 ence, if wrong, shall have become too deep 
 to be eradicated 1 
 
 If your friend is further advanced in reli- 
 gious experience than yourself, be willing, 
 then, to learn from her example; but be 
 watchful, also, to point out with meekness 
 and gentleness her slightest deviations from 
 the line of conduct which a Christian pro- 
 fessor ought to pursue; and by this means 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 nner 
 
 highest interests, but you may also assist in 
 promoting the interests of religion itself, by 
 preserving it from the calumny and disre- 
 spect for which such deviations so naturally 
 give occasion. 
 
 If your friend is less advanced than your- 
 self in religious experience, or if, as is most 
 probable, you are both in a backward and 
 defective state, suffer not your mind on 
 any account to become regardless of the im- 
 portant fact, that in proportion to the degree 
 of confidence you have enjoyed with that 
 friend, and in proportion with the hold you 
 / have obtained of her affections, is the re- 
 sponsibility you incur with regard to her 
 moral and spiritual advancement. It is fruit- 
 less to say, “J see her faults, | mourn over 
 her deviations, but I dare not point them 
 out, lest I wound her feelings, or offend her 
 pride.” I know the task is difficult, perhaps 
 the most so of any we ever undertake. But 
 our want of disinterested love, and of real 
 earnestness in the cause of Christ, render 
 it more difficult than it would otherwise be. 
 
 We might in this, as in many other in- 
 stances, derive encouragement from what is 
 accomplished by women in the way of sup- 
 porting public institutions, and promoting 
 public good. Look at some of the most deli- 
 cate and sensitive females—how they pene- 
 trate the abodes of strangers—how they per- 
 ‘severe through dangers and difficulties, re- 
 pelled by no contumely, and deterred by no 
 hardship, simply because they know that the 
 work in which they labor is the cause of 
 Christ. And shall we find less disinterested 
 zeal, less ardor, less patience, less self-denial, 
 in bosom-friends who share each other’s 
 confidence and love? 
 
 I'am the more anxious to impress these 
 observations upon the young reader, because 
 the present is peculiarly a time for laudable 
 and extraordinary exertions for the public 
 good; and because [ am convinced, that be- 
 nevolent, and highly salutary, as these exer- 
 tions are, they will never so fully answer the 
 noble end desired, as when supported by the 
 same principles faithfully acted upon in the 
 intimate relations of private life. 
 
 nn 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 LOVE AND COURTSHIP 
 
 Love is a subject which has ever been open 
 to discussion, among persons of all classes, 
 and of every variety of mind and character ; 
 yet, after all, there are few subjects which 
 present greater difficulties, especially to a fe-. 
 male writer. How to compress a subject 
 which has filled so many volumes, into the 
 space of one chapter, is also another difficul- 
 ty; but I will begin by dismissing a large 
 portion of what is commonly called by that 
 name, as wholly unworthy of my attention ; 
 I mean that which originates in mere fancy, 
 without reference to the moral excellence of 
 the object ; and if my young readers imagine, 
 that out of the remaining part they shall be 
 able to elicit much amusement, I fear they 
 will be disappointed ; for I am one of those 
 who think that the most serious act of a wo- 
 man’s whole life is to love. 
 
 What, then, I would ask, is love, that it 
 should he the cause of some of the deepest 
 realities in our experience, and of so much 
 of our merriment and folly ? 
 
 The reason why so many persons act fool- 
 ishly, and consequently lay themselves open 
 to ridicule, under the influence of love, I be- 
 lieve to originate in the grand popular mis- 
 take of dismissing this subject from our se- 
 rious reading and conversation, and leaving 
 it to the unceremonious treatment of light 
 novels, and low jests; by which unnatural 
 system of philosophy, that which is in reality 
 the essence of woman’s being, and the high- 
 est and holiest among her capabilities, be- 
 stowed for the purpose of teaching us of how 
 much our nature is capable for the good of 
 others, has become a thing of sly purpose, 
 and frivolous calculation. 
 
 The very expression—* falling in love,” 
 has done an incalculable amount of mischief, 
 by conveying an idea that it is a thing which 
 cannot be resisted, and which must be given 
 way to, either with or without reason. Per- 
 
 sons are said to have fallen in love, pre- 
 cisely as they would be said to have fallen 
 into a fever or an ague-fit; and the worst 
 
LOVE AND COURTSHIP. 101 
 
 of this mode of expression is, that among 
 young people, it has led to a general yield- 
 | ing up of the heart to the first impression, 
 | as if it possessed of itself no power of re- 
 | sistance. 
 
 by the next balmy gale, which leaves the pic- 
 
 ture more lovely for this momentary interrup- 
 
 tion of its stillness and repose. 
 But that which constitutes the essential 
 
 ate 
 
 hn AeA 
 
 (I n 
 
 It is from general notions such as these, 
 
 .that the idea, and the name of love, have be- 
 | come vulgarized and degraded: and in con- 
 | nection with this degradation, a flood of evil 
 
 has poured in upon that Eden of woman’s 
 life, where the virtues of her domestic charac- 
 
 ter are exercised. 
 
 What, then, I would ask again, is love in 
 its highest, holiest character? It is woman’s 
 all—her wealth, her power, her very being. 
 Man, let him love as he may, has ever an 
 
 existence. distinct from that of his affections. 
 
 He has his worldly interests, his public 
 character, his ambition, his competition with 
 other men—but woman centres all in that 
 one feeling, and 
 
 _ “In that she lives, or else she has no life.” 
 
 In woman’s love is mingled the trusting 
 dependence of a child, for she ever looks up 
 to man as her protector, and her guide ;. the 
 frankness, the social feeling, and the tender- 
 ness of asister—for is not man her friend? 
 the solicitude, the anxiety, the careful watch- 
 ing of the mother—for would she not suffer 
 to preserve him from harm? Such is love 
 in a noble mind, and especially in its first 
 commencement, when it is almost invariably 
 elevated, and pure, trusting, and disinterest- 
 ed. Indeed, the woman who could mingle 
 low views and selfish calculations with her 
 first attachment, would scarcely be worthy of 
 the name. j 
 
 So far from this being the case with wo- 
 men in general, I believe, if we could look 
 into the heart of a young girl, when she first 
 begins to love, we should find the nearest 
 
 ‘resemblance to what poetry has described, as 
 
 the state of our first parents when in Para- 
 
 dise, which this life ever presents. All is 
 
 then colored with an atmosphere of beauty, 
 and light ; or if a passing cloud sails across 
 the azure sky, reflecting a transitory shadow 
 on the scene below, it is but to be swept away 
 
 charm of a first attachment, is its perfect dis- 
 interestedness. She who entertains this sen- | 
 timent in its profoundest character, lives no 
 longer for herself. In all her aspirations, her | 
 hopes, her energies, in all her noble daring, 
 her confidence, her enthusiasm, her fortitude, 
 her own existence is absorbed by the interests 
 of another. For herself}, and in her own 
 character alone, she is at the same time re- 
 tiring, meek, and humble, content to be neg- 
 lected by the whole world—despised, forgot- | 
 
 ten, or contemned; so that to one being only ||. 
 
 she may still be all in all. 
 
 And is this a love to be lightly spoken of, | 
 or harshly dealt with? Oh no; but it has 
 many a rough blast to encounter yet, and 
 many an insidious enemy to cope with, be- 
 fore it can be stamped with the seal of faith- 
 fulness ; and until then, who can distinguish 
 the ideal from the true? 
 
 I am inclined to think it is from the very 
 purity and disinterestedness of her own mo- 
 tives, that woman, in cases of strong attach- 
 ment, is sometimes tempted to transgress the | 
 laws of etiquette, by which her conduct, even | 
 in affairs of the heart, is so wisely restricted. | 
 But let not the young enthusiast believe her- || 
 self justified in doing this, whatever may be j 
 the nature of her own sentiments. ‘The re- | 
 strictions of society may probably appear to 
 her both harsh, and uncalled for; but, I must | 
 repeat—society has good reasons for the rules | 
 it lays down for the regulation of female con- | 
 duct, and she ought never to forget that 
 points of etiquette ought scrupulously to be’ || 
 
 observed by those who have principle, for | | 
 
 the sake of those who have not. Besides 
 which, men who know the world so much 
 better than women, are close observers on 
 these points, and nothing can lessen their 
 confidence in you more effectually, than to 
 find you unscrupulous, or lax, even in your 
 
 behavior to them individually. If, therefore, 
 
 your lover perceives that you are regardless 
 of the injunctions of your parents or guardi- 
 
ans, even for his sake, though possibly he 
 may feel gratified at the moment, yet his 
 opinion of your principles will eventually be 
 lowered, while his trust in your faithfulness 
 will be lessened in the same degree. 
 
 In speaking of the entireness, the depth, 
 and the disinterestedness of woman’s love, I 
 would not for a moment be supposed to class 
 under the same head, that precocious ten- 
 dency to fallin love, which some young ladies 
 encourage under the idea of its being an 
 amiable weakness. Never is the character 
 of woman more despicable, than when she 
 stoops to plead her weakness as a merit. 
 Yet some complain that they are naturally so 
 grateful, it is impossible for them to resist the 
 influence of kindness; and thus they fall in 
 love, perhaps with a worthless man—perhaps 
 with two men at once; simply because they 
 have been kindly treated, and their hearts 
 are not capable of resisting kindness. Would 
 that such puerile suppliants for the charity 
 they ill deserve, could be made to understand 
 
 ' how many a correct and prudent woman 
 would have gone inconceivably further than 
 they, in gratitude and generous feeling, had 
 not right principle been made the stay of her 
 
 Love which arises out of mere weakness, 
 is as easily fixed upon one object as another ; 
 and consequently is at all times transferable : 
 that which is governed by principle, how 
 much has it to suffer, yet how nobly does it 
 survive all trial ! 
 
 I have said, that woman’s love, at least all 
 which deserves that name, is almost univer- 
 sally exalted and noble in its commence- 
 ment; but that still it wants its highest attri- 
 bute, until its faithfulness has been establish- 
 ed by temptation and trial. Let no woman, 
 therefore, boast of her constancy, until she 
 has been put to the test. In speaking of 
 faithfulness, 1 am far from supposing it to 
 denote merely the tenacity of adhering to an 
 engagement. It is easy to be true to an en- 
 gagement, while false to the individual with 
 whom it is contracted. My meaning refers 
 to faithfulness of heart, and this has many 
 
 conduct, and the arbiter of all her actions. 
 
 trials in the common intercourse of society, | act of bearing it meekly and reverently, as 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 in the flattery and attentions of men, and in 
 the fickleness of female fancy. 
 
 To have loved faithfully, then, is to have 
 loved with singleness of heart, and sameness 
 of purpose, through all the temptations which 
 society presents, and under all the assaults 
 of vanity, both from within and without. It 
 is so pleasant to be admired, and so soothing 
 
 to be loved, that the grand tria! of female | 
 
 constancy is, not to add one more conquest 
 to her triumphs, where it is evidently in her 
 power to do so; and, therefore, her only pro- 
 tection is to restrain the first wandering 
 thought which might even lead her fancy 
 astray. The ideas which commonly float 
 through the mind of woman, are so rapid, 
 and so indistinctly defined, that when the 
 door is opened to such thoughts, they pour 
 in like a torrent. Then first will arise some 
 new perception of deficiency in the object of 
 her love, or some additional impression of 
 his unkindness or neglect, with comparisons 
 between him and other men, and regret that 
 he has not some quality which they possess, 
 sadness under a conviction of her future des- 
 tiny, pining for sympathy under that sadness, 
 and, lastly, the commencement of some other 
 intimacy, which at first she has no idea of 
 converting into love. 
 
 Such is the manner in which, in thousands 
 of instances, the faithfulness of woman’s 
 love has been destroyed, and destroyed far 
 more effectually than if assailed by an open, 
 and, apparently, more formidable foe. And 
 what a wreck has followed! for when wo- 
 man loses her integrity, and her self-respect, 
 she is indeed (pitiable and degraded. While 
 her faithfulness remains unshaken, it is true 
 she may, and probably will, have much to 
 suffer; but let her portion in this life be what 
 it may, she will walk through the world with 
 a firm and upright step; for even when soli- 
 tary, she is not degraded. It may be called 
 a cold philosophy to speak of such consola- 
 tion being available under the suffering which 
 arises from unkindness and desertion, but 
 who would not rather be the one to bear in- 
 jury, than the one to inflict it; and the very 
 
 a 
 
 " 
 
SS A ES 2S ES SS Se a ae 
 
 rn A A CC LA 
 a 
 
 ee 
 
 a 
 
 LOVE AND 
 
 v 
 from the hand of God, has a purifying and 
 
 solemnizing effect upon the soul, which the 
 faithless and the fickle never can experi- 
 ence. 
 
 As friendship is the basis of all true love, 
 it is equally—nay, more important that the 
 latter should be submitted to the same test 
 in relation to its ultimate aim, which ought 
 supremely to be, the moral and spiritual good 
 of its object. Indeed, without this principle 
 at heart, no love is worthy of the name ; be- 
 cause, as its influence upon human nature is 
 decidedly the most powerful of any, its re- 
 sponsibilities are in the same proportion se- 
 rious and imperative. What, then, shall we 
 think of the woman who evinces a nervous 
 timidity about the personal safety of her 
 lover, without, any corresponding anxiety 
 about the safety of his soul ? 
 
 But there is another delusion equally fatal | 
 
 with this, and still more frequently prevailing 
 among well-meaning yeang woman; I mean, 
 that of listeniz% to the addresses of a gay 
 man, and' making it the condition of her mar- 
 rying him, that he shall become religious. 
 Some even undertake to convert men of this 
 description, without professing any personal 
 interest in the result; and surely, of all the 
 mockeries by which religion is insulted in 
 this world, these are among the greatest. 
 They are such, however, as invariably bring 
 their own punishment; and, therefore, a little 
 observation upon the working of this falla- 
 cious system upon others, will probably be of 
 more service to the young, than any obser- 
 vations I, can offer. I cannot, however re- 
 frain from the remark, that religion being a 
 matter of personal interest, ifa man will not 
 submit himself to its influence for his own 
 sake, it is not likely he will do so for the sake 
 of another; and the probability is, that, while 
 endeavoring to convert him, the woman, being 
 the weaker party, wiil be drawn over to his 
 views and principles; or if hers should be 
 too firm for this, that he will act the hypocrite 
 in order to deceive her, and thus add a new 
 crime to the sum of guilt already contracted. 
 
 With a gay man, therefore, a serious wo- 
 man can have nothing to do, but to contem- 
 
 COURTSHIP. 103 
 
 plate his character as she would that of some 
 being of a different order or species from her 
 own. Even after such a man has undergone 
 a moral and spiritual change, there will re- 
 main something in his tone of mind and feel- 
 ing, from which a delicate and sensitive wo- 
 man will naturally and vnavoidably shrink. 
 He will feel this himself, and while the hu- 
 mility.and self-abasement which this convic- 
 tion occasions, will constitute a strong claim 
 upon her sympathy and tenderness, they will 
 both be deeply sensible that, in his heart of 
 hearts, there is a remembrance, a shadow, a 
 stain, which a pure-minded woman must 
 ever feel and sorrow for. 
 
 “But how are we to know a man’s real 
 character ?”’ is the common question of young 
 women. Alas! there is much willing decep- 
 tion on this point. Yet, | must confess, that 
 men are seldom thoroughly known, except 
 under their own roof, or among their own 
 companions. With respect to their moral 
 conduct, however, if they have alow standard 
 of excellence with regard to the female sex 
 in general, it isan almost infallible sign that 
 their education, or their habits, have been 
 such as to render them undesirable compan- 
 ions in the most intimate and indissoluble of 
 all connections. Good men are accustomed 
 to regard women as equal with themselves 
 in their moral and religious: character, and 
 therefore they seldom speak of them with 
 disrespect ; but bad men having no such 
 scale of calculation, use a very different kind 
 of phraseology, when women, as a class, are 
 the subject of conversation. 
 
 Again, the world is apt to speak of men as 
 being good because they are merely moral. 
 But it would be a safe rule for all Christian 
 women to reflect, that such are the tempta- 
 tions to man in his intercourse with the world, 
 that nothing less than the safeguard of reli- 
 gion can render his conduct uniformly moral. 
 
 With regard to the social and domestic 
 qualities of a lover, these must also be tried 
 at home. If disrespectful to his mother, and 
 inconsiderate or ungentle in his manners to 
 his sisters, or even if accustomed to speak of 
 them in a coarse, unfeeling, or indifferent 
 
 ee SS nr a a DENS SRSA SL eT TS SST PT TS a 
 
a SS ED SEER SR RS SS RR A RR RR EECA AER EE, AA RARE Sg 
 
 104 
 
 manner, whatever may be his intellectual re- 
 commendations, as a husband he ought not 
 to be trusted. On the other hand, it may be 
 set down as an almost certain rule, that the 
 man who is respectful and affectionate to his 
 mother and his sisters, will be so to his wife. 
 
 Having thus described in general terms 
 the manner in which women ought to love, 
 the next inquiry is, under what circumstances 
 this feeling may be properly indulged. ‘The 
 first restriction to a woman of delicacy, of 
 course, will be never to entertain this senti- 
 ment towards: one by whom it has not been 
 sought and solicited. Unfortunately, how- 
 ever, there are but too many instances in 
 which attentions, so pointed as not to be 
 capable of being misunderstood, have wan- 
 tonly been made the means of awakening 
 something more than a preference ; while he 
 who had thus obtained this meanest of all 
 triumphs, could smile at the consequences, 
 and exult in his own freedom from any direct 
 committal. 
 
 How the peace of mind of the young and 
 the trusting is to be secured against such treat- 
 ment, it is difficult to say; unless they would 
 adopt the advice of the more experienced, 
 and think less of the attentions of men in 
 general, and more of their own immediate 
 and practical duties, which, after all, are the 
 best preservatives, not only against indolence, 
 melancholy, and romance; but against the 
 almost invariable accompaniment of these 
 evils—a tendency to sentimental attachments. 
 Tam aware that I incur the risk of being con- 
 sidered among young ladies as too homely 
 in my notions, even for an admonitress, when 
 I so often recommend good old-fashioned 
 household duties; yet, I believe them never- 
 theless to be a wholesome medicine both to 
 body and mind, and in no case more useful 
 than in those of sentimentality. 
 
 In the bestowment of the affections, few 
 women are tempted to make choice of men 
 of weak capacity. Still there is sometimes a 
 plausible manner, a gentlemanly address, or 
 a handsome exterior, which serves for a 
 while to bewilder the judgment, so as to con- 
 ceal from detection the emptiness within. It 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 a in etree A a I a INH Te RIT) eae es a ee ss 
 
 is the constitutional want of womaii’s nature 
 to have some superior being to look up to; 
 and how shall a man of weak capacity sup- 
 ply this want? He may possibly please for’ 
 an hour, or a day, but it is a fearful thought 
 to have to dwell with such a one for life. 
 
 The most important inquiry, however, to 
 be made in the commencement of an attach- 
 ment, for it may be too late to make it after- 
 wards, is, whether the object of it inspires 
 with a greater love of all that is truly excel- 
 lent—in short, whether his society and con- 
 versation have a direct tendency to make re- 
 ligion appear more lovely, and more desira- 
 ble. If not, he can be no safe companion 
 for the intimacy of married life; for you 
 must have already discovered, that your 
 own position as a Christian, requires sup- 
 port rather. than opposition. It is the more 
 important, therefore, that this inquiry should 
 be most satisfactorily answered in an early 
 stage of the attachment; because it is the 
 peculiar nature of love to invest with ideal 
 excellence the object of its choice, so that 
 after it has once obtained possession of the 
 heart, there ceases too generally to be a cor- 
 rect perception of good and evil, where the 
 interests of love are concerned. 
 
 In addition to this tendency, it is deeply to 
 be regretted, that so few opportunities are af- 
 forded to women in the present state of’ so- 
 ciety, of becoming acquainted with the natu- 
 ral dispositions and general habits of those to 
 whom they intrust their happiness, until the 
 position of both is fixed, and fixed for life. 
 The short acquaintance which takes place, 
 under ordinary circumstances, between two 
 individuals about to be thus united, for better 
 for worse, until death do them part, is any 
 thing but a mutual development of real char- | 
 acter. The very name of courtship is a re- | 
 pulsive one; because it implies merely a so- | 
 licitude to obtain favor, but has no reference 
 to deserving it. When a man is said to be 
 paying his court to an individual of higher 
 rank or authority, he is universally under- || 
 stood to be using flattery and attention, if not 
 artifice, to purchase what his merits alone 
 would not be sufficient to command. 
 
 ti uct 
 
— 
 
 LOVE AND 
 
 not say that a similar line of conduct is de- 
 signedly pursued by the lover, because I be- 
 lieve that in many cases he would be glad to 
 have his character more clearly understood 
 than it is. Yet, here we see, most especially, 
 the evil consequences resulting from that 
 system of intercourse, which prevails be- 
 tween the two sexes in general society. By 
 the time a young woman is old enough to 
 enter into a serious engagement, she has 
 generally become so accustomed to receive 
 the flattery and the homage of men, that she 
 would feel it an insult to be treated with per- 
 fect honesty and candor; while, on the other 
 hand, her lover redoubles his assiduity to 
 convince her, that if not actually a goddess, 
 she is at least the most charming of her sex. 
 Need we be surprised if there should often 
 be a fearful awaking from this state of delu- 
 sion ? 
 
 I must, however, in justice repeat, that the 
 delusion is not all intentional on either part, 
 for a successful suit naturally places a man 
 in so agreeable a position, that his temper 
 and disposition, at such times, appear to the 
 best possible advantage; while on the other 
 hand, it would be strange indeed, if a wo- 
 man so courted, and apparently admired, 
 could not maintain her sweetest deportment, 
 aud wear her blandest smiles, through that 
 short period which some unjustly call the 
 happiest of her life, simply because it is the 
 one in which she is the most flattered, and 
 the most deceived. 
 
 It is a very erroneous notion, entertained 
 by some young persons, that to make early 
 pretensions to womanhood, is an embellish- 
 ment to their character, or a means of in- 
 creasing their happiness. Nothing in reality 
 can be more entirely a mistake. One of the 
 greatest charms which a girl can possess, is 
 that of being contented to be a girl, and noth- 
 ing more. Her natural ease of manner, her 
 simplicity of heart, her frankness, her guileless 
 and confiding truth, are all opposed to the pre- 
 mature assumption of womanhood. Even her 
 
 | joyous playfulness, so admirably’ adapted to 
 
 promote the health both of mind and body,— 
 
 COURTSHIP. 105 
 
 the mock dignity of an artificial and would- 
 be woman? Believe me, the latter loses 
 much of the innocent enjoyment of her early 
 years, while she gains in nothing, except a 
 greater necessity for care and caution. 
 
 Were it possible to induce the daughters 
 of England to view this subject in its true 
 light, and to endeavor to prolong rather than 
 curtail the season of their simplicity and 
 buoyancy of heart; how much would be 
 avoided of that absurd miscalculation about 
 the desirableness of contracting matrimonial 
 alliances, which plunges hundreds and thou- 
 sands into the responsible situation of wives 
 and mothers, before they have well learned 
 to be rational women ! 
 
 A cheerful, active, healthy, and sound- 
 minded girl, is ever the first to glow with 
 the genuine impulse of what is noble and 
 generous in feeling, thought, and action ; and 
 at the same time she is the last to be imposed 
 upon by what is artificial, false, or merely 
 superficial ; for there seems to be a power in 
 unsophisticated nature, to repel as if by in- 
 stinct the mean stratagems of art. The 
 vain, the sentimental, would-be woman, sick- 
 ly for want of natural exercise, and disap- 
 pointed in her precocious attempts at dignity 
 and distinction, is the last to yield herself to 
 any genuine impulse; because she must in- 
 quire whether it is lady-like and becoming ; 
 but, alas for her peace of mind! she is the 
 first to listen to the voice of flattery, and to 
 sink into all the absurdities of an early, a 
 misplaced, or an imaginary attachment. 
 
 It is not indeed in the nature of things, that 
 a young girl should know how to bestow her 
 affections aright. She has not had experi- 
 ence enough in the ways of the world, or 
 penetrated sufficiently through the smiling 
 surface of society, to know that some who are 
 the most attractive in their address and man- 
 ners, are the least calculated for fireside com- 
 panions. They know, if they would but be- 
 lieve what their more experienced relatives 
 tell them, that the happiness of marriage must 
 depend upon suitability of character; yet, 
 even of this they are incompetent to judge, » 
 
 oh! why does she hasten to lay all this aside for | and consequently they are betrayed into mis- 
 
 a a a ing ee a i a 
 
| 106 
 
 takes sometimes the most fatal to their true 
 interests, both here and hereafter. 
 
 How much wiser then is the part of her, 
 who puts off these considerations altogether, 
 until a period of greater maturity of judgment, 
 when much that once looked dazzling and 
 attractive shall have lost its false splendor; 
 and when many qualifications of heart and 
 mind, to which she once attached but little 
 | value, shall have obtained their due share of 
 ‘importance in her calculations! Her heart 
 will then be less subject to the dictates of ca- 
 -pricious fancy; and, looking at human life, 
 and society, and mankind as they really are ; 
 looking at herself, too, with a clearer vision, 
 and a more decided estimate of truth, she will 
 be able to form a correct opinion on that 
 point of paramount importance—suitability 
 of character and habits. 
 
 Influenced by a just regard to this consid- 
 eration, a sensible woman will easily see that 
 | the man of her choice must be as much as 
 possible in her own sphere of life. Deficient 
 in education, he would be a rude and coarse 
 companion for a refined woman; and with 
 much higher attainments than her own, he 
 would be liable to regard her with disrespect, 
 if not with contempt. 
 
 By a fatal misapprehension of what con- 
 stitutes real happiness, it is often spoken of 
 as a good and great thing, when a woman 
 raises herself to a higher sphere of society by 
 
 story of their after lives, it would often be a 
 history of humiliation and sorrow, for which 
 no external advantages had been able to com- 
 pensate. There are, however, admirable in- 
 stances of women, thus exalted, who have 
 maintained their own dignity, and the respect 
 of all their connections ; so much more impor- 
 tant is moral worth than intellectual cultiva- 
 tion, toa woman. In these cases, however, 
 the chief merit of the wife has been, that she 
 never sought her elevation. 
 
 Having chosen your lover for his suitabili- 
 ty, it is of the utmost consequence, that you 
 should guard against that natural propensity 
 of the youthful mind, to invest him with ev- 
 ery ideal excellence. Endeavor to be satis- 
 
 marriage. Could such individuals tell the | Let sufficient of your love be told, to prevent 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 fied with him as he is, rather than imagine him 
 what he never can be. It will save you a 
 world of disappointment in after life. Nor, 
 indeed, does this extravagant investiture of 
 the fancy belong, as is sometimes supposed, 
 to that meek, and true, and abiding attach- 
 ment which it is woman’s highest virtue and 
 noblest distinction to feel. I strongly suspect 
 it is vanity, and not affection, which leads a 
 young woman to believe her lover perfect ; 
 because it enhances her triumph to be the || — 
 choice of such a man. The part of a true-| |} © 
 hearted woman, is to be satisfied with her lov-. 
 er, such as he is, and to consider him, with all 
 his faults, as sufficiently exalted, and suffi- , 
 ciently perfect for her. No after-develop-. 
 ment of character can shake the faith of such) 
 a woman, no ridicule or exposure can weak- 
 en her tenderness for a single moment ; while, 
 on the other hand, she who has blindly be- 
 lieved her lover to be without a fault, must || 
 ever be in danger of awaking to the convic- 
 tion that her love exists no longer. \ 
 
 Though truth should be engraven upon ev- 
 ery thought, and word, and act, which occurs |} 
 in your intercourse with the man of your | 
 choice, there is implanted in the nature of wo-| 
 man, a'shrinking delicacy, which ought ever. 
 to prompt her to keep back some of her affec-) 
 tion for the time when she becomes a wife. 
 No woman ever gained, but many, very ma-_ 
 ny; have been losers, by displaying all at first. | 
 
 suspicion, or distrust; -and the self-compla- | 
 cency of man will be sure to supply the rest. 
 Suffer it not, then, to be unfolded to its full | 
 extent. In the trials of married life, you wil 
 
 have ample need for an additional supply: 
 You will want it for sickness, for sorrow, for 
 all the different exigences of real experience ; 
 but, above all, you will want it to re-awaken 
 the tenderness of your husband, when world- 
 ly cares and pecuniary disappointments have | 
 too much absorbed his better feelings; and 
 what surprise so agreeable to him, as to dis- 
 
 cover, in his further progress through the wil- 
 
 derness of life; so sweet, so deep a fountain, 
 
 as woman’s perfect love? 
 
 This prudent and desirable restraint of fe- 
 
SE eS es 
 
 H 
 
 -er, it is a bad omen for his happiness. 
 
 LOVE AND 
 
 male delicacy during the period of courtship, 
 will prevent those dangerous demands _ be- 
 ing made upon mere affection to supply inter- 
 est for an occasion, which after all, and par- 
 ticularly to men of business, is apt to be rath- 
 er a tedious one. Let your amusements, 
 then, even during that period, be ofan intellec- 
 tual nature, that your lover may never even 
 for a single moment have occasion to feel that 
 your society grows vapid, or palls upon his 
 taste. Itis better a thousand times, that read- 
 ing or conversation, or the company of others, 
 
 should be forced upon him, so that he should 
 
 regret having had so little of yours, than that 
 the idea should once glance across his mind, 
 that he had had too much, or that the time 
 spent with you had not passed so pleasantly 
 as he had expected. 
 
 It is a fact too little taken into account by 
 young women, that until actually married, 
 their relative and home duties are the same 
 after an engagement has been contracted, as 
 before. When a daughter begins to neglect 
 a father or a brother, for the sake of her lov- 
 Her 
 attentions in this case are dictated by impulse, 
 not duty ; and the same misapprehension of 
 what is just, and right, will in future be equal- 
 ly likely to divert them again from their prop- 
 er object. Itis good even to let your lover 
 see, that such is your estimate of duty, that 
 you can afford even to lose his society fora 
 few minutes, rather than neglect.the claims 
 of your family. 
 
 I have now imagined a young woman 
 brought into the most serious position she 
 has yet occupied; and if her mind is rightly 
 influenced, she will feel it to be one of deep 
 and solemn consideration. 
 lapse of her previous existence, she has lived 
 
 for herself alone, now is the time when ‘her | 
 
 | regrets are about to begin; if, as Ihave so 
 
 earnestly recommended, she has studious- 
 ly cultivated habits of duty, and thoughts of 
 affectionate and grateful regard towards her 
 home-connections, now is the time when she 
 will fully enter upon the advantages of hay- 
 ing regulated her conduct by.the law.of love. 
 Already she will have begun.to. contemplate 
 
 If, during the 
 
 COURTSHIP. 
 
 the character of manin a newlight. Admit- 
 ted to his confidence, she will find him at the 
 same time more admirable, and more requir- 
 ing as regards herself, than she fognod him in 
 society ; and while her esteem increases with 
 the development of his real merits, she will 
 feel her affection equal to every demand, for 
 she will be rich in that abundance which 
 the heart alone can supply, whose warmest 
 emotions have been called forth and cherish- 
 ed in the genialand healthy atmosphere of 
 domestic life. | 
 
 One word, before ‘this chapter closes, to 
 those who have arrived at years of woman-. 
 hood without having known what it was to. 
 engage the attentions of a lover; and of | 
 such I must observe, that by some unac- 
 countable law of nature, they often appear. 
 to be the most admirable of their sex. In- | 
 deed, while a sparkling countenance, an easy 
 manner, aud, to say ‘the least of it, a wil- 
 lingness to be admired, attract a crowd of 
 lovers—it not unfrequently happens, that re- 
 tiring merit, and unostentatious taient, scarce- 
 Jy secure the homage of one. And yet, on 
 looking around upon society, one sees so 
 many of the vain, the illiterate, and the utter- 
 ly useless, chosen and solicited as wives, 
 that we are almost tempted to consider those 
 who are not thus favored, as in ‘reality the 
 most honorably distinguished among their 
 Sex. 
 
 Still, I imagine there:are few, if any, who 
 never have had a suitable or unsuitable offer 
 
 at some time in their lives; and wise indeed 
 -by comparison, are those who, rather than 
 accept the latter, are content to enjoy the 
 
 pleasures, and endure the sorrows of life, | 
 alone. Compare their lot for an instant with | 
 that of women who have married from ‘un- | 
 worthy motives. How incomparably more | 
 dignified, more happy, and more desirable in» 
 every ‘way, does:itappear! ‘It is true there 
 are times in their experience when they will | 
 have to bear what woman bears so hardly—_ 
 the consciousness of being alone ; but they 
 escape.an evil far more insupportable—that | 
 of being'a slighted or an unloved wife. | 
 If my remarks throughout this work have 
 
—— 
 
 for the married state, it has not been from 
 
 appeared to refer directly to a moral training 
 
 any want of interest in those, of whom I 
 purpose t@ speak more fully hereafter, who 
 never enter upon this condition, but simply 
 because I believe the moral training which 
 prepares a woman for one sphere of duty, is 
 equally productive of benefit if she fills an- 
 other; and I rest this belief upon my con- 
 viction, that all the loveliest and most esti- 
 mable propensities of woman’s nature, were 
 
 bestowed upon her for early and continued 
 
 exercise in a strictly relative capacity ; and 
 
 that, whether married or single, she will, 
 
 equally find the law of Christian love the 
 only certain rule by which to regulate her 
 conduct, so as to render her either happy 
 herself, or the promoter of happiness in oth- 
 
 ers. » 
 8, 
 en eee 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 SELFISHNESS, VANITY, ARTIFICE, AND INTEG- 
 RITY. 
 
 It is my intention to occupy the present 
 ckapter with further observations upon the 
 three great enemies to woman’s advance- 
 ment in moral excellence—selfishness, vani- 
 ty, and artifice, as opposed to her disinter- 
 estedness, simplicity of heart, and integrity. 
 
 It seems to be a strange anomaly in her 
 nature, that in connection with all which wo- 
 man is capable of doing and suffering for the 
 good of others, there should lurk about her 
 heart a peculiar kind of selfishness, which 
 the strong discipline of personal trial, and 
 often of severe affliction, is frequently re- 
 quired to subdue. It is justly remarked of 
 woman, that in cases of afflictive dispensa- 
 tion, the qualities of her heart and mind 
 generally appear to the greatest advantage, 
 and none of them more so, than her devoted- 
 ness; by which I would be understood to 
 mean, the power she sometimes evinces of 
 throwing every consideration of self into the 
 balance as nothing, when weighed against 
 the interest or the happiness of those she 
 
 eae en enero eens dei nannies ansesatesiaas hence IRE 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 loves. 
 trying vicissitudes of life by this spirit of de- 
 votedness, her capabilitiessof acting and en- 
 during have sometimes appeared almost su- 
 perhuman ; so much so, that when we con- 
 template woman in this point of view, we al- 
 most fail to recognise as a being of the same 
 species, the idle flutterer of the ball-room, or 
 the listless murmurer beside the parental 
 hearth. | 
 
 It is a fearful thing to await the coming of 
 “the dark days of sorrow,” before the evil 
 spirit of selfishness shall be exorcised. Let 
 us inquire, then, what aspect this enemy as- 
 sumes in early life, in order that it may be 
 the more easily detected, and expelled from 
 its favorite citadel, the human heart. 
 
 Selfishness has other features besides 
 greediness. It is a very mistaken notion, 
 that because persons give freely, they cannot 
 be selfish ; for there is a luxury in giving, 
 which sentimental epicures will sometimes 
 not deny themselves, even for the sake of 
 principle. Thus, some young people are 
 liberal in making presents with their parents’ 
 hard-earned money, and even when the 
 same money would be more properly and 
 more justly applied in paying their lawful 
 debts. Such is the mere generosity of im- 
 pulse, which deserves no better name than 
 self-gratification. Indeed, all acting from 
 mere impulse may be classed under the head 
 of selfishness ; because it has no object be- 
 yond the relief or satisfaction of the actor, 
 without reference to its influence or operation 
 upon others. | 
 
 The aspect which female selfishness most 
 frequently assumes in early life, may best be 
 described as a kind of absorption in self, or a 
 habit of making self at once the centre and 
 limit of every consideration, which habit is 
 far from being incompatible with liberality 
 in giving. Every thing, in this case, which 
 forms the subject of conversation or thought, 
 has reference to self; and separate from self, 
 there are few which possess the slightest in- 
 terest. 
 
 “[ wish it was always winter,” said a 
 
 es — 
 
 Supported under some of the most | 
 
 young lady very coolly to me, “the glare of 
 
—— 
 
 a i, 
 
 LOVE AND COURTSHIP. 
 
 the sunshine is so painful to my sight”’ I 
 reminded her of the poor of our own spe- 
 cies, and the animals of the creation in gen- 
 eral—but she persisted in wishing it was al- 
 ways winter; and yet this young lady was 
 generous in giving, but, like too many others, 
 she was accustomed to look upon the whole 
 universe only as it bore some relation or 
 reference to herself. 
 
 Nor does it follow either that such persons 
 should entertain for themselves an inordinate 
 admiration. ‘Tio hear them talk, one would 
 sometimes be led to suppose that self was 
 the very being with whom, of all others, they 
 were most dissatisfied: yet, all the while, 
 they are too busy finding fault with self, to 
 have time to approve or admire what they. 
 might otherwise behold in others. 
 
 How different is this state of mind and 
 feeling from that which acknowledges the 
 rule of Christian love! In accordance with 
 this rule, it is highly important to begin early 
 to thiuk much of others, and to think of them 
 kindly. We are all, when young, and es- 
 pecially those who believe themselves gifted 
 with more than ordinary talent, tempted to 
 think it both amusing and clever to find out 
 
 | the faults of others; and among the busy, 
 
 the meddling, and the maliciously disposed, 
 
 || this habit does often unquestionably afford a 
 
 more than lawful degree of amusement; 
 while to her by whom it is indulged, it inva- 
 
 | riably proves in the end most destructive to 
 | genuine cheerfulness, good-humor, and peace 
 | of mind; because its own nature being of- 
 | fensive, it raisés up against her a host of 
 | enemies, by whom all that is wrong in her 
 | character is magnified, and all that is good is 
 | evil spoken of. At the same time she will 
 : also find, that this-seeming cleverness is 
 : also shared with the most vulgar-minded 
 | persons of both sexes, and of every grade in 
 || society, because none are so low as to be in- 
 || capable of seeing the faults of their neigh- 
 
 bors. 
 Could such young satirists be convinced 
 
 | how much real enjoyment they sacrifice for 
 
 the sake of awakening a momentary interest 
 in their conversation, they would surely pause 
 
 00 | 
 
 before the habit should have become so far 
 
 confirmed as to have repelled their nearest 
 friends, and set them apart from all the social 
 sympathies and sweet charities of life ; for 
 such is inevitably the consequence of perse- 
 vering indulgence in this habit, but especially | 
 with such as possess no real talent for amus- 
 ing satire, and who, in their futile attempts to 
 attain the unenviable distinction of being sa- 
 tirical, ascend no further than to acquire a 
 habit of spéaking spitefully. It is almost 
 needless to say, that such women are seldom 
 loved, and-seldom sought, in cases where a 
 sympathizing friend or kind assistant is re- 
 quired. Wheno such individuals are over- 
 taken by affliction, they then feel how differ- 
 ent a thing it is to have wounded and re- 
 pelled, from what it is to have soothed and 
 conciliated. Happy for them if they begin to ; 
 feel this before it is too late! 
 
 But if, in connection with their affliction, 
 the minds of such individuals should become 
 subject to impressions of a religious nature,. 
 and, as is natural in such cases, they should || 
 seek the society of religious people, how |! 
 deeply will they then deplore that their un- 
 fortunate habit of thinking and speaking evil 
 of others should have opened their eyes to a 
 thousand little discrepancies of character, 
 and fancied absurdities of conduct, in those | 
 it has become most important to their happi- 
 ness that they should confide in! How do 
 the ridiculous, the inconsistent, the vulgar, 
 then start up to view, with a prominence 
 that throws every other quality into shade; 
 so that even while they listen to a religious 
 discourse, their thoughts are entirely diverted 
 by some peculiarity in the manner in which 
 it is delivered. 
 
 And all this chain of sad consequences 
 may arise out of the simple habit of trying to 
 be striking and amusing in company, so that 
 self may, by that means, be made an object 
 of greater importance. In comparison with 
 such behavior, how beautiful is that of the 
 simple-hearted young woman, who can be so 
 absorbed in the conversation of others, as to 
 forget that she has taken no part in it her- 
 self; but more especially admirable is the 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 conduct of her, who !ooks only, or chiefly, 
 for what is to be loved and commended in 
 others ; and who, though not insensible to 
 the darker side of human nature, draws over 
 it the veil of charity, because she considers 
 all her fellow-creatures as heirs to the same 
 sufferings and infirmities which she endures, 
 yet as children of the same heavenly Father, 
 and subject with herself to the same dispen- 
 sation of mercy and forgiveness. 
 
 The habit of thinking perpetually of self is 
 always accompanied by its just and necessa- 
 ry punishment—a more than ordinary share 
 
 of wounded feeling. The reason is a very 
 
 obvious one; that persons whose thoughts | 
 
 are usually thus engaged, are apt to suppose 
 themselves the subject of general observation, 
 and scarcely can a whisper be heard in the 
 same room, but they immediately settle it in 
 their own minds that they are the subject of 
 injurious remark. ‘They are also keenly alive 
 to every slight; such as not being known or 
 noticed when they are met, not being invited 
 to visit their friends, and a thousand other 
 acts of omission, which an unselfish disposi- 
 tion would kindly attribute to some other 
 cause than intentional disrespect. 
 
 It is the result of selfishness, too, when we 
 are sO unreasonable as to expect that every- 
 body should love us; or when we are piqued 
 and irritated when convinced that some, up- 
 on whom we have but little claim, do not. 
 Surely, so unfair a demand upon the good- 
 will of society might be cured by asking, Do 
 we love everybody, do justice to everybody, 
 and deserve to be loved by everybody? For, 
 until this is the case, what title have we to 
 universal affection? It might also tend, in 
 some degree, to equalize the balance of re- 
 quirement in favor of self, if we would recol- 
 lect that the faults we most dislike in others, 
 may, all the while, be less offensive to us than 
 ours to them; and that not only for all the 
 actual faults, but even for the objectionable 
 peculiarities, which society puts up with in 
 
 | US, We OWE a repayment which can only be 
 made in kindness and forbearance to others. 
 
 In the manners and appearance of persons 
 accustomed to dwell much upon the slights 
 
 a OO . 
 ——[—[_[—[_[—[—[—[][][_[—[— — zz] E—— 
 
 as well as to her moral and spiritual advance- 
 
 | Women who are vain of their sensibility, and 
 
 they are subject to, and the mjuries they re- 
 ceive from others, there is a restless uneasi- 
 ness, and a tendency to groundless suspicion, 
 as much at variance with peace of mind, as 
 with that charity which “ thinketh no evil.” 
 Compare with such a state of mind and feel- 
 ing the sunny calm which lives, even in the 
 countenance of her, whose soul is at peace 
 with all the human race; who finds in all, 
 even the most humble, something either to 
 admire, or love; and who esteems whatever 
 kindness she receives from others, as more 
 than her own merits would have entitled her 
 to expect; and we see at once the advantage 
 she enjoys over those with whom self is the 
 subject of paramount interest. 
 
 Another fatal enemy to woman’s peace, 
 
 ment, is her tendency to a peculiar kind of 
 petty artifice, as directly opposed, in its na- 
 ture, to simplicity of heart, as to integrity. 
 Artifice may possibly be considered too se- 
 vere a name for what is scarcely more than a 
 species of acting; or, perhaps, it may, with 
 still greater propriety, be called, practising 
 upon others, for the purpose of gratifying 
 selfishness, and feeding vanity. 
 
 Affectation is the first symptom of this ten- 
 dency. ‘There are many kinds of affectation, 
 differing in their moral nature according to 
 the seriousness and importance of what is 
 affected. Affectation of ignorance is, perhaps, 
 the most absurd of them all. Yet how often 
 do we find a young pretender to gentility af- 
 fecting not to know any thing which is vul- 
 gar or mean; and, among this class, taking 
 especial pains to place many things- with 
 which every rational being ought to be ac- 
 quainted ! 
 
 The affectation of sensibility is, Reich 
 the most common of all; because that pecu- 
 liar faculty of the female mind, bestowed for 
 the purpose of rendering her more efficient 
 as a minister of comfort and consolation, is 
 looked upon rather as a matter of taste, than 
 as a principle ; just as if fine feelings were 
 only given to women to look pretty with. 
 
 wish to have it indulged, generally choose 
 
rR 
 
 weak and flattering friends, to whom they 
 constantly complain of what they suffer from 
 excess of feeling. 
 
 It is, indeed, a lamentable fact, and most 
 probably the consequence of some misman- 
 agement in early youth, that the sensitive- 
 ness of some women is such as to render 
 them altogether useless, and sometimes 
 worse than useless, in any case of suffering 
 oralarm. If such individuals sincerely regret 
 this disqualification, they are truly deserving 
 of our pity ; but if they make a parade of it, 
 no language can be strong enough for their 
 condemnation. 
 
 Allusion has already been made to that 
 affectation of modesty which consists in 
 simpering and blushing about what a truly 
 delicate mind would neither have perceived 
 nor understood, nor would have been in the 
 slightest degree amused by if it had. 
 
 Affectation of humility is often betrayed by 
 a proneness in persons to accuse themselves 
 of some darling fault ; while they repel with 
 indignation the suspicion that they possess 
 any other. 
 
 That kind of affectation which relates es- 
 pecially to manner, consists chiefly in assum- 
 ing a particular expression of countenance, 
 or mode of behavior, which is not supported 
 by a corresponding state of feeling. Thus 
 an affectation of attention, when the thoughts 
 are wandering, instead of that quiet and fixed 
 look which indicates real interest, produces 
 a certain degree of uneasiness of countenance 
 arising out of the restraint imposed upon na- 
 ture, which effectually destroys the power of 
 beauty ; while those futile attempts at being 
 brilliant, which consist only in flashes of the 
 eye, smiles that have neither appropriateness 
 nor meaning, and an expression of face 
 changing suddenly from grave to gay—from 
 despair to rapture—are sufficient indications 
 of a state of mind almost too degraded and 
 deplorable for ridicule. 
 
 Affectation of manner, however, is not un- 
 frequently the result of excessive timidity ; 
 and then indeed it claims our tenderest com- 
 passion, and our kindest sympathy. I have 
 known little girls, when harshly treated in 
 
 ee se 
 SELFISHNESS, VANITY, ARTIFICE, AND INTEGRITY. 
 
 childhood, acquire a constrained and affected 
 manner, from the constant state of unnatural 
 apprehension in which they lived. This kind 
 of affectation is apt to become in after years 
 a fixed habit, and has subjected many a well- 
 meaning person to unmerited ridicule, and 
 sometimes to contempt. Indeed, affectation 
 of manner ought always to be guarded 
 against, because of the unfavorable impres-. 
 sion it is calculated to make upon others; 
 and especially upon those who know of no 
 higher qualities in connection with this pe- 
 culiarity of manner, and upon whom it is 
 consequently the only impression ever made, 
 and the only standard by which the unfortu- 
 nate subject of affectation is judged of for 
 life. How much of the influence of good 
 example, and the effect of benevolent effort, 
 is frustrated by this seemingly insignificant 
 cause, may be judged of by the familiar con- 
 versation which takes place in society, and 
 particularly among the young, when they 
 discuss the merits or demerits of persons 
 from whose influence or authority they would 
 gladly discover a plea for escaping. 
 
 Besides the timidity which belongs to con- 
 stitutional fear, and which so frequently pro- 
 duces affectation of manner, there is a timid- 
 ity of a widely different kind, about which 
 many serious mistakes are made. J mean 
 the timidity of the vain. Excessive vanity, 
 excites a nervous trembling apprehension in 
 the young candidate for public favor, which 
 is often most erroneously supposed to arise 
 from a low estimate of self. Nor is it impos- 
 sible that it should arise from this cause, and 
 be the consequence of vanity still; for, if I 
 may use the expression, there is a vanity 
 above par, and another vanity below it— | 
 there 1s a vanity which, looks eagerly for 
 homage, believing it to be a right; there is 
 another which scarcely ventures into the field 
 of competition, convinced of its inadequacy 
 to succeed, but which nevertheless, retires 
 with a feeling of sullenness and depression, 
 not much allied to genuine humility. It is 
 that state of vacillation between the excessive 
 pleasure which admiration would afford if 
 obtained, and the excessive pain which any 
 
| thing approaching to ridicule or contempt 
 would occasion, that often imparts to the 
 | manners of the young, a blushing nervous 
 kind of hesitation and backwardness, mis- 
 called timidity. The timidity of modest feel- 
 ing escapes from notice, and is happy; that 
 of vanity escapes, and is piqued and miser- 
 | able. She who suffers from the timidity of 
 | vanity, shrinks from society higher than her- 
 | self, not so much from fear, as from jealousy 
 | of being outshone. The simple-hearted wo- 
 | man, desirous of improvement, esteems it a 
 | privilege to go into the company of her supe- 
 | iors, for the sake of what she may. learn 
 | from those who are better informed, or more 
 estimable, than herself. | 
 
 In contemplating the nature and effects of 
 artifice, or rather that system of practising 
 upon others which I have endeavored to de- 
 scribe, and in reflecting upon the state of 
 mind which this species of practising indi- 
 cates, we arrive at a more clear and decided 
 idea of integrity, as directly opposed to this 
 system, than we can by any other process of 
 thought. There is in fact no means of giving 
 a positive definition of integrity, so as to 
 make it fully understood. We may call ita 
 straightforward and upright mode of con- 
 duct ; but it will still remain, as before, to be 
 considered by young ladies a sort of thing 
 which belongs to servants and trades-people, 
 but not to them. 
 
 It is a matter of surprise to some, and 
 ought to be a subject of universal regret, that 
 in our public seminaries for the training of 
 youth, integrity should occupy so small a 
 share of attention. Even in our popular 
 works on education, it holds no very import- 
 ant place; and yet I am inclined to think, 
 that a want of strict integrity is the greatest 
 of all wants to a social, moral, and account- 
 able being. In this opinion, I doubt not but 
 many of my readers will cordially agree, be- 
 cause all are more or less inclined to restrict 
 the meaning of integrity, to a conscientious 
 abstaining from fraudulent practices. Thus, 
 when a man has never been known to cheat 
 in his business, it is said of him, that his in- 
 
 tegrity is unimpeachable; and a woman is 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 a oe 
 
 dignified with the same character, when she 
 is strict in keeping her accounts, and dis- 
 charging her pecuniary debts. So far, both 
 are entitled to our respect; but there are in- 
 numerable modes in which integrity operates 
 upon character and conduct, besides what 
 relate to the management of pecuniary af- 
 fairs. 
 
 Simplicity of heart is perhaps more gener- 
 ally understood and admired than integrity, 
 if we may judge by the frequent and eloquent 
 manner in which it is expatiated upon by 
 those who describe the attractions of youth. 
 Simplicity of heart is unquestionably a great 
 charm in woman; yet I cannot think it su- 
 perior to integrity, because it consists more 
 in ignorance of evil, and consequently of 
 temptation, than in principle, which would 
 withstand both. It consists chiefly in that 
 unruffled serenity of soul, which suspects no 
 lurking mischief beneath the fair surface of 
 
 things in general—which trusts, and confides,. 
 
 and is happy in this confidence; because it 
 has never been deceived, nor has learned the 
 fatal mystery of deceiving others. It is like 
 the dew on the untrodden grass, the bloom 
 of the flower, the down on the butterfly’s 
 wing, the purity of newly-fallen snow, before 
 even a breath of wind has swept over it. 
 Alas ! what has it to do in this world of ours, 
 where so many rude feet tread, and where 
 so many rough winds blow? Consequently 
 we find but little true simplicity of heart, ex- 
 cept in early youth; or connected with a 
 dullness of perception as to the nature and 
 condition of the human race; or in situations 
 where a very limited knowledge of the world 
 is admitted. 
 
 But integrity we may find in every circum- 
 stance of life, because integrity is founded on 
 principle ; and consequently while not a stran- 
 ger to temptation, its nature is to withstand 
 it. Integrity is shown in a straightforward 
 and upright line of conduct, on trifling, as well 
 as on great occasions; in private, as well as in 
 public; beneath the eye of God alone, as well 
 as before the observation of men. It is a shield 
 of protection under which no man can make 
 us afraid ; because when actuated in all things 
 
SELFISHNESS, VANITY, ARTIFICE, AND INTEGRITY. 
 
 by the principle of integrity, no unexpected 
 event can bring to light what we are afraid or 
 ashamed to have known. ‘The woman who 
 walks through the world with unstained integ- 
 rity, is always safe. No fear then of whispering 
 . tongues; or of those confidential revealings 
 of friendly secrets, by which the creature of 
 artifice is ever kept in a state of dread ; no 
 fear then of a comparing of evidence by dif- 
 ferent parties; of the treachery of private 
 agents ; of the mal-occurrence of contingent 
 events ; above all, of that half-implied sus- 
 picion which can with difficulty be warded off, 
 except by an entire falsehood. The woman 
 of integrity fears none of these. Her course 
 is clear as that of the sun in the heavens, and 
 the light she sheds around her in society, is 
 scarcely less genial and pure. 
 
 Let us ask then, how this integrity may be 
 preserved, or rather—for I fear that will be 
 more to the purpose—how it is most fre- 
 quently, and most fatally destroyed. 
 
 There is reason to fear, that even home- 
 education is defective enough on this point ; 
 but if every one who has been educated at a 
 public school, would tell one half of the many 
 arts of subterfuge, trickery, and evasion, 
 which she learned to practise there; and if 
 all who are advanced in life would also trace 
 out the consequences upon their subsequent 
 conduct, of having learned in early life these 
 lessons in the school of deception, I believe 
 an amount of moral culpability, and of offen- 
 siveness in the sight of God, would be unfold- 
 ed, which some of our early instructors would 
 shudder to contemplate. On looking into the 
 dark past, they would then see how, while 
 they were so diligently and patiently—yes, 
 and meritoriously too, teaching us the rules 
 of grammar, arithmetic, and geography; ex- 
 pending their daily strength, and often their 
 midnight thought, in devising and carrying 
 out improved schemes for making us learn 
 more languages, and remember more words; 
 we had been almost equally busy in devising 
 schemes to promote our own interest, to es- 
 tablish ourselves in the favor of our instruct- 
 ors, or to escape their too frequently well- 
 merited displeasure. 
 
 113 
 
 And women from their very infancy are apt 
 at all this; because to the timid, and affection- 
 ate little girl, it is so sad a thing to fall into 
 disgrace—so pleasant a thing to be approved, 
 and loved. Her young and tender spirit sinks 
 like a broken flower, when she falls under 
 condemnation; but springs up exulting like 
 the lark, when commended by the lips she 
 loves. : 
 
 What, then, shall we say, when it is this 
 very sensitiveness and tenderness of her na- 
 ture, which so often, in the first instance, be- 
 trays her into ingenious, indirect, and too 
 frequently unlawful means, for warding off 
 blame, or obtaining praise. ‘There is but one 
 thing we can say—ihat in common kindness, 
 
 in Christian charity, her education should be | 
 
 studiously rendered such as to strengthen her 
 under this weakness, not to involve her more 
 deeply in its worst consequences—the loss of 
 her integrity. 
 
 Few persons are aware, until they have 
 entered into a full and candid examination 
 of this subject, how very minute, and appa- 
 rently insignificant, are those beginnings, from 
 whence flow some of the deepest channels of 
 deception. Falsehood makes a serious begin- 
 ning at school, when the master helps out a 
 drawing, and the pupil obtains the praise, as 
 if the whole work was her own. The master 
 has most probably added only a few effective 
 touches, so extremely small as not to be de- 
 
 tected by an unpractised eye; and while the | 
 
 proud and triumphant mother exhibits the 
 drawing to her flattering friends, it would be 
 difficult indeed for the little girl to say it was 
 not her own doing, because all the patience, 
 
 all the labor, and a great deal of the merit, | 
 
 were unquestionably hers. Yet, to let it pass 
 
 with these unqualified commendations be- | 
 
 stowed upon her as the author, is a species 
 of lying to God. Her young heart knows it 
 to be so, and she feels either humbled, or con- 
 firmed in the deception. Happy, thrice hap- 
 py; if it be the former ! 
 
 Nor is home-education by any means ex- 
 empt from its temptations to falsehood. There 
 are many little deceptions practised upon un- 
 suspecting mothers and absent fathers, which 
 
 = a 
 
114 
 
 I stain the page of youthful experience, and 
 lead to further and more skilful practice. in 
 the school of deception. ‘There are stolen 
 
 «sweets, whose bitter fruit has been deliberate 
 falsehood ; excuses made, and perhaps wholly 
 believed, which were perhaps only half true ; 
 and sly thefts committed. upon household 
 
 | property, to serve a selfish end; all which 
 have had a degrading effect upon the charac- 
 ter, and which in their worst consequences 
 have led to one falsehood made use of to con- 
 ceal another, and a third ora fourth to cover 
 both. 
 
 But if childhood is beset with these tempta- 
 tions, how much has woman to guard against, 
 when she first mixes with society, and enters 
 the disputed ground, where, to be most agree- 
 able, constitutes the strongest title to posses- 
 sion! She is then tempted to falsehood, not 
 in her words only, but in her looks ; for there 
 is a degree of integrity in looks, as well as in 
 expressions; and I am not quite sure that 
 the woman who can look a falsehood, is not 
 a worse deceiver than she who only tells one. 
 Allsweetness of look and manner, assumed 
 for the purpose of gaining a point, or answer- 
 ing a particular end, comes under this de- 
 scription of artifice. Many persons who 
 cannot conscientiously assent to what is said, 
 assume a look of sympathy or approval, 
 which sufficiently answers the purpose of 
 deception, and at the same time escapes all 
 risk of discovery as such. ‘T’hus, an implied 
 assent by a smile and a nod, to what we do not 
 believe, often spares us the trouble and pain 
 of exposing our real sentiments, where they 
 are unpopular, or would be likely to meet 
 with inconvenient opposition. 
 
 Still I should be sorry to set down all per- 
 ‘sons who smile, and nod, and appear to as- 
 sent to two different sides of a question, as 
 intentional deceivers ; because I believe that 
 much of this sort of double-dealing arises out 
 of the habit so many women indulge, of never 
 making up their minds decidedly on any point 
 of general interest, or viewing any subject in 
 a distinct and determinate manner; so that 
 they may almost be said really to think for the 
 time in two different ways: at any rate, during 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the time they listen to each speaker separately, 
 they are sufficiently convinced for them. 
 
 Thus it becomes the first act of integrity to. |} 
 endeavor to see, hear, and. believe the truth,. 
 and then to speak it. A grateful woman, re- 
 gardless of this rule, speaks of all persons as 
 good, to whom she is indebted, or who have 
 in any way served her purposes. Another, 
 and a far more serious instance of the same 
 kind of practice, consists in pretending not to 
 see, or not to understand vice, where it is not 
 convenient to believe in its existence; and 
 this is often done by the same persons, who 
 are quick to detect and expose it where such 
 exposure is suited to their purpose. | 
 
 And thus women in general become ha- 
 bituated to an indefinite way of thinking, and 
 a careless mode of speech, both which may 
 be serviceable to the mean-spirited, by pre- 
 venting the detection of error in sentiment, 
 or unsoundness of principle; though I be- 
 lieve neither of them were ever yet found 
 available in assisting the cause of truth or 
 righteousness. 
 
 Again, in the act.of doing good, there is a 
 manner of speaking of what we have done, 
 which, though not directly false, is certainly 
 at variance with strict integrity. I mean 
 when young ladies talk especially about heir 
 schools, éhetr poor women, and their old men ; 
 as if their individual charities were most be- 
 nevolent in their operation, and unbounded 
 in their extent ; when perhaps they have but 
 recently begun to be exercised in these par- 
 ticular channels. This is speaking the truth 
 in such a manner, as to produce a false im- 
 pression; and the consequence not unfre- 
 quently is, when really zealous and. devoted 
 people hear the speaker give this account of 
 her good deeds, and when they take up the. |} 
 subject, and address. her upon it; according 
 to the impression her words have produced ; 
 that, rather than descend from the false posi- 
 tion she has assumed, and. lower. herself in 
 the opinion of those with whom she. wishes to 
 stand well, she goes on.to practise further arti- 
 fice, or possibly plunges into, actual falsehood. 
 
 And it ought always to be, borne in mind, 
 
 that these little casual, but sometimes start- 
 
SELFISHNESS, ARTIFICE, VANITY, AND INTEGRITY. 
 
 | ling turns in common conversation, produce 
 /more actual untruths than the most trying 
 circumstances in life, where we have incom- 
 parably more at stake. If we were all to 
 take account each night of the untruths we 
 'had told in the course of the day, from an 
 exaggerated description designed to make a 
 story more amusing, down to the, frequent 
 case of receiving credit for an original re- 
 mark, which we knew was not our own, I 
 imagine few persons would find themselves 
 altogether clear of haying done violence to 
 the pure spirit of truth. And if we add, 
 also, to this list of falsehoods, all those un- 
 
 || fair or garbled statements, which may tend to 
 
 throw a brighter coloring over some cause 
 we wish to advocate, or cast another into 
 shade, I believe we should find that we had 
 indeed abundant need to pray for the re- 
 newed assistance of the Holy Spirit, to touch 
 and guard our lips, so that they should utter 
 no nore guile. 
 
 Besides these instances of the want of in- 
 tegrity, in which our own consciences alone are 
 concerned, there are others which demand a 
 stricter attention to the claims of justice, as 
 they relate to our friends, and to society at 
 large. Under which head, I would notice 
 the duty of doing justice to those we do not 
 love, and especially to those who have in- 
 jured us. Instead of which, how frequently 
 do we find that young women begin to tell 
 all the bad qualities of their friends, as soon 
 
 often do we find, too, that such disagree- 
 ments are related with conscious unfairness, 
 their own evil being kept out of sight, as well 
 as their friend’s good, where there has been 
 a mixture of both ! 
 
 There is a common practice too, when our 
 own conduct is in any way called in ques- 
 tion, and our friends kindly assign a plausible 
 reason for what we have done, to let that 
 pass as the real one, though we know, with- 
 in our hearts, it is not so; or. to let persons 
 make a favorable guess respecting us, with- 
 out contradicting it, though we know their 
 conclusions, in consequence of our silence, or 
 
 as they have quarrelled with them! How. 
 
 Sa 
 
 115 hy 
 
 Now, all these things, how insignificant 
 soever they may appear to man, are import- 
 ant between the soul and its Maker, and 
 must be deeply offensive in the sight of that 
 Being who is of purer eyes than to behold in- 
 iquity. They are important, as forming parts 
 of a whole, items of a mass, links in a chain, 
 steps in a downward progress, which must 
 lead away from a participation with the 
 blessed, in a kingdom, whose enjoyments 
 consist of purity and truth. 
 
 We have now come to that consideration 
 of the subject of integrity, which relates to 
 pecuniary affairs. And here what a field of 
 operation opens before us, for the develop- 
 ment of those principles of good or evil, of 
 benevolence or selfishness, of uprightness or 
 artifice, which I have endeavored to describe, 
 less by their own nature, than by their influ- 
 ence upon the manners and general conduct 
 of women! | 
 
 I believe there is nothing in the usages of 
 
 society more fatal to the interests of man- 
 kind, to the spiritual progress of individuals, 
 or to the general well-being of the human 
 soul, than laxity of principle as regards our 
 pecuniary dealings with each other. Itis a 
 case which all can understand—the worldly, 
 as well as religious professors ; if, then, the 
 slightest flaw appears in the conduct of the 
 latter in this respect, the interests of religion 
 must be injured in consequence, and the 
 cause of Christ must suffer. 
 _ But itis impossible,” say the fair readers 
 of this page, “that this part of the subject 
 can have any reference to us, we have so 
 little to do with money ;” or, perhaps, they 
 say, “so little in our power to spend.” Per- 
 haps it is the very smallness of your supply 
 according to the ideas you have formed of 
 its inadequacy to meet your wishes, which is 
 the cause of your want of integrity ; for no 
 one can act in strict accordance with the 
 principles of integrity, until they have learned 
 to practise economy. By economy, I do not 
 mean simply the art of saving money, but. 
 the nobler science of employing it for the 
 best purposes, and in its just proportions. 
 
 | apparent assent, will be false ones. In order to act out the principles of integ- 
 
116 
 
 rity in all their dignity, and all their purity, 
 it is highly important, too, that young wo- 
 men should begin in early life to entertain a 
 scrupulous delicacy with regard to incurring 
 pecuniary obligations ; and especially, never 
 to throw themselves upon the politeness of 
 gentlemen, to pay the minutest sum in the 
 way of procuring for them gratification, or 
 indulgence. I do not say that they may not 
 frequently be so circumstanced, as, with the 
 utmost propriety, to receive such kindness 
 from near relations, or even from elderly 
 persons; but I speak of men in general, 
 upon whom they have not the claim of kin- 
 dred ; and I have observed the carelessness 
 with which some young ladies tax the polite- 
 ness—nay, the purses of gentlemen, respect- 
 ing which it would be difficult to say, whether 
 it indicated most an absence of delicate feel- 
 ing, or an absence of integrity. 
 
 Iam aware, that, in many cases, this un- 
 satisfactory kind of obligation is most diff- 
 cult to avoid, and, sometimes, even impos- 
 | sible; yet, a prompt and serious effort should 
 always be made—and made in such a way 
 that you shall clearly be understood to have 
 both the wish, and the power, to pay your 
 own expenses. If the wish is wanting, I 
 can have nothing. to say in so humiliating a 
 case ; but if you have not the means of de- 
 fraying your own charges, it is plain that you 
 have no right to enjoy your pleasures at the 
 expense of another. There are, however, 
 different ways of proposing to discharge 
 such debts; and there is sometimes a hesi- 
 tancy in the alternate &dvance and retreat of 
 the fair lady’s purse, which would require, 
 extraordinary willingness on the part of the 
 gentleman, were his object to obtain a re- 
 payment of his own money. 
 
 It is the same in the settlement of all other 
 debts. Delicacy ought seldom, if ever, to 
 form a plea for their adjustment being neg- 
 lected. Indeed, few persons feel their deli- 
 cacy much wounded, by having the right- 
 money paid to them at the right time; or, in 
 other words, when it is due. The same re- 
 marks will apply to all giving of commis- 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 on, for want of a suitable opportunity for ar- 
 ranging their settlement; especially, never | 
 let the payment of a debt be longer delayed, 
 because it is evidently forgotten by the party 
 to whom it is owing. 
 
 All matters of business should also be ad- 
 justed as fairly, and as promptly, with friends 
 and near relations, as with strangers; and all 
 things in such cases should be as clearly un- 
 derstood. If the property transferred be in-- 
 tended as a gift, say so; if a loan, say that 
 the thing is lent; and if a purchase, either 
 pay for it, or name the price you expect. How 
 many lasting and lamentable misunderstand- 
 ings among the nearest connecticns would this 
 kind of integrity prevent—how much wound- 
 feeling, disappointment, and chagrin! 
 
 It is a mistaken view of economy, and 
 evinces a great want of integrity, when per- 
 sons are always endeavoring to obtain servi- 
 ces, or to purchase goods, at a lower rate 
 than their gust value. But if the vender of 
 an article be indebted to you for a kindness, 
 it is something worse than Mean, to ask, for 
 that reason, an abatement in its price. 
 
 In many cases where our claims are just, 
 it is easy to press them in an unjust manner ; 
 and we never do this more injuriously to the 
 interests of society, than when we urge work- 
 people beyond what is necessary, by telling 
 them that a thing will positively be needed at 
 a certain time, when we do not really believe 
 it will. There is a general complaint against 
 dressmakers, shoemakers, and many other 
 makers of articles of clothing, that they are 
 habitually regardless of punctuality and truth. 
 But I am disposed to think the root of the 
 grievance in a great measure arises out of 
 the evil already alluded to, on the part of the 
 ladies by whom they are employed. . 
 
 Let us imagine the case of a young dress- 
 maker, one of that most pitiable class of hu- 
 man beings, whose pallid countenances, and 
 often deformed and feeble frames, sufficiently 
 attest the unnatural exertions by which they 
 obtain their scanty bread. A young lady 
 wishes to have a dress elaborately made, and 
 for the sake of having it done expeditiously, 
 
 sions. Never let such affairs stand on and | names the precise day on which it must be | 
 
Wie 
 
 SELFISHNESS, ARTIFICE, VANITY, AND INTEGRITY. 
 
 | finished, adding as a sufficient reason for 
 | punctuality, that it must then be worn. The 
 | poor dressmaker sits all night long in her lit- 
 | tle joyless room, working by the light of a 
 | thin candle, while the young lady sleeps 
 | soundly in her bed. The Sabbath dawns, 
 and the dressmaker is still at work; until 
 | passing feet begin to be heard in the street, 
 | and shutters are unclosed;.and then, with 
 | aching head and weary limbs, she puts away 
 | her unfinished task, doubting whether the re- 
 | mainder of the day shall be devoted to the 
 ‘sleep which exhausted nature demands, or to 
 | wandering abroad to search for purer air, of 
 | which that nature is equally in need. The 
 day arrives at last on which the dress must 
 be taken home, according to appointment. 
 This time the dressmaker is punctual, be- 
 cause she believes that delay would be of 
 consequence. She knocks at the door of the 
 lady’s mansion. ‘The servant coolly tells her 
 that her young mistress has gone to spend a 
 few days in the country. Is it likely that 
 this poor workwoman should be equally 
 punctual the next time her services are re- 
 quired ? or need we ask how the law of love 
 has operated here? 
 
 The habit of keeping strict accounts with 
 regard to the expenditure of money, is good 
 in all circumstances of life; but it is never 
 so imperative a duty, as when we have the 
 property of others committed to our care. 
 
 | Unfaithfulness in the keeping and manage- 
 ment of money which belongs to others, has 
 
 | perhaps been the cause of more flagrant dis- 
 aster and disgrace, than any other species of 
 moral delinquency which has stained the 
 character of man, or woman either. Yet, 
 how easily may this occur, without an ex- 
 treme of scrupulous care, which the young 
 cannot too soon, or too earnestly learn to 
 practise! Even in the collecting of subscrip- 
 tions for two different purposes, small sums, 
 by some slight irregularity, may become mix- 
 ed; and integrity is sacrificed, if the minutest 
 fraction be eventually. placed to the wrong 
 account. 
 
 , 1. cannot for an instant. suppose that a 
 
 phatic language: “ Thou has not lied unto 
 
 | Christian woman, under any circumstances, 
 
 117 
 
 even the most difficult and perplexing, could 
 
 be under the slightest temptation to appro- 
 
 priate to her own use, for a month, a week, 
 a day, or an hour, the minutest item of what 
 she had collected for another purpose, trust- 
 ing to her own future resources for its reim- 
 bursement; because this would be a species 
 of dishonesty, which, if once admitted as a 
 principle of conduct, would be liable to termi- 
 nate in the most fearful and disastrous con- 
 sequences. It is the privilege of the daugh- 
 ters of England, that they have learned a 
 code of purer morals, than to admit even 
 such a thought, presented under the form of 
 an available means of escape from difficulty, 
 or attainment of gratification. Still it is well 
 to fortify the mind, as far as we are able, 
 against temptation of every kind, that if it 
 should occur—and who can be secure against 
 it’—we may not be taken unawares by an 
 enemy whose assaults are sometimes as in- 
 sidious, as they are always untiring. 
 
 One of the means T wanld naw propos tu 
 the young reader, is to turn with serious at- 
 tention to the case of Ananias and Sapphira, 
 as related in the Acts of the Apostles; nor 
 let it be forgotten, that this appalling act of 
 moral delinquency, originating in selfishness, 
 and terminating in falsehood, was the first 
 sin which had crept into the fold of Christ, 
 after the Shepherd had been withdrawn, and 
 while the flock remained in a state approach- 
 ing the nearest to that of perfect holiness, 
 which we have reason to believe was ever 
 experienced on this earth, since the time 
 when sin first entered into the world. 
 
 Yes, it is an awful and impressive thought, 
 that even in this state, temptation was allow- 
 ed to present itself in such a form, accom- 
 panied with a desire still to stand well with 
 the faithful, even after integrity was gone. 
 The words of Peter are most memorable on 
 this occasion: While it remained, was it not 
 thine own? and after it was sold, was it not in 
 thine own power? Evidently implying, that it 
 was better not to pretend to act upon high 
 and generous principles, than not to do so 
 faithfully. He then concludes in this em- 
 
 — 
 
118 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 SuTree EE EEnE ann NNDEnenennnememneemeneeeeremmnmmnmmmmesnmmee! 
 
 men, but unto God.’ By which we learn, 
 ‘that every species of dishonesty practised 
 between the soul and its Maker, is equally 
 offensive in the sight of God, as that which 
 is evident to men; and that there is no clear, 
 upright, and faithful walk for any human be- 
 ing in this world, whether young or old, 
 whether rich or poor, whether exalted or 
 lowly, but that which is in strict accordance 
 with the principles of integrity. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 
 
 Wirnour having made any pretension in 
 this volume to class it under the head of a 
 religious work, I have endeavored to render 
 it throughout conducive to the interests of 
 religion, by pointing out those minor duties 
 of lifo, and thace oerrare of society, which 
 strictly religious writers almost universally 
 consider as too insignificant for their atten- 
 tion. And, perhaps, it is not.easy to inter- 
 weave these seeming trifles in practice, with 
 the great fundamental principles of Christian 
 faith. 
 
 I cannot but think, however, that to many, 
 and especially to the young, this minuteness 
 of detail may have its use, by bringing home 
 to their attention familiar instances upon 
 which Christian principle may be brought to 
 bear. For I am one of those who think that 
 religion ought never to be treated or consid- 
 ered as a thing set apart from daily and fa- 
 miliar use, to be spoken of as belonging al- 
 most ‘exclusively to sabbaths, and societies, 
 and serious reading. To me it appears that 
 the influence of religion should be like an 
 atmosphere, pervading all things connected 
 with our being; that it ought to constitute 
 the element in which the Christian lives, 
 more than the sanctuary into which he re- 
 tires. When considered in this point of 
 view, nothing can be too minute to be sub- 
 mitted to the-test of its principles ; so that, 
 instead of our worldly and our spiritual con- 
 
 cerns occupying two distinct pages in our 
 experience, the one, according to this rule, 
 becomes regulated by our spiritual views; 
 and the other applied to our worldly avoca- 
 tions, as well as to our eternal interests. 
 
 In relation to this subject it has been re- 
 marked, in the quaint language of an old 
 writer, that no sin is “little in itself, because 
 there is no little law to be despised—no little 
 heaven to be-lost—no litile hell to be en- 
 dured ;”’ and it is by this estimate that I 
 would value every act, and every thought, 
 in which the principles of good and evil are 
 involved. b 
 
 The great question, whether the principles 
 of Christian faith, or, in other words, wheth- 
 er the religion of the Bible, shall be adopted 
 as the rule of conduct by the young, remains 
 yet to be considered, not in relation to the 
 nature of that faith, but as regards the de- 
 sirableness of embracing it at an early period 
 of life, willingly and entirely, with earnest- 
 ness ac woll as love. F 
 
 I am writing thus on the supposition, that, 
 with all who read these pages, convictions of 
 the necessity and excellence of personal re- 
 ligion have at one time or other been experi- 
 enced. The opinion is general, and, I be- 
 lieve, correct, that the instances are extremely 
 rare in which the Holy Spirit does not awa- 
 ken the human soul to a sense of its real 
 situation as an accountable being, passing 
 through a state of probation, before entering 
 upon an existence of endless duration. Nor 
 among young persons born of Christian pa- 
 rents, and educated in a Christian country, 
 where the means of religious instruction are 
 accessible to all, is it easy to conceive that 
 such convictions have not, at times, , been 
 strong and deep; though, possibly, they may 
 have been so neglected as to render their re- 
 currence less frequent, and less powerful in 
 their influence upon the mind. 
 
 Still it is good to recall the time when the 
 voice of warning, and of invitation, was first 
 heard ; to revisit the scene of a father’s faith- 
 ful instruction, and of the prayers of a lost 
 mother; to hear again the sabbath-evening | 
 sermon ; to visit the cottage of a dying 
 
a 
 nr ieee ney rp ht 
 
 DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 
 
 Christian ; or even to look back once more 
 
 into the chamber of infancy, where our first 
 
 tears of real penitence were shed. It is good 
 to remember how it was with us in those by- 
 gone days when we welcomed the chastise- 
 ments of love, and kissed the rod that was 
 stretched forth by a Father’s hand. How 
 blest did we then feel, in the belief that we 
 were not neglected, not forgotten, not over- 
 looked! Has any thing which the world we 
 have too much loved has since offered us, af- 
 forded a happiness to be compared with this 
 belief? Oh! no. Then why not hearken, 
 when the same voice is still inviting you to 
 come? and why not comply when the same 
 hand is still pointing out the way to peace ? 
 What is the hindrance which stands in your 
 way? What is the difficulty which prevents 
 the dedication of your youth to God? Let 
 this question be seriously asked, and fully 
 answered ; for it is of immense importance 
 that you should know on what grounds. the 
 invitations of the Holy Spirit have been re- 
 jected, and why you are adopting another 
 rule of conduct than that which is prescribed 
 in the gospel of Christ. 
 
 I repeat, it is of immense importance, be- 
 cause this is a subject which admits of no 
 trifling. If it is of importance in every 
 branch of mental improvement, that we 
 should be active, willing, earnest, and faith- 
 ful, it is still more important here. When 
 we do not persevere in learning, it does not 
 follow of necessity that we grow more igno- 
 rant; because we may remain where we 
 are, while the rest of the world goes on. But 
 in religion, there is no standing still ; because 
 opportunities neglected, and convictions re- 
 sisted, are involved in the great question of 
 responsibility—so that no one can open their 
 Bible, or attend the means of religious in- 
 struction, or spend a Sabbath, or even enter 
 into solemn communion with their own heart, 
 as in the sight of God, but they must be so 
 much the worse for such opportunities of 
 improvement, if neglected or despised. 
 
 I have dwelt much in this volume upon the 
 law of perfect love, as well as upon the sin- 
 cerity and the faithfulness with which that 
 
 119 
 
 law should be carried out ; and never is this 
 more important, or more essential, than in our 
 religious profession. The very groundwork 
 of the Christian faith is love; and love can 
 accomplish more in the way of conformity in 
 life and practice, than could ever be effected 
 by the most rigid adherence to what is be- 
 lieved to be right, without assistance from the 
 life-giving principle of love. 
 
 Still the state of the Christian in this world 
 is always described as one of warfare, and not 
 of repose; and how, without earnestness, 
 are temptations to be resisted, convictions 
 
 acted upon, or good intentions carried out? | 
 
 As time passes on, too, faithfulness is tried. 
 What has been adopted, or embraced, must 
 be adhered to. And in this, with many 
 young persons, consists the greatest of their 
 trials; for there is often a reaction on first 
 learning to understand something of the re- 
 alities of life, which throws them back from 
 the high state of expectation and excitement, 
 under which they first embraced religious 
 truth. 
 
 But let us return to the objections which 
 most frequently operate to prevent the young 
 surrendering themselves to their convictions 
 of the importance and necessity of personal 
 religion. “If I begin, I must go on.” Your 
 mind is not then made up. You have not 
 counted the cost of coming out from the 
 world, nor honestly weighed the advantages 
 of securing the guidance, support, and pro- 
 
 tection of personal religion, against every 
 
 other pursuit, object, or idol of your lives. 
 Perhaps it is society, amusement, or fashion, 
 which stands in your way. Be assured there 
 is society of the highest order, where religion 
 is supreme; and if not exactly what is popu- 
 larly called amusement, there is a heartfelt 
 interest in all which relates, however remote- 
 ly, to the extension of the kingdom of Christ 
 —an interest unknown to those who have no 
 bond of union, founded upon the basis of 
 Christian love. 
 
 Is it possible, then, that fashion can deter 
 you-—fashion, a tyrant at once both frivolous 
 and cruel—fashion, who never yet was rich 
 enough to repay one of her followers, for the 
 
sacrifice of a single happy hour—fashion, 
 
 whose realm is folly, and who is perpetually 
 || giving place to sickness, sorrow, and the 
 
 grave? Compare for one instant her empire 
 with that of religion. I admit that her pow- 
 er is extensive, almost all-pervading; but 
 what has her sovereign sway effected upon 
 the destinies of man? She has adjusted or- 
 naments, and selected colors; she has cloth- 
 ed and unclothed thousands, and arrayed 
 multitudes in her own livery—but never has 
 fashion bestowed dignity or peace of mind 
 upon one single individual of the whole fam- 
 ily of man. 
 
 It would be an insult to the nature and 
 the power of religion to proceed further with 
 the comparison. Can that which relates 
 merely to the body, which is fleeting as a 
 breath, and unstable as the shadow of a cloud, 
 deter from what is pure, immortal, and 
 
 ‘| divine ? 
 
 Still Tam aware it is easy, in the solitude 
 of the chamber, or in the privacy of domestic 
 ‘| life, to think and speak in this exalted strain, 
 and yet to go into the society of the fashion- 
 able, the correct, and the worldly-minded, 
 who have never felt the necessity of being 
 religious, and to be suddenly brought, by the 
 chilling influence of their reasoning or their 
 satire, to conclude that the convenient season 
 | for you to admit the claims of religion upon 
 your heart and life, has not yet arrived. 
 
 I believe the most dangerous influence, 
 which society exercises upon young women, 
 is derived from worldly-minded persons, of 
 | strong common sense, who are fashionable 
 | in their appearance, generally correct in their 
 1+ conduct, and amiable and attractive in their 
 | manners and ‘conversation. Young women 
 | guardedly and respectably brought up see 
 | little of vice, and know little of 
 
 “The thousand paths which slope the way to sin.” 
 
 They are consequently comparatively un- 
 acquainted with the beginnings of evil, and 
 | still less so with those dark passages of life, 
 | to. which such beginnings are calculated to 
 | lead. It follows, therefore, that, except when 
 | under the influence of strong convictions, 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 they may be said to be ignorant of the real 
 necessity of religion. It is but natural then, 
 that those correct and well-bred persons, to 
 whom allusion has been made, who pass on 
 from the cradle to the brink of the grave, 
 treating religion with respect, as a good thing 
 for the poor and the disconsolate, but al- 
 together unnecessary for them, should appear, 
 on a slight examination of the subject, to be 
 living in a much more enviable state, than 
 those who believe themselves called upon to 
 renounce the world and its vanities, and de- 
 vote their time and their talents, their en- 
 ergies and their affections, to a cause which 
 the worldly-minded regard, at best, as vision- 
 ary and wild. 
 
 I have spoken of such persons passing on 
 to the brink of the grave, and I have used 
 this expression, because, I believe the grave 
 has terrors, even to them; that when one | 
 earthly hold after another gives way, and 
 health declines, and fashionable friends fall 
 off, and death sits beckoning on the tomb- 
 stones of their newly-buried associates and 
 relatives; I believe there is often a fearful 
 questioning, about the realities of eternal 
 things, and chiefly about the religion, which 
 in idea they had set apart for the poor, the 
 aged, and the disconsolate, but would none 
 of it themselves. 
 
 Yes, I believe, if the young could witness 
 the solitude of such persons, could visit their | 
 chambers of sickness, and gain admittance to | 
 the secret counsels of their souls, they would || 
 find there an aching void, a want, a destitu- | 
 tion, which the wealth and the fashion, the | 
 pomp and the glory of the whole habitable | 
 world would be insufficient to supply. 
 
 It is often secretly objected by young peo- 
 ple, that, by making a profession of religion |} 
 they should be brought into fellowship and | 
 association with vulgar persons: in answer || 
 to which argument, it would be easy to show | 
 that nothing can be more vulgar than vice, || 
 to say nothing of worldly-mindedness. It is, 
 however, more to the purpose to endeavor | 
 to convince them, that true religion is so 
 purifying to its own nature, as to be capable 
 
Ce ES 
 
 DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 
 
 any other influence. 
 
 All who have been extensively engaged in 
 the practical exercise of Christian benevo- 
 lence; and who, in promoting the good of 
 
 || their fellow-creatures, have been admitted to 
 scenes of domestic privacy among the illiterate 
 and the poor, will bear their testimony to the 
 | fact, that religion is capable of rendering the 
 society of some of the humblest and simplest 
 of human beings, as truly refined, and far 
 more affecting in its pathos and interest, than 
 that of the most intelligent circles in the high- 
 | er walks of life. I do not, of course, pretend 
 | to call it as refined in manners, and phrase- 
 ology ; but in the ideas and the feelings which 
 | its conversation is intended toconvey. That 
 is not refined society where polished language 
 is used as the medium for low ideas; but 
 that in which the ideas are raised above 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 hy 
 | never been either softened or enlightened by 
 : 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 vulgar and worldly things and assimilated 
 with thoughts and themes on which the holy 
 and the wise, the saint’ and the philosopher, 
 alike delight to dwell. 
 
 It isno exaggeration then to’ say, that the 
 ‘conversation of the humble Christian on her 
 death-bed—her lowly bed of suffering, sur- 
 rounded by poverty and destitution—is some- 
 
 || times so fraught’ with the intelligence of that 
 celestial world on which her hopes are fixed, 
 that'to have spent an hour in her presence, 
 is like having had the’ glories of heaven, and 
 the wonders of immortality, revealed. And 
 is this ‘a vulgar or degrading employment for 
 a refined and intellectual being? to dwell 
 upon the noblest theme which human intel- 
 | lect has ever grasped, to look onward from 
 the perishable things of time to the full devel- 
 opment of the eternal’ principles of truth and 
 love? to forget the sufferings of frail humani- 
 ty, and to live by faith among the ransomed 
 spirits of the blest, in the presence of angels, 
 and before the Saviour, ascribing honor and 
 glory, dominion and power, to’ Him that sitteth 
 on the throne and to the Lamb forever and ever ? 
 
 In turning back to the world, from the 
 contemplation of such a state of mind, we 
 feel that vulgarity consists neither in religion 
 ‘itself, nor in its requirements, but in attaching 
 
 Loopeauelipeitt ot oteain eed aca pps eT 
 
 are still more forcibly deterred by feeling no 
 ‘want of it within themselves. 
 
 ‘friends who are no longer watchful or soli- 
 
 ‘Involved in new connections, and exposed to 
 ‘temptations both from within and from with- 
 
 ‘tiveness she is peculiarly exposed to pain. 
 ~ Without religion, then, she is the most pitia- 
 
 fm 
 Ce) 
 ~— 
 
 undue importance to the things of time, and 
 in making them our chief, or only good. 
 
 If young people are often deterred from 
 becoming religious by seeing a great number 
 of genteel, correct, and agreeable persons, 
 who, for any thing they can discover to the 
 contrary, are doing very well without it, they 
 
 Perhaps you are so protected by parents, 
 and so hemmed in by domestic regulations, 
 that you feel it more difficult to do what is 
 positively wrong, than what is generally ap- 
 proved as right. “But do not be so blind and 
 presumptuous as to mistake this apparently 
 inoffensive state, for being religious ; and re- 
 membe}, if itis difficult to do wrong now, it 
 is the last stage of your experience in which 
 you will find it so. Obliged to quit the pa- 
 rental roof, deprived by death of your nat- 
 ural protectors, required as years advance 
 to take a more active part in the duties of 
 life, or to incur a greater share of culpability 
 by their neglect ; thrown among strangers, or 
 
 citous for your temporal and spiritual good ; 
 
 out, how will your mind, lately so careless 
 and secure, awake to a conscious feeling of | 
 your own weakness, and a secret terror of 
 impending harm ! “For woman from her very 
 feebleness is fearful; while from her sensi- | 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 of all created beings. The world—society— 
 
 “nay, even domestic life, has nothing to offer 
 ‘on which her heart in its unregenerate state 
 
 can rest in safety. Each day is a period of 
 peril, if not of absolute agony ; for all she has 
 to give—her affections, which constitute her 
 wealth—are involved in speculations, which 
 can yield back into her bosom nothing but 
 ashes and mourning. 
 
 It is not so with the woman who has made 
 religion her stronghold—her defence—her 
 stay. Unchecked in the happiest and most 
 congenial impulse of her nature, can she still 
 
 ble, the most abject, the most utterly destitute 
 | 
 
—- 
 
 122 
 
 love, because the Lord her God has com- 
 manded that she should love him with all her 
 heart, and with all her strength, and that she 
 should love her neighbor as herself: Thus, 
 though disappointment or death may blight her 
 earthly hopes; or thougha cloud may rest upon 
 the bestowment of her affections in this vale 
 of tears, the principle of love which fills her 
 soul remains the same, and she is most happy 
 when its sphere of exercise is unbounded and 
 eternal. 
 
 And is it possible that any of the rational 
 beings whom I am addressing would dare to 
 rush upon the dangers and temptations of 
 this uncertain and precarious life, without 
 the protection and support of religion? Oh! 
 no, they tell me they are all believers in re- 
 ligion—all professors of the Christian faith. 
 But are you allreligious? Deceive not your- 
 selves. There is no other way of being 
 Christians, except by being personally re- 
 ligious. If not personally religious now, are 
 you then ready to begin tobe so? Delay not; 
 you have arrived at years of discretion, and 
 are capable of judging on many important 
 points. You profess to believe in a religion 
 which expressly teaches you that it is itself the 
 one thing needful. What then stands in the 
 way? If, after mature and candid deliberation, 
 you decidedly prefer the world, injure not the 
 cause of Christ by an empty profession, nor 
 act the cowardly part of wearing the outward 
 badge of a faith which holds not possession 
 of your heart and affections. It is neither 
 honorable nor just to allow any one to doubt 
 on whose side you are. If, therefore, your 
 decision be in favor of religion, it is still more 
 important that you should not blush to own 
 a Saviour, who left the glory of the heavenly 
 kingdom, inhabited a mortal and suffering 
 frame, and finally died an ignominious death, 
 for you. 
 
 Nor let the plea of youth retard the offer- 
 ing of your heart to Him who gave you all its 
 capacity for exquisite and intense enjoyment. 
 If you are young, you are happy in having 
 more to offer. ‘Though it constitutes the 
 greatest privilege of the Christian dispensa- 
 tion, that we are not required to bring any 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 thing by which to purchase the blessings of 
 pardon and salvation; it surely must afford 
 some additional satisfaction to a generous 
 mind, to feel that because but a short period 
 of life has passed away, there is more of 
 health and strength, of elasticity and vigor, to 
 bring into the field of action, than if the de- 
 cision upon whose side to engage, had been 
 deferred until a later period. 
 
 What, for instance, should we think of the 
 subjects of a gracious and beneficent sover- 
 eign, who maintained a small territory in the 
 midst of belligerent foes, if none of these sub- 
 jects would consent to serve in his army for the 
 defence of his kingdom, until they had wasted 
 their strength and their vigor in the enemy’s 
 ranks, in fighting deliberately and decidedly 
 against the master, whom yet they professed 
 to consider as their rightful lord ; and then, 
 when all was lost, and they were poor, de- 
 crepit, destitute, and almost useless, returned 
 to him, for no other reason, but because he 
 was a better paymaster than the enemy, un- 
 der whose colors they had fought for the 
 whole of their previous lives? What should 
 we say, if we beheld this gracious master 
 willing to receive them on such terms, and 
 not only to receive, but to honor and reward 
 them with the choicest treasures of his king- 
 dom? We should say, that one of the most 
 agonizing thoughts which could haunt the 
 bosom of each of those faithless servants, 
 would be regret and self-reproach, that he 
 had not earlier entered upon the service of 
 his rightful lord. 
 
 There is besides, this fearful consideration 
 connected with the indecision of youth, that 
 in religious experience none can remain sta- 
 tionary. Where there is no progress, there 
 must be a falling back. He who is not with 
 me, is against me, was the appalling language 
 of our Saviour when on earth; by which 
 those who are halting between two opinions, 
 and those who are imagining themselves safe 
 on neutral ground, are alike condemned, as 
 being opposed to the Redeemer’s kingdom. 
 It is but reasonable, however, that the young 
 should understand the principles, and reflect 
 maturely upon the claims of religion, before 
 
 ——— 
 
 EE A 
 
a tenes ARC eee SS STS EE SS => 7 ES ST TGP Spe US PN Pe PTR PETE etcetera tee 
 _ A NL | = a. 
 
 en a 
 
 DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 
 
 their decision is openly declared. Much in- 
 jury has been done to individuals, as well as 
 to society at large, by a precipitate and uncal- 
 culating readiness to enlist under the banners of 
 the Cross, before the duties of a faithful soldier 
 of Christ have been duly considered. It is 
 the tendency of ardent youth, to invest what- 
 ever it delights in for the moment, with ideal 
 qualities adapted to its taste and fancy. Thus 
 has religion often—too often—been decked in 
 charms more appropriate to the divinities of 
 Greece and Rome, than to the worship of a 
 self-denying and persecuted people, whose 
 lot on earth, they have been fully warned, is 
 not to be one of luxury or repose. 
 
 The first and severest disappointment to 
 which the young enthusiast in religion is sub- 
 ject, is generally that of finding, on a nearer 
 acquaintance with the devout men and hon- 
 orable women who compose the religious 
 societies into which they are admitted, that 
 they have faults and failings like the rest of 
 mankind, and even inconsistencies in their 
 spiritual walk, which are still more unexpect- 
 ed, and more difficult to reconcile. The first 
 impulse of the young, on making this dis- 
 covery, is often to give up the cause alto- 
 gether; “for if such,” say they, “ be the defects 
 of the Christian character, after such a season 
 of experience, and while occupying so exalted 
 -a position, it can be of little use to us to perse- 
 vere in the same course.” ‘They forget, or 
 perhaps they never have considered, that the 
 highest attainment of the Christian in this 
 world, is often that of alternate error and re- 
 pentance ; and that itis the state of the heart 
 before God, of which he alone is the judge, 
 which constitutes the difference between a 
 penitent, and an impenitent sinner. Besides 
 which, they know not all. The secret strug- 
 eles of the heart, the temptations overcome, 
 the tears of repentance, which no human eye 
 beholds, must alike be hid from them, as well 
 as the fearful effects upon the peace of mind 
 which these inconsistencies so seriously dis- 
 turb, or destroy. 
 
 A wiser application of this humbling lesson, 
 would be, for youth to reflect, that if such be 
 the defects in the character of more experi- 
 
 123 
 
 enced Christians, they themselves enjoy the 
 greatest of all privileges, that of profiting by 
 the example of others, so as to avoid stumbling 
 where they have fallen ; and instead of petu- 
 lently turning back froma path which will 
 still rernain to be right, though thousands up- 
 on thousands should wander from it, they 
 will thus be enabled to steer a steadier course, 
 and to finish it with greater joy. 
 
 Another great discouragement to the young, 
 consists in finding their efforts to do good so 
 feeble and unavailing—nay, sometimes al- 
 most productive of evil, rather than of good. 
 In their charities, especially, they find their 
 confidence abused, and their intentions mis- 
 understood. On every hand, the coldness of 
 the rich, and the ingratitude of the poor, alike 
 repel their ardor. If they engage in schools, 
 no one appears the%better for their instruction ; 
 if they connect themselves with bene volentso- 
 cieties, they find their individual efforts so 
 trifling, in comparison with the guilt and the 
 misery which prevail, as scarcely to appear 
 deserving of repetition ; while, in the distribu- 
 tion of religious books, and the general atten- 
 tion they give to the spiritual concerns of the 
 ignorant and the destitute, they perceive 
 no fruit of all their zeal, and all their labor. 
 
 I freely grant, that these are very natural 
 and reasonable causes of depression, and such 
 as few can altogether withstand ; but there is 
 one important secret which would operate as 
 a remedy for such depression, if we could ful- 
 ly realize its supporting and consoling power. 
 The secret is, are we doing all this unto God, 
 or unto man? Jfwito man, and in our own 
 strength, and solely for the sake of going 
 about doing good ; but especially if we have 
 done it for the sake of having been seen and 
 known to have done it; even if we have done 
 it for the sake of the reward which we be- 
 lieve to follow the performance of every laud- 
 able act; or with a secret hope of thereby 
 purchasing the favor of God; we have no 
 need to be surprised, or to murmur at such 
 unsatisfactory results, which may possibly 
 have been designed as our wholesome chas- 
 tisement, or as the means of checking our fur- 
 ther progress in folly and presumption. 
 
 ———————E——————E—EEEE—————————E ee OPEL ins 
 
 To GER SRr eR nch ap Se Se 
 Fn a ONE SSR AT RRR NRTT TT i RS I SEI a ETT eT I aT EE I CA GLE eT NOT TID 
 
Se as Pa RE APE IRE ASTROS IIS 
 
 ner ee gp a 
 a 
 
 re er rt 
 ee ee Oe 
 TE I 
 TS SE aS 
 
 124 
 
 But, if in every act of duty or kindness we 
 engage in, we are actuated simply by a love 
 to God, and a sense of the vast debt of grati- 
 tude we owe for all the unmerited mercies we 
 enjoy, accompanied with a conviction, that 
 whatever the apparent results may be, our 
 debt and our duty are still the same; that 
 whatever the apparent results may be, our 
 heavenly Father has the overruling of them, 
 and is able to make every thing contribute to 
 the promotion of his glory and the extension 
 of the Redeemer’s kingdom, though in ways 
 which we may neither be able to perceive 
 nor understand ; then, indeed, with this view 
 of the subject, we are enabled to persevere 
 through every discouragement, rejoicing only 
 in the ability to labor, and leaving the fruit 
 of our labor with him who has appointed 
 both. 
 
 I must yet allude to ancther cause of dis- 
 couragement with which the young have to 
 contend, and that is, their own spiritual de- 
 clension, after the ardor of their early zeal 
 has abated. Perhaps I ought rather to say, 
 their imagined declension, because I believe 
 they are often nearer heaven in this humbled, 
 and apparently degraded state, than when 
 exulting in the confidence of untried patience, 
 fortitude, and love. The prevalent idea un- 
 der this state of mind is, that of their own cul- 
 pability, in having made a profession of reli- 
 gion in a state of unfitness, or on improper or 
 insufficient grounds, accompanied with an im- 
 pression that they are undergoing a just pun- 
 ishment for such an act of presumption, and 
 that the only duty which remains for them to 
 do, is to give up the profession of religion al- 
 together. 
 
 Perhaps no delusion is greater, or more uni- 
 versal, than to believe, that because we have 
 been wrong in assuming a position, we must, 
 necessarily, throw ourselves out of it in order 
 to be right. ‘This principle would, unques- 
 tionably, be just in all situations where any 
 particular qualification was needed, which 
 could not immediately be acquired ; but, if 
 the regret be so great on discovering that you 
 are deficient in the evidences of personal re- 
 ligion, surely you can have no hesitation in 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 safe) V3 on ee ae NEES eA) ie bh. eee 
 
 choosing to lay hold of the means which are 
 always available for obtaining that divine as- 
 sistance, which shall render your profession 
 sincere, rather than to give up the duties, the 
 hopes, and the privileges of. religion alto- 
 gether. 
 
 it becomes a serious inquiry on these oc- 
 casions, whether the inclination is. not wrong, 
 and whether a plea is not even wished for, 
 as an excuse for turning back, after having laid 
 the handon the plough. Ifnot, the alternative 
 is asafe,and easy one. Begin afresh. Make a 
 fresh dedication of the heart to God. Ccm- 
 mence the work as if it had never been un- 
 dertaken before, and all may yet be well—per- 
 haps better than if you had never doubted 
 
 whether you stood upon the right founda- | 
 
 tion. 
 
 It should:always be remembered, for the con- 
 solation and encouragement of youth, that in 
 making the decision in favor of religion in early 
 life, there is comparatively little to undo: while 
 
 if this most important duty is left until a later 
 
 period, there will be the force of long establish- 
 ed habit to contend with on the side of wrong, 
 meshes of evil to unravel, dark paths to travel 
 back, and all that mingled texture of light 
 and darkness, which originates in a polluted 
 heart, and a partially enlightened understand- 
 ing to separate thread from thread. And, oh! 
 what associations, what memories are there ! 
 what gleaming forth again of the false fire, 
 even after the true has been kindled ! what 
 yawning of the wide sepulchre in which the 
 past is buried, though it cannot rest! what 
 struggling with the demons of imagination, be- 
 fore they are cast out forever! what bleeding 
 of the heart, which, like a chastened child, 
 would kiss the rod, yet dare not think how ma- 
 ny stripes would be commensurate with its de- 
 linquency ! Oh! happy youth! it is thy 
 privilege, that this can never be thy por- 
 tion ! 
 
 Yes, happy youth! for thou art ever hap- 
 py in the contemplation of age; and yet thou 
 hast thy tears. Thou hast thy trials too; 
 
 and perhaps their acuteness renders them less 
 bearable than the dull burden of accumula. 
 ted sorrow, which hangs upon maturer years. 
 
 ED 
 a 
 
a EET EEE EEE 
 
 DEDICATION OF YOUTH. 
 
 125 
 
 Thou hast thy sorrows: and when the moth- 
 er’s eye is closed, that used to watch thy in- 
 fant steps so fondly ; and the father’s hand is 
 cold, that used to rest upon thy head with 
 gentle and impressive admonition; whom 
 hast thou, whom wilt thou ever have, to sup- 
 ply thy parents’ place on earth? Whom 
 hast thou! The world is poor to thee ; for 
 none will ever love thee with a love like theirs. 
 Thou hast thy golden and exuberant youth, 
 thy joyous step, thy rosy smile, and we call 
 thee happy. But thou hast also thy hours of 
 loneliness, thy disappointments, thy chills, thy 
 blights ; when the hopes on which thy young 
 spirit has soared begin for the first time to 
 droop; when the love in which thou hast so 
 fondly trusted begins to cool ; when the flow- 
 ers thou hast cherished begin to fade; when 
 the bird thou hast fed through the winter, in 
 the summer flies away ; when the lamb thou 
 hast nursed in thy bosom, prefers the stran- 
 ger to thee—Thou hast thy tears; but the 
 bitterest of thy sorrows, how soon are they as- 
 suaged! It is this then which constitutes thy 
 happiness, for we all have griefs; but long 
 before old age, they have worn themselves 
 channels which cannot be effaced. It is there- 
 fore that we look back to youth with envy ; 
 because the tablet of the heart is then fresh, 
 and unimpressed, and we long to begin again 
 with that fair surface, and to write upon it no 
 characters but those of truth. 
 
 And will not youth accept the invitation of 
 experience, and come before it is too late 1— 
 and come with all its health, and its bloom, 
 and its first-fruits untainted, and lay them 
 upon the altar; an offering which age can- 
 not make? Let us count the different items 
 in the riches which belong to youth, and ask 
 if it is not a holy and a glorious privilege to 
 
 dedicate them to the service of the Most 
 High? 
 
 First, then, there is the freshness of un- 
 wearied nature, for which so many. millions 
 pine in vain; the glow of health, that life- 
 spring of all the energies of thought and ac- 
 tion ; the confidence of unbroken trust—the 
 power to believe, as well as hope—a power 
 which the might of human intellect could 
 never yet restore; the purity of undivided 
 affection ; the earnestness of zeal unchilled 
 by disappointment; the first awakening of 
 joy, that has never been depressed; high 
 aspirations that have never stooped to earth ; 
 the clear perception of a mind unbiassed in 
 its search of truth; with the fervor of an un- 
 troubled soul. 
 
 All these, and more than pen could write 
 or tongue could utter, has youth the pow- 
 er to dedicate to the noblest cause which 
 ever yet engaged the attention of an intel- 
 lectual and immortal being. What, then, I 
 would ask again, is that which hinders the 
 surrender of your heart to God, your con- 
 duct to the-requirements of the religion of 
 Christ ? 
 
 With this solemn inquiry, I would leave 
 the young reader to pursue the train of her 
 own reflections. All that I have proposed to 
 her consideration as desirable in character 
 and habit—in heart and conduct—will be 
 without consistency, and without foundation, 
 unless based upon Christian principle, and 
 supported by Christian faith. All that I have 
 proposed to her as most lovely, and most ad- 
 mirable, may be rendered more, infinitely 
 more so, by the refinement of feeling, the 
 elevation of sentiment, and the purity of 
 purpose, which those principles and that 
 faith are calculated to impart. 
 
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 43 
 
THE 
 
 BY MRS. ELLIS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF “WIVES OF ENGLAND,” ETC. 
 
 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 | 
 
 “Poetry has been to me its own ‘exceeding great reward.’ It has soothed my afflictions, it has multiplied and 
 refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good 
 and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.’’—CoLERIDGE. 
 
 AUTHOR’S EDITION, x 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 1843. 
 | 
 
hae 7 
 
 Kh th ES ES 
 
 my 
 
 i 
 - if aoe at pi.s! t . ¢: ' 
 ODE WRN APES Be ah (1) 8, PO 
 
 it Ae ete Ps ee eh 
 Aue %, one Cs ae ranett * 
 
 mit 
 
 A pe 
 
 e's ‘ is 
 ait hxearin 
 te tae ing 
 Fea tat 
 
 < 
 
 ab 
 
 Se 
 
In offering to the attention of the 
 
 | 
 public, two volumes on the poetry of 
 life, some apology seems necessary for 
 prefixing to my book a title of such 
 indefinite signification. 
 c understood to mean mere versi- 
 | fication, and life mere vitality, it 
 would be difficult indeed to estab- 
 lish their connection with each other. 
 ''The design of the present work is 
 | to treat of poetic feeling, rather than 
 | poetry ; and this feeling I have en- 
 | deavoured to describe as the great 
 connecting link between our intel- 
 lects and our affections; while the 
 customs of society, as well as the 
 
 license of modern literature, afford 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 If poetry | 
 
 ¢ 
 
 of the word life in its widely ex- || 
 tended sense, as comprehending all || 
 
 the functions, attributes, and capa- 
 bilities peculiar to sentient beings. 
 
 Whatever may be the opinion of | 
 
 the public respecting the manner in 
 
 which my task has been executed, : 
 ‘the enjoyment it has afforded to the |! 
 writer, in being the means of a re- || 
 newed acquaintance with the prin- | 
 ciples of intellectual happiness, is | 
 already in possession; and I have 
 only to wish that the reader may 
 be induced to seek the same enjoy- 
 
 ment, in a more spiritual inter- 
 course with nature, and a more 
 profound admiration of the beauty 
 
 me sufficient authority for the use| and harmony of the creation. 
 
 | 
 : 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
a SS SS SS RSENS NS 
 
 rk Page. 
 Characteristics of Poetry We) 
 Why certain objects are, or are not 
 
 Poetical 10 
 Individual Associations. 15 
 General Associations . 19 
 The Poetry of Flowers. 24 
 The Poetry of Trees . 27 
 The Poetry of Animals 32 
 The Poetry of Evening . 41 
 The Poetry of the Moon 45 
 The Poetry of Rural Life . 52 
 The Poetry of Painting 60 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Poetry of Sound. . .°. . . 
 The Poetry of Language . 
 
 The Poetry of Love . 
 
 The Poetry of Grief . 
 
 The Poetry of Woman . 
 
 The Poetry of the Bible . 
 
 The Poetry of Religion . 
 
 Impression : 
 Imagination . : 
 POWel te ols Sts Act oe ts 
 Taste 
 
 Conclusion . ara 
 
| subject of general complaint with those who | called genius. The first of these ceases 
 
 THE 
 
 PORT RY" OF ob TER: 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF POETRY. lating men to write Poetry : the love of fame, 
 the want of money, and an internal restless- 
 Txar the quality of modern Poetry is a | ness of feeling, which is too indiscriminately 
 
 would purchase—that the price affixed to it | with the second, for without the means of 
 by the judgment of the public is equally | circulation there can be no hope of fame. 
 complained of by those who would sell—in | The third alone operates in the present day, 
 short, that Poetry is at present “a drug in| and small, indeed, is the recompense be- 
 the market,” is a phrase too hackneyed, too | stowed in these ungrateful times upon the 
 vulgar and too frequently assented too, to | poets who write because they cannot help it. 
 need repetition here; except as an established Yet after all, is not this the true and legiti- 
 
 fact, the nature, cause, and consequence of | mate method by which the genuine coin of 
 which, I propose endeavouring to point out | genius is moulded? The love of fame is a 
 in the following pages. high and soul-stirring principle, but still it is 
 
 Wherever a taste for Poetry exists, there | degraded with the stigma of selfish aggran- 
 will be a desire to read as well as to. write; | dizement, and who does not feel that a shade 
 to receive as well as to impart that enjoy- | is cast upon those expressions of noble senti- 
 ment which poetic feeling affords. in other | ment, which bear the impress of having been 
 cases of marketable produce, the supply is | prepared and set forth solely for public appro- 
 found to keep pace with the demand, ex- | bation. The want of money is, indeed, a 
 cept when physical causes operate against | potent stimulus. How potent let the mid- 
 it. If the poets of the present day have | night labours of the starving poet testify. 
 “written themselves out,” as the commonand | The want of money may it is true, urge on- 
 unmeaning expression is, what, with a ra- | ward towards the same goal as the love of 
 pidly increasing population, should hinder | fame, but the one operates, as it were, from 
 the springing up of fresh poets to delight | behind, by the painful application of a goad ; 
 the world? The fact is, that most of the | while the other attracts, and fascinates by the 
 living poets have betaken themselves to | brightness of some object before, which too 
 Prose as a more lucrative employment, thus | often proves to be an ignis fatuus in the dis- 
 
 | proving, that the taste for Poetry is la-| tance. But there is within the human mind 
 mentably decreasing in the public mind; | an active and powerful principle, that awak- 
 
 and while on one hand, genius is weeping | ens the dormant faculties, lights up the brain, 
 over her harvest “whitening in the sun,” | and launches forth imagination to gather up 
 without hope of profit to repay the toil of | from the wide realm of nature the very es- 
 
 gathering in the golden store ; on the other, | sence of what every human bosom pines for, 
 -eriticism is in arms against less sordid adven- | when it aspires to a higher state of exist- 
 
 turers, and calls in no measured terms upon | ence, and feels the insufficiency of this. It | 
 the mighty minstrels of past ages to avenge | is this heaven-born and ethereal principle, 
 
 Parnassus of her wrongs. ‘ | not inaptly personified as the Spirit of Poesy, | 
 
 Three different motives operate in stimu- | that weaves a garland of the flowers which } 
 
 Dn nn i a SE 
 
 ee pennnaeenneoen PDS = oe reatnats on aoaines 
 LD ALLELE ELD LL TCL ECS CEES ae 
 
imagination has culled; and from the fer- | the human mind with all the advantages af- |; 
 vency of its own passion, to impart as well | forded by the most enlightened state of civ- |} 
 
 as to receive enjoyment, casts this gar- 
 ‘land at the feet of the sordid and busy mul- 
 titude, who pause, not to admire, but tram- 
 | ple its vivid beauty in the dust. It is this 
 principle that will not let the intellectual fac- 
 ulties remain inactive, but is for ever work- 
 ing in the laboratory of the brain, combin- 
 
 ing, sublimating, and purifying. It is this 
 
 principle, when under the government of | rather than of the heart, of calculation rather 
 
 right reason, which is properly called ge- 
 nius. It is this principle when perverted 
 from its high purpose, and made the minis- 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 el || 
 
 ilization should have become more base and || 
 degenerate, as that the treasury of nature || 
 should be exhausted, it becomes a subject 
 of curious and interesting investigation to 
 search out the cause, and ascertain whether 
 it may not be in some measure attributable 
 to our present system of education being one 
 of words rather than of ideas, of the head |; 
 
 than moral feeling. 
 While the full and free tide of knowledge is |} 
 daily pouring from the press, while books and |! 
 
 ter of base passions, which produces the | book makers appear before us in every possi- 
 
 most splendid and most melancholy ruin. 
 It is this principle, when devoted to the 
 cause of holiness, which scatters over the 
 path of desolation flowers of unfading love- 
 liness: pours floods of light upon our distant 
 prospects of the celestial city ; and inspires 
 
 the harps of heaven-taught minstrels with | est classes of the community, it is impossi- |} 
 
 undying melody. 
 
 This principle, in less figurative phraseol- 
 ogy, | would describe as the Poetry of Life ; 
 because it pervades all things either seén, 
 felt, or understood, where the associations 
 are sublime, beautiful and tender, or refined. 
 
 In short, where the ideas which naturally | worlds of glory; while the seasons with 
 
 connect themselves with our contemplation 
 of such subjects are most exclusively intel- 
 lectual, and separate from sense. 
 
 That there is much Poetry in real life, 
 with all its sorrows, and pains, and sordid 
 
 commonest blessings of Providence,” has 
 been already proved by one in whose steps 
 I feel that] am unworthy to walk; but since, 
 in his admirable lectures on Poetry, he has 
 
 a principle; [ am imboldened to take up the 
 
 into more abstruse and speculative notions 
 
 feeling. 
 
 es 
 
 anxieties, and that “all is not vanity and | dipped in gold, or bathed in azure, or light 
 vexation of spirit under the sun,” to him | and fragile as the gossomer, yet ever bear- 
 who can honestly and innocently enjoy the | ing them on through a region of delight, 
 
 treated the subject as a science, rather than | above all, while there exists in the heart of 
 
 theme, to which he, above all men (more | mirror in which beauty is reflected—an echo 
 especially above all women) would have | to the voice of music; while he is capable 
 done justice, had he chosen to launch forth | of feeling admiration for that which is noble 
 
 respecting the nature and influence of poetic | thy for the suffering, and affection for all 
 
 That the poetry of the present times is an | true poetry should cease to please, or fail to 
 unsaleable article needs then no farther proof | awaken a response in the human heart. 
 than the observation and experience ofevery | And that man is capable of all this, and 
 
 ay, and since.it is as difficult to believe that | more, and more capable in proportion as he 
 
 | 
 
 ble situation, and under all imaginable cir- 
 cumstances, so that to have written a vol- 
 ume, is no less a distinction than to have 
 read one through; while cheap and popu- 
 lar publications fraught with all manner of 
 interesting details are accessible to the poor- 
 
 ble to believe that there is not sufficient |} 
 talent concentrated or afloat to constitute a 
 poet. And while the blue sky bends over 
 all—while that sky is studded with the same 
 bright host of stars, amongst which the phi- 
 losopher is perpetually discovering fresh 
 
 their infinite variety still continue to bring 
 forth, to vivify, and to perfect the produce 
 of the earth ; while the woods are vocal with 
 melody, and the air is peopled with myriads 
 
 of ephemeral beings whose busy wings are |} 
 
 from the snowy bosom of the lily, to the 
 scented atmosphere of the rose; while the 
 mountain stream rushes down from the hills, 
 or the rivers roll onward to the sea; and. 
 
 man a deep sense of these enjoyments—a 
 
 or sublime, tenderness for the weak, sympa- 
 
 things lovely, it is impossible to believe that 
 
| RS SS A 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF POETRY. Oi 
 
 cultivates and cherishes the noblest faculties 
 of his nature, we have to thank the Giver 
 of all our enjoyments, the Creator of all our 
 capabilities. 
 
 How are these faculties now cultivated ? 
 “Knowledge is power.” But neither is 
 knowledge all that we live for, nor power all 
 that we enjoy. There are deep mysteries 
 in the book of nature which all can feel, but 
 none will ever understand until the veil of 
 mortality shall be withdrawn. There are 
 stirrings in the soul of man which constitute 
 the very essence of his being, and which 
 power can neither satisfy nor subdue. Yet 
 this mystery reveals more truly than the 
 clearest proofs or mightiest deductions of 
 science, that a master hand has been for 
 ages, and is still at work, above, beneath, 
 and around us; and this moving principle is 
 for ever reminding us that in our nature we 
 inherit the germs of a future existence over 
 which time has no influence, and the grave 
 no victory. 
 
 Iar be it from every liberal mind to main- 
 tain the superiority of feeling over the other 
 faculties of our nature. In forming a correct 
 opinion on any subject of taste, it is neces- 
 sary to examine, compare, and criticise, with 
 an eye familiarized to what is most admira- 
 ble, and a judgment controlled by a strict 
 adherence to the rules of art. No argument 
 is required to prove that were feeling al- 
 lowed to be the sole impulse of our actions, 
 we should become as culpable in morals, as 
 absurd in our pursuits; or that the man 
 gifted with the quickest perceptions and 
 keenest sensibility, yet untutored in scientific 
 rules, would expose himself to well-merited 
 ridicule, should he attempt in a poem or a 
 picture, to delineate his own conceptions of 
 grandeur or beauty. Even were he able to 
 throw into his performance the force of the 
 most daring genius, or the most inextin- 
 guishable enthusiasm, it would prove in the 
 end, no better than a mockery of art, and 
 remain a memorial of his own madness and 
 folly. Nor, on the other hand, will he who 
 is by nature destitute of sensibility, or he 
 who has spent the spring-time of existence 
 in the crowded city, and expended all the 
 fresh energies of his mind in the bustle and 
 hurry of sordid occupations, having laid up 
 no secret store of associations with what is 
 
 noble, lovely or refined in nature, be able to 
 produce a poem or a picture that will please 
 the imagination or warm the heart, even 
 though in his laboured performance, the eri- 
 tic should find no fault with the harmony of 
 his numbers, the choice of his colouring, or 
 the subjects of both. 
 
 The qualifications of a true poet are, in 
 the first place, natural capacity, and favour- 
 able opportunity for receiving impressions ; 
 and in the second, ability to arrange, com- 
 pare, and select from these impressions. 
 Without the former, he must be deficient in 
 materials for his work; without. the latter, 
 he must want the power to make a rational 
 use of any materials whatever. It is the 
 former alone that we can suppose to be 
 wanting in the present day; for though the 
 human mind unquestionably retains the same 
 capabilities it possessed in the last century, 
 it is possible that opportunities for imbibing 
 strong impressions from external nature may 
 not now be afforded with the same facility ; 
 and that in the present rapid march of intel- 
 lect, the muse of poesy may be so hurried 
 out of breath, as not to find time to chant 
 her charmed lays. 
 
 The same causes which tend to destroy 
 that taste, which would ensure to the works 
 of our poets a welcome reception in refined 
 and intellectual circles of society, necessarily 
 operate against the production of poetry ; and 
 thus, while we refuse to feast our minds with 
 ideas of the sublime and beautiful, we must 
 naturally lose the higher sensibilities and 
 finer perceptions of our nature. To awaken 
 
 these sensibilities, and quicken these percep- 
 
 tions, by pointing out what it is which con- 
 stitutes the poetry of life, will be the task of 
 the writer through the following pages; to 
 prove, that in order to see, think, or write 
 poetically, it is necessary that we should at 
 some period of our lives, have had time and 
 opportunity to receive deep and lasting im- 
 pressions; and that out of these impressions 
 is woven the interminable chain of associa- 
 tion which connects our perceptions of things 
 present, with our ideas or conceptions of 
 those which are remote. 
 
 In commencing a serious and arduous 
 
 tas’, it would ill become an accountable | 
 
 agent to neglect the important inquiry of 
 what may be the moral good of such an un- 
 
 (ye A Le NOL me aN Ta 
 
dertaking ; and here the question will natu- 
 rally occur to many, whether poetry is of 
 any real value in promoting the happiness 
 of man. England is a commercial country, 
 and we know that poetry has little to do with 
 increasing the facilities of commerce, as little 
 
 | as with the better regulation of the poor 
 laws, or with the settlement of any of those 
 
 | leading questions which at present agitate 
 
 | the political world. But poetry has a world 
 
 | of its own—a world in which, if sordid cal- 
 
 }| culations have no place, the noble, the im- 
 mortal part of our nature is cherished, invi- 
 gorated and refined. 
 
 In touching upon this inspiring theme, it is 
 impossible not to feel the inadequacy of 
 moderate powers when compared with those 
 of perhaps the most luminous writers of the 
 present day, whose review of Milton’s works 
 contains in direct relation to this subject, the 
 
 following eloquent and inimitable appeal to 
 the highest feelings of human nature. I 
 quote at great length, because I would not 
 break the charm of the whole passage by 
 garbled extracts; and I risk the quotation at 
 the peril of having the rest of my book con- 
 trasted with these pages, like a chaplet of 
 mock gems, in which is one true diamond. 
 “ Milton’s fame rests chiefly on his poetry, 
 and to this we naturally give our first atten- 
 tion. By those who are apt to speak of po- 
 ety as light reading, Milton’s eminence in 
 | 
 | 
 
 this sphere may be considered as only giving 
 him a high rank among the contributors to 
 public amusement. Not so thought Milton. 
 Of all God’s gifts of intellect, he esteemed 
 poetical genius the most transcendant. He 
 | esteemed it in himself as a kind of inspira- 
 tion, and wrote his ereat works with some- 
 | thing of the conscious dignity of a prophet. 
 | We agree with Milton in his estimate of po- 
 | etry. It seems to us the divinest of all arts; 
 for itis the breathing or expression of that 
 principle or sentiment, which is deepest and 
 sublimest in human nature; we mean of 
 that thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is 
 wholly a stranger, for something purer and 
 lovelier, something more powerful, lofty, and 
 thrilling than ordinary and real life affords. 
 No doctrine is more common among Chris- 
 tians than that of man’s immortality, but it 
 is not so generally understood, that the 
 germs or principles of his whole future being 
 
 ’ 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 are now wrapped up in his soul, ax the rudi- 
 ments of the future plant in the seed. Asa 
 necessary result of this constitution, the soul, 
 possessed and moved by these mighty; 
 though infant energies, is perpetually stretch- 
 ing beyond what is present and _ visible, 
 
 struggling against the bounds of its earthly | 
 
 prison-house, and seeking relief and joy in 
 imaginings of unseen and ideal being. 
 
 This view of our nature which has never 
 been fully developed, and which goes far- 
 ther towards explaining the contradictions of 
 buman life than all others, carries us to the 
 very foundation and sources of poetry. He, 
 who cannot interpret by his own conscious- 
 ness what we have now said, wants the true 
 key to works of genius. He has not pene- 
 trated those sacred recesses of the soul, 
 
 where poetry is born and nourished, and in- 
 
 hales immortal vigour, and wings herself for 
 her heavenward flight. In an intellectual 
 nature, framed for progress, and for higher 
 modes of being, there must be creative ener- 
 gies, powers of original, and ever-growing 
 thought; and poetry is the form in which 
 these energies are chiefly manifested. It is 
 the glorious prerogative of this art, that it 
 makes ‘all things new’ for the gratification 
 of a divine instinct. It indeed finds its ele- 
 ments in what it actually sees and expe- 
 riences, in the worlds of matter and mind, 
 but it comb ities and blends these into new 
 forms, and according to new affinities ; 
 breake down, if we may so say, the distine- 
 tions and bounds of nature ; imparts to ma- 
 terial objects life, and sentiment, and emo- 
 tion, and invests the mind with the powers 
 and splendours of the outward creation ; de- 
 scribes the surrounding universe in the colours 
 which the passions throw over it, and depicts 
 the mind in those modes of repose or agita- 
 tion, of tenderness or sublime emotion, which 
 sfianifeat its thirst for a more powerfil and 
 joyful existence. To a man ofa literal and 
 prosaic character, the mind may seem law- 
 less in these workings ; but it observes higher 
 laws than it transgresses, the laws of the 
 immortal intellect ; it is trying and develop- 
 ing its best faculties; and in the objects 
 which it describes, or in the emotions which it 
 awakens, anticipates those states of progres- 
 sive power, splendour, beauty and happi- |. 
 ness, for which it was created. 
 
 a  ———————  ————————————————————————— eee Ee 
 
 ne Ze 
 
found and generous emotion. 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF POETRY. 
 
 “We accordingly believe that poetry, so 
 
 | 
 
 there is a wisdom against which poetry 
 
 far from injuring society, is one of the great | wars, the wisdom of the senses, which makes 
 
 instruments of its refinement and exaltation. 
 It lifts the mind above ordinary life; gives 
 it a respite from depressing cares, and awak- 
 ens the consciousness of its affinity with 
 what is pure and noble. In its legitimate 
 and hichest efforts, it has the same tendency 
 and aim with Christianity; that is, te spirit- 
 ualize our nature. ‘True, poetry has been 
 made the instrument of vice, the pander of 
 bad passions; but when genius thus stoops, 
 it dims its fires, and parts with much of its 
 power; and even when poetry is enslaved 
 to licentiousness or misanthropy, she cannot 
 wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of 
 pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images 
 
 of innecent happiness, sympathies with suf 
 
 fering virtue, bursts of scorn or indignation 
 at the hollowness of the world, passages 
 
 ' true to our moral nature, often escape in an 
 
 immoral work, and show us how hard it is 
 for a gifted spirit to divorce itself wholly 
 from what is good. Poetry has a natural 
 alliance with our best affections. Itdelights 
 in the beauty and sublimity of the outward 
 crestian and of the son! It indeed portrays 
 with terrible energy the excesses of the pas- 
 sions ; but they are passions which show a 
 mighty nature, which are full of power, 
 which command awe, and excite a deep, 
 though shuddering symyathy. Its great 
 tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind 
 beyond and above the beaten, dusty, weary 
 walks of ordinary life; to lift it into a purer 
 element; and to breathe into it more pro- 
 It reveals to 
 us the loveliness of nature, brings back the 
 freshness of youthful feeling, revives the re- 
 lish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched 
 the enthusiasm which warmed the spring- 
 time of our being, refines youthful love, 
 strengthens our interest in human nature by 
 
 vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest 
 | feeling, knits us by new ties with universal 
 being, and through the brightness of its pro- 
 
 phetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the 
 future life. 
 
 “We are aware that it is objected to poe- 
 try, that it gives wrong views, and excites 
 false expectations of life; peoples the mind 
 with shadows and illusions, and builds up 
 imagination on the ruins of wisdom. That 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 physical comfort and gratification the su- 
 preme good, and wealth the chief interest of 
 life, we do not deny ; nor do we deem it the 
 least service which poetry renders to man- 
 kind, that it redeems them from the thraldom 
 of this earth-born prudence. But passing 
 over this topic, we would observe, that the 
 complaint against poetry as abounding in 
 illusion and deception, is in the main, ground- 
 less. In many poems, there is more truth 
 than in many histories and philosophic theo- 
 ries. The fictions of genius are often the 
 vehicles of the sublimest verities, and its 
 flashes often open new regions of thought, 
 and throw new light on the mysteries of our 
 being. In poetry, the letter is falsehood, but 
 the spirit is often profoundest wisdom. And 
 if truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of 
 the poet, much more may it be expected in 
 his delineations of life; for the present life, 
 which is the first stage of the immortal mind, 
 abounds in the materials of poetry; and it is 
 the high office of the bard to detect this divine 
 element among the grosser labours and 
 pleasures of our earthly heing The present 
 life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame, and 
 
 finite. To the gifted eye, it abounds in the 
 poetic. The affections which spread beyond 
 
 ourselves, and stretch far into futurity ; the 
 workings of mighty passions, which seem to 
 arm the soul with almost super-human en- 
 ergy; the innocent and irrepressible joy of 
 infancy; the bloom, and buoyancy, and 
 dazzling hopes of youth; the throbbings of 
 the heart, when it first wakes to love, and 
 dreams of a happiness too vast for earth; 
 woman, with her beauty, and grace, and 
 gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth 
 of affection, and her blushes of purity, and 
 the tones and looks which only a mother’s 
 heart can inspire;—these are all poetical. 
 It is not true that the poet paints a life which 
 does not exist; he only extracts and concen- 
 trates, as it were, life’s ethereal essence ; 
 arrests and condenses its volatile fragrance, 
 brings together its scattered beauties, and 
 prolongs its more refined but evanescent 
 joys; and in this he does well; for itis good 
 to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares 
 for subsistence, and physical gratifications, 
 but admits, in measures which may be in- 
 
| 10 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 and peeps into every crevice, and up the | 
 
 nr eS 
 K f 
 ee a ei ae ee 
 
 Y— 
 
 A NS 
 
 definitely enlarged, sentiments, and delights 
 worthy of a higher being. This power of 
 poetry to refine our views of life and happi- 
 ness, is more and more needed as society 
 advances. It is needed to withstand the en- 
 croachments of heartless and artificial man- 
 ners, which make civilization so tame and 
 uninteresting. It is needed to counteract 
 the tendency of physical science, which be- 
 ing now sought, not as formerly for intellec- 
 tual gratification, but for multiplying bodily 
 comforts, requires a new development of im- 
 agination, taste, and poetry, to preserve men 
 from sinking into an earthly, material, Epi- 
 curean life.” 
 
 WHY CERTAIN OBJECTS ARE, OR ARE 
 NOT, POETICAL. 
 
 Tuat a book, a picture, and sometimes a 
 very worthy man, are without Poetry, is a 
 fact almost as deeply felt, and as well under- 
 stood, as the memorable anathema of Shak- 
 speare against the man who had not music 
 in his soul. In many books this is no de- 
 fect; in all pictures it is a striking and im- 
 portant one’; while in men it can only bea 
 defect proportioned to the high standing 
 they may choose to take in the scale of in- 
 tcllect or feeling. The spirit of Poetry has 
 little to do with the labours of the artisan, 
 nor would our tables be more plentifully 
 supplied, were they furnished under the di- 
 rection of the muses. But who would feel 
 even the slightest gratification in reading 
 Wordsworth’s Excursion, with a compa- 
 nion, who could not fee] poetically ? or who 
 would choose to explore the wild and mag- | 
 nificent beau‘ics of mountain scenery, with 
 one whose ideas were bounded by the limits 
 of the Bank of England 2. ; 
 
 When our nature is elevated above the | 
 mere objects of sense, there is a want created | 
 in us of something, which the business of 
 the world, nay, even science itself, is unable 
 to supply; for not only is the bustling man 
 of business an unwelcome associate in the 
 wilderness of untrodden beauty, but even he 
 becomes wearisome at last, who applies his 
 noisy hammer to every projection of rock, 
 
 ee 
 
 side of every precipice, with eyes, thoughts, 
 and memory for nothing but strata; pre- 
 cisely as it is presented to his vision then 
 and there, without once giving himself time 
 to draw deductions from what he discovers, 
 to make an extended survey of the distant 
 scenery, or to drink in the enjoyment of the 
 magnificent whole. 
 
 In the general contemplation of external 
 nature, we feel the influence of Poetry, 
 though chiefly and almost exclusively in ob- 
 jects which are, in themselves or their asso- 
 ciations, beautiful or sublime. Thus, we 
 are pleased with a widely extended view, 
 even over a level country, purely because 
 the sublime idea of space is connected with 
 
 it; but let this expanse be travelled over, | 
 closely inspected, and regarded in its minutia, : 
 
 and it becomes indescribably wearisome and 
 monotonous. The fact is, the idea of space 
 is lost, while the attention is arrested and 
 absorbed by immediate and minor circum- 
 stances. The mind is incapable of feeling 
 two opposite sensations at the same time, 
 and all impressions made upon the senses 
 being sc much more quick and sudden than 
 those made through them upon the imagi- 
 nation, they have the power to attract and 
 carry away the attention in the most pe- 
 remptory and vexatious manner. All sub- 
 jects intended to inspire admiration or reve- 
 rence, must therefore be treated with the 
 most scrupulous regard to refinement. It is 
 so easy for the vulgar touch to 
 
 “Turn what was once romantic to burlesque.” 
 
 A tone of ridicule may at once dispel the 
 charm of tenderness, and a senseless parody 
 may for awhile destroy the sublimity of a 
 splendid poem. 
 
 Among the works of art, the influence of 
 poetic feeling is most perceptible in painting 
 and sculpture. A picture sometimes pleases 
 from a secret charm which cannot well be 
 defined, and which arises not so much from 
 the proper adjustment of colour and outline 
 according to the rules of art, as from the sud- 
 den, mysterious, and combined emotions 
 which the sight of it awakens in the soul. 
 But let any striking departure from these 
 rules arrest the attention, let the eye be of- 
 fended by the colouring, and the taste 
 
 BR SO BET POT i NS ~ EE AE SE OS A POTEET ES DE I LT AE AL EE I ICAI IEA LEE DILLER IE I DI DED IE API DNR A 
 
OL SL EE EINE LD LAL DL DLL LOO DO LAS 
 
 Sess Sr 
 
 POETICAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 naocked by the grouping or perspective— 
 wie illusion is destroyed, and the poet awakes 
 from his dream. It is precisely the same 
 with sculpture, that most sublime production 
 of the hand of man, which, by its cold, still, 
 marble beauty, unawakened by the shocks 
 of time, unmoved by the revolutions of the 
 world, has power to charm the wandering 
 thoughts, and inspire sensations of deep re- 
 verence and awe. But let us suppose the 
 enthusiast returning to gaze upon the sta- 
 tue, which has been, through years of wan- 
 dering, little less than an idol to his enrap- 
 tured fancy, and that hands profane (for 
 such things are) have presumed to colour 
 the pupils of the up-turned eyes—let any 
 other sensation whatever, directly at vari- 
 ance with what the figure itself is calculated 
 to inspire, be made to strike the attention of 
 the beholder, and he is plunged at once down 
 that fatal and irrevocable step, which leads 
 from the sublime to the ridiculous. 
 
 ‘he human face, the most familiar object 
 to our eyes, since they first opened upon the 
 world, may be, and often is, highly poetical. 
 Who has not seen amidst the multitude some 
 countenance to which he turns, and turns 
 again, with strange wonder and delight, as- 
 signing to it an appropriate character and 
 place in scenes even the most remote from 
 the present, and following up, in idea, the 
 
 ‘different trains of thought by which its ex- 
 
 pression is varied, and its intelligence com- 
 municated? Yet this face may not be in 
 itself, or strictly speaking, beautiful; but, 
 like the painting or the statue, it has~ the 
 power to awaken the most pleasing associa- 
 tions. With such power there can be com- 
 bined no mixture of the grotesque or vulgar ; 
 for, though poetry may be ridiculous, it is 
 impossible for the ridiculous to be poetical. 
 There is Poetry in an infant’s sleep. How 
 
 ‘much, let abler words than mine describe. 
 
 “So motionless in its slumbers, that, in 
 
 watching it, we tremble, and become impa- 
 
 tient for some stir or. sound, that may assure 
 us .of its life; yet is the fancy of the little 
 sleeper busy, and every artery and every 
 pulse of its frame engaged in the work and 
 
 growth of secretion, though his breath would 
 
 not stir the smallest insect that sported on 
 his lips—though his pulse would not lift the 
 flower leaf of which he dreamed from his 
 
 ll 
 
 bosom: yet, following this emblem of tran- 
 quillity into after life, we see him exposed to 
 every climate—contending with every ob- 
 stacle—agitated by every passion ; and un- 
 der these various circumstances, how differ- 
 ent is the power and the degree of the heart’s 
 action, which has not only to beat, but to 
 beat time through every moment of a long 
 and troubled life”’* 
 
 We feel in reading this passage, even if 
 we have never felt befere, that there is poetry 
 in an infant’s sleep. Its waking moments 
 are less poetical, because of the many little 
 cares and vexations they force upon us; and 
 no power on earth could convince us that 
 there was poetry in an infant’s cry. Yet is 
 it neither softness nor sweetness which al- 
 ways constitutes the poetry of sound; for 
 what canbe more discordant in itself than 
 the caw of the rook, the scream of the sea- 
 gull, or the bleating of the lamb? 
 
 There is poetry in the low-roofed cottage 
 standing on the skirts of the wood, beneath 
 the overshadowing oak, around which the 
 children of many generations have gam- 
 bolled, while the wreathing smoke coils up 
 amongst the dark green foliage, and the gray 
 thatch is contrasted with golden moss and 
 glittering ivy. We stand and gaze, de- 
 lighted with this picture of rural peace, and 
 privileged seclusion. We long to shake off 
 the shackles of artificial society, the weary- 
 
 ing cares of life, the imperative control of 
 
 fashion, or the toil and traffic of the busy 
 world, and to dwell for the remainder of our 
 days ina quiet spot like this, where aflec- 
 tion, that is too often lost in the game of life, 
 might unfold her store of fire-side comforts, 
 and where we and ours might constitute one. 
 unbroken chain of social fellowship, under 
 the shelter of security and peace. But let 
 us enter this privileged abode. Our ears 
 are first saluted by the sharp voice of the 
 matron, calling in her tattered rebels from 
 the common. They are dragged in by vio- 
 lence, and a scene of wrath and contention 
 ensues. The fragments of the last meal are 
 scattered on the floor. That beautifully 
 curling smoke, before it found a way to es- 
 
 el case LAE ITS 
 ne ca Te ee 
 
 cape so gracefully has made many a circuit || 
 
 round the dark and crumbling walls of the 
 
 * Dr. James Willson. 
 
a — 
 
 12 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 apartment; and smoke within the house is 
 any thing but poetical, whatever it may be 
 without. Need I say the charm is broken ? 
 
 Even after having made good our retreat, 
 
 if we turn and look ou the ioyehbted 
 
 cottage does not appear the same as when 
 we first beheld it. The associations are 
 
 changed—the charm is indeed broken. May 
 | not this be the reason why fine ladies and 
 gentlemen talk so much more about the 
 poetry of a cottage, than those who know 
 | no other home comforts than a cottage af- 
 \| fords? Even poverty itself may be poetical 
 | to those who merely regard it from a dis- 
 ; tance, or as a picture; but the vision is dis- 
 pelled for ever by the first gripe of that iron 
 hand, that spares neither the young, the 
 helpless, nor the old. 
 
 There is poetry in the mouldering pile, 
 upon which the alternate suns and storms of 
 a thousand years have smiled and spent 
 their fury—the old gray ruin hung over with 
 | festoons of ivy, while around its broken tur- 
 i| rets.a garland of wild plants is growing, 
 from seeds which the wandering winds have 
 scattered. We behold the imperishable 
 materials of the natural world collected 
 together, shaped out and formed by the art 
 of man into that beautiful and majestic edi- 
 fice; but where are the ready hands that 
 laboured in that work of time and patience ? 
 The busy feet that trod those stately courts 
 —the laughter that echoed through those 
 halls—the sighs that’ were breathed in those 
 secret cells—the many generations that 
 came and went without leaving a record or 
 | a name—where are they? Scarcely can 
 there be found an imagination so dull, but 
 the contemplation of a ruin will awaken it to 
 some dim and dreamy associations with past 
 ages—scarcely a heart so callous, but it will 
 feel, in connexion with such a scene, some 
 touch of that melancholy which inspired the 
 memorable exclamation “ All is vanity and 
 vexation of spirit !” 
 
 But let the ingenuity of man erect a mod- 
 ‘ern ruin, or mock monastery, arch for arch, 
 and pillar for pillar—nay, let him, if possi- 
 ble, plant weed for weed. The fancy will 
 not be cheated into illusion—this mushroom 
 toy of yesterday will remain a mockery 
 | still. 
 | Amongst the labours of man’s ingenuity 
 
 cinema 
 
 than the aspect of a ship at sea, whether she 
 goes forth with swelling sails before the 
 saat or lies becalmed upon a quiet shore. 
 Even the simplest or rudest vessels floating 
 on the surface of the water—from the lazy 
 barge that glides along the smooth canal, to 
 the light rondole that sports among the 
 glowing waters of more classic shores 
 from the simple craft that ply upon our own 
 rivers, to the rude canoe of the savage dart- 
 ing among reefs of coral; afford choice sub- 
 
 and skill, there are few things more poetical | 
 
 jects for the painter’s pencil, and the poet’s 
 song. Who has not mahchae with intense 
 interest a little speck upon the ocean, that | 
 neared, and neared, until human fortes at 
 length were visible, ‘and then the splash of 
 the oar was heard atregular intervals, and, 
 at last, on the crest of a foaming wave, ihe 
 boat seemed to bound triumphant on the 
 shore, where a little band of the long-tried | 
 and the faithful, amongst whom woman is | 
 never found wanting, welcome the mariners 
 home, safe from the storms and the dangers 
 of the sea? Who has not stood upon the 
 beach, a silent, but deeply interested specia- 
 tor, while a crew of hardy and weather- 
 beaten sailors launched forth their little har 
 amongst the roaring breakers, battling their 
 way through foam and surge, now dippiny 
 into the dark hollows between every swell. 
 and then rising unharmed upon the snowy 
 crest of the raging billows. A few moments 
 more of determined struggle, and the diffi- 
 culty is overcome; and now they have hoist- 
 ed sail and are gone bounding over the dark 
 blue waters, perhaps never to return. Who 
 has not marked, while gazing on the suriace 
 of the silent lake when the moon was shining, 
 that long line of trembling light that looks 
 like a pathway to a better world, suddenly 
 broken by the intervention of some object 
 that proves to be a boat, in which human 
 forms are discernible, though distant, yet 
 marked out with a momentary distinctness, 
 which affords imagination a fund of associa- 
 tions, connecting those unknown objects so 
 quickly seen, and then lost for ever, with 
 vague speculations about what they are or 
 have been, from whence they have so sud- 
 denly emerged, to what unseen point of illi- 
 mitable space they may be destined, and 
 what may be the darkness, or the radiance 
 
 a 
 
 == ae a SS Sa ee ee 
 
ine 
 
 POETICAL 
 
 of their future course. Or who has ever 
 witnessed the departure of a gallant vessel 
 
 under favouring skies, bound on a distant 
 
 and uncertain voyage, her sails all trim, her 
 rigging tight, her deck well manned, her 
 cargo secure as human skill and foresight can 
 make it, while she stoops one moment with 
 unabated majesty, to rise more proudly the 
 next, bursting through the ruffled waters, 
 and dashing from her sides the feathery 
 foam ; without thinking of a proud and reck- 
 less spirit rushing forth on its adventurous 
 career, unconscious of the rocks and shoals, 
 the rude gales and the raging tempests, that 
 await its onward course. Or who, without 
 a thrill of something more than earthly feel- 
 ing, can gaze over the unruffled surface of 
 the sea when the winds are sleeping, and the 
 waves at rest, except on the near voyage of 
 the blue expanse, where a gentle murmur, 
 with regular ebb and flow of soothing and mo- 
 notonsus sound marks the intervals at which 
 a line of sleepy waves rise, and fall, and fol- 
 low each other, without pause or intermis- 
 sion, far up along the sparkling shore, and 
 then recede into the depths of the smooth and 
 shining waters. 
 
 The sun is high in the heavens—the air is 
 clear and buoyant—now and then a white 
 cloud sails along the field of azure, its misty | 
 form marked out in momentary darkness on 
 the sea below, like the passing shadow of an 
 angel’s wings; while far, far in the distance, 
 and gliding on towards the horizon, are 
 those wandering messengers of the deep that 
 bear tidings from shore to shore, their swell- 
 ing sails now glancing white in the sun- 
 beams, now darkened by the passing cloud. 
 Musing on such a scene, we forget our own’ 
 identity—our own earthly, bodily existence ; 
 we live in a world of spirits, and are lost in 
 exquisite imaginings, in memories and hopes 
 that belong not to the things of clay ; every 
 thing we behold is personified and gifted 
 with intelligence; the rugged cliffs pos- 
 sess a terrible majesty, and seem to threaten 
 while they frown upon the slumbering shore ; 
 the deep and boundless sea, represented at 
 all times as acting or suffering by its own 
 will or power, is now more than ever endued 
 with the thoughts and passions of spiritual 
 
 existence, and seems to speak to us in its 
 
 own solemn and most intelligible language 
 
 SUBJECTS. © 13 
 
 of terror in motion, and sublimity in repose: 
 but more than all, the ships that go forth up- 
 on its bosom convey to our fancy the idea of 
 being influenced by an instinct of their own; 
 so well ordered are all their movements, so 
 perfect appears the harmony of their con- 
 struction and design, yet so hidden by the 
 obscurity of the distance is the moving prin- 
 ciple within, that by their own faith they 
 seem to trust themselves where the foot of 
 man dare not tread, and by their own hope 
 they seem to be lured on to some distant 
 point which the eye of man is unable to dis- 
 cern. 
 
 In a widely extended sea view there is un- 
 questionably poetry enough to inspire the 
 happiest lays, but the converse of this pic- 
 ture is easily drawn—and fatal to the poet’s 
 song would be the first view of the interior 
 of any one of those gallant and stately ships 
 about which we have beendreaming. The 
 moving principle within, respecting which 
 we have had such refined imaginings, is now 
 imbodied in a company of hardy sailors, 
 whose rude laughter, and ruder oaths, are 
 no less discordant to our ear, than offensive 
 to our taste. I[t is true, that a certain kind 
 of order and discipline prevails amongst 
 them, but the wretched passengers below 
 
 | are lost for a time to all mental sensations, 
 
 and suffering or sympathizing with them, 
 we soon forget the poetry of life. 
 
 There is poetry in the gush of sparkling 
 waters that burst forth from the hill-side 
 in some lonely and sequestered spot, and 
 flow on in circling eddies amongst the rocks 
 and fern, and tendrils of wild plants ; on, on 
 for ever—unexhausted, and yet perpetually 
 losing themselves in the bosom of the silent 
 and majestic river, where the hurry and 
 murmur of their course is lost, like the rest- 
 less passions that agitate the breast of man 
 in the ocean of eternity: and there is poetry 
 in the burst of the cataract that comes over 
 the brow of the precipice with a seeming 
 consciousness of its own power to bear down, 
 and to subdue. put 
 
 It is related of Richard Wilson, that when 
 he first beheld the celebrated falls of Terni, 
 he exclaimed “Well done, water!” Here, 
 indeed, was no poetry—no association. His 
 mind was too full of that mighty object as 
 it first struck upon his senses, to admit at the 
 
moment of any relative idea; his exclama- 
 tion was one of mere animal surprise, such 
 as his dog might have uttered, had he pos- 
 sessed the organs of speech. And yet the 
 same man, when he seized his pencil, and 
 gaye up his imagination to the full force of 
 those impressions which, if we may judge 
 by his works, few have felt more intensely, 
 was able to portray nature, not merely seen 
 as it is in any given section of the earth’s 
 surface, but to group together, and embody 
 in one scene, all that is most harmonious in 
 the quickly changing and diversified beauties 
 of wood and water—hill and valley—sombre 
 shade and glowing sunshine—deep solitudes, 
 and resplendent heavens. 
 
 There is poetry in the hum of bees, when 
 the orchards are in bloom, and the sun is 
 shining in unclouded spendour upon the 
 waving meadows, and the garden is rich- 
 ly spangled with spring flowers. There 
 is poetry in the hum of the bee, because it 
 brings back to us, as in a dream, the memo- 
 ry of bygone days, when our hearts were 
 alive to the happiness of childhood—the time 
 when we could lie down upon the green bank 
 and enjoy the stillness of summer’s noon, 
 when our hopes were in the blossoms of the 
 orchard, our delight in the sun-shine, our un- 
 tiring rambles in the meadows, and our per- 
 petual amusement in the scented flowers. 
 Since these days, time has rolled over us 
 with such a diversity of incident, bringing 
 so many changes in our modes of living and 
 thinking, that we have learned, perhaps at 
 some cost, to analyze our feelings, and to 
 say, rather than feel, that there is poetry in 
 the hum of bees. 
 
 But let one of these honey-laden wander- 
 ers find his way into our apartment, and 
 while he struggles with frantic efforts to 
 escape through the closed window, we cease 
 to find pleasure in his busy hum. 
 
 There is poetry in the flowers that grow 
 in sweet profusion upon wild and unculti- 
 vated spots of earth; exposing their delicate 
 leaves to the tread of the rude inhabitants 
 of the wilderness, and spreading forth their 
 scented charms to the careless mountain 
 wind—in the thousand, thousand little stars 
 of beauty looking forth like eyes, with no 
 eye to look again; or cups that seem formed 
 to catch the dew drops; or spiral pyramids 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 of varied hue shooting up from leafy beds, 
 and pointing faithfully to the shining sky ; 
 or crowns of golden splendour mounted 
 upon fragile stems; or purple wreaths that 
 never touched a human brow; all bursting 
 forth, blooming and then fading, with end- 
 less succession in the midst of untrodden 
 wilds ;—in rain and sunshine, in silent night, 
 and glowing day, with an end and purpose 
 in their brief existence inscrutable to the 
 mind of man. 
 
 The flowers of the garden, though pos- 
 sessing more richness and gorgeous beauty, 
 are less poetical, because we see too clearly 
 in their arrangement and culture, the art 
 and labour of man; we are reminded at 
 every group of the work of the spade, and 
 perceive at once and without mystery, why 
 they have been planted in the exact spot 
 where they now grow. 
 
 There is poetry in the first contemplation 
 of those numerous islands which gem the 
 southern ocean—poetry in the majestic hills 
 that rise one above another, their varied 
 peaks and precipices clear and bright in 
 unclouded sunshine, and their very summits 
 clothed with unfading verdure ; while burst- 
 
 a 
 i REDE I RETO I. 
 
 ing from amongst their deep recesses are. 
 
 innumerable streams that glide down their 
 rugged sides, now glancing out like threads 
 of silver, now hidden in shade and darkness, 
 until they find their way into the broad and 
 silent lagoon, where the angry surf subsides, 
 and the mountains, woods, and streams, are 
 seen again reflected in the glassy mirror of 
 the unruffled water—unruffled, save by the 
 rapid gliding of the light canoe, that darts 
 among the coral rocks, and then lies moored 
 in still water beneath some stately tree, 
 whose leafy boughs form a welcome canopy 
 of shade for the luxuriant revellers in that 
 sunny clime. 
 
 Time was when those who had rejoiced 
 over the first contemplation of this scene 
 were compelled to mourn over the contrast 
 which ignorance and barbarism presented 
 on a nearer view, but now, blessed be the 
 power that can harmonize the heart of man 
 with all that is grateful and genial in the 
 external world, the traveller approaching, 
 and beholding this lovely picture, need no 
 longer shrink from the horrors which a 
 closer inspection formerly revealed. 
 
 eae | | 
 ———— a 
 ce a NT 
 
 Oe nn 
 
POETICAL SUBJECTS. isl 
 
 If external nature abounds with poetry, 
 how much more forcibly does it pervade 
 the faculties and sentiments of the human 
 mind. Consider only three—lowe, hope, 
 and memory. What power even in the 
 visions of the alchemist was ever able to 
 transform like the passion of love? Invest- 
 ing what is real with all that we desire, 
 converting deformity into loveliness, ex- 
 changing discord for harmony, giving to the 
 eye the exquisite faculty of beautifying 
 whatever it beholds, and to the ear a secret 
 charm that turns every sound to music. 
 And hope would be hope no longer if it did 
 not paint the future in the colours we most 
 admire. Its very existence depends upon 
 the power it possesses to sweeten to the 
 latest dregs, the otherwise bitter cup of life. 
 Yet love and hope may be degraded by the 
 false estimate we sometimes form of what is 
 worthy of our admiration. Passion too 
 ofien asserts her mastery over both, compell- 
 ing her blind and willing slaves to call evil 
 good, and good evil; while memory, if not 
 always faithful to her trust, is at least dis- 
 posed to hold it charitably, and thus pre- 
 serves in their genuine distinctness, the fair- 
 
 est passages of life, but kindly obscures 
 
 ‘| those which are most revolting in remem- 
 
 brance. In looking back upon the past, 
 how little that is sordid, mean, or selfish, 
 appears conspicuous now. Past hours of 
 simple, every-day enjoyment, are invested 
 with a charm they knew not at the time. 
 A veil is thrown over the petty cares of by- 
 gone years—passion is disarmed of its 
 earth-born violence, and sorrow looks so 
 lovely in the distance, that we almost per- 
 suade ourselves it was better to weep such 
 tears as we wept then, than to smile as we 
 smile now. 
 
 But why pursue this theme? It is evi- 
 dent that neither sounds, objects, nor sub- 
 jects of contemplation are poetical in them- 
 selves, but in their associations; and that they 
 are so just in proportion as these associa- 
 tions are intellectual and refined. Nature is 
 full of poetry, from the high mountain to the 
 sheltered valley, from the bleak promontory 
 to the myrtle grove, from the star-lit hea- 
 vens to the slumbering earth; and the mind 
 that can most divest itself of ideas and sen- 
 sations belonging exclusively to matter, will 
 
 be able to expatiate in the realms of nature 
 with the most perfect fruition of delight. 
 
 -_——-) 
 
 INDIVIDUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 Tue difference of taste not unfrequently 
 found in persons whose station and habits 
 of life are similar may be attributed both to 
 individual conformation, and to those in- 
 stances of early bias received from local cir- 
 cumstances which none can remember, and 
 which, consequently, no pen can record. 
 That variety of taste is chiefly owing to the 
 influence of association, is shown by those 
 minor preferences or antipathies which cer- 
 tain individuals evince for things possessing 
 no quality inherent in themselves to justify 
 such peculiar choice or rejection, and which 
 
 have no corresponding value in the opinion || — 
 
 of mankind in general. 
 Without returning to the days of infancy, 
 when the first impressions were made upon 
 
 our senses, when our eyes were first able to | 
 
 see, and our ears to hear, it would be im- 
 possible to trace to their origin all our pecu- 
 liarities of taste and feeling, or to assign the 
 precise reason why we are subject to sensa- 
 tions of pleasure or disgust from causes 
 which do not influence the rest of mankind 
 in a similar manner—sensations which, from 
 their singularity, and, to others, apparent 
 absurdity, necessarily fall under the stigma 
 of caprice. 
 
 Who can say how far his peculiar ideas 
 of beauty and melody may have been de- 
 
 - rived from the countenance of the kind nurse 
 
 who first smiled upon him in his cradle, and 
 the sweet voice that first sung him to sleep; 
 or of deformity and discord from the harsh 
 brow whose frowns he first learned to dread, 
 and the voice whose threatening tones were 
 followed by punishment and pain. 
 
 If the taste of one individual is gratified 
 by a picture upon which a strong and vivid 
 light is thrown, and another prefers that 
 which exhibits the cool tints of a cloudy at- 
 mosphere, it is attributed to some peculiarity 
 
 in their several organs of sight; but is it not | 
 
 ‘equally possible to be in some measure ow- 
 ing to one having been too much confined to 
 
16 
 
 darkness in his infancy, and the other pain- 
 
 fully exposed to the glare of too much light ? 
 
 These may appear but idle speculations, 
 since we are, and ever must remain in want 
 
 of that master key to the human under- 
 
 standing—the knowledge of the state of the 
 infant mind, its degree of susceptibility, and 
 the manner in which it first receives impres- 
 sions through the organs of sense. So far 
 as we can recollect, however, it is clear to 
 all who will take the trouble to examine the 
 subject, that strong partialities and preju- 
 dices are imbibed in very early life, before 
 we are capable of reasoning, and that these 
 sometimes remain with us to the last. 
 
 There are seldom two persons who agree 
 exactly in their admiration of the proper 
 names of individuals. One approves what 
 the other rejects, and scarcely one instance 
 in twenty occurs in which their feelings are 
 the same: nor is it merely the harmony or 
 
 ' discord of the sound which occasions their 
 
 preference or dislike. Each attaches to the 
 name in question a distinct character, most 
 probably owing to some association of ideas 
 between that name and a certain individual 
 known in early life; and though they may 
 have both known and lived amongst the 
 same individuals, it is hardly probable that 
 two minds should have regarded them pre- 
 cisely in the same manner. Hence from 
 different associations arises a diflerence of 
 taste. 
 
 In the present state of society there are 
 few persons who have not, in the course of 
 their reading, become familiarized with 
 Scripture names earlier than with any other ; 
 and this, one would suppose, should lead to 
 their being generally preferred and adopted. 
 Yet so far from this being the case, they are 
 many of them regarded with a degree of 
 ridicule and disgust, which can only be ac- 
 counted for by our first becoming acquainted 
 with them before we have been inspired 
 with love, gratitude, or reverence for the 
 Record in which they are found. Nor is it 
 easy to account for the perversion of the 
 fine, full-sounding Roman names, in their 
 usual application to our dogs, and other ani- 
 mals; and next to them to those miserable 
 outcasts from human fellowship, which a 
 professedly Christian world has deemed 
 unworthy of a Christian nomenclature—the 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 negro slaves; unless that schoolboys have 
 generally enjoyed the honour of naming 
 their os dogs, when they were more 
 familiar with Cesar’s Commentaries, than 
 with the character of the illustrious Roman, 
 Why are we not able for many years after 
 our emancipation, to perceive and relish the 
 beauties of those selections from the ablest 
 poets, which we were compelled to learn by 
 heart, as punishments at school? It is be- 
 cause our first acquaintance with them was 
 formed under sensations of pain and compul- 
 sion, which time is long in wearing out. 
 
 If, by the mere sound of a narne, such dif- 
 ferent sensations are excited in different 
 minds, how much more extensive must be 
 the variety of those. called up by words of 
 more comprehensive signification! Let us 
 suppose four individuals—a newly elected 
 member of parliament, a tradesman, a pau- 
 per, and a poet—each at liberty to pursue 
 his own reflections, when the word winter is 
 suddenly introduced to his mind. The 
 statesman immediately thinks of the next 
 convocation of the representatives’ of the 
 people, when he shall stand forth to make 
 his maiden speech; of the important sub- 
 jects that will, probably, be laid before the 
 consideration of the house, of the part he 
 shall feel himself called upon to take in the 
 discussion of these, and how he may be able 
 to act so as to satisfy the claims of his con- 
 stituents, and his conscience, without offend- 
 ing either. The tradesman thinks of his 
 bills, and his bad debts; of the price of 
 coals, and the winter fashions. The pauper 
 thinks—and shivers while he thinks—of the 
 cold blasts of that inclement season, of the 
 various signs and prophecies that fortell a 
 hard winter, and of how much, or rather 
 how little the parish overseers will be likely 
 to allow to his necessities for clothing, food, 
 and fire. By a slight, and almost instanta- 
 neous transition of thought, one of these 
 thinkers has already arrived at the idea of 
 conscience, another at that of fashion, and a 
 third at that of fire. But the poet (provided 
 he be not identified with the pauper) pass- 
 ing over subjects of merely local interest, 
 knows no bounds to his associations. His 
 lively and unshackled fancy first carries him 
 northward, to those frozen regions which 
 man haé visited but in thought. Here he 
 
BS aor te 
 
 Se ee 
 
 INDIVIDUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 floats through the thin and piercing air, then 
 glides upon a sea of ice, or lookS down from 
 hills of everlasting snow ; until wearied with 
 the voiceless solitude, he seeks the abodes 
 of man, and follows the fur-clad Laplander 
 with his:faithful reindeer over trackless and 
 uncultivated wastes. But the poet, though 
 a wanderer by profession, yet still faithful to 
 home and early attachments, returns after 
 every wayward excursion to drink of his na- 
 tive well, and to enjoy the peace of his pa- 
 ternal hearth. Here, in the clime he loves 
 best, he beholds a scene of picturesque and 
 familiar beauty—a still and cloudless morn- 
 ing, when the hoar frost is glittering upon 
 every spray, and the. trees, laden with a 
 fleecy burden, cast their deep shadows here 
 and there:upon the silvery and unsullied bo- 
 som of the sheeted earth. He sees the soli- 
 tary robin perched upon the leafless thorn, 
 and hears its winter song of melancholy 
 sweetness—that plaintive touching strain to 
 which every human bosom echoes with a 
 sad response. But quickly comes the roar- 
 ing blast, like a torrent rushing down from 
 the hills. The light snow is tossed like foam 
 upon the waves of the wind; and the moun- 
 tain pine, shaking off the frosty spangles 
 from his boughs, for one moment quails be- 
 fore the fury of the thundering tempest, and 
 then stands erect again upon the craggy 
 steep, where his forefathers have stood for 
 ages. 
 dismay, and while the moaning of the ven- 
 erable oak resounds through the forest like 
 the voice of a mighty and unseen spirit, and 
 the bellowing of the blast seems mingled 
 with the wilder shrieks of bewildered travel- 
 lers, or seamen perishing on the deep, the 
 poet beholds in the distance the glimmering 
 lights of some hospitable mansion, and in an 
 instant he is transported to a scene of happi- 
 ness, glowing with social comforts, festivity, 
 and glee; where the affrighted wanderer 
 finds safety, the weary are welcomed to re- 
 pose, and the wretched exchange their tears 
 for joy. 
 
 Impressions made upon our minds by lo- 
 cal circumstances, are frequently of so deep 
 and durable a nature, as to outlive all the 
 accidents of chance and change which oc- 
 cure to us in after life. Should the poet, or 
 the painter in his study, endeavour to place 
 
 Night gathers in with darkness and 
 
 17 
 
 before his mind’s eye the picture of a bril- 
 liant sunset, he insensibly recalls that scen- 
 ery in the midst of which his youthful imagi- 
 nation was first warmed into poetic life by 
 the “ golden day’s decline.” He sees, bright 
 and gorgeous with sunbeams, the distant 
 hill, which his boyish fancy taught him to 
 believe it would be the height of happiness 
 to climb ;—the sombre woods that skirt the 
 horizon—the valley, misty and indistinct be- 
 low—the wandering river, whose glancing 
 waters are here and there touched as they 
 gleam out, with the radiance of the resplen- 
 dent west—and while memory paints again 
 the long deep shadows of the trees that 
 grew around his father’s dwelling, he feels 
 the calm of that peaceful hour mingling with 
 the thousand associations that combine to 
 form hismost vivid and poetical idea of sunset. 
 
 In this manner we not unfrequently single 
 out from the works of art some favorite ob- 
 ject, upon which we bestow an interest so 
 deep, a regard so earnest, that they wear 
 the character of admiration which no per- 
 ceptible quality in the object itselfcan justify, 
 and which other beholders are unable to un- 
 derstand. In a collection of paintings we 
 look around for those which are most wor- 
 thy of general notice, when suddenly our 
 attention is struck with one little unpretend- 
 ing picture, almost concealed in an obscure 
 corner, and totally unobserved by any one 
 beside. It is the representation of a village 
 church—the very church where we first 
 learned to feel, and, in part, to understand 
 the solemnity of the Sabbath. Beside its 
 venerable walls are the last habitations of 
 our kiudred; and beneath that dark and 
 mournful yew is the ancient pastor’s grave. 
 Here is the winding path so familiar to our 
 steps, when we trod the earth more lightly 
 than we do now—the stile on which the lit- 
 tle orphan girl used to sit, while her brothers 
 were at play—and the low bench beside the 
 
 cottage-door, where the ancient dame used |] 
 
 to pore over her Bible in the bright sun- 
 shine. Perhaps the wheels of Time have 
 rolled over us with no gentle pressure since 
 we last beheld that scene ;—perhaps the dark- 
 ness of our present lot makes the brightness 
 of the past more bright. Whatever the 
 cause may be, our gaze is fixed and fasci- 
 nated, and we turn away from the more | 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 wonderful productions of art, to muse upon | 
 
 that little picture again, and again, when all 
 
 | but ourselves have passed it by without a | 
 
 thought. 
 
 It is not, however, the earliest impressions 
 made upon the mind which are always the 
 most lasting or vivid. We are all subject 
 
 to the influence of strong and overpowering | 
 associations with circumstances which occur , 
 
 recollection. We are apt to be deeply, yet 
 differently affected by certain kinds of music. 
 | In the same apartment, and while the same 
 ; air is sung or played by a minstrel un- 
 
 conscious of its secret power, and some of the 
 
 audience will be thrown into raptures of de- 
 | light, applauding and calling forth the strain 
 again with unabated enjoyment; while one, 
 | 
 
 a meee ate 
 
 th 
 : in after life, and of which we retain a clear 
 
 in whose sad heart the springs of memory 
 are opened, will turn away unnoticed in that 
 happy crowd, to hide the tears which the 
 thoughts of home and early days, when that 
 strain was first heard, have called forth from 
 66 If 
 eX- 
 claims one, “I should never know unhappi- 
 ness again!” “Spare me that song of 
 mirth,” is the secret prayer of the stranger; 
 
 : the eyes of astranger in a strange land. 
 
 iis 
 
 “it belongs to my own country. It tells me 
 | 
 
 5 
 
 ) 
 
 I might always listen to that tune,” 
 
 of the beauty and gladness of my native land. 
 Spare me that song of mirth; for my heart 
 is sorrowful, and I am alone.” 
 
 Innumerable are the instances of daily, 
 and almost hourly occurrence, in which we 
 perceive that some particular tone of feeling 
 is excited, but know not whence it takes its 
 rise; as we listen to the wild music of the 
 /olian harp, that varies perpetually from 
 
 ‘| one melody to another. We see the thrill- 
 ing chords, we hear the sweet and plaintive 
 sound, but we know not with all our wisdom 
 
 || what particular note the unseen minstrel 
 will next produce, nor can we calculate the 
 vibrations caused by his powerful but invisi- 
 ble hand. 
 
 When we hear the tender and affectionate 
 expression, “I love this book because it was 
 my mother’s,” we know at once why a book 
 
 '! approved by a mother’s judgment should be 
 ‘| valued by a child; but when we hear any 
 one say, “I prefer this room, this table, or 
 this chair, to all others, because they be- 
 longed to my mother,” the expression 
 
 a tem 
 
 though quite as common, and equally na- 
 _ tural, is not so generally understood. The 
 room may be the least commodious in the 
 house, the table the least convenient, the 
 chair the least easy, yet they are valued 
 not the less, because they are associated 
 with the image of one who was more dear, 
 perhaps more dear than any one will ever 
 be again. 
 
 I have known the first wild rose of sum- 
 mer gathered with such faithful recollec- 
 tions, such deep and earnest love, such 
 yearnings of the heart for by-gone pleasures, 
 that fora moment its beauty was obscured 
 by falling tears. The tolling of a bell after 
 it has been heard for a departed friend, has 
 a tone of peculiar and painful solemnity. 
 The face of one whom we have met with 
 comparative indifference in a season of hap- 
 piness, is afterwards hailed with delight || 
 when it is all that remains to us of the past. 
 | The pebble that was gathered on a distant 
 
 shore, becomes valuable as a gem when we 
 | know that we shall visit that land no more. 
 There is no sound, however simple or sweet, 
 
 that may not be converted into discord when 
 it calls up jarring sensations in the mind ; 
 nor is there any melody in nature compara- 
 ble to the tones of the voice that has once 
 spoken to the heart. 
 
 Rosseau wept on beholding the little com- |! 
 mon flower that we call periwinkle. He }: 
 wept because he was alone, and it reminded 
 him of the beloved friend at whose feet it |} 
 had been gathered. I remember being af- 
 fected by this @@cumstance at a very early 
 
 age, and the association has become so 
 powerful, that, in looking at this flower, I ||. 
 always feel a, sensation of melancholy, and ||, 
 persuade myself that the pale blue star, half ||' 
 concealed beneath the dark green leaves, is 
 like a soft blue eye that scarcely ventures to 
 look up from beneath the gloom of sorrow. 
 The crowing of the cock is generally con- |, 
 sidered a lively and cheering sound; yet I 
 knew one, who for many years could not || 
 hear a cock crow at midnight without sen- || 
 sations of anguish and horror, because it had |}. 
 once been painfully forced upon her notice 
 while she was watching the dead. 
 A gentleman of my acquaintance, in speak- || 
 ing to me of his mother’s death, which was |; 
 | sudden and unexpected, described the day 
 
 ———— ss 
 
INDIVIDUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 19 
 
 |,on which this event took place, as one of 
 those periods in our existence when the 
 mind seems incapable of feeling what it 
 knows to be a painful truth. He had re- 
 tired to rest, with an indistinct idea of what 
 had occurred, but remained unable to realize 
 the extent of his calamity. It had been his 
 mother’s custom to take away his candle 
 levery night—perhaps to breathe a prayer 
 lat his bed side. As he laid his head upon 
 'the pillow, he saw the light standing as 
 | usual, but no gentle form approached, and 
 iu an instant he felt the full force of his be- 
 reavement. He was setting off in life with 
 brighter hopes than fall to the lot of many ; 
 but that first and purest of earth’s blessings 
 —a mother’s love, was lost to him for ever. 
 Associations of this kind, however, are not 
 such as constitute the fittest subjects for the 
 poet; because, from their local or particular 
 nature, they excite no general interest. 
 They may be powerful in the mind of the 
 writer, but will fail to awaken in other minds 
 a proportionate degree of feeling; except 
 when the sensible object, or particular fact 
 described, is introduced merely as a medium 
 for subjects of a nature to be generally felt 
 and understood, such as memory, hope, or 
 love. Thus, the Poet may properly address 
 an object of which he alone perceives the 
 beauty, or describe a circumstance of which 
 he alone feels the pathos, provided he does 
 not dwell too long upon the object or circum- 
 stance, merely as such, but carries the mind 
 onward, by some ingenious association, to 
 recollections which they naturally recall, 
 hopes which were then cherished, or love, 
 whose illimitable nature may be connected 
 with all things lovely. By dwelling exclu- 
 sively upon one subject of merely local inter- 
 est, and neglecting such relative ideas as 
 are common to all, the most egregious blun- 
 ders, in matters of taste, are every day com- 
 mitted. Witticisms are uttered, which, how- 
 ever entertaining to those who know to what 
 circumstances they owe their value, excite 
 no corresponding risibility in the wondering 
 or insensible hearers. Anecdotes are re- 
 lated, which, from being out of place or ill- 
 timed, seem to fall from the lips of the 
 speaker as a wearisome and empty sound. 
 Subjects of conversation are introduced in 
 mixed society, perhaps, intensely interesting 
 
 (-—~ es 0 ee ee ne a 
 
 Lara omy ee eee a 
 _ ee ee ee ae re TE LOVES 
 
 to one or two, but from which all others are 
 shut out. Books are selected, and read 
 aloud to those who will not listen. Pictures 
 are exhibited to those who cannot see their 
 beauty. Pleasures are proposed, which 
 from their want of adaptation, are converted 
 into pain. Kind intentions are frustrated ; 
 and the best endeavours to be agreeable, 
 rewarded with disappointment and ingrati- 
 tude. In short, for want of that discrimina- 
 ting, versatile, and most valuable quality 
 which mankind have agreed to call tact. 
 and which might be fancifully described as 
 the nerve of human society, many opportu- 
 nities of enjoyment are wasted, many good 
 people are neglected, and many good things 
 are irrevocably lost. 
 
 It would be hard indeed if we might not 
 indulge our individual fancies, by each 
 mounting the hobby we like best. The ab- 
 surdity consists in compelling others to ride 
 with us, in forcing our favourites upon their 
 regard, and expecting from them the same 
 tribute of admiration which we ourselves 
 bestow. There is no moral law to prevent 
 our being delighted with what is repulsive 
 to others; but it is an essential part of good 
 
 manners, to keep back from the notice of | 
 society such particular preferences—a great | 
 
 proof of good taste, so to discipline our feel- 
 ings, that we derive the most enjoyment 
 from what is generally pleasing. 
 
 Sg 
 
 GENERAL ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 In turning our attention to the subject of 
 general associations, we enter upon a field 
 so wide and fertile, that to select suitable 
 materials for examination appears the only 
 difficulty. All our most powerful and sub- 
 lime ideas are common to mankind in a civ- 
 ilized state, and arise in the minds of count- 
 
 ELS SSSR a EN LE II LE IEE EEO ADE ETE LLL ALLEL LATS E LIEDER, LL ILE LAT LED A ALIE TR 
 
 TT 
 A 
 
 less multitudes from the same causes. By ' 
 
 the stupendous phenomena of nature, as well 
 as by the magnificent productions of art, we 
 are all affected according to our various de- 
 grees of capability in precisely the same 
 manner. We all agree in the impressions 
 we receive from extreme cases, whether 
 thev belong to the majestic or the minute ; 
 
 ———— ee - 
 
 Se eR el 
 
| 20 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 | and no one who retained the possession of 
 || his reason would be excited to laughter by a 
 thunder storm, or to awe and reverence by 
 | the tricks of a merry-andrew. But there are 
 '| medium cases of a minor and more dubious 
 | nature, in which the poet’s discriminating 
 | eye can best distinguish what is exalted or 
 | refined, puerile or base; and consequently 
 what is most worthy of his genius. Nor let 
 him who has openly committed himself in 
 verse, believe that such distinction entitles 
 him to make laws for his own accommoda- 
 tion, and observe or transgress the establish- 
 ed rules of taste just as his own fancy may 
 ‘| dictate. The same celestial . fire which 
 | prompts his lay is warming humbler blos- 
 | soms unmarked amongst the crowd; and 
 '| mingled with the dense multitude which he 
 | disdaims are countless poets uncommitted, 
 | who constitute a tribunal from which there 
 | is no appeal; who must eventually sit in 
 i| jadgment upon his works, give the tone to 
 public opimon, and pronouncing his irrevo- 
 '| cable doom, consign him to oblivion or to 
 i| fame. ¢ 
 
 Those who have taken little pains to in- 
 quire into the nature and origin of their 
 
 : mental sensations, often express instantane- 
 
 | ously a correct judgment of works of art, 
 from what they would be very likely to call 
 a kind of instinct or intuitive perception of 
 what is right or wrong; but which might 
 more philosophically be referred to combi- 
 nations of ideas derived from certain impres- 
 sions associated, compared, and established 
 by a process of the mind which they took no 
 note of at the time, and with which they have 
 never made themselves acquainted. Of such 
 is a great proportion of the multitude com- 
 posed; andit is this fact which gives to pub- 
 lic opinion that overpowering weight against 
 which no single critic, or even select body of 
 critics, can prevail. 
 
 The poet who is not a blind enthusiast, 
 will learn by experience, if he know not with- 
 out, that the public taste must be consulted 
 in order to recommend himself to public ap- 
 probation. He therefore gives himself up to 
 the study of what is universally regarded as 
 
 | most ennobling, touching, or sublime. He 
 endeavors to forget himself, and setting 
 aside the pains and pleasures of his own 
 
 Le ee as a little private store to 
 ARR NA se. ie BMA RPS le Rod 
 
 draw upon when occasion may require, or 
 as a secret lamp from which he may some- 
 times borrow light to rekindle his imagina- 
 tion, launches forth into the world of thought, 
 and extracts from all existing or imaginable 
 things that ethereal essense, which beauti- 
 fies the aspect of nature, elevates the soul of 
 man, and gives even to his every day exis- 
 tence such intensity of enjoyment, as those 
 who look at facts only ag they are recorded, 
 and study matter merely as it is, can never 
 know. 
 
 General associations must therefore occu- 
 py an important place in the consideration 
 of all who would study the poetry of life; 
 nor will such deem their time misspent in 
 following up a close examination of some 
 
 particular subjects with reference to this es- |‘ 
 
 sential point. 
 
 Let us first consider that well known and | 
 
 familiar object, the human face, of which 
 
 even single and distinct features have fre- |’ 
 
 quently been thought sufficiently important 
 to inspire the poet’s lay. From the earliest 
 times, the forehead has been dignified with 
 a kind of personality, and regarded as an 
 index to the character of man, whether bold 
 or bland, threatening or benign, disturbed or 
 serene: nor is it in language peculiar to the 
 poets only, that we speak of a man confront- 
 ing his enemies with undaunted brow—or 
 that he receives his sentence of punishment 
 with a forehead undisturbed—that we are 
 encouraged to hope for mercy by the bland 
 or benign forehead of the judge—or bear 
 adversity with a brow serene. Physiogno- 
 mists profess to read the natural character of 
 man chiefly from the form of his forehead ; 
 but whether studied scientifically or not, 
 we all know in an instant what is indicated 
 by the simultaneous contraction and lower- 
 ing of the brow; we know .also, without 
 much assistance from study of any kind, 
 when the nature of the forehead is noble or 
 
 mean, harsh or mild; we naturally look to |: 
 
 the upper part of the face, in order to form 
 those instantaneous opinions of our fellow- 
 creatures at first sight, which are not unfre- 
 quently a near approach to truth; and we 
 may, with some degree of certainty, read in 
 the forehead, when at rest, what are the 
 principal elements of character in those 
 with whom we associate. But scarcely can 
 
_—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— 
 GENERAL ASSOCIATIONS. |. 
 
 eeeSs=={I 
 
 21 
 
 a feeling be excited, or a passion stirred, than 
 the muscles of the forehead are agitated by 
 a corresponding movement. How suddenly 
 and strongly is the forehead affected by as- 
 tonishment! and even in listening attentive- 
 ly toa common story, the eyebrows are occa- 
 sionally elevated, and thus afford a sure 
 indication that the hearer is interested, and 
 that the narrator may proceed. How strik- 
 ing is the contraction of the forehead in deep 
 and earnest thought! How unspeakably 
 mournful under the gloom of sorrow! How 
 frightfully distorted by the violence of rage! 
 How solemn and yet how lovely in its char- 
 acter of intellectual beauty! It is difficult 
 to connect one idea of a gross or corporeal 
 nature with the forehead ; all its indications 
 are those of mind, and most of them of a 
 powerful, refined, or elevated character ; 
 from the Madonna, whom no painter has 
 thought worthy of a high degree of intellec- 
 tual grace, yet whose forehead invariably 
 indicates a character mild, delicate, and pure, 
 to the dying gladiator, whose expiring an- 
 cuish is less of the body than of the mind. 
 
 The forehead, therefore, is a subject well 
 fitted for the poet’s pen, and he may sing of 
 its various qualifications without fear of 
 transgressing the rules of good taste. 
 
 The eye is poetical in a still higher de- 
 gree, because it possesses a greater facility 
 in adapting itself to present circumstances, 
 and reveals in greater minuteness and va- 
 riety the passions and affections of the mind. 
 Indeed, so perfect is the eye as an organ of 
 intelligence, that it is more frequently spoken 
 of in its figurative sense than in any other; 
 and there is scarcely a writer, however 
 grave, whose pages are not embellished by 
 frequent poetical expressions in which the 
 eye is the principal agent; such as,—the 
 language of the eye—the eye of the mind— 
 the eye of omnipotence and a countless 
 multitude of figures, without which we 
 should find it difficult to express our ideas, 
 and which sufficiently prove how intimate 
 and familiar is our acquaintance with the 
 eye as a medium of intelligence, no less 
 than as an organ of sense. With the uni- 
 
 versally intelligible expression of the eye, 
 are associated our first ideas of pain or 
 pleasure, fear or confidence: the infant nat- 
 urally looks up into its mother’s eye to read 
 
 there the confirmation of her strange tones 
 of anger or reproof, and if there is no con- 
 demnation in that oracle of truth, he feels 
 that her words are but empty threats, re- 
 turns to his gambols, and laughs again. 
 The lover knows that his earnest suit is re- 
 jected if the eye of his mistress has no re- 
 lenting in its glance ; and the criminal who 
 pleads for some mitigation of his sentence, 
 looks for mercy in the eye of the judge. 
 
 It would be a fruitless expenditure of 
 words to set about establishing the fact, 
 that the eye is poetical. Every poet capa- 
 ble of stringing a rhyme has proved it to 
 the world; every heart capable of feeling 
 has acknowledged it to be true. 
 
 But while thousands and tens of thousands 
 are poetizing about the eye, no one dares 
 venture upon the nose; a fact which can 
 only be accounted for by our having no 
 intellectual associations with this member, 
 and being accustomed to regard it merely 
 for its sense of smell or as an essential or- 
 nament to the face. The nose is incapable 
 of expressing any emotion of mind, except 
 those which are vulgar or grotesque—such 
 as laughter or gross impertinence. It is 
 true, the nostrils are distended by any effort 
 of daring, but it is rather with animal than 
 moral courage, such as might animate a 
 barbarian or a horse. It is indeed a curious, 
 but incontrovertible fact, that while the en- 
 raptured slave of beauty is at liberty to 
 expend his poetic fire in composing sonnets 
 to his lady’s eye, no sooner does he descend 
 to the adjoining feature, than the poetry of 
 his lay is converted into burlesque, and he 
 is himself dismissed as a profaner of love 
 and the muses. 
 
 The mouth, though frequently spoken of 
 in a figurative sense, is less poetical than 
 the eye, most probably because of its imme- 
 diate connexion with the functions of the 
 body. In the language of poetry, the lips 
 and the tongue are generally substituted 
 for the mouth; the one being associated 
 with the more refined idea of a smile, and 
 the other with the organs of speech. 
 Every one sees at the first glance, that 
 the chin is not a subject for poetry; for 
 though its peculiar formation may be strong- 
 ly indicative of boldness or timidity, as well 
 as some meaner traits of character, it is so 
 
a a a NE Oe 
 
 22 
 
 incapable of changing with the changing 
 emotions of the mind, that the chin must 
 remain to be considered merely as a feature 
 of the face, and nothing more. 
 
 These notions, derived from the study of 
 the human countenance, may appear to give 
 to the subject a greater degree of import- 
 ance than it really deserves; for there are 
 many individuals not aware that they have 
 ever bestowed more physiognomical study 
 upon the face of man, than upon the plate 
 from which they dine. But let one of these 
 relate his favourite story to a stranger, who 
 neither raises his eyes nor his eyebrows 
 while he is speaking, whose mouth never 
 for one moment relaxes into a smile, and 
 who gives no sign that he is interested by 
 any other motion of the head or face; the 
 teller of the story how little soever he may 
 think he has studied the subject, will per- 
 ceive that he has wasted his words upon 
 one who could not, or would not appreciate 
 their value. This fact he knows with cer- 
 tainty, and withgut being told; because 
 from childhood he has always been accus- 
 tomed to see earnest attention accompanied 
 by certain movements, or positions of the 
 face ; and has observed, that the same face 
 would be very differently affected by weari- 
 ness or absence of mind. ‘Thus, we gather 
 knowledge from experience every day with- 
 out being aware of it, and are satisfied with 
 
 the possession of our gain without inquiring 
 
 from whence it was obtained. 
 
 The sentiments upon which mankind are 
 generally agreed respecting the beauty or 
 deformity of the human countenance, origi- 
 nate more frequently in association, than, 
 without examination of the subject, we 
 should be disposed to allow. How often are 
 we struck with a similarity between certain 
 faces and certain animals of the brute crea- 
 
 | tion; and just in proportion as the resem- 
 
 blance is gross and brutal, we regard it with 
 disgust and horror. The ancients estab- 
 lished for themselves a standard of beauty, 
 as far removed from such resemblance as 
 the form of the human countenance would 
 allow ; and sometimes, in their contempt for 
 the rude expression of animal life, they 
 rushed into the opposite extreme, and ex- 
 tinguished all apparent capability of living 
 —in their anxiety to avoid the mark of the 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 beast, they lost sight of the characteristics of 
 theman. The Egyptians appear to have im- 
 bodied in their sculpture the first, or rather the 
 embryo idea of the sublime; and their huge, 
 
 massive, and unmeaning heads, scarcely | 
 chisselled into form, are as far removed in | 
 their expression from what is gross, as what 
 The Grecians knew better what | 
 was requisite to the gratification of a refined | 
 
 is human. 
 
 and intellectual taste. They knew, that in 
 order to ennoble their representations of the 
 countenance of man, it must not only be di- 
 vested of all resemblance to the brute, but 
 that, to rouse the human bosom to sensa- 
 tions of admiration and delight, it must be 
 
 enlivened with the expression of human in- |. 
 
 telligence. Had they proceeded but one 
 
 step farther in their imitation of nature as it | 
 is—had they consulted the sympathies and | 
 
 affections of humanity, they might have im- 
 mortalized the genius of the times by pro- 
 ductions equally sublime, but infinitely more 
 touching and beautiful. 
 As the Grecians reasoned and acted in 
 the early stage of civilization, so we, in form- 
 
 ing our earliest notions of the abstract na- | 
 
 ture of beauty, reason, perhaps uncon- 
 sciously, to ourselves. We see that a low 
 and rapidly retreating forehead, sunken 
 eyes, short nose, distended and elevated at 
 the tip, wide mouth, and scarcely percepti- 
 ble chin, are common to animals of the most 
 repulsive character; and we loathe the 
 image of a human animal in any way re- 
 sembling these. With that propensity in- 
 herent in our nature to rush towards the op- 
 posite of every thing which excites dislike or 
 
 ‘pain, we create a false taste, and affect to | 
 
 admire what is not to be found in real life. 
 And as most living faces have some faint 
 touch of resemblance to the animal creation, 
 we are more enraptured than the rules of 
 physiognomy would warrant, with the cold 
 sublime of ‘Grecian statuary. Nor is this 
 taste likely to be corrected, because we 
 study these marble beauties as statues only, 
 and consequently find in them all that is re- 
 quired for loveliness in repose; but could a 
 Grecian divinity step down from her pedes- 
 tal, and come to visit our couch in sorrow, 
 bend over us in sickness, or meet us at the 
 door of our home after long absence and 
 
 weary travel; we should then perceive the | 
 
 - = 5 eS aoniiate 
 a a TS TE RR SS AE SS a eae a a 
 
 DS SRE AES EL LSS ESL 
 
| GENERAL ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 harsh coldness of what are called celestial 
 brows, but which were certainly never in- 
 tended to relax into the expression of affa- 
 bility, kindness, or sympathy. 
 
 The faces which are universally consi- 
 dered most interesting, are those which vary 
 with every emotion of the soul; which sel- 
 dom fail to please in general society, by 
 keeping up a sort of corresponding indica- 
 tion with the feelings excited by different 
 subjects under discussion. Yet these varia- 
 tions must not be too rapid, they must not 
 correspond with every trifling change, or the 
 expression will become puerile ; because we 
 are sure that so many different emotions felt 
 in quick succession must neutralize each 
 other, and we consequently doubt whether 
 any feeling in connexion with such a coun- 
 tenance can be deep or lasting. 
 
 There is, however, beyond this charm of 
 the human face, another of a more abstruse 
 and intellectual character, one which more 
 properly entitles it to be called poetical; and 
 here it may not be improper to remark, that 
 a certam degree of mystery enhances the 
 value of almost all our mental enjoyments. 
 The human mind is so constituted, that it 
 feels peculiar gratification in being occasion- 
 ally thrown upon its own resources. In- 
 stead of being constantly supplied with food 
 selected and prepared for its use, it delights 
 in being sometimes permitted to issue forth 
 on an excursion of discovery, and is satisfied 
 on such occasions with very uncertain ali- 
 ment. Mystery offers to the mind this kind 
 of liberty. We dwell the longest upon that 
 face which reveals a great deal, but not all 
 of what the thoughts are engaged with; we 
 recur with redoubled interest to those sub- 
 jects which we do not, on first examination, 
 fully understand. 
 
 But to return to the human countenance. 
 We meet with many faces animated, lively, 
 and quickly affected by the topics or events 
 of the moment. We remark of such, that 
 they are pleasing, and our admiration ends 
 here. But if, amongst the crowd, we dis- 
 tinguish one possessed of this capability in 
 the extreme, not always using it, however, 
 but sometimes looking grave and abstracted, 
 retiring, as it were, from the confusion or 
 the folly of the passing scene, to listen for 
 
 : 
 “ sal i te .-- : 
 SS, SSS | ee Sor a NSE 
 NE 
 
 ne 
 
 Se 
 
 ‘Lord Byron; with a hundred absurdities 
 
 awhile to the inner voice—the voice of the | ceive in what perfection he possesses the 
 
 spirit, while the “tablet of unutterable |! 
 thoughts is traced” upon it; we imme- 
 diately begin to ponder upon what may be | 
 the secret springs from whence flow the {| 
 thoughts, feelings, and affections of such a 
 character. We bestow upon it much of 
 what is closely interwoven with our own. 
 We invest it with imaginary powers, and 
 believe it to be possessed of resources from 
 which the mind may draw as from unfailing 
 wells, until at last we seem to have esta- 
 blished an ideal intercourse with the mys- |: 
 terious unknown, and to have made a friend 
 by no other agency than the sympathy of 
 the soul. 
 
 What is most generally esteemed in soci- 
 ety, might be easily discovered by what the 
 greatest number of individuals are disposed |} 
 to affect. Thus, while the affectation of at- | 
 tention is often substituted for attention itself, 
 while dull faces are compelled to brighten 
 into smiles without the animation of joy, | 
 
 while brows are stretched into a mockery of 
 good humour when good humour is want- |! 
 ing; there are deeper practitioners playing 
 off the art of being mysterious, dealing in 
 half-revealed secrets, concealing their own 
 names, looking abstracted by design, and 
 forming plans for their own dignity, mimick- 
 ing the Corsair, and fancying they resemble 
 
 besides, too gross or to contemptible to enu- 
 merate, yet all tending to prove that there is 
 a disposition prevailing amongst mankind, 
 to admire and delight in what is mysterious. 
 
 If we are generally agreed in our notions 
 of the beauty or deformity of the human 
 face, we are still more unanimous in our es- 
 timate of that of animal form in general. 
 Some, it is true, may prefer a tall or a broad 
 figure, and others may choose exactly the 
 opposite, but we are all of one opinion on the 
 subject of symmetry and proportion; be- 
 cause our associations are the same, and we 
 bestow the highest degree of admiration on 
 the bodies, both of men and animals, when 
 they posssss the combined qualities of firm- 
 ness, flexibility, and adaptation. 
 
 All who have bestowed any attention upon 
 the horse, must regard this noble animal 
 with feelings of admiration and delight. It 
 needs not the aid of scientific study to per- 
 
 % 
 
24 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. | 
 
 combined qualities of strength and swiftness, 
 endurance and facility of motion. Had one 
 of these qualities been wanting—had he 
 been feeble or inactive, had his power or his 
 patience been soon expended, had he moved 
 with awkwardness or difficulty, our admira- 
 tion would have been considerably less, and 
 we should probably now look with as little 
 pleasure on the horse as on the rhinoceros. 
 Again, every one thinks the stag a beautiful 
 animal, perhaps the most beautiful in nature ; 
 but the stag wants the majestic power of the 
 horse to give him an aspect of nobility, and, 
 therefore, our admiration of him is of a qual- 
 ified and secondary nature. In the same 
 mamner, it would not be difficult to trace the 
 correspondence of our ideas through the 
 whole extent of animal creation, except only 
 where the chain of association is broken by 
 accidental or local circumstances ; and hap- 
 py is it for the human race, that they are so 
 constituted as to be disposed unanimously to 
 avoid what is repulsive, and are able to par- 
 take, in social concord, of the exquisite en- 
 joyment of admiring what is beautiful. 
 Had the mind of man been composed of 
 heterogeneous or discordant elements, he 
 must have wanted the grand principle of 
 happiness—sympathy with his fellow-crea- 
 tures. He might unquestionably have pos- 
 sessed his own enjoyments, but he must 
 have been a selfish and isolated being. His 
 intellectual powers might possibly have been 
 cultivated, but without the stimulus of social 
 affection, their growth must have been with- 
 out grace, and their fruit without value. T'o 
 compute the distance of the planets, to mea- 
 sure the surface of the earth, and penetrate 
 into its secret mines, are occupations which 
 might be carried on by man in his solitary 
 and unconnected character; but in order 
 that he might enjoy the benefit of a high 
 tone of moral feeling, and thus be fitted for 
 a state of existence where knowledge is only 
 less supreme than love, it was necessary 
 that the general current of his feelings 
 should be softened and refined, by innumer- 
 able springs of tenderness and affection, 
 flowing through the finer sensibilities of his 
 nature, and filling that ocean of enjoyment, 
 of which the human family have drank to- 
 gether in unity sce the world began, and 
 may continue to drink for generations yet to 
 
 ee ee 
 
 ene ne a “ eed . 
 en 
 
 come, without fear that the fountains should 
 be sealed, or the waters should become less 
 pure. | : 
 
 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 THERE are few natural objects more poet- 
 ical in their general associations than flowers; 
 nor has there ever been a poet, simple or 
 sublime, who has not adorned his verse with 
 these specimens of nature’s cunning work- 
 manship. From the majestic sunflower, 
 towering above her sisters of the garden, 
 and faithfully turning to welcome the god 
 of day, to the little humble and well-known 
 weed that is said to close its crimson eye be- 
 fore impending showers, there is scarcely 
 one flower which may not from its loveliness, 
 its perfume, its natural situation, or its class- || 
 ical association, be considered highly poeti- |; 
 eal. 
 
 As the welcome messenger of spring, the 
 snowdrop claims our first regard ; and count- 
 less are the lays in which the praises of this 
 little modest flower are sung. The contrast 
 it presents of green and. white, (ever the 
 most pleasing of contrasts to the human eye, ) 
 may be one reason why mankind agree in 
 their admiration of its simple beauties ; but 
 a far more powerful reason is the delightful 
 association by which it is connected with the 
 idea of returning spring; the conviction that 
 the vegetable world through the tedious win- 
 ter months has not been dead, but sleeping ; 
 and that long nights, fearful storms, and 
 chilling blasts, have a limitation and a bound 
 assigned them, and must in their appointed 
 time give place to the fructifying and genial 
 influence of spring. Perhaps we have mur- 
 mured (for what is there in the ordinations 
 of Providence at which man will not dare to 
 murmur ?) at the dreariness of winter. Per- 
 haps we have felt the rough blast too pier- 
 cing to accord with our artificial habits. 
 Perhaps we have thought long of the melt- 
 ing of the snow that impeded our noon-day 
 walk. But it vanishes at last; and there, 
 beneath its white coverlet, lies the delicate 
 snowdrop, so pure and pale, so true an em- 
 blem of hope, and trust, and confidence, that 
 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 25 
 
 | it might teach a lesson to the desponding, 
 
 and show the useless and inactive how in- 
 valuable are the stirrings of that energy that 
 can work out its purpose in secret, and under 
 oppression, and be ready in the fulness of 
 time to make that purpose manifest and com- 
 plete. The snowdrop teaches also another 
 lesson. It marks out the progress of time. 
 We cannot behold it without feeling that an- 
 other spring has come, and immediately our 
 thoughts recur to the events which have oc- 
 curred since last its fairy bells were ex- 
 panded. We think of those who were near 
 and dear to usthen. It is possible they may 
 never be near again; it is equally possible 
 they may be dear no longer. Memory is 
 busy with the past; until anticipation takes 
 up the chain of thought, and we conjure up, 
 and at last shape out in characters of hope, 
 a long succession of chances and changes to 
 fill up the revolving seasons which must 
 come and go before that little flower shall 
 burst forth in its loveliness again. Happy 
 is it for those who have so counted the cost 
 of the coming year, that they shall not find 
 at the end they have expended either hope 
 or desire in fruitless speculations. 
 
 It is of little consequence what flower 
 comes next under consideration. A few 
 specimens will serve the purpose of proving, 
 that these lovely productions of nature are, 
 in their general associations, highly poetical. 
 The primrose is one upon which we dwell 
 with pleasure proportioned to our taste for 
 rural scenery, and the estimate we have pre- 
 viously formed of the advantages of a peace- 
 ful and secluded life. In connexion with 
 this flower, imagination pictures a thatched 
 cottage standing on the slope of the hill, and 
 a little woody dell, whose green banks are 
 spangled all over with yellow stars, while a 
 troop of rosy children are gambolling on the 
 same bank, gathering the flowers, as we 
 
 || used to gather them ourselves, before the 
 
 toils and struggles of mortal conflict had 
 
 || worn us down to what we are now; and 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 , thus presenting to the mind the combined 
 i ideas of natural enjoyment, innocence, and 
 rural peace—the more vivid, because we 
 ean remember the time when something like 
 | this was mingled with the cup of which we 
 | drank—the more touching, because we 
 
 | doubt whether, if such pure drops were still 
 
 = 
 
 there, they would not to our taste have lost 
 their sweetness. 
 
 The violet, while it pleases by its modest, 
 retiring beauty, possesses the additional 
 charm of the most exquisite of all perfumes, 
 which, inhaled with the pure and invigora- 
 ting breezes of spring, always brings back in 
 remembrance a lively conception of that de- 
 lightful season. Thus, in the language of 
 poetry, “ the violet-scented gale” is synony- 
 
 mous with those accumulated and sweetly- 
 
 blended gratifications which we derive from |) 
 
 odours, flowers, and balmy breezes; and 
 
 vated nature, once more bursting forth into 
 beauty and perfection. 
 
 The jessamine, also, with its dark green 
 leaves, and little silver stars, saluting us with 
 its delicious scent through the open case- 
 ment, and impregnating the whole atmos- 
 phere of the garden with its sweetness, has 
 been sung and celebrated by so many poets, 
 that our associations are with their numbers, 
 
 rather than with any intrinsic quality in the | 
 
 flower itself. Indeed, whatever may have 
 first established the rank of flowers in the 
 
 poetical world, they have become to us like || 
 
 notes of music, passed on from lyre to lyre ; 
 and whenever a chord is thrilled with the 
 harmony of song, these lovely images pre- 
 sent themselves, neither impaired in their 
 beauty, nor exhausted of their sweetness, 
 for having been the medium of poetic feel- 
 ing ever since the world began. — 
 
 {t is impossible to expend a moment’s 
 thought upon the lily, without recurring to 
 that memorable passage in the sacred vol- 
 ume: “ Consider the lilies of the field, how 
 they grow. They toil not, neither do they 
 spin; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon 
 in all his glory was not arrayed like one of 
 these.” From the little common flower call- 
 ed heart’s ease, we turn to that well known 
 passage of Shakespeare, were the fairy king 
 so beautifully describes the “little western 
 flower.” And the forget-me-not has a thou- 
 sand associations tender and touching, but 
 unfortunately, like many other sweet things, 
 rude hands have almost robbed it of its 
 charm. Who can behold the pale Narcis- 
 sus, standing by the silent brook, its stately 
 form reflected in the glassy mirror, without 
 losing themselves in that most fanciful of all 
 
 above all, from the contemplation of : 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 poetical conceptions, in which the graceful 
 youth is described as gazing upon his own 
 beauty, until he becomes lost in admiration, 
 and finally enamoured of himself: while 
 hopeless echo sighs herself away into a 
 sound, for the love, which having centred in 
 such an object, was never to be bought by 
 her caresses, nor won by her despair. 
 Through gardens, fields, forests, and even 
 
 \| over rugged mountains, we might wander 
 
 on in this fanciful quest after remote ideas 
 of pleasurable sensation connected with pres- 
 ent beauty and enjoyment; nor would our 
 search be fruitless so long as the bosom of 
 the earth afforded a receptacle for the ger- 
 minating seed, so long as the gentle gales 
 of summer continued to waft them from the 
 parent stem, or so long as the welcome sun 
 looked forth upon the ever-blooming garden 
 of nature. 
 
 One instance more, and we have done. 
 The “lady rose,” as poets have designated 
 this queen of beauty, claims the latest, 
 though not the least consideration in speak- 
 ing of the. poetry of flowers. In the poetic 
 world, the first honors have been awarded 
 to the rose, for what reason it is not easy to 
 define ; unless from its exquisite combination 
 of perfume, form, and colour, which have 
 entitled this sovereign of flowers in one 
 country to be mated with the nightingale, 
 in another, to be chosen with the distinction 
 of red and white, as the badge of two hon- 
 ourable and royal houses. It would be diffi- 
 cult to trace the supremacy of the rose to its 
 origin; but mankind have so generally 
 agreed in paying homage to her charms, 
 that our associations in the present day are 
 chiefly with the poetic strains in which they 
 are celebrated. The beauty of the rose is 
 exhibited under so many different forms, that 
 it would be impossible to say which had the 
 greatest claim upon the regard of the poet ; 
 but certainly those kinds which have been 
 recently introduced, or those which are rear- 
 ed by unnatural means, with care and diffi- 
 culty, are to us the least poetical, because 
 our associations with them are comparatively 
 few, and those few relate chiefly to garden 
 culture. 
 
 After all the pains that have been taken 
 to procure, transplant, and propagate the 
 rose, there is one kind perpetually blooming 
 
 around us through the summer months, 
 without the aid or interference of man, 
 which seems to defy his art to introduce a 
 rival to his own unparalleled beauty—the 
 common wild rose; so luxuriant, that it 
 bursts spontaneously into blushing life, 
 sometimes crowning the hoary rock with a 
 blooming garland, and sometimes struggling 
 
 with the matted weeds of the wilderness, |! 
 
 yet ever finding its way.to the open day, 
 that it may bask and smile, and look up with 
 thankfulness to the bright sun, without whose 
 rays its cheek would know no beauty so ten- 
 der, that the wild bee which had nestled in 
 its scented bosom when that sun went down, 
 returns in the morning and beholds the 
 colour faded from its cheek, while by its side 
 an infant rose is rising with the blush of a 
 cherub, unfolding its petals to live its little 
 day, and then, having expended its sweet- 
 ness, to die like its fair sisters, without mur- 
 mur or regret. Blooming in the sterile 
 waste, this lovely flower is seen unfolding 
 its fair leaves where there is no beauty to 
 reflect its own, and thus calling back the 
 heart of the weary traveller to thoughts of 
 peace and joy—reminding him that the 
 wilderness of human life, though rugged 
 and barren to the discontented beholder, has 
 also its sweet flowers, not the less welcome for 
 being unlooked for, nor the less lovely for 
 being cherished by a hand unseen. 
 
 There is one circumstance connected with |: 
 
 the rose, which renders it a more true and 
 striking emblem of earthly pleasure than 
 any other flower—it bears a thorn. While 
 its odorous breath is floating on the summer 
 gale, and its blushing cheek, half hid 
 amongst the sheltering leaves, seems to 
 woo and yet shrink from the beholder’s gaze, 
 touch but with adventurous hand the gar- 
 den queen, and you are pierced with her 
 protecting thorns: would you pluck the rose 
 and weave it into a garland for the brow 
 you love best, that brow will be wounded: 
 or place the sweet blossom in your bosom, 
 the thorn will be there. This real or ideal 
 
 TS 
 
 mingling of pain and sorrow, with the ex- || 
 
 quisite beauty of the rose, affords a never- 
 ending theme to those who are best ac- 
 quainted with the inevitable blending of 
 clouds and sunshine, hope and fear, weal 
 and wo, in this our earthly inheritance. 
 
With every thing fair, or sweet, or exqui- 
 
 wisdom which appoints our sorrows, and 
 sets a bound to our enjoyments, to affix some 
 stain, some bitterness, or some alloy, which 
 may not inaptly be called, in figurative lan- 
 guage, a thorn. St. Paul emphatically 
 speaks of a “thorn in the flesh,” and from 
 this expression, as well as from his earnest- 
 ness in having prayed thrice that it might 
 be removed, we conclude it must have been 
 something particularly galling to the natural 
 man. We hear of the thorn of ingratitude, 
 the thorn of envy, the thorn of unrequited 
 love—indeed of thorns as numerous as our 
 pleasures ; and few there are who can look 
 back upon the experience of life, without ac- 
 knowledging that every earthly good they 
 have desired, pursued, or attained, has had 
 its peculiar thorn. Who has ever cast him- 
 self into the lap of luxury, without finding 
 that his couch was strewed with thorns ? 
 Who has reached the summit of his ambi- 
 tion without feeling on that exalted pinnacle 
 that he stood on thorns? Who has placed 
 the diadem upon his brow, without perceiv- 
 ing that thorns were thickly set within the 
 royal circlet? Who has folded to his bosom 
 all that he desired of earth’s treasures, with- 
 out feeling that bosom pierced with thorns ? 
 All that we enjoy in this world, or yearn to 
 possess, has thisaccompaniment. The more 
 intense the enjoyment, the sharper the thorn ; 
 and those who have described most feel- 
 ingly the inner workings of the human heart, 
 have unfailingly touched upon this fact with 
 the melancholy sadness of truth. 
 
 Far be it from one who would not wil- 
 lingly fall under the stigma of ingratitude, to 
 disparage the nature, or the number of 
 earthly pleasures—pleasures which are 
 spread before us without price or limitation, 
 in our daily walk, and in our nightly rest— 
 pleasures which lie scattered around our 
 path when we go forth upon the hills, or 
 wander in the valley, when we look up to 
 the starry sky, or down to the fruitful earth 
 —pleasures which unite the human family 
 in one bond of fellowship, surround us at 
 our board, cheer us at our fire-side, smooth 
 the couch on which we slumber, and even 
 follow our wandering steps long—long after 
 we have ceased to regard them with grati- 
 
 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 site in this world, it has seemed meet to that. 
 
 tude or joy. I speak of the thorn which ac- 
 companies these pleasures not with murmur- 
 ing or complaint. I speak of the wounds 
 inflicted by this thorn with a living conscious- 
 ness of their poignancy and anguish; be- 
 cause exquisite and dear as mere earthly 
 pleasures may sometimes be, I would still 
 contrast them with such as are not earthly. 
 I would contrast the thorn and the wound, 
 the disappointment and the pain which ac- 
 company all such pleasures as are merely 
 temporal, with the fulness of happiness, the 
 peace, and the crown, accompanying those 
 which are eternal. 
 
 — fh 
 
 THE POETRY OF TREES. 
 
 In contemplating the external aspect of 
 nature, trees, in their infinite variety of form 
 and foliage, appear most important and con- 
 spicuous; yet somany are the changes which 
 they undergo from the influence of the sun 
 and the atmosphere, that it would be useless 
 to attempt to speak of the associations be- 
 longing to this class of natural productions 
 abstractedly, and detached from collateral 
 circumstances. What poet, for instance, 
 would describe the rich foliage of the sum- 
 mer woods, without the radiance of the sum- 
 mer sun; the wandering gale that waves 
 their leafy boughs; the mountain side to 
 which their knotted roots are clinging; the 
 green valley where they live and flourish, 
 safe from raging storms; and the murmur- 
 ing stream, over which their branches bend 
 and meet. There is, however, a marked 
 distinction in the character of different trees, 
 and a general agreement amongst mankind 
 in the relative ideas connected with each 
 particular species. . 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to repeat how es- 
 sential to our notions of perfection is the 
 beauty of fitness—that neither colour, form, 
 nor symmetry, nor all combined in one ob- 
 ject, can command our unqualified admira- 
 tion without adaptation; and that the 
 mind, by a sort of involuntary process, 
 and frequently unconsciously to itself, takes 
 note of the right application of means, and 
 the relation of certain causes with their na- 
 
 \ a i. walt 
 
ll 98 
 
 tural effects. Thus, we admire the stately 
 pine upon the mountain, not merely because 
 the eye is gratified by a correspondence be- 
 tween its spiral form pointing upward to- 
 wards the sky, and the high projecting pin- 
 nacles of rock, unbroken by the steps of 
 time; but because we know that in conse- 
 quence of this particular form, it is peculiarly 
 adapted to sustain without injury the tem- 
 pestuous gales which prevail in those inhos- 
 pitable regions where it chiefly grows. 
 There is something fierce, bristling, and de- 
 fensive, in the very aspect of the pine; asif 
 it set at naught the hollow roar of the tem- 
 pest through its scanty foliage, and around 
 its firm unshaken stem, while it stands like a 
 guardian of the mountain wilds, armed at 
 all points, and proudly looking down upon 
 the flight of the eagle, and the wreaths of 
 wandering clouds that flit across the wilder- 
 ness of untrodden snow. But planta single 
 pine upon the gentle slope of a green lawn, 
 amongst lilachs, and laburnums, and tender 
 flowering shrubs, the charm of association is 
 broken, and the veteran of the rugged 
 mountainous waste is shorn of his honours ; 
 like a patriot chief} submitting himself to the 
 polished chains of society at the court of his 
 tyrant conqueror. 
 
 The oak, the monarch of the woods, pre- 
 sents to the contemplative beholder innu- 
 merable associations by which his mind is 
 plunged into the profound ideas of gran- 
 deur, space, and time. We are first struck 
 
 | with the majestic form and character of this 
 tree—the mass of its foliagé, the depth and 
 extent of its shadow, and the tremendous 
 power of resistance bodied forth in its gnarled 
 and twisted boughs; but above all other 
 considerations connected with it, we are af- 
 fected almost with reverence by the lapse 
 of time required to bring those prodigious 
 branches to perfection, and the many, many 
 tides of human feeling that must ebb and 
 flow, before those firmly knotted roots shall 
 Hae to the process of decay. In the na- 
 tural course of meditation to which such a 
 subject leads, we consider the striking truth, 
 that while nations have bowed and trembled 
 || beneath successive tyrants until by the 
 wonted course of nature, the terrors of the 
 oppressed have given place to the reckless 
 desperation that works its way, by the over- | 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 ‘questionably is in its peculiar attitude and | 
 
 throw of empires, the destruction of thrones, 
 and the scattering of multitudes—while the 
 laws and religion of half the world have 
 been revolutionized, and what was once 
 deemed a virtue has gradually become pun- 
 ishable as a crime—while sterile wastes have 
 been reclaimed, and fertilized, and made 
 fruitful, by the power and industry of sue- 
 cessive generations of men, and arts and 
 commerce have wrought wonders which 
 our unsophisticated forefathers would have 
 pronounced miraculous—the same oak has 
 stood, perhaps at one time the witness of | 
 Druidical rites, at another affording shelter 
 to the simple and unlettered peasant tending | 
 the herds of swine that fed upon its falling 
 acorns: until, years rolling on, revolving 
 summers crowning its brow with verdant 
 beauty, and hoary winter scattering that 
 beauty to the winds, have left it for our 
 warning, an emblem of fallen majesty—its 
 once sturdy boughsno sooner attacked by the 
 worm of destruction within, than assailed, 
 and torn, and broken by the merciless blast 
 without. 
 
 Strikng and magnificent as the oak un- 
 
 growth, presenting at one view the com- 
 bined ideas of ability to resist the strong, 
 and power to defend the weak, it is yet 
 scarcely less majestic than beautiful. What 
 a combination of gorgeous hues its autum- 
 nal foliage displays! The eye of the painter 
 revels in its sombre glory, its burnished hue, 
 and its wild fantastic garniture of green and 
 gold, contrasted with its own hoary stem, 
 and the depth of shadow that is thrown by 
 the rays of the declining sun in lengthening 
 gloom over the quiet earth. 
 
 Nor is it merely with the outward aspect 
 of this tree that our most powerful associa- 
 tions are connected. In a nation perpetually 
 exulting in her maratime supremacy, we 
 have learned to regard the oak as forming 
 a sort of bulwark for the defence of our lib- 
 erties. Thus, the British sailor calls upon 
 his comrades by the proud title of “ hearts 
 of oak,” and England is not unfrequently |, 
 described as being protected by her “ oaken 
 walls.” 
 
 There are, besides these, many other 
 characters or points of consideration, in 
 which we regard the oak with feelings of i 
 
 OO an 
 
THE POETRY OF TREES. 
 
 29 
 
 respect, and sometimes with poetical interest. 
 Perhaps it is not least in the scale of import- 
 ance, that many ancient and stately apart- 
 ments, dedicated to solemn or religious pur- 
 poses, are lined with panels of the wood of 
 this tree. The same wood, beautifully carved 
 and deepened into gloomy magnificence by 
 the sombre influence of time, forms one of 
 the principal ornaments in many religious 
 houses; and when we look back to the cus- 
 toms of our ancestors, and the station which 
 they occupied, with that respect which we 
 naturally feel for their boasted hospitality, 
 good cheer, and substantial magnificence, 
 we seldom fail to surround them in imagina- 
 tion with goodly wainscoting of oak, to place 
 a log of the same wood upon the blazing 
 hearth, and to endow them with powers both 
 mental and bodily, firm, stable, and unbend- 
 ing as this sturdy tree. 
 
 Amongst the trees of the forest, the elm 
 may very properly be placed next in rank 
 to the oak, from its majestic size and impor- 
 tance. Yet the elm has a very different 
 character, and consequently excites in the 
 contemplative mind a different train of asso- 
 ciations and ideas. The massive and um- 
 brageous boughs, or rather arms of the elm, 
 stretching forth at right angles with its 
 stately stem, present to the imagination a 
 picture of calm dignity rather than defensive 
 power. From the superficial manner in 
 which the roots of this tree are connected 
 with the earth, it is ill calculated to sustain 
 the force of the tempest, and is frequently 
 torn from its hold and laid prostrate on the 
 ground by the gale, whose violence appears 
 to be unheeded by its brethren of the forest. 
 Jn painting, or in ideal picture-making, we 
 plant the elm upon the village green, a sort 
 of feudal lord of that little peopled territory ; 
 oy in stately rows skirting the confines of the 
 dead, where the deep shadow from its dark 
 green foliage falls upon the quiet graves, 
 and the long rank grass, and on the village 
 church, when from her gray sides and 
 arched windows she reflects the rays of the 
 setting sun, and looks, in her silence and so- 
 lemnity, like a sister to those venerable trees. 
 There are no gorgeous hues in the foliage 
 of the elm, no light waving, dancing or glis- 
 tening amongst its heavy boughs. All is 
 
 | grave majesty; and when we see the smoke 
 
 ne 
 
 of the cottage slowly ascending, and clearly 
 revealed against the sombre darkness of the 
 elm, we think of the labourer returning to 
 his evening meal, the birds folding their 
 weary wings, the coo of the wood pigeon, 
 the gentle fall of evening dew, the lull of 
 winds and waves, the universal calm of na- 
 ture, and a thousand associations rush upon 
 us, connecting that lovely and untroubled | 
 scene with vast and profound ideas of solem- 
 nity and repose. 
 
 To the willow belongs a character pecu- 
 liarly its own. It has no stateliness, or ma- 
 jesty, or depth of shadow, to strike the senses 
 and set the imagination afloat; but this 
 mournful tree possesses a claim upgn our 
 attention, as having become the universal 
 badge of sorrow, fancifully adopted by the 
 victims of despair, and worn as a garland 
 by the broken-hearted. It has also a beauty 
 and a charm of its own. It carries us in 
 idea to green pastures, and peaceful herds 
 that browse in deep meadows by the side of 
 some peaceful river, whose sleepy waters, 
 silently gliding over their weedy bed, seem 
 to bear away our anxious and conflicting 
 thoughts along with them. Seated by the 
 rude and ancient-looking stem of this tree, 
 we listen to the soft whispering of the wind 
 among its silvery leaves, and gaze upon the 
 glassy surface of the slowly moving stream, 
 just rippled here and there by a stray branch 
 projecting from the flowery bank, or a fairy 
 forest of reeds springing up in spite of the 
 ceaseless and invincible flow of that unfail- 
 ing tide. We Saze, until the precise dis- 
 tinctions of past, present, and future fade 
 away—the ocean of time flows past us. like 
 that silent river (would it were as unrufiled 
 in its real course;) and while retaining a 
 dim and mysterious consciousness of our 
 own existence, we lose all remembrance of 
 its rough passages, all perception of its pre- 
 sent bitterness, and all apprehension of its 
 future perils. From such unprofitable mu- 
 sings, if too frequently indulged, we awake 
 to a melancholy state of feeling, of which the 
 willow has by the common consent of man- 
 kind become emblematical. Morbid, listless, 
 and inactive, we shrink from the stirring ne- 
 cessities of life; we behold the happy flocks 
 still feeding, and almost wish, that like them 
 we could be content with a rich pasture, as 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 the bound of our ambition—like them live, 
 die, and be forgotten. The dreamy silence 
 of those low damp fields increases our me- 
 lancholy, and the pale and mournful aspect 
 of the willow, prematurely hoary, becomes 
 an emblem of our own fate and condition. 
 It grows not erect and stately like the stern 
 elm, or bold and free like the waving ash, 
 
 \| but stooping obliquely over the stream, or, 
 
 shrinking from its companions with distorted 
 limbs, tells to the morbid and imaginative 
 beholder, a sad tale of early blight, or the 
 rough dealing of rude and adverse winds. 
 The loiterer still lingers, loath to leave a spot 
 where one bitter root may yet remain unap- 
 propriated. He listens while he lingers, and 
 thinks he hears the willow whispering its 
 sorrows to the passing gale. The gale 
 blows more freshly, and the willow then 
 seems to sigh and shiver with the newly 
 
 | awakened agonies of despair. 
 
 PR se nase lat i un 
 
 Thus can the distorted eye of melancholy 
 look on every object with a glass of its own 
 colouring, and thus it is possible one of our 
 most common and unimportant trees, natu- 
 rally growing in the familiar walks of man, 
 in the small enclosure near his door, the 
 green paddock or the luxuriant meadow, 
 may have acquired by the sanction of feel- 
 ing, not of reason, its peculiar character as 
 an emblem of sorrow and gloom. 
 
 The weeping willow, as being more grace- 
 fully mournful, might very properly have 
 claimed that attention which has been given 
 to the common and plebeian members of its 
 family; but the weeping” willow, while it 
 has in this country fewer natural associa- 
 tions, is burdened and robbed of its poetic 
 character by a great number of such as are 
 neither natural nor pleasing. Could we 
 think of this elegant and picturesque tree 
 only in its most appropriate situation, droop- 
 ing over the tomb of Napoleon, or could we 
 have beheld this tomb itself; without its in- 
 finitely multiphed representations in poonah 
 and every other kind of painting, we might 
 then have enjoyed ideas and sensations con- 
 nected with it of the most touching and ex- 
 quisite nature. But, alas! our first failure 
 in drawing has been upon the dangling 
 boughs of the weeping willow; our first son- 
 net has been addressed to this pathetic tree ; 
 our first flourish in fancy neédle-work has 
 
 ee 
 
 depicted a white urn delicately stitched with 
 shining silk, and long green threads sus- 
 
 pended over it, in mockery of its drooping | 
 
 branches. But above all, we have seen in 
 the square ells of garden fronting those tall 
 
 thin dwellings about town, where a squeezed |), 
 and narrow neighbour jostles up on each || 
 side, leaving just room enough for a tin ve-. 
 randah, but no space to breathe or move, 
 still less to think or feel;—we have seen, || 
 
 laden with a summer’s dust, the countless 
 little stunted weeping willows that throw 
 aloft, as if in search of purer air, their slen- 
 der, helpless arms, and would weep, if they 
 could, yea, cry aloud, at this merciless mal- 
 appropriation of their defenceless beauty. 
 These impressions must therefore neces- 
 sarily be obliterated, and others, less vulgar 
 and profane, be deeply impressed upon the 
 
 mind, before the weeping willow ean be es- || 
 tablished in that rank which it deserves to |} 
 
 hold amongst objects whose general asso- 
 ciations are poetical.* 
 
 Turning from the consideration of such 
 trees as belong to the forest, the field, or the 
 grove, to those which are reared and culti- 
 vated for domestic purposes; we find, even 
 here, a world of ideas and associations, 
 which, if not highly poetical, are fraught 
 with the satisfaction of home comforts, and 
 the interest of local attachments. In tra- 
 velling through a fertile country, thickly peo- 
 pled, not with the haggard, rude, or care- 
 less-looking labourers at the loom, but with 
 a quiet and peaceful peasantry, whose de- 
 light is in the gardens, the fields, and the 
 flocks which their fathers tended before them, 
 how beautiful, in the season of their blos-. 
 som, are the numerous orchards, neatly 
 fenced in, and studding the landscape all 
 
 over with little islands of rich promise, where |} 
 the brightest tints ofthe rose, and the fairest |} 
 
 of the lily, mingle with odorous perfume in 
 all the luxuriant profusion of nature! Again, 
 when the harvest is over, and the golden 
 fruit, perfected by a summer’s sun, is sus-_ 
 pended in variegated clusters from every 
 bough, how delightful is the contemplation 
 
 *It is a fact now generally known, that the first weep- 
 ing willow grown in England, was planted in Pope’s | 
 garden at Twickenham, und is said to have been sent 
 from Turkey, with a present from his friend, Lady Mary 
 Wortley Montague 
 
 | 
 I 
 
1 
 
 i a 8 SEE 
 
 | 
 
 their character. 
 
 of that rural and picturesque scene !—how 
 sweetly the ideas it presents to the mind are 
 blended with our love of nature and natural 
 enjoyments, and our gratitude for the boun- 
 ty and goodness of a gracious Providence. 
 
 Descending to the class of inferior trees, or 
 rather plants, our poetical associations in- 
 crease in proportion as these are more pic- 
 turesque, graceful, or parasitical; and con- 
 sequently, are more easily woven ihto the 
 landscape, either real or imaginary, which 
 forms the subject of contemplation. Amongst 
 such, the common wild heath is by no means 
 the least important; nor are we, on first con- 
 sideration, aware for how large a propor- 
 tion of our admiration of mountain scenery 
 we are indebted to the rich purple hue which 
 is thrown by this plant over the rugged sides 
 of the hills, otherwise too cold and stony in 
 their aspect to gratify the eye. With the 
 idea of the heath we connect the path of the 
 lonely traveller, or the silence of untrodden 
 wilds; the haunt of the timid moor fowl, the 
 hum of the wandering bee, or the gush of 
 unseen water in the deep ravines of the 
 mountains, working its way amongst the 
 rocks, through moss, and fern, and matted 
 weeds, until at length it sparkles up in the 
 clear sun-shine, and then goes dancing, and 
 leaping, yet ever murmuring, like a pleased 
 but fretful child, on—on towards the bosom 
 of the silent lake below. 
 
 But above all other vegetable productions, 
 neither trees nor flowers excepted, the ivy is 
 perhaps the most poetical. And why? not 
 merely because its leaves are “never sere,” 
 nor because it hangs in fanciful festoons, 
 glittering yet gloomy, playful yet sad; but 
 because it\does what so few things in nature 
 will do—it clings to, and beautifies the ruin 
 —it shrinks not from the fallen column—it 
 covers with its close embrace the rugged 
 face of desolation, and conceals beneath its 
 rich and shining mantle the ravages made 
 by the hand of time—the wreck which the 
 tempest has wrought. 
 
 Besides this highly poetical idea, which 
 forces itself upon every feeling mind, the ivy 
 has other associations, deeply interesting in 
 It requires so many years 
 to bring it to the perfection necessary for 
 those masses of foliage, and dark recesses 
 of mysterious gloom, which its most pictu- 
 
 — 
 
 THE POETRY OF TREES. 
 
 31 
 
 resque form presents, that we naturally con- 
 nect with this plant the ideas of solemnity 
 which are awakened by reflecting on the 
 awful lapse of time. The ivy, too, is chiefly 
 seen upon the walls of religious houses, 
 either perfect or ruinous, where its heavy 
 clusters of matted leaves, with their deep 
 shadow, afford a shelter and a hiding place 
 for the bat and the owl, and, in the ideas of 
 the irrational or the too imaginative, for 
 other less-corporeal beings that flit about in 
 the dusky hours of night. Thus, the ivy ac- 
 quires a character of mystery and gloom, 
 perhaps, even more poetical than that which 
 strikes us when we sce its glittering sprays 
 glancing in the clear light of day, or waving 
 in the wind around the gray turrets of the 
 ruin, and suggesting that simile which has 
 been so frequently the poet’s theme, of light 
 words and jocund smiles assumed by the 
 broken-hearted to conceal the withering of 
 the blighted soul. 
 
 It would be useless to proceed farther 
 with this minute examination of objects. to 
 each of which a volume of relative ideas 
 might be appropriated. A few examples 
 are sufficient to prove, that with this class 
 of natural productions, the great majority 
 of minds are the same in their associations. 
 Would it might prove something better than 
 a mockery of the loveliness of nature, thus 
 to examine its component parts, and ask 
 why each is charming! Far more delight- 
 ful would be the task of expatiating upon 
 the whole, of roaming at will upon the hills 
 and through thte woods, and embracing at 
 one view, in one ecstatic thought, the un- 
 speakable harmony which reigns through 
 the creation. The pine, the oak, and the 
 elm, may be magnificent in themselves— 
 the willow, the heath, and the ivy, may each 
 present a picture to the imagination; but 
 what are these considered separately, com- 
 pared with the ever-varying combination of 
 form and colour, majesty and grace, pre- 
 sented by the forest, or the woodland, the 
 sloping banks of the river, or the leafy dell, 
 where the round and the massive figures 
 are broken by the spiral stem or the feathery 
 foliage that trembles in the passing gale— 
 where the hues that are most vivid, or most 
 delicate, stand forth in clear contrast from the | 
 
 — a a SS 
 EE CT a 6 A, te SR 5 EE 
 
 a a es eee nee aipepenennineesyeicieises: <ueeeeseeeee oon 
 
 SSE SS SE BAAS 
 
 1 
 
 depths of sombre shade—where every pro- | 
 
 i 
 
 er renee mer mene en ee ee 
 
eee er Seen a — — 
 
 32 ‘THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 jecting rock and rugged cleft is fringed 
 with a curtain of green tracery, and every 
 glassy stream reflects again, in its stainless 
 mirror, the variety and the magnificence of 
 the surrounding groves? Yet what are 
 words to tell of the perfection of nature, the 
 glories that lie scattered even in our daily 
 path? And what are we, that we should 
 pursue the sordid avocations of life without 
 pausing to admire ? 
 
 In order that the harmony of sweet sounds 
 may be distinctly perceived and accommo- 
 dated to the taste, there must be a peculiar 
 formation of the human ear; nor is it possi- 
 ble for the poetry of any object, even the 
 most beautiful in nature, to be felt or under- 
 stood without an answering chord in the 
 human heart. There are many rational 
 beings, worthy and estimable in their way, 
 altogether insensible to the unseen or spirit- 
 ual charm which lies in almost every subject 
 of intellectual contemplation; who gaze 
 upon the ivy-mantled ruin, and behold no- 
 thing more than gray walls with a partial 
 covering of green, like the man so aptly 
 described by Wordsworth, when he says— 
 
 “The primrose by the water’s brim, 
 A yellow primrose was to him, 
 And it was nothing more.” 
 
 But there are others, whether happier in 
 this state of being it might not be easy to 
 prove, but certainly more capable of intense 
 and refined enjoyment, who, accustomed to 
 live in a world of thought, and to derive 
 their happiness from remote and impalpable 
 essences of things, rather than from things 
 themselves, cannot look on nature, nor be- 
 hold any object with which poetical associa- 
 tion holds the most distant connexion, but 
 immediately a spark in the train of imagina- 
 tion is kindled, and consciousness, memory, 
 and anticipation, heap fuel on the living fire, 
 which glows through the expansive soul. 
 
 It is, still to speak figuratively, by the 
 light of this fire, that they see what is im- 
 perceptible to other eyes. They can disco- 
 ver types and emblems in all created things ; 
 and having received in their own minds 
 deep and indelible impressions of beauty 
 and harmony, majesty and awe, can recur 
 to those impressions through the channels 
 which external things afford, and draw from 
 
 thence a never-failing idee of the ae. 
 poetical enjoyment. 
 
 THE POETRY OF ANIMALS. x 
 
 WuiLe flowers, and trees, and plants in {i 
 general afford an immense fant of interest 
 to the contemplative beholder, the nae 
 kingdom, yet scarcely touched upon in these 
 pages, is, perhaps, equally fertile in poetical 
 associations. From the reflections of the 
 melancholy Jacques upon the wounded 
 deer, down to the pretty nursery fable of | 
 “ The Babes in the Wood,” the same natu- 
 ral desire to associate with our own the 
 habits and feelings of the more sensitive and 
 amiable of the inferior animals is observa- 
 ble, as well in the productions of the subli- 
 mest, as the simplest poet. 
 
 Burns’ “ Address to a Mouse,” proves to 
 us with how much genuine pathos a familiar 
 and ordinary subject may be invested. No 
 mind which had never bathed in the fountain 
 of poetry itself—whose remotest attributes 
 had not been imbued with this ethereal prin- 
 ciple as with a living fire, could have ven- 
 tured upon such atheme. In common hands, 
 a moral drawn from a mouse, and clothed in 
 the language of verse, would have been 
 little better than a burlesque, or a baby’s 
 song at best; but in these beautiful and 
 touching ee so perfect is the adaptation | 
 of the language to the subiect—so evident, | 
 without ostentation, the deep feeling of the 
 bard himself, that the moral flows in with 
 a natural pimiplinity which cannot fail to i 
 charm the most fastidious reader. 
 
 The lines in which Cowper describes him- | 
 
 ——_— ee 
 
 self as a “ stricken deer,” are also affecting i in 
 the extreme; but as my object is not to | 
 quote fomtaneee but to examine why certain 
 things are pre-eminently poetical, we will 
 proceed to the considerations of a few indi- 
 vidual subjects; first premising, that ani- 
 mals obtain the character of being so in aj 
 greater degree in proportion as we imagine 
 them to possess such qualities as are most 
 elevated or refined in ourselves, and in a less 
 degree as we become familiarized with their 
 because the majority of 
 
 | 
 
 ae 
 
 FOE TS Tt 
 
 badily functions : 
 
a 
 
 et le te ee apne eet at nt ce 
 
 a SNR eS 
 
 | mer chapter. 
 
 our ideas, in connexion with them, must then 
 
 be of a gross material character, just as we 
 may speak in poetry, of the “wild boar of 
 the wilderness,” while the tame hog of the 
 sty is a thing wholly forbidden. 
 
 The elephant is allowed to be the most 
 sagacious of the brute creation; but his 
 sagacity is celebrated chiefly in anecdotes 
 of trick and cunning, which qualities being 
 the very reverse of what is elevated or no- 
 ble in human nature, he possesses, in spite 
 of his curious formation and majestic power, 
 little claim to poetical interest. 
 
 The dog very properly stands next in the 
 scale of intellect; and so far as faithful at- 
 tachment is a rare and beautiful trait in the 
 character both of man and brute, the dog 
 
 | may be said to be poetical; but we are too 
 familiar with this animal to regard him with 
 
 the reverence which his good qualities might 
 seem to demand. We feed him on crusts 
 and garbage; or wesee him hungered until 
 he becomes greedy, and neglected until he 
 becomes servile, and spurned until he threat- 
 ens a vengeance which he dares not execute. 
 The claims of the horse to the general 
 admiration of mankind are too well under- 
 stood to need our notice here, especially as 
 they have already been examined in a for- 
 To the horse belong no as- 
 sociations with ideas of what is gross or 
 mean. His most striking attribute is power; 
 and the ardour with which he enters into the 
 excitement of the chase, or the battle, gives 
 him a character so nearly approaching to 
 what is most admired in the human species, 
 that the ancients delighted to represent this 
 noble animal, not as he is, but with distend- 
 ed nostrils, indicating a courage almost 
 more than animal, with eyes animated with 
 mental as well as physical energy, and with 
 the broad intellectual forehead of a man. 
 The ass is certainly less poetical than pic- 
 turesque ; but, still, it is poetical in its pa- 
 tient endurance of suffering, in its associa- 
 tion with the wandering outcasts from society 
 whose tents are in the wilderness, and whose 
 “ lodging is on the cold ground,” in its hum- 
 ble appetites, and in its unrepining submis- 
 sion to the most abject degradation. Let us 
 hope that the patience of the ass arises from 
 its own insensibility, and that its sufferings, 
 though frequent, are attended with little 
 
 3 
 
 THE POETRY 
 
 OF ANIMALS. 33 
 
 acuteness of sensation; but they are suffer- 
 ings still, borne with a meekness that looks so 
 much like the Christian virtue, resignation, 
 that, in contemplating the hard condition of 
 this degraded animal, the heart is softened 
 
 with feelings of sorrow and compassion, and | 
 
 we long to rescue it from the yoke of the 
 oppressor. , 
 
 I have often thought there was something | 
 
 peculiarly affecting in the character of the 
 young ass—something almost saddening to 
 the soul, in its sudden starts of short-lived 
 frolic. In its appearance there is a strange 
 unnatural mixture of infant glee, with a 
 mournful and almost venerable gravity. Its 
 long melancholy ears are in perfect contrast 
 with its innocent and happy face. It seems 
 
 to have heard, what is seldom heard in ex- 
 treme youth, the sad forebodings of its latter 
 
 days; and when it crops the thistle, and 
 sports among the briers, it appears to be 
 with the vain hope of carrying the spirit of 
 joy along with it, through the after vicissi- 
 tudes of its hard and bitter lot. 
 
 The cow is poetical, not from any quality 
 inherent, or even imagined to be inherent in 
 itself, but from its invariable association 
 with rich pastures and verdant meadows, 
 and as an almost indispensable ornament to 
 pictures of quiet rural scenery. Time was 
 when the cow was poetical from her associ- 
 
 _ation with rosy maidens tripping over the 
 
 dewy lawn, and village swains tuning the 
 rustic reed; but since the high magnifier of 
 modern investigation has been applied to 
 pastoral subjects, milkmaids have been pro- 
 nounced to be too homely for the poet’s 
 theme ; village swains have been detected in 
 fustian garments ; and both, with their flocks, 
 and their herds, and with pastoral poetry 
 altogether, have been dismissed from the 
 theatre of intellectual entertainment. 
 Nothing, however, that has yet been eflect- 
 ed by the various changes to which taste is 
 liable, has destroyed the poetical character 
 of the deer. Our associations with the deer 
 are far removed from every thing gross or 
 familiar ; we think of it only as a free deni- 
 zen of the woods, swift in its movements, 
 
 _graceful in its elastic step, delicate in all its 
 
 perceptions, and tremblingly alive to the 
 dangers which threaten it on every hand. 
 We imagine it retiring from the broad clear 
 
 ne A RR A ETE 
 
 nr ne enn onnnnnennnnne 
 
 L 
 
light of day, into the seclusion of the moun- 
 tain glen; stooping in silence and solitude 
 | to drink of the pure waters in their bubbling 
 ,, and melodious flow; gazing on through the 
 | rocky defile, or in amongst the weedy hol- 
 lows on the banks of the stream, with its 
 clear calm eye, that looks too full of love 
 and tenderness to be betrayed, yet ever 
 watchful, from an instinctive sense of the 
 | multiplied calamities which assail the inno- 
 1, cent and helpless; listening to the slightest 
 sound of earth or air, the rustling of the 
 spray that springs back from the foot of the 
 fairy songster, or the fall of the leaf that 
 flickers from bough to bough; and then—as 
 the zephyr swells, and the gathering breeze 
 comes like a voice through the leafy depths 
 of the forest—bounding over the mossy turf, 
 | and away along the sides of the mountain— 
 away to join the browsing herd, and give 
 them intelligence of an approaching, but 
 unseen foe. Or, when the chase is ended, 
 | and the wounded deer returns to pant away 
 || its parting breath in the same glen where it 
 gambolled upon the dewy grass, a careless 
 and sportive fawn, he comes back with wea- 
 ry foot and bleeding bosom, to slake his 
 burning thirst in the same fountain where so 
 1! often he has bathed his vigorous and elastic 
 limbs. The woods are still peaceful, the 
 | birds sing on, regardless of his groans, the 
 stream receives the life-blood from his wound, 
 his brethren of the faithless herd again are 
 browsing on the distant hills, and alone in 
 his mortal agony he weeps and dies. 
 
 But of all-the animal creation, birds have 
 ever been the poet’s favourite theme. In 
 the beauty of their form and plumage, in 
 their soaring flight, in their sensitiveness 
 and timidity, and in the lightness and vivid- 
 ness of their movements, there is something 
 to our conceptions so intimately connected 
 with spirituality, that we can readily sym- 
 pathize with the propensity of the imagina- 
 tive, to imbody, in these gentle and ethereal 
 beings, the souls of their departed friends ; 
 and of the superstitious, to regard them as 
 winged messengers laden with the irrevoca- 
 ble decrees of an oracular fate. 
 
 It is a curious fact, that, in our ideal per- 
 sonifications of angelic forms, we do not per- 
 ceive that they lose any thing of their intel- 
 lectual or celestial character, by having 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE > 
 
 | of a whole life are lost. 
 
 Whether, from this association, we have 
 learned to consider birds as less material 
 than other animals, or whether, from the 
 aerial flight of birds, the artist and the poet 
 have learned to represent angelic beings as 
 borne along the fields of air on feathery |! 
 wings, it is certain that the capacity of flight 
 loses none of its poetical sublimity and grace, |; 
 by being connected in our notions with the |; 
 only means of which we have any know- |; 
 ledge. | i 
 Birds, in their partiality for the haunts of 
 man, offer a striking appeal to the sensitive 
 and benevolent mind. Why should they 
 cast themselves into the path of the destroy- 
 er, or expose their frail habitations to the 
 grasp of his unsparing hand? Is it that 
 they feel some “ inly touch of love” for their 
 imperious master, or that they seek from | 
 his power what his mercy too often denies ? 
 or would they ask, in the day of their dis- |; 
 tress, for the sparings of his plenty, and pay | 
 | 
 1 
 | 
 
 appended to them the entire wings of a bird. | 
 
 him back with the rich melody of their sum- 
 mer songs? Whatever may be the cause, 
 they flock around him, as if the manly pri- 
 vilege of destruction had never been exer- 
 cised upon their defenceless community. 
 Yet, mark how well they know the nature 
 of creation’s lord.. They tremble at his 
 coming, they flutter in his grasp, they look 
 askance upon him from the bough, they re- 
 gard him with perpetual suspicion, and, || 
 above all, some of their species will forsake |! 
 their beloved and carefully constructed hab- 
 itations, if he has but profaned them with 
 his touch. It can be no want of parental 
 affection which drives them to this unnatural || 
 alternative, for how diligently have they 
 toiled, with what exquisite ingenuity have | 
 they constructed their children’s home, how | 
 faithfully have they watched, how patiently | 
 have they waited for the fulfilment of their 
 hopes! Yet, in one fatal moment, the silk- 
 en cord that. strung together their secret 
 joys is broken. Another spring may renew 
 their labours and their loves, but they know 
 it not. ‘Their all was centred in that narrow 
 point, and to them the hopes and the labours 
 The delicacy of per- 
 ception which enables them to detect the 
 slightest intrusion upon the sacred mysteries 
 of their nest, gives them a character of 
 
THE POETRY OF ANIMALS. 
 
 acuteness and sensibility far beyond that 
 
 | of other animals; and it is a wonderful and 
 | mysterious instinct which makes them resign 
 | all they have loved and cherished, even 
 | when no change is perceptible to other eyes, 
 
 and when it is certain that no injury has 
 been sustained. It is a refinement upon 
 feeling, which strikes the imagination with a 
 
 | strong resemblance to some of those mal- 
 
 occurrences in human life, which divert the 
 inner channel of the thoughts and affections, 
 without the superficial observer being 
 aware of any change—those lamentable en- 
 croachments upon the sacredness of domes- 
 tic confidence, which, by a word—a look—a 
 touch, may at once destroy the blessedness 
 
 of that union, which is nothing better than 
 
 a degrading bond after the spell of its secret 
 charm is broken. 
 
 The nightingale, whose charmed lays 
 have a two-fold glory in their native melody, 
 and in the poet’s song, claims unquestion- 
 ably the first place in our consideration ; 
 though I own Iam much disposed to think 
 that this bird owes half its celebrity to* the 
 circumstance of its singing in the night, 
 when the visionary, wrapped in the mantle 
 of deep thought, wanders forth to gaze upon 
 the stars, and to court the refreshment of 
 silence anc solitude. It is then that the 
 voice of the nightingale thrills upon his ear, 
 and he feels that a kindred spirit is awake, 
 perhaps, like him, to sweet remembrances, 
 to sorrows too deep for tears, and joys for 
 which music alone can find a voice. He 
 listens, and the ever-varying melody rises 
 and falls upon the. wandering wind—he 
 pines for some spiritual communion with 
 this unseen being—he longs to ask why 
 sleep is banished from a breast so tuned to 
 harmony—joy, and joy alone, it cannot be, 
 which inspires that solitary lay; no, there 
 are tones of tenderness too much like grief, 
 and is not grief the bond of fellowship by 
 which impassioned souls are held together ? 
 Thus, the nightingale pours upon the heart 
 of the poet, strains which thrill with those 
 sensations that have given pathos to his 
 muse, and he pays her back by celebrating 
 
 | her midnight minstrelsy in song. 
 
 The skylark is, of all the feathered tribe, 
 most invariably associated with ideas of rap- 
 turous, pure, and elevated enjoyment; such 
 
 35 
 
 as we ourselves had glimpses of in early 
 life, when the animal excitement of childhood, 
 mingling with the first bright dawnings 6f 
 reason, lifted us high into the regions of 
 thought, and taught us to spurn at the harsh 
 discipline of real life. From flights such as 
 these we have so often fallen prone upon the 
 
 earth, that they have ceased to tempt our 
 
 full-fledged powers, and even if the brillian- 
 cy of thought remained to lure us on, the 
 animal stimulus would be wanting, and we 
 should be conscious of our utter inability on 
 the first attempt to soar again. But the 
 memory of this ecstatic feeling still remains, 
 and when we think of the aspirations of pu- 
 rified and happy spirits, we compare them 
 to the upward flight of the lark, or to the 
 boundings of that innocent joy which we our- 
 selves have felt, but feel nomore. And then 
 there is the glad voice of the lark, that 
 spring of perpetual freshness, pouring forth 
 its untiring and inexhaustible melody. 
 
 . 
 “ Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.” 
 
 Who ever listened to this voice on a clear 
 spring morning, when nature was first rising 
 from her wintry bed, when the furze was 
 in bloom, and the lambs at play, and the 
 primrose and the violet scented the de- 
 licious south wind that came with the glad 
 tidings of renovated life—who-ever listened 
 to the song of the lark on such a morning, 
 while the dew was upon the grass, and the 
 sun was smiling through a cloudless sky, 
 
 without feeling that the spirit of joy was still | 
 
 alive within, around, and above him, and 
 that those wild and happy strains, floating 
 in softened-melody upon the scented air, 
 were the outpourings of a gratitude too rap- 
 turous for words 2 
 Nor is it the vocal power of birds which 
 gives us the highest idea of their intellectual 
 capacity. Their periodical visitations of par- 
 
 ticular regions of the globe, and the punctu- |! 
 ality with which they go forth on their mys- || 
 
 terious passage at particular seasons of the 
 year, form, perhaps, the most wonderful pro- 
 pensity in their nature. It is true that in- 
 
 stinct is the spring of their actions, and it is 
 possible that they are themselves uncon- 
 scious of any motive or reason for the impor- 
 tant change which instinct induces them to 
 make; but in speaking of the poetry of birds, 
 
 A 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. ° 
 
 Sellers eneeneeeeeeeemneeteeemneemeeemememeernammenemeenenenenninnmeeenteneeenemnemmmenenemamememnmmnaneeeemeneee eee ee ea a a ee eT 
 
 I wish to be understood to refer to the zdeas 
 which their habits naturally excite, not to 
 tlfe facts which they elicit. We know that 
 birds are by no means distinguished, above 
 other animals by their intellectual capacity, 
 but so wonderful, so far beyond our compre- 
 hension, is the instinct exhibited in their 
 transient lives, that instead of having al- 
 ways in mind the providential scheme which 
 provides for the wants and wishes even of 
 the meanest insect, we are apt to indulge 
 our imaginations by attaching to the winged 
 wanderers of the air, vazue yet poetical 
 ideas of their own mental endowments, and 
 half believe them to be actuated by a delica- 
 cy of sense and feeling, in many cases supe- 
 rior to our own. Whether this belief, with 
 which the minds of children are so strongly 
 imbued, and which lingers about us long 
 after we have become acquainted with its 
 fallacy, be any bar to the progress of philo- 
 sophical knowledge, I am not prepared to 
 say; but certainly it is the very essence of 
 poetical feeling; and for one visionary who 
 would scruple to kill a bird for dissection 
 because it had been the companion of his 
 woodland walks, there will remain to bea 
 thousand practical men who would care lit- 
 tle what strains had issued from that throat, 
 if they could but ascertain how the throat 
 itself was constructed. It is precisely the 
 same principle which inspires us with the 
 sublimest ideas of the majesty of the uni- 
 verse, by imbodying in the stars, the moun- 
 tains, the ocean, or the pealing thunder, 
 some unseen, but power!ul inteHtigence, that 
 offers for our enjoyment a never-ending com- 
 panionship in the woods and wilds, through 
 an ideal personification of every thing sweet 
 and fair. It is this principle which makes 
 us hail the periodical return of certain birds, 
 as if they had been thinking of us, and of 
 our fields and gardens, in that far distant 
 land, of which they tell no tidings; and, 
 taking into consideration the changes of the 
 seasons, had consulted upon the best means 
 of escaping the dangers of the threatening 
 storm: as if they had spread their feeble 
 wings to bear them over the wide waste of 
 inhospitable waters from the energy of their 
 own hearts, and had come back to us from 
 their own unchangeable and fervent love. 
 
 If it be poetry to gaze upon the mighty 
 
 ocean with that strange, deep wonder with 
 which we regard the manifestations of a 
 mysterious, but concentrated and individual 
 power—to feel that he stretches his unfath- 
 omable expanse from pole to pole—that he 
 ruffles his foaming mane and rushes bellow- 
 ing upon the circling shore—or that he lies 
 slumbering in his silent glory, beneath the 
 blaze of our meridian sun, and through the 
 still midnight of the island gardens that gem 
 the South Pacific; it is not less in unison 
 with poetic feeling, nor less productive of 
 ecstatic thought, to personify the trees, and 
 the flowers, and the rippling streams, and to 
 welcome with gratitude the fairy forms and 
 glad voices that come to tell us of returning 
 spring. 
 
 Who that has tasted the delights of poetry, | 
 
 would be deprived of this power of the im- 
 agination to people the air and animate the 
 whole creation? Let the critic smile—let 
 the tradesman count his pence, and reckon 
 up how little imagination has ever added to 
 his store—let the modern philosopher exam- 
 
 ine the leaf} and the flower, and the bird’s : 
 
 wing, and pronounce them equally material 
 and devoid-of mind—let the good man say 
 
 that poetry is a vain pursuit, and that these ! 
 
 things are not worthy of our regard; I main- 
 tain that these notions, visionary as they are, 
 tend to innocent enjoyment, and that inno- 
 cent enjoyment is not a vain pursuit, because 
 it may, and ought to inspire us with love 
 
 and gratitude towards Him who has not | 
 
 only given us a glorious creation to enjoy, 
 but faculties to enjoy it with, and imagina- 
 tion to make the most of it. | 
 
 With the swallow we associate the ever- |: 
 
 cheering idea of returning summer. We 
 watch for its coming, and rejoice to hear the 
 merry twittering voice, that seems to tell of 
 a life of innocent and careless glee—an ex- 
 istence unruffled by a storm. As the sum- 
 mer advances, and we seek shelter from the 
 noon-day heat in the deep shade of the leafy 
 boughs that wave around the margin of the 
 
 glassy stream, it is here that the swallow is |; 
 
 not unfrequently our sole companion ; and 
 ever as we call to remembrance its swift yet 
 graceful flight, we picture it darting from 
 the pendent branches of the willow, stooping 
 to cool its arrowy wing upon the surface of 
 
 the glancing waters, and then away, swifter |! 
 
than thought, into mid air, to sport one mo- 
 ment with aerial beings. Again it sweeps 
 in silence past our feet, over the spiral reeds, 
 around, above us, gliding through the shad- 
 ows, and flickering through the sunshine; 
 but never resting, and yet never weary ; for 
 the spirit than animates its bounding bosom, 
 and stretches forth its giddy wing, is one 
 that knows no sleep until light has vanished 
 from the world, no sadness until the sweets 
 of summer are exhausted. And then arises 
 that vague mysterious longing for a milder 
 sphere—that irrepressible energy to do and 
 dare what to mere reason would appear im- 
 practicable; and forth it launches with its 
 faithful companions, true to the appointed 
 time, upon the boundless ocean of infinitude, 
 trusting to it knows not what, yet trusting still. 
 
 With the cuckoo, our associations are in 
 some respects the same as with the swallow, 
 except that we are in the habit of regarding 
 it simply as a voice; and what a voice! 
 How calm, and clear, and rich! How full 
 of all that can be told of the endless profu- 
 sion of summer’s charms !—of the hawthorn, 
 in its scented bloom, of the blossoms of the 
 apple, and the silvery waving of the fresh 
 ereen corn, of the cowslip in the meadow, 
 and the wild rose by the woodland path; 
 and last, but not least in its poetical beauty, 
 of the springing up of the meek-eyed daisy, 
 to welcome the foot of the traveller, upon 
 the soft and grassy turf. | 
 
 Above all other birds, the dove is most in- 
 timately and familiarly associated in our 
 minds with ideas of the quiet seclusion of 
 rural life, and the enjoyment of peace and 
 love. This simple bird, by no means re- 
 markable for its sagacity, so soft in its co- 
 louring, and graceful in its form, that we 
 cannot behold it without being conscious of 
 its perfect loveliness, is in some instances 
 endowed with an extraordinary instinct, 
 which adds greatly to its poetical interest. 
 That species called the carrier pigeon, has 
 ‘| often been celebrated for the faithfulness 
 i| with which it pursues its mysterious way, 
 but never more beautifully than in the fol- 
 lowing lines by Moore. 
 
 “The bird let loose in eastern skies, 
 When hastening fondly home, 
 Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, or flies 
 Where idler wanderers roum ; 
 
 THE POETRY OF ANIMALS. 
 
 3 
 
 But high she shoots through air and light, 
 Above all low delay, 
 
 Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 
 Or shadow dims her way. 
 
 So grant me, God, from every stain 
 Of sinful passion free, 
 
 Aloft through virtue’s purer air, 
 To steer my flight to thee! 
 
 No sin to cloud, no lure to stay, 
 My soul, as home she springs, 
 
 Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 
 Thy freedom on her wings.” 
 
 But neither the wonderful instinct of this 
 undeviating messenger, nor even the classi- 
 cal association of the two white doves with 
 the queen of love and beauty, are more |} 
 powerful in awakening poetical ideas than 
 the simple cooing of our own wood pigeon, 
 heard sometimes in the silent solemnity of 
 summer’s noon, when there is no other sound 
 but the hum of the wandering bee, as he 
 comes laden and rejoicing home, when the 
 sun is alone in the heavens, and the cattle 
 are sleeping in the shade, and not a single 
 breath of air is whispering through the 
 boughs, and the deep dark shadows of the 
 elm and the sycamore lie motionless upon 
 the earth—or, in the cool evening, when the 
 shadows, less distinct, are lengthened out 
 upon the lawn, and the golden west is ting- 
 ing here and there the bright green foliage 
 with a brighter hue, when the shepherd is 
 numbering his flock, and the labourer is re- 
 turning to his rest, it is then that the soft 
 sweet cooing of the dove, bursting forth, as 
 it were, from the pure fount of love and joy 
 within its breast, sounds like the lullaby of 
 nature, and diffuses over the mind that holy 
 calm which belongs to our best and happiest 
 feelings. 
 
 From the timid moor cock, the “ whirring 
 partridge,” and the shy water fowl that 
 
 scarcely dares to plume its beauteous wing in |j* 
 
 the moonlight of our autumnal evening, when 
 the floods are high, and the wind rushes 
 whispering through the long sere grass, jj 
 down to the russet wren that looks so grave- 
 ly conscious of the proprieties of life, there is 
 scarcely one class of the feathered tribe to 
 which imagination does not readily and 
 naturally assign an intellectual, or rather a 
 moral character, associating it with feelings 
 and capabilities, of which the little flutterer 
 is (perhaps happily for itself) unconscious. 
 
 mela 
 
\ 
 , 
 
 The peacock is a striking ilustration of this 
 fact. The beauty of his plumage is in all 
 probability lost upon him, yet because it con- 
 sists of that rich and gaudy colouring, which 
 is consistent with our notions of what vanity 
 delights in, and because the lengthened 
 garniture of his tail requires that for conve- 
 || nience and repose he should often place 
 | himself in an elevated situation, he has ob- 
 tained a character which there is little in his 
 | real nature to justify, and as an emblem of 
 pride, is placed by the side of Juno in her 
 regal dignity. This tendency of the mind 
 to throw over sensible objects a colouring of 
 its own, is also proved by the character 
 which mankind have bestowed upon the 
 || robin redbreast, in reality a jealous, quarrel- 
 ‘| some, and unamiable bird; yet such is the 
 ‘| unobtrusive and meek beauty of its little 
 form, the touching pathos of its “ still small 
 voice,” and the appeals it seems ever to be 
 making to the kindness and protection of 
 man, that the poet perpetually speaks of the 
 robin with tenderness and love, and even 
 the rude ravager of the woods spares a 
 breast so lovely, and so full of simple melody. 
 Birds as well as other animals, owe much 
 of their poetical interest to the fabulous part 
 of their history; thus, the pelican is said to 
 feed her young with the life-blood flowing 
 from her own bosom, and this unnatural act 
 | of maternal affection is quoted by the poet 
 '| as a favourite simile for self-devotion under 
 various forms. Of the swan itis said and 
 ‘| sung, that in dying she breathes forth a 
 | strain of plaintive song; but even without 
 | this poetical fable, the swan ‘is associated 
 with so much that is graceful and lovely, 
 that we cannot think of this majestic queen 
 || of the water, sailing forth like a snow-white 
 ‘| gallery on the silver tide, without losing our- 
 || selves in a romantic dream of lakes and ri- 
 : vers, and that sylvan scenery which the 
 || Swan is known to frequent. ! 
 || We have yet given our attention only to 
 those birds whose nature and habits are pro- 
 | 
 
 o~ 
 
 ductive of pleasing associations. There are 
 
 others no less poetical, whose home is in the 
 
 desert or the mountain, whose life is in the 
 
 storm or on the field of carnage; and it is to 
 these especially that fabulous history has 
 
 || given importance and celebrity. 
 
 | For its mysterious and gloomy character, 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 the owl is particularly distinguished ; and 
 such is the grave aspect of its countenance, 
 so nearly resembling the human face in the 
 traits which are considered as indicative of 
 sagacity and earnest thought, that the an- 
 cients dignified this bird by making it the 
 emblem of wisdom, though there seems to 
 be little in its real nature to merit such exal- 
 tation. From the extreme timidity of the 
 owl, and its habitual concealment from the 
 light of day, it is difficult to become familiar 
 with its character. We see it sailing forth 
 on expanded wings in the gray twilight of 
 the evening, when other birds have retired 
 to their nightly rest; or we behold it in the 
 distance a misty speck, half light, half sha- 
 dow, just visible in the same proportion, and 
 with the same obscurity of outline and co- 
 lour, as in our infancy we fancied that spiri- 
 tual beings from another world made them- 
 selves perceptible in this. Besides which, 
 the voice of the owl, as it comes shrieking on 
 the midnight blast, and its mysterious breath- 
 ings, half sighs, half whispers, heard 
 amongst the ivy wreaths of the ruin, all tend 
 to give to this bird a character of sadness, 
 solemnity and awe. 
 
 The raven, strikingly sagacious and ven- 
 erable in its appearance, is still believed by 
 the superstitious to be a bird of ill omen; 
 and much as we may be disposed to despise 
 such prognostications as the flight, or the 
 cry of diflerent birds, there is something in | 
 the habits, but especially in the voice of the 
 raven, which gives it a strange and almost 
 fearful character. It seems to hold no com- 
 munion with the joyous spirits, to have no 
 association with the happy scenes of earth; 
 but leads a lengthened and unsocial life 
 amongst the gloomy shades of the venera- 
 ble forest, in the deep recesses of the path- 
 less mountain, or on the rocky summit of the 
 beetling crag that overlooks the ocean’s blue 
 abyss; and when it goes forth, with its sa- 
 ble pinions spread like the wings of a dark 
 angel upon the wind, its hoarse and hollow 
 croak echoes from rock to rock, as if telling, 
 in those dreary and appalling tones, of the 
 fleshy feast to which it is hastening, of the 
 death-pangs of the mountain deer, of the 
 cry of the perishing kid, and of the bones of 
 the shipwrecked seaman whitening in the 
 surge. { 
 
Se SS eee eee 
 
 a -e 
 
 a a 
 
 THE POETRY 
 
 To the eagle mankind have agreed in as- 
 signing a sort of regal character, from the 
 majesty of his bearing, and the proud pre- 
 eminence he maintains amongst the fea- 
 thered tribe; from the sublimity of his 
 chosen home, far above the haunts of man 
 and meaner animals, from the self-seclusion 
 in which he holds himself apart from the 
 general association of living and familiar 
 things, and from the beauty and splendour 
 of his sagacious eye, which shrinks not from 
 the dazzling glare of the sun itself. Innu- 
 merable are the fables founded upon the pe- 
 culiar habits of this bird, all tending to ex- 
 alt him in the scale of moral and intellectual 
 importance ; but to the distinction conferred 
 upon him by the ancients when they raised 
 him to a companionship with Jove, is mainly 
 to be attributed the poetical interest with 
 which his character is universally invested. 
 
 There are many birds whose peculiar 
 haunts and habits render them no less useful 
 to the painter than the poet, by adding to 
 the pictorial effect of his landscape. In the 
 sheet of crystal water which skirts the no- 
 bleman’s domain, and widens in front of his 
 eastellated halls, we see the stately swan; 
 on the shady margin of the quiet stream, 
 imbosomed in a copes-wood forest, the shy 
 water hen; the jackdaw on the old gray 
 steeple of the village church; and a com- 
 pany of rooks winging their social way, 
 wherever the scenery is of a peaceful, culti- 
 vated, or rural character. By these means 
 our inimitable Turner delights to give his 
 pictures their highly poetical character. The 
 heron is one of his favorite birds, and when 
 it stands motionless and solitary upon a bro- 
 ken fragment of dark rock, looking down 
 into the clear deep water, with that imper- 
 turbable aspect of never-ending melancholy 
 which marks it out as a fit accompaniment 
 of wild and secluded scenery, we feel almost 
 as if the genius of the place were personi- 
 fied before us, and silent, and lonely, and 
 unfrequented as these wilds may be, that 
 there is at least one spirit which finds com- 
 panionship in their solitude. 
 
 But above all other birds, the seagull, as 
 it diversifies the otherwise monotonous as- 
 pect of the ocean, is an essential accompani- 
 ment to every representation of a sea view. 
 Had the colour of this bird been red or yellow, 
 
 OF ANIMALS. 39 
 
 or almost any other than whatit is, it would 
 have broken the harmony of the picture; 
 but its breast is of the form of the ocean 
 waves, and the misty hue of its darker plu- 
 mage is like the blending of the vapoury 
 clouds with the cold blue of the deep sea 
 below. Not only in its colouring, but in the 
 wild gracefulness of its movements, in its 
 shrill ery, in its swift and circling flight, and 
 in the reckless freedom with which it sails 
 above the drear abyss, its dark shadow re- 
 flected in the hollow of the concave waters, 
 and its white plumage flashing like a gleam 
 of light, or like the ocean spray, from rock to 
 rock, it assimilates so entirely with the whole 
 character of the scene, that we look upon it 
 as a living atom separated from the troubled 
 and chaotic elements, a personification of the 
 spirit of the storm, a combination of its foam 
 and its darkness, its light and its depth, its 
 swittness and its profound solemnity. 
 Inferior to birds in their pictorial beauty, 
 though scarcely less conducive to poetical 
 interest, are the various tribes of insects that 
 people the earth and animate the air; but 
 before turning our attention to these, it may 
 be well to think for a moment in what man- 
 ner the poet’s imagination is affected by 
 fishes and reptiles. Of the poetry of fishes 
 little can be said. Two kinds only occur to 
 
 me as being familiar in the language of’ 
 
 poetry, and conducive to its figurative charm 
 —the flying fish and the dolphin. - The for- 
 mer, in its transient and feeble flight, has 
 been made the subject of some beautiful 
 lines by Moore; and because of the perpe- 
 tual dangers which await it from innumera- 
 ble enemies, both in sea and air, it is often 
 adopted as a simile for the helpless and per- 
 secuted children of earth; while the dol- 
 phin, from the beauty of its form, and the 
 gorgeous colours which are said to be pro- 
 duced by its last agonies, is celebrated in the 
 poet’s lay as an emblem of the glory which 
 shines most conspicuously in the hour of 
 death. 
 
 its 
 
 parting day 
 Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 With a new colour, as it gasps away: 
 The last still loveliest, till,—’tis gone—and all is gray !”” 
 BYRON. 
 
 In fearful pre-eminence amongst those 
 animals commonly considered repulsive and 
 
40 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 degraded, is the serpent, whose history is | and diffusing poison—the locust, whose 
 unavoidably associated with the introduc- | plagues are often commemorated—the hor- 
 tion of sin and sorrow into the world. Whe- | net, to whose stings Milton describes Samson 
 ther from this association, or from an instinc- | as comparing the accumulated agony of his 
 tive horror of its “venomous tooth,” it is} own restless thoughts—the glow-worm, 
 certain that the serpent is more generally | whose feeble light is like a fairy star, beam- 
 dreaded, and more loathed, even by those | ing upward from a world upon which all 
 who do not fear it, than any other living thing; | other stars look down—and the canker- 
 and yet how beautiful is its sagacious eye, | worm, whose fatal ravages destroy the 
 how rich and splendid its colouring, how | bloom of youth, and render void the pro- 
 delicate the tracery of net-work thrown all | digality of summer—passing over all these 
 over its glossy scales, how graceful and easy | and many more, in which we recognise the 
 its meandering movements, as it winds itself | familiar companions of the poet, we turn our 
 in amongst the rustling grass, how much | attention to the butterfly and the meth, as 
 like one of the fairest objects in nature, a | being most associated with refined and 
 clear blue river wandering through a distant | agreeable ideas. 
 
 valley! Yet all these claims to beauty, The butterfly is like a spiritual attendant 
 which the serpent unquestionably possesses, | upon the poet’s path, whether he dreams of 
 entitle it the more to the contempt and ab- | it as an emblem of the soul, fluttering around 
 horrence of mankind, by obtaining for it the | the fair form of Psyche, or beholds it in no 
 character of insinuating guile, which the | less beautiful reality, sporting from flower to 
 allurements it is recorded to have practised | flower, and teaching him the highest intel- 
 
 : 
 
 i T 
 nr Re een 
 
 upon our first mother seem fully to confirm. 
 
 The toad, save for the “ precious jewel in 
 his head,” can scarcely be called poetical, 
 though not unfrequenty found in verse as a 
 striking similitude for the extreme of ugliness, 
 
 lectual lesson—to gather sweets from all. 
 We are apt in our childhood to delight in 
 the legendary tales of fairy people inhabit- 
 ing the groves, the gardens, or the fields, 
 and regard with an interest almost supersti- 
 
 as well asfor a despicable proneness to grovel | tious, that mysterious circle of dark green 
 in what is earthly and most abhorrent to our | verdure that remains from year to year 
 finer feelings, from its frequenting low, | marking the enchanted spot, where once 
 damp, unwholesome places, the banks of | they were believed to hold their midnight 
 stagnant pools, or the nettles and lone grass | revels. Butterflies, in their exquisite colour- 
 that wave over the gloomy and untrodden | ing, their airy movements, and ephemeral 
 ground where the dead lie sleeping in their | lives, exhibit to the imaginative beholder no 
 
 silent rest. 
 The snail has certainly no strong claims 
 to poetical merit; yet we often find it serv- 
 
 has of carrying about its home, into which it 
 
 poet’s regard, because of its utter degrada- 
 tion, and the circumstance of its being 
 
 ’] 
 
 of resistance or revenge. 
 Passing slightly over the multitudinous 
 family of insects, we leave the beetle to his 
 
 slight resemblance to these ideal beings, as 
 they glide through the scented atmosphere 
 of the parterre, nestle in the velvet leaves 
 
 ing the purpose of simile and illustration, | of the rose, or touch without soiling the 
 from its tardy movements, and the faculty it | snowy bosom of the lily. 
 
 The butterfly is also strikingly emblemat- 
 
 shrinks on the first touch of the enemy. And | ical of that delicacy which shrinks from 
 even the lowly worm has some title to the | communion with all that is rude or base. 
 
 Touch but its gorgeous wings, and their 
 
 of | beauty falls away—immure the woodland 
 all living things, most liable to injury, at the | wanderer in captivity, and it pines and dies 
 same time that it is one of the least capable | —let the breath of the storm pass over it, 
 
 and in an instant it perishes. 
 The moth is less splendidly beautiful than 
 the butterfly. It has a graver character, 
 
 from his opposite qualities of collecting honey | Supported by the same slight thread of life, | 
 
 evening flight—the grasshopper, whose | and:sceks neither the sunshine nor the flow- 
 merry chirp enlivens the wayside traveller | ers of summer; yet it is liable to be de- 
 —the bee, perhaps the most poetical of any, | stroyed by the same degree of violence. 
 
 fn PERI IETS TE IAAT Ag eg PILLAI SO SSG PS SR OPENS ORO FO aS IEEE A BEATA TS 
 NE ET 0 | SEES QS SL aap amen!) = 
 
 e—_—_—_—_—_—_———— 
 PEE SD ST EY Se os 
 
ee . ae rn ss 
 eee 
 
 a tee, 
 —  — ——— _____..————_ 
 
 a ee 7 eee ee eee 
 Ss 
 
 ‘THE POETRY OF ANIMALS. 41 
 
 and scarcely perceptible amongst the even- | conveying the following severe, yet just re-. 
 
 ing shadows, except as an animated speck 
 of moving mist, it yet possesses one striking 
 characteristic, of which the poet fails not to 
 avail himself—a tendency to seek the light, 
 even when that light must prove fatal to its 
 own existence. How many poetical ideas 
 has this simple tendency excited! But 
 enough on this fertile theme. The reader 
 will doubtless be better pleased to examine 
 the subject farther for himself, than to have 
 additional instances of the poetry of animals 
 placed before his view. 
 
 It is sufficient to add, in continuation of 
 this subject, that without allowing ourselves 
 time and opportunity to study the nature and 
 habits of animals, we can never really feel 
 that they constitute an important part of the 
 world which we inhabit. We may read of 
 them in books, and even be able to class 
 them according to their names and the ge- 
 nera to which they belong, but they will not 
 enter into our hearts as members of the 
 brotherhood of nature, claiming kindred 
 with ourselves, and entitled to our tender- 
 ness and love. Those who have known this 
 fellowship in early life will never lose the re- 
 membrance of it to their latest day, but will 
 continue to derive from it refreshment and 
 joy, even as they tread the weary paths that 
 lead through the dark passage of a sordid 
 and troubled existence. The difference be- 
 tween those who study nature for them- 
 selves, and those who only read of it in 
 books, is much the same as between those 
 who travel, and those who make themselves 
 acquainted with the situation of different 
 countries upon a map. The mind of the tra- 
 veller is stored with associations of a moral 
 and intellectual character, which no map 
 can suggest; and he who occasionally re- 
 signs his soul to the genuine influence of 
 nature as it is seen and felt in the external 
 world, will lay up a rich store of deep and 
 precious thought, to be referred to for amuse- 
 ment and consolation through the whole of 
 his after life. 
 
 Had Pope, our immortal poet, not culti- 
 vated this intimate and familiar acquaint- 
 ance with the nature and habits of animals, 
 
 ‘| he would never have thought them of suffi- 
 
 cient importance to be made instrumental in 
 
 ‘““Has God, thou fool! work’d solely for thy good ! 
 Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food ! 
 Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, 
 
 For him as kindly spreads the flow’ry lawn. 
 
 Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? 
 
 Joy tnnes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 
 
 Is it for thee the linnet pours his thrvat ? 
 
 Loves of his own, and raptures, swell the note. 
 The bounding steed you pompously bestride, 
 Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. 
 Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain 2 
 The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain, 
 Thine the full harvest of the golden year 2 
 
 Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer.” 
 
 proof to man. 
 
 AscENDING in the scale of poetical inter- 
 est, the seasons might not improperly oc- 
 cupy the next place in our regard, had they 
 not already been especially the theme of one 
 of our ablest poets. ‘To describe the feelings 
 which the seasons in their constant revolu- 
 tions, are calculated to excite, would there- 
 fore only be to recapitulate the language 
 and insult the memory of Thomson. There 
 is one circumstance, however, connected | 
 with this subject which demands a mo- | 
 
 THE POETRY OF EVENING. 
 
 ment’s attention here. It is the preference 
 for certain seasons of the year evinced by 
 different persons, according to the tone or 
 temperament of their own minds. ‘There 
 are many tests by which human character 
 may be tried. In answezing the simple 
 question, “which is your favourite season ?” 
 we often betray more than we are aware of 
 at the time, of the nature of our own feelings ° 
 and character. It is no stretch of imagina- 
 tion to believe, certainly no misstatement of 
 fact to say, that the young and the innocent 
 (or the good, who resemble both) almost in-. 
 variably make choice of spring as their fa- 
 vourite season of the year; while the natu- 
 rally morbid and melancholy, or those who 
 have made themselves so by the misuse of 
 their best faculties, as invariably choose 
 autumn. Why so few make choice of sum- 
 mer is not easy to say, unless the oppressive 
 sense of heat is too powerful in its influence 
 upon the body to allow the mind to receive 
 
a NT TE SS 
 
 42 
 
 any deeply pleasurable sensations, or be- 
 cause during the summer there is such a 
 constant springing up of beauty, such an un- 
 ceasing supply of vigour in the animal and 
 vegetable world, that our ideas of spring are 
 carried on until the commencement of 
 autumn. There are a still smaller number 
 of individuals who venture to say they love 
 the dark days of winter, because, in order to 
 find our greatest enjoyment in this season, 
 we must possess a fund of almost uninter- 
 rupted domestic happiness, and few there 
 are who can boast of this inestimable bless- 
 ing ; few indeed who, when thrown entirely 
 upon the resources which their own hearts, 
 their own homes, or their own families af- 
 ford, do not sometimes wish to escape, if only 
 to enjoy the refreshment of green fields, free 
 air, and sunny skies. 
 
 The good and the happy, the young and 
 the innocent, whose hearts are full of hope, 
 find peculiar gratification in the rich pro- 
 mise of spring, in the growth and perfection 
 of plants, the rejoicing of the animal creation, 
 and the renovated beauty of universal na- 
 ture. There is within themselves a kind of 
 sympathy, by which they become a part of 
 the harmonious whole, a grateful trust 
 which accords with this promise, a springing 
 up and growth of joyful expectation which 
 keeps pace with the general progress of the 
 natural world, and echoes back a soul-felt re- 
 sponse to the voice which tells of happiness. 
 
 How different in all, except their power 
 over the feelings, are the sympathies which 
 are called forth’ by the contemplation of 
 autumn! The beauty or rather the bloom 
 of nature, is then passing away, and the 
 gorgeous and splendid hues which not un- 
 frequently adorn the landscape remind us too 
 forcibly of that mournful hectic which is 
 known to be a fatal precursor of decay. 
 Every thing fades around us like our own 
 hopes; summer with her sprightliness has 
 left us, like the friends of our youth; while 
 winter, cold winter, comes apace; alas! too 
 like the chilling prospect that lies before us 
 in the path of life. Thus, imagination mul- 
 tiplies our gloomy associations, and renders 
 autumn the season best beloved by the mor- 
 bid and cheerless, for very sympathy with 
 its tendency to fade. 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 other man, the depth and the intensity of the | 
 mind’s worst malady, tells us that— 
 
 ‘¢ The glance of melancholy is a fearful gift ;” 
 
 and fearful indeed, is that insatiable appro- 
 priation to her own gloomy purposes with |} 
 which melancholy endows her victims. 
 Fearful would it be to read and sinful to 
 write, how melancholy can distort the fairest 
 picture, extract bitterness from all things 
 sweet and lovely, darkness from light, and 
 anguish—unmitigable anguish—from what |. 
 was benificently intended to beautify and to | 
 bless. 
 
 Hach day, also, has its associations, so 
 nearly resembling those of the seasons, that || 
 it will not be necessary to examine in their 
 separate characters the natural divisions of || 
 morning, noon, evening, and night. But 
 evening, as being universally allowed to be 
 highly poetical, may justly claim a large 
 share of our attention. 
 
 “ Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad.” 
 
 These words occur immediately to every 
 poetical mind on the first consideration of 
 this solemn and lovely hour. Indeed, they 
 occur so familiarly, that, if it were possible ||: 
 they could lose their charm, it would already |, 
 have been destroyed by frequency of repeti- 
 tion. But these two lines contain within 
 themselves a volume of poetic feeling, that 
 will live imperishable and unimpaired, so 
 long as the human mind shall retain its 
 highest and purest conceptions of the nature 
 of real poetry. The very words have a 
 resemblance to the general lull of nature 
 gently sinking into the silence of night— 
 “Now came still evening on;” “twilight 
 gray” presents us with more than a picture 
 —with a feeling—a distinct perception of 
 thin shadows, and white mists gradually 
 blending together; and the last line com- 
 pletely imbodies in a few simple words, our 
 ideas of the all-pervading influence of 
 evening, with its universally tranquillizing, 
 solemn and mysterious power. 
 
 The mystery of twilight is not the least 
 charm it possesses to an imaginative and 
 poetic mind. From the earliest records of 
 intelligent beings, we learn that mystery 
 
 He who knew, perhaps better than any | has ever been inconceivably powerful in its 
 
— a 
 Sees. 
 
 THE POETRY OF EVENING. 43 | 
 
 influence upon the human mind. All false 
 religions have been built upon this founda- 
 tion, and even the true has its mysteries, for 
 which we reverence it the more. Those 
 subjects which excite the deepest veneration 
 and awe, strike us with an indefinite sense 
 of something which we, do not—which we 
 cannot, understand; and the throne of the 
 monarch, by being veiled from vulgar eyes, 
 is thus invested with a mystery to which it 
 
 is greatly indebted for its support. Were 
 all mankind clearly convinced of the inesti- 
 mable value of true virtue, were they all 
 noble, generous, and devoted, and were all 
 sovereigns immaculate, they might then go 
 forth amongst their people, defended only by 
 their own dignity, supported only by the 
 affection and esteem of their subjects. But 
 since we have learned in these degenerate 
 times that kings are but men, and since 
 there are base natures abroad, ever ready 
 to lay hold of and expose the slightest proof 
 of fallibility in their superiors, it is highly 
 necessary to the maintenance of regal ma- 
 jesty, that the sovereign should be raised 
 above the cognizance of vulgar penetration ; 
 that properly initiated members should con- 
 stitute the court, within whose penetralia 
 the ignorant and common herd are not per- 
 mitted to intrude; and that in order to give 
 the mandate which issues from the throne, 
 the awful solemnity of an oracle, its irrevo- 
 | cable veto should be uttered unseen. 
 
 It next becomes our business to inquire 
 how mystery possesses this power to fisci- 
 nate the strongest mind, and to lead captive 
 the most tumultuous passions. 
 
 Along with mystery, there is invariably 
 some degree of excitement; and excitement, 
 if we may judge by the general conduct 
 and pursuits of mankind, is, when not ex- 
 tended so as to create a feeling of pain, a 
 universally delightful sensation. In speak- 
 ing of a love of excitement, those who look 
 gloomily upon human nature, are apt to 
 describe it as a defect; but would it not be 
 more philosophical, as well as more consis- 
 tent with a grateful disposition, to regard 
 this principle as having been implanted in 
 our nature to stimulate us to exertion, and 
 to render the various occupations of life a 
 succession of pleasing duties, rather than of 
 irksome toils ? 
 
 -— Ss ————- ——.. 
 
 ee 
 
 That excitement is uniformly the accom- 
 paniment of mystery, is owing to this cause; 
 mystery is not the subject of any one partic- 
 ular train of ideas, nor can it exclusively oc- 
 cupy the reasoning powers, for want of some- 
 thing tangible to lay hold of ; but while the 
 senses or feelings are strongly affected by 
 that which is new, or strange, or fearful, or the 
 magnificent, it opens a field in which all the 
 faculties of the mind, set. at liberty from phy- 
 sical restraint, may rush forth to expatiate 
 or combat, without any one gaining the as- 
 cendency. Sometimes fear for a moment 
 takes the lead, but the want of sufficient 
 proof or fact to establish any definite cause 
 of alarm, encourages hope; love peoples 
 the unfathomable void with creatures of 
 its own formation; or hate, revenge, and 
 malice wreak their fury upon they know 
 not what; while imagination, the sovereign 
 queen of mystery, reigns supreme. and un- 
 disturbed over her own aerialrealm. ‘Thus 
 does mystery afford illimitable scope for 
 the perpetual activity and play of all the 
 thoughts or passions of which we are capa- 
 ble. By allowing liberty of operation to all, 
 the violence of each is neutralized, and hence 
 the power of mystery over the mind of man. 
 
 It may be argued, that mystery has often 
 been the means of exciting the most violent 
 passions, such as fear or superstition. Mys- 
 tery has unquestionably been made by art- 
 ful men the means of exciting the curiosity, 
 and arresting the attention of their deluded 
 followers; and thus rendering them more 
 willing and servile recipients of false views, 
 or base desires. But in order that either 
 fear or superstition should be excited to any 
 violent degree, it must have been necessary 
 to dissolve the veil of mystery, and reveal 
 distinctly some palpable object of dread, or |: 
 subject of mistaken worship. 
 
 But to return from this digression to the 
 more pleasing consideration of that delight- 
 ful hour of day, which brings to every crea- 
 ture the most powerful and indissoluble asso-. 
 ciations with what it loves best. 
 
 “ Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 To the young bird its mother’s brooding wings.” 
 
 Before the mystery of evening, if not ina 
 higher degree, we are charmed with its re- 
 pose. The stillness that gradually steals 
 
44 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 over the creation extends to our own hearts. 
 Passion is lulled, and if we are not, we long 
 to be at rest. 
 
 “J will return at the close of day,” says 
 the wanderer as he goes forth; and in 
 the evening we begin to listen for his wel- 
 come, though weary step. “It is but an- 
 other day of toil,” says the labourer as he 
 brushes away the morning dew, “In the 
 evening I shall rest again ;” and already his 
 children are watching at the cottage door, 
 and his wife is preparing his evening meal. 
 All day the rebellious child has resisted the 
 chastisements of love; but in the evening 
 his soul is subdued, and he weeps upon 
 his mother’s bosom. We can appease the 
 yearnings of the heart, and drive away re- 
 flection—nay, we can live without sympathy, 
 
 until evening steals around our path, and 
 
 tells us with a voice which makes itself be 
 heard, that we are alone. In the freshness 
 
 of morning, and through all the stirring oc- 
 
 cupations of busy noon, man can forget his 
 Maker ; but in the solemn evening hour he 
 feels that he is standing in the presence of 
 his God. In the day-time we move on with 
 the noisy multitude, in their quest of sordid 
 gain, or we wear without weariness or com- 
 plaint the gilded chains which bind down 
 the soul, or we struggle against the tide of 
 time and circumstance, battling with straws, 
 and spending our strength in fruitless war- 
 fare; butin the evening we long to find a path 
 where the flowers are not trampled down by 
 many feet, to burst the degrading bonds of 
 custom, and to think and feel more like im- 
 mortal beings; we see the small importance 
 of those contested points about which so ma- 
 ny parties are at war, and we become willing 
 to glide on with the stream, without fretting 
 ourselves about every weed or feather on its 
 surface; esteeming peace of mind and good- 
 will towards men far before the defence of 
 any particular set of opinions, or even the 
 establishment of our own. 
 
 Evening is the time for remembrance ; for 
 the powers of the mind having been all day 
 in exercise, still retain their activity, and 
 being no longer engaged in necessary or 
 worldly pursuits, branch out into innumera- 
 ble associations, from things present and 
 visible, to those which are unseen and re- 
 mote, and which but for such associations 
 
 might have been forgotten. The evening 
 melody of the birds, stealing gently upon the 
 humid air, and heard more distinctly than 
 their noon-day song, calls up the image of 
 some friend with whom we have listened to | 
 that sound; nor can we pursue our wonted |! 
 evening walk without being reminded by the | 
 very path, the trees, the flowers, and even |! 
 the atmosphere, of that familiar interchange || 
 of thought and feeling, never enjoyed in such | 
 perfection as at the close of day. But, | 
 above all other ideas connected with this | 
 hour, we love the repose of evening. Every | 
 living creature is then sinking to rest, dark- | 
 ness 1s stealing around us like a misty cur- 
 tain, a dreamy languor subdues our harsher | 
 feelings, and makes way for the flow of all |! 
 that is tender, affectionate, or refined. It is 
 scarcely possible to muse upon this subject 
 without thinking of the return of the wan- 
 derer, the completion of labour, the folding 
 of the weary wing, the closing of innocent 
 eyes in peaceful slumber, the vesper hymn, 
 and the prayer or thanksgiving with which 
 every day should be closed. 
 
 How is it, that when there is so much 
 even in external nature to remind ungrate- 
 ful man of his duty, he should be backward |, 
 in offering that tribute which is due to the 
 Author of all his blessings? Is it so hard a 
 thing to be thankful for the bountiful sun, 
 when we see what a train of glory goes 
 along with his departing light? For the 
 gentle and refreshing dews which come 
 with timely nourishment to the dry and 
 drooping plants? For those very plants, 
 and their unspeakable utility and beauty ? 
 For all that the eye beholds of loveliness or 
 magnificence, or that the ear distinguishes 
 of harmony? But above all, for that un- 
 wearied sense of enjoyment with which it is 
 possible for man to walk through the crea- 
 tion, rendering thanks to his Creator at 
 every step. 
 
 Far be it from the writer of these pages to 
 advocate the vain philosophy of past ages— 
 the vague notion long since discarded from 
 the rational world, that the contemplation |! 
 of the grandeur, beauty, or even perfection 
 of the universe, is sufficient of itself to lead 
 the heart to God. I speak of such contem- 
 plation as being the natural and suitable 
 exercise of an immortal mind, and of the 
 
THE POETRY OF THE MOON. 
 
 em 
 
 | 
 
 = 
 
 glories of creation as curroborating evidence 
 that a gracious will has designed the mys- 
 
 tery of our being, and that a powerful hand 
 continues to uphold the world which we in- 
 habit. I speak of the soothing calm of even- 
 ing, not with the puerile notion that mere 
 sentimental musing is conducive to the vi- 
 tality of the true spirit of Christianity—that 
 spirit which is compelled to engage in active 
 warfare with the world, and sometimes to 
 maintain its stand amidst all that is repulsive 
 to the poetic mind; but I speak of the even- 
 ing hour as a season of repose and whole- 
 some refreshment to this spirit, and of all 
 other enjoyments derived from the admira- 
 tion of nature as lawful, natural, and highly 
 conducive to the feeling of thankfulness 
 which unfailingly pervades the soul of the 
 true Christian. 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 > 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE MOON. 
 
 To write a chapter on the moon, appears, 
 at first sight, a task no less presumptuous 
 in itself, than inevitably fruitless in its con- 
 sequences—fruitless as regards that kind of 
 interest which on behalf of the queen of 
 night has been called forth and sanctified 
 '| by the highest powers of genius, as well as 
 '| abused and profaned by the lowest. To 
 
 apostrophize the moon, even in the ‘most 
 | ecstatic lays, would, in the present day be 
 little less absurd than to attempt 
 
 j 
 | 
 | 
 } 
 j 
 { 
 | 
 | 
 “ To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
 To throw a perfume o’er the violet, 
 To smoothe the ice, or add another hue 
 Unto the rainbow, or with lantern light 
 To seek the beauteous eye of heaven\to garnish.” 
 
 Yet in order to prove that the moon is of 
 all natural and sensible objects, pre-eminent- 
 ly poetical, no other facts need be adduced 
 than these ; that all the effusions of disordered 
 fancy which have’ been offered at her’shrine, 
 || since first the world began, have not deprived 
 || the queen of night of one iota of her regal 
 | dignity; not all the abortive efforts of de- 
 || ceptive art, (and not a few have presented a 
 mockery of her inimitable beauty,) have, in 
 the slightest degree impaired the charm of 
 her loveliness ; not all the allusions of sickly 
 
 sentiment, or vulgar affectation, have sullied 
 
 | 
 |g 
 oe 
 
 her purity; nor have all the scenes of de- 
 gradation, fraud, or cruelty, which her 
 mysterious light has illuminated, been able, 
 even in these clear-sighted and practical 
 times, to render less solemn and imposing, 
 that soul-pervading influence, with which the 
 moon is still capable of inspiring those who 
 have not entirely subdued or sacrificed the 
 tender, generous, or sublime emotions of 
 their nature. 
 
 In power, and majesty, and glory, the sun 
 unquestionably claims our regard before all 
 other objects of creation. But the sun is 
 less poetical than ‘the moon, because his at- 
 tributes are less exclusively connected with 
 our mental perceptions. By combining the 
 idea of heat with that of light, our associa- 
 tions become more sensitive and corporeal, 
 and consequently less refined. The light 
 of the sun is also too clear, and too generally 
 pervading in its nature, to be so poetical as 
 that of the moon. It leaves too little for the 
 imagination. All is revealed to the eye; 
 and myriads of different objects being thus 
 made distinctly visible, the attention wants 
 that focus of concentration which gives in- 
 tensity and vividness to all our impressions: 
 
 “ But the stars,” some may ask, “are they 
 not sufficiently distant and magnificent for 
 sublimity—mild enough for purity—beautiful 
 enough for love?” Yes; but they are too 
 distant—too pure—too cold for human love. 
 They come not near our troubled world, they 
 smile not upon us like the moon. We feel 
 that they are beautiful. We behold and 
 admire. No wonder that the early dwellers 
 upon earth should have been tempted to be- 
 hold and worship. - But one thing is wanting, 
 that charm, whether real or ideal, which 
 connects or seems to connect, our mental 
 sufferings, wants, and wishes, with some 
 high and unattainable source of intelligence 
 —the charm of sympathy. Thousands of 
 purified and elevated minds have expatiated 
 upon the stars as the most sublime of all 
 created objects, and so unquestionably they 
 are ;* but sublimity is not all that constitutes 
 
 $$$ A | A 
 
 PMT ean 
 
 '* Every one disposed to doubt this truth, may find 
 full conviction by reading in Montgomery’s Lectures on 
 Poetry, a few pages devoted to this subject; perhaps 
 the most poetical effusion that ever flowed from an elo- 
 quent pen, inspired by a refined imagination, a highly 
 gifted mind, and a devout spirit. 
 
eee ee 
 
 Se en EST ELE SELLE LITLE EE LITLE LL IETS PLEA OSAP CLE ID 
 
 i 
 
 cares where we. lie grovelling. 
 
 46 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 the essence of poetic feeling. The spirit of 
 poetry dwells not always in the high and 
 distant heavens, but loves to vary its exist- 
 tence by the enjoyment of tender and home- 
 felt delights. ‘Thus, we are not satisfied, 
 even in our hightest intellectual pursuits, 
 unless we find something to appropriate, and 
 call our own; and thus while we admire the 
 stars as splendid portions of the heavens, we 
 both admire and love the moon, because, 
 still retaining her heavenly character, she 
 approaches nearer to our earth. We can- 
 not look upon the stars without being struck 
 with a sense of their distance, their unattain- 
 able height, the immeasurable extent of 
 space that lies between the celestial fields 
 which they traverse with a perpetual har- 
 mony of motion, and the low world of petty 
 But the 
 moon—the placid moon, is just high enough 
 for sublimity, just near enough for love. So 
 benign, and bland, and softly beautiful is her 
 ever-beaming countenance, that when per- 
 sonifying, as we always do, the moon, she 
 seems to us rather as purified than as having 
 been always pure. We feel as if some fel- 
 lowship with human frailty and suffering 
 had brought her near us, and almost wonder 
 whether her seasons of mysterious darkness 
 are accompanied with that character of high 
 and unimpeachable dignity which attends 
 her seasons of light. Her very beams, when 
 they steal in upon our meditations, seem 
 fraught with tenderness, with charity, and 
 love: so that: we naturally associate them 
 in our own minds, not so much with super- 
 natural perfection, as with that which has 
 been refined and sublimated by a moral 
 process. We call toremembrance the dark- 
 est imputation ever cast upon the moon, in 
 those dark times when to be a goddess was 
 by no means to be free from every moral 
 stain; and then, in fanciful return for all her 
 sweet, and cheermg, and familiar light, we 
 sometimes offer a sigh of pity to the vestal 
 Dian, that she should have paid so dearly 
 for having loved but once, and that with so 
 pure a flame, that it disturbed not the dreams 
 of a slumbering shepherd boy. 
 
 To prove that the moon is of all visible ob- 
 jects the most poetical, there needs no other 
 evidence than the nwmber of poetic lays in 
 which she has been celebrated. The merit 
 
 of these lays is proof of 9 totally different | 
 nature, and has nothing to do with the case in 
 point; the inspiration being in the moon her- 
 self—the virtue of that inspiration in the souls 
 of her votaries. Here however we find ad- 
 ditional, and perhaps stronger proof of the 
 same fact; for not only have poets of every 
 age, and every country, found in the queen of |} 
 night a never-tiring theme; but she has un- |}. 
 questionably the honour of having called forth 
 some of the most memorable, and most bril- 
 liant effusions of poetic genius. To quote 
 illustrative passages on this subject would 
 be to fill volumes, and to make selections 
 would be almost impossible, amongst in- 
 stances so numerous and so fraught with in- 
 terest; but there is one scene in the Mer- 
 chant of Venice which deserves particular no- 
 tice, for the natural and simple manner in 
 which the poet has given us the most perfect 
 idea of an exquisite moonlight night, ap- 
 parently without effort, and almost without |}, 
 description. It is where the two lovers, es- || 
 caped from danger and suspicion, first find 
 time and opportunity for the quiet enjoyment 
 which is best appreciated after imminent 
 risk. In this picture (for it is nothing less) 
 we behold most. strikingly the master hand 
 by which the scene is drawn. Here is no bab- 
 bling ‘aboutsilver rays,’ ‘soft influence,’ ‘smi- 
 ling light; the passage commences merely. 
 with— The moon shines bright;’ and then 
 so perfect is the enjoyment of the lovers, both 
 in each other and in all that surrounds them, 
 that they immediately strike off comparisons 
 between that particular night, and others that 
 have been vividly impressed upon their im- 
 aginations, not by observation, but by pas- 
 sages from (perhaps their favourite) authors, 
 where the moon has been called in to aid 
 the representation of some of the most strik- 
 ing scenes. Had the happiness of Lorenzo 
 and Jessica been less absorbing, or had the 
 night been less beautiful, they might have 
 told us how, and upon what objects the 
 moon was then shining. But with them all 
 was complete: They had no comments to 
 make upon the lovely night, which we are 
 left to suppose too exquisite for description ; 
 and after amusing themselves and each 
 other with simple, but most beautiful allu- 
 sions to classic history, they very naturally 
 fall into that playful humour, which belongs |! 
 
to perfect happiness, and descending from 
 their poetic flights, turn upon each other the 
 sportive badinage, which is more familiar 
 to those who are but “earthly happy.” 
 They are then interrupted by the entrahce 
 of a messenger; but still the mind of the 
 poet having been filled to overflowing with 
 his own idea, or rather his own intense feel- 
 ing of this ecstatic night, he goes on after the 
 first exuberance of fancy has been expended 
 in mere association, to give us some de- 
 scription of the scene ; and then follows that 
 passage so highly imaginative and poctical, 
 yet withal so simple, that it seems but to em- 
 body in words, the faint dreams that have 
 floated through our own minds a thousand 
 times without finding utterance: 
 
 * How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
 Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
 Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night, 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 
 Sit. Jessica. Look how the floor of Heaven 
 Is thick inJaid with patines of bright gold ; 
 There’s not the smallest orb, which thon behold’st, 
 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Stil) quiring to the young-ey’d cherubims. 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 
 But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.” 
 
 In coutemplating the different attributes 
 of the moon. first, and most striking, is that 
 distinctness of light and shade which charac- 
 terise her influence over external nature. 
 Here are no lesser lights, no minor shadows 
 to constitute a medium between the two ex- 
 tremes. The whole earth is under the do- 
 minion of two ruling powers; and every ma- 
 terial object presents on one side a surface 
 distinctly visible, while the other is lost in 
 impenetrable darkness. Not a wreath of 
 ivy, a projecting cornice, or a broken turret, 
 but the moon invests it with a beauty of her 
 own, more attractive to the eye, and more 
 potent in its influence upon the imagination, 
 from the depth of mysterious shadow by 
 which it is contrasted. Beautiful as her 
 light unquestionably is, when it falls upon 
 the verdure of the sloping bank, where every 
 flower, and leaf and tendril have their shining 
 surface contrasted with their shadow, we 
 should scarcely pause to offer our tribute of 
 admiration, by telling how often the poet’s lay 
 has recorded events which took place “on 
 such a night,” but that in glancing from this 
 lee of silvery brightness, we behold the 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE MOON. 
 
 AT 
 
 deep gloom of the surrounding woods, the 
 narrow defile, or the hollow cave, within 
 whose confines the queen of night, with all 
 her power, and all her splendour, is unable 
 to penetrate. 
 
 Another striking attribute of the moon, 
 and one which seems more especially to 
 bring her within the sphere of human sym- 
 pathy, is her alternate darkness and illumi- 
 nation; which last is familiarly spoken of as 
 a periodical visitation ; for so powerful are 
 the senses of the imagination, that it is With 
 some difficulty we realize the truth, that 
 when the moon is invisible to our eyes, she | 
 is in reality as present with us as when her 
 soft light salutes us in our nightly wander- | 
 ings. Thus we hear perpetually of the con- 
 stancy, as well as the inconstancy of the 
 moon ; just as a similitude with either qual- 
 ity may suit the poet’s need. Of her con- 
 stancy, because, lost as she is to our out- 
 ward perceptions, we are able to calculate 
 with undeviating certainty the hour of her 
 return; of her inconstancy, because how 
 profound soever are the devotions offered at || 
 her shrine, that shrine is no sooner invested 
 with the full splendour of her celestial 
 brightness, than the ineffable light begins to 
 wane, and finally disappears. 
 
 From the long established custom of ap- 
 pealing to the moon in our descriptions of 
 mental suffering, we might almost be led to 
 pronounce that melancholy was one of her 
 chief characteristics, were not this poetical 
 propensity easily accounted for, by the en- 
 joyments of the generality of mankind being 
 of such a nature as to confine their attention 
 to social, stirring, mundane subjects of inter- 
 est or excitement; and thus to leave little 
 time, and less inclination, for making obser- | 
 vations upon the moon: while under the in- 
 fluence of melancholy, which has in all 
 minds the same tendency to silence, solitude, 
 and contemplation, the eye is naturally di- | 
 rected to scenes of repose and serenity, and 
 more than all, to the solemn aspect of the 
 heavens. It is here that we look for peace ; 
 and we all can remember, when through the 
 long watches of the sleepless night, the 
 moon was our only companion, the only 
 friend who was near us under the pressure 
 of our calamity, or who appeared to sympa- 
 thize in our distress. 
 
48 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Surely the sweet influence of the queen 
 of night is in its own nature more cheering 
 than melancholy. How many glad occasions 
 of social and festive entertainment are regu- 
 lated by the moon. “We will visit our 
 friends when the moon is at the full”—“ We 
 will return by the light of the moon ”—“ We 
 wait for the moon before we set sail,” is the 
 familiar language of every day ; andl how 
 much more must the mariner on the mighty 
 deep rejoice in her welcome visitations, and 
 hail her nightly radiance as she rises over 
 the unfathomable abyss. Shines not the 
 moon through the grated lattice of the pri- 
 son, from whence all other gentle comforters 
 are excluded, smiling upon the criminal in 
 his feverish sleep, and reminding him when 
 he starts into waking consciousness, that 
 while his brother man, perhaps weak, falli- 
 ble, and faulty as himself, had he been simi- 
 larly cireumstanced, is able to pursue, im- 
 peach, and condemn, according to the strict 
 
 of want of knowledge, of early bias, and 
 more than all, of peculiar and incalculable 
 temptation’; there is still mercy in the ever- 
 lasting heavens—an eye that looks down 
 upon his earthly sufferings, beholding 
 through a clear, and steady, and impartial 
 light, all that is hidden from the scrutiny of 
 man; and that an humble, solemn, and 
 heartfelt appeal, even from out his dungeon, 
 beneath his chains, or upon the fatal scaffold, 
 may yet be made to that higher tribunal, 
 whose judgments are as unparalled in mer- 
 cy, as unimpeachable in justice. 
 
 Is not the moon, amidst all the chances 
 and changes that occur to us in this sublu- 
 nary scene, still, still the same? We recall 
 the sweet and social evenings, when the 
 moon looked in upon our childish play, 
 through the trellice-work of vine and jessa- 
 mine that grew around our ancestral dwell- 
 ing. How looks that dwelling now? The 
 vine and the jessamine are rooted from the 
 
 SC AT RN SE SE TE I IE I EI EEN TEE TEED ID YOST IE CD EI DAI ETL IDE EIDE PLEAD BAIBE LIAL 
 
 ly is one stone left upon another. Where 
 are the companions of those happy hours ? 
 Some have paid the debt of nature, and are 
 one we ask not where ; some are so altered 
 in their loves and friendships, that we know 
 them not, or perhaps, they know not us; 
 and others are scattered abroad throughout 
 
 ae 
 
 LE aN A i en 
 —— 
 
 authority of laws, which take no cognizance 
 
 earth, the walls are broken down, and scarce-- 
 
 the busy world, chasing their different ob- 
 jects of ambition or desire, in which we hold 
 no share: even our own hearts, though they 
 feel the same to us in their capability of suf 
 fering, having learned to beat another tune, 
 to burn with different fires, to be vivified 
 with a new life, or subject to a fatality 
 which we were far from apprehending then. 
 Yet the moon—the lovely moon, is still the 
 same, shining on with the same ineffable ef- 
 fulgence—teaching us that constancy is not 
 an empty name, though we and ours have 
 failed to find the reality—that there is purity || 
 and peace beneath the heavens, though we 
 are still wandering in fruitless quest of both 
 | 
 
 _—that there is an inexhautible fountain of 
 
 loveliness and delight, 
 wasted ours. 
 
 And is not the moon most kind, most chari- 
 table, that she reveals no deformities, brings 
 to light no defects, but ever shines on— 
 
 though we have 
 
 “ Leaving that beautiful, that still was so, 
 And making that which was not.” 
 
 Oh! it is wearisome in our daily existence 
 to see the critic’s eye for ever peering through 
 a narrow focus of concentrated and partial 
 light, to find out the specks upon the face of 
 the sun, the soil of the lily, the footprints of 
 the butterfly upon the velvet petals of the 
 rose; listening with his ear sharpened to an 
 acuteness that renders it sensible only of dis- 
 cord, to detect the misapplication of tone and 
 emphasis in the eloquence that shakes the 
 world, the wrong cadence in the voice that 
 tells “of anguish, the false note in the har- 
 mony of the spheres. Yet this is what men 
 call wisdom—a wisdom which if it fails to 
 subdue the ignorance and prejudice of man- 
 kind, at least destroys the capacity for ap- 
 preciating the beauty and perfection of the 
 creation, and the desire to bow with mute 
 reverence and awe before its Creator. It is 
 this wisdom which intrudes its unwelcome 
 presence upon our daily walk, rendering that |) 
 walk most wearisome, and the society we |. 
 meet there, infinitely worse than solitude. | 
 But the night returns—the calm and silent 
 night, and the sweet moon rising over the , 
 eastern hills, goes forth upon her pathway || 
 through the heavens. Perchance an envious 
 cloud advances, and her form is obscured by 
 misty vapours; but they pass away, and 
 
~ 
 vst a ee ne 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE MOON. 
 
 her smile looks sweeter than before. Upon 
 the rugged precipice, the dark impenetrable 
 forest, the restless waves of the ocean, “her 
 soft and solemn light” is falling, beautifying 
 :| whatever it shines upon, marking out as with 
 a silver pencil the majestic outline of the 
 crag or promontory, but leaving the deep 
 and frightful cavern at its base still unre- 
 vealed; tinging with radiant lustre the light 
 boughs that wave and dance as if with very 
 gladness in her welcome beams, the sprays 
 of glittering ivy, or the lofty turrets of the 
 ancient tower, while passing in her peaceful 
 progress over every scene of gloom and ter- 
 ror, she seems to cast the dark places of the 
 earth into yet deeper shade; or, turning the 
 foam of the angry billows into crests of spark- 
 ling light, the troubled track of the heaving 
 bark into a silvery pathway, and the sails 
 that flutter in the adverse gale, into the white 
 pinions of some angelic messenger, she 
 kindly offers to the imaginative beholder, a 
 picture of sublimity for that of danger—of 
 trust for anxious fear—of hope for murmur- 
 ing and despair. 
 
 Is not the moon also a faithful treasurer 
 of sweet and pleasant memories? We 
 might forget (in this world there is much to 
 | make us forget) what we learned before our 
 | minds were tainted by the envious struggle 
 | for pre-eminence, and the necessity of sordid 
 | gain, or soured by the disappointments in- 
 | evitably attending both. The worldly man, 
 the sharp keen bustler of the city, sees little 
 to call back his thoughts to the days of un- 
 sophisticated innocence, and still less to re- 
 commend to his now mature judgment, what 
 he would call nothing better than his boyish 
 blindness, to his own best interests. But the 
 bodily frame in time wears out, the city feast 
 becomes unpalatable to the sickly appetite, 
 and civic honours are unable to support the 
 head they crown. Sleepless nights succeed 
 to wearisome days. Perhaps his attendant 
 enjoys that repose, which he is unable to 
 purchase with all his wealth. To sum up 
 the amount of his gold, no Jonger relieves 
 the aching void of his heart. There is a 
 gnawing want still pressing upon him, even 
 at this late hour of the day, which all his 
 possessions are unequal to supply; and he 
 begins at last to question, whether they may 
 not have cost him more than their real value. 
 
 Lost in a world of vague and unsatisfying 
 thoughts, the moon steals in upon his medi- 
 tations. It is not with him as with more 
 feeling minds, that memory: rushes back 
 with one tremendous, bound; but with his |. 
 wonted caution and reserve, he begins to re- |. 
 trace the pilgrimage of past years, the silent | 
 moonbeams lighting him unconsciously on |. 
 his way, and leading him by the chain of 
 association back to his paternal home. He 
 enters again the once familiar habitation. 
 He takes possession of the chair appropriated 
 to the darling boy, and along with it the 
 many pure and lively feelings, which the 
 world had chased away. Tie listens to his 
 father’s gentle admonitions, and feels the af- || 
 fectionate pressure of his hand, upon his then 
 unrufiled brow. He hears his mother’s voice 
 as she sings their evening hymn, and * Oh!” 
 the man of wealth exclaims, “that I might 
 be again that innocent and happy boy!” - 
 
 If he who embarks his whole heart in the 
 sordid avocations of life, is necessarily driven 
 on to resign the noblest aspirations, and ten- 
 derest affections of his youth, the volaress 
 of fashion becomes if possible more heart- |! 
 less, and more hardened in her servile and 
 despicable career: it is possible from this 
 cause that in order toact to the life the artifi- 
 cial character she has assumed, it is neces- 
 sary that she should sometimes wear the 
 semblance of feeling, just in that proportion, 
 and according to that peculiar mode, which 
 may best suit the selfish purpose of the mo- 
 ment; and this empty mockery of the best 
 and loveliest attributes of human nature— 
 of its affections, sympathies, and high caya- 
 
 bilities, has a more debasing and injurious 
 
 effect upon the mind, than the total forget- 
 fulness even of their outward character. 
 But the woman of fashion cannot always 
 keep her thoughts directed to the same bril- 
 liant point. There will he moments when 
 she suspects the potency of the idol to whom 
 her only devotions have been offered. With 
 her also the exhaustion of the bodily frame, 
 will produce a pining after that which has 
 been sacrificed at the altar of the world—a 
 longing to lie down and rest, beneath the 
 sheltering wings of the angel of peace. Per- |! 
 chance she has stolen unnoticed from the 
 busy throng, to breathe for one moment with 
 greater freedom at the open casement. She 
 
 4 
 
 LOS a 
 
a ee 
 
 eR 
 
 | 
 ) 
 
 es 
 a a rn” 
 a EL I 
 
 a ee 
 
 50 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 still hears the tread of the noisy dance—the 
 music—the glad voices—and she feels what 
 no heart is capable of feeling without a pang, 
 that her presence is not necessary to the en- 
 joyment of her reputed friends, and that 
 when her head is laid within the grave they 
 wiil still dance on, without being conscious 
 that one familiar step is wanting in their 
 merriment. Her soulis oppressed. She looks 
 out beneath the high blue silent heavens, 
 and the moon is there to welcome her as 
 with a sister’s smile. It is to the moon alone 
 that all human beings can appeal with an 
 inward sense of sympathy ; and to the moon 
 at last she ventures to utter that complaint, 
 which no ear has ever heard.. “It was not 
 thus!” the melancholy strain begins, but 
 tears—true, unaffected tears are rising, and 
 she looks down upon the clustering jessa- 
 mine, whose delicate stars gleam out in the 
 moonbeams, and send forth their odorous 
 perfumes upon the gales of night. It was 
 not thus that she, that splendid mourner, 
 weary with the weight of her own diamonds, 
 and sick of the selfishness of her own chosen 
 friends, looked. up to the face of the pale 
 moon, in those hours when the moon looks 
 fairest—those happy hours when even she, 
 the false one, was beloved. Her memory, 
 the only faculty which she has not been able 
 to pervert, returns to the bright season of 
 sincerity and youth. Again she is walking 
 by the side of one whom worlds could not 
 have tempted to violate her confidence, or 
 wound her love—one who was deserted for 
 a worthless rival, in his turn to be cast off 
 for another, and then a third, and so on, 
 until the world at last became the only can- 
 didate for her affections, the only ruler of 
 herheart. “It was not thus!” she exclaims, 
 “that I was wont to look upon the moon. 
 Oh! give me back the loves, the friendships 
 of my early days. Restore the capability 
 of trusting, even though I should still be de- 
 ceived! Awaken in my soul the faculty of 
 hope, though I should be disappointed still ! 
 Rekindle my affections, that I may feel the 
 possibility of loving, though I should never 
 be beloved again! Let me hear once more 
 
 strange to mine ear! Let me listen to the 
 language of truth, though it should condemn 
 the whole of my past life !” 
 
 oe eS eee 
 
 I 
 
 Fg a wi AR SS 
 
 a 
 a 
 
 i 
 | 
 
 The mariner at midnight on the deep sea, 
 looks forth when other eyes are sleeping, 
 towards the bright opening in the eastern 
 clouds, where the pale lustre of the rising 
 moon gives welcome promise of her blessed 
 visitation. Soon her full round orb appears 
 in all its splendour, and the dark vapours 
 float away, or, gliding gently past her 
 beaming face, receive the soft reflection of 
 her smile, before they pass into the undistin- 
 guishable chaos of night. High into the 
 azure heavens she now ascends, while the 
 lonely helmsman chants to the heedless gale 
 the songs of his native land. He gazes 
 upon the wide expanse of heaving water, |} 
 and ever as his eye dwells upon that silvery 
 track of light that seems to Iure him away 
 to another world, recollections which the 
 bustle of the day keeps down, and thoughts |} 
 dear as the miser’s hoarded treasure, rise | 
 within his breast, fresh and spontaneous; 
 and he thinks how the same moon shone 
 upon the woodbine bower where he first 
 wooed the village maid, who blushed in her 
 innocent joy, and inwardly exulted in the 
 short-lived happiness of being a sailor’s 
 bride. Has he not seen that bower again? 
 Yes, and the woodbine was still lovely, but 
 his bride had lost her maiden bloom, and 
 the cares of a lonely and almost widowed 
 wife had made her prematurely old. Again 
 he has returned to that well-known spot— 
 that haven of his dearest hopes and the 
 babe that should have welcomed him with 
 the kind name of father, was sleeping be- 
 neath a little grassy mound in the church- 
 yard, while he had been far away in its 
 hour of agony, and its last cry had been un- 
 heard by him. Once more he has returned 
 to his deserted home. The mother too was } 
 gone to her place of rest, and two humble 
 graves sile by side were all the memorial 
 that remained of his domestic happiness. 
 What then? Does he wish that his mar- 
 riage day had never dawned? would he 
 extinguish the memory of the past? No, 
 though amidst the stir of the busy day, or 
 amongst his jovial comrades he thinks little 
 of his wife and child, yet in the solitude of 
 
 the voice of kindness, though it should be | the night watches when the moon is above 
 his head, and no sound is to be heard but 
 the ripple of the water against the vessel’s 
 
THE POETRY OF THE MOON 
 
 51 
 
 brancer, that she visits him in his loneliness, 
 to tell him those tales of tenderness to which 
 his ear has become strange, and to open in 
 his bold and hardy bosom those sweet 
 fountains of human love which transform 
 the character of the rude sailor into that 
 of the avenger of the injured, the father 
 of the orphan, and the protector of the help- 
 less. . ; 
 Thus ever sweet and pleasant to the 
 watchful eyes of the wayfaring man, is the 
 moon as she rises from her throne of clouds. 
 He turns to gaze upon that welcome face, 
 and thinks how many well-known and fa- 
 miliar looks are directed to the same object. 
 Perchance he has been a wanderer through 
 many lands, a voyager over the deep seas, 
 a pilgrim of the world; yet ever on his 
 wayward course, the same mild moon has 
 been like a faithful and untiring friend, 
 speaking to him amongst a strange people 
 in the native language of his heart, and 
 telling through the lonely night, sweet 
 tidings of his wished-for home. Whether 
 amid snow covered hills, through the frozen 
 wilderness, along the ckirts of the pine 
 forest, far, far away, she guides the solitary 
 
 _Laplander ? or, in more sultry climes looks 
 
 down through the foliage of the waving 
 palm tree, and glances over the bright sur- 
 face of the welcome waters, where the 
 Indian laves his burning feet: whether high 
 above the tower, the minaret, or stately 
 dome, she looks down, a silent and unmoved 
 spectator, upon the thickly-peopled city, the 
 perpetual stir, the hurry and the rush of busy 
 life ; or far away in the silence and solitude 
 of some lone isle of the ocean, touching 
 with her sparkling radiance the leaves and 
 blossoms of that nameless and uncultured 
 garden, and the rippling waves that rise 
 and fall, and lull themselves to rest upon 
 that unknown shore: whether through the 
 richly curtained window of the palace, her 
 
 modest light steals gently in, and gliding | 
 
 over the marble floor, or along the tapestried 
 walls, rest in its silence and purity upon the 
 
 ‘crimson canopy of kings; or where the cot- 
 
 tage of the herdsman stands upon. the lone 
 moor, silvers the mossy turf beside his door, 
 covering the grey thatch of the mouldering 
 roof with her garment of beauty, and look- 
 ing in with her quiet and approving smile 
 
 ee ed 
 
 upon his homely meal, blessing the cup of 
 which he drinks, and lighting the parents’ 
 way, as they seek the couch of their slum- 
 bering cherubs to ask a blessing for the 
 coming day, to return thanks for the past, 
 and then to enjoy the refreshment of peace- 
 ful and untroubled sleep; over the waste 
 unpeopled desert, the rich and fertile fields 
 which surround the habitations of men, the 
 tempest-troubled ocean, or the hive of human 
 industry, it is the same moon that meets the 
 traveller’s anxious gaze, and ever on his 
 lonely and distant course he feels it to be 
 the same whose rays are interwoven with 
 the thread of his early existence. 
 
 Yes, it is the same moon whose silver 
 crescent was hung in the blue heavens when 
 the first night shadowed the infant world 
 with its mighty and mysterious wing. It is 
 the same moon that rocks the restless tides 
 from shore to shore, with a monotony of mo- 
 tion that marks out the different epochs in the 
 lite of man, and over-rules his most momen- 
 tous actions with a power which he is una- 
 ble either to baffle or subdue. It is the same 
 moon for the mystic eclebration of whose 
 metamorphoses, the king of Israel erected an 
 edifice, the most splendid that human in- 
 genuity could invent, or human labour con- 
 struct. It is the same moon for the visi- 
 ble completion of whose perfect radiance, 
 the Spartans, while yet their souls were 
 fired with the noblest ambition, sacrificed 
 their share of glory in the memorable field 
 of Marathon. Itis the same moon which 
 inspires the most ecstatic dreams of the en- 
 thusiast, giving to his earth-born visions, a 
 refinement and sublimity, which belong only 
 to that imaginative realm, over which the 
 queen of night presides. It is the same 
 moon upon which the eyes of countless 
 myriads are nightly gazing, but which never 
 yet inspired one unholy thought, awakened 
 one mean or sordid feeling, or called forth 
 one passion inimical to the maintenance of 
 “peace on earth and goodwill towards men.” 
 It is the same moon which personifies in her 
 refulgent orb that bright link of spiritual 
 connection between this troubled life, and one 
 that is without anxiety, and without tears; 
 hanging her single lamp of ineflable radiance 
 above our nightly slumbers, like a beacon of 
 hope to lure us to a better land—returning 
 
52 
 
 again, and again to this earthly sphere, to 
 warn us of the danger of delay, to cherish 
 our heavenward aspirations, and to teach us 
 that there is a love, (Oh! how unlike the 
 
 i love of man!) as constant and untiring in its 
 faithfulness, as slow to avenge disobedience 
 and neglect. 
 
 a 
 
 eS 
 
 THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 
 
 Berore entirely quitting the fascinating 
 employment of tracing out the poetical asso- 
 ciations of particular objects in nature, it is 
 necessary to add a few remarks upon the 
 ‘| effect produced upon the mind by rural 
 
 scenery in general. | 
 
 The great difficulty in the task I have un- 
 dertaken, a difficulty which presents itself 
 most strikingly at this stage of the work, is 
 to avoid the folly of being too sentimental, 
 or rather to escape the charge of wishing to 
 lead the mind away from what is substan- 
 tially useful, to that which is merely vision- 
 ary. If the major part of society in the 
 present day consisted of love-stricken poets 
 and languishing girls, mine would indeed be 
 
 | ascheme unnecessary and ifl devised ; but 
 as the tendency of our present system of ed- 
 ucation, our conversation, habits, and modes 
 
 | of thinking, is towards the direct opposite of 
 sentimentality, we may fairly presume, that 
 
 | in the opinion of all candid and competent 
 judges, this work will be considered harm- 
 legs, to say the least of it; and that the wri- 
 ter will have due credit given for an earnest 
 
 | endeavor to assist in rescuing the spirit of 
 poesy from the oppression of vulgar tyran- 
 ny, and in guarding the temple of the muses 
 from the profanations of avarice and dis- 
 cord. 
 
 The character of the cultivated portion of 
 the present race of mankind is too practical, 
 too bustling, too commercial, I might almost 
 say, too material, to admit of the least ap- 
 prehension that ideas should be brought to 
 stand in the place of facts, that learning 
 should be superseded by sensibility, or that 
 vague notions about the essences of things 
 should be preferred io a just and circum- 
 stantial knowledge of the actual substances 
 of those things themselves. 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 It is unnecessary to state, that happiness, 
 in one shape or another, is the great end we ' 
 have in view, in all our pursuits and avoea- | 
 tions; whether that happiness consists in 
 amassing or expending money; in our per- 
 sonal and sensual gratifications, or in the 
 aggrandisement of others; in maintaining |} 
 the station to which, by birth or education, 
 we have become attached, or in raising our- |} 
 selves to a higher scale of society ; in obtain- 
 ing and securing to ourselves the refine- |} 
 ments and luxuries of life, or in cultivating |} 
 the mental powers ; in looking far and deep, 
 both into the visible and the intellectual 
 world, for those principles of consistency, 
 beauty, and harmony, which owe their de- 
 velopment to an almighty hand; and in 
 recognising the work of that hand in every |} 
 thing around and within us, from the sim- |} 
 plest object of sense, to the most sublime and 
 majestic source of contemplation. 
 
 The question is not, under which of these 
 forms mankind is most addicted to look for 
 happiness, but under which of these forms 
 the happiness there in found, is likely to be |} 
 most conducive to the cultivation and refine- |[ 
 ment of that part of his nature which is com- 
 mitted to him as a sacred trust, and will 
 have to be rendered up, either elevated or 
 debased, for eternity. I know that poetry 
 is not religion; and that a man may dwell 
 in a region of poetical ideas, yet far from his || 
 God: but we learn from the Holy Scrip- || 
 tures, whose whole language is that of poe- 
 try, as well as by the slightest experimental 
 knowledge of the subject, that poetry may 
 be intimately associated with religion, and 
 that, so far from weakening its practical in- || 
 fluence, it may be woven in with our familiar 
 duties, so as to beautify what would other- 
 wise be repulsive, to sweeten what is bitter, 
 and to elevate what we have been accus- 
 tomed to regard as mean or degraded. | 
 
 It is not thus with sordid or artificial life. |} 
 Poetry neither can, nor will dwell there? 
 The atmosphere is too dense, and those who 
 inhale it acquire a taste for its impurities, 
 upon the same principle as that on which 
 the victim of habits more gross and vicious | 
 learns to love the odour of the deleterious 
 bowl, because it is associated with the grati- 
 fication of his brutal appetites. 
 
 1 am far from wishing that all men were 
 
ee ee 
 
 ee ee ee ee ee 
 
 THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 
 
 53 
 
 poets; or that the practical and necessary 
 rules of education, should give place to the 
 lawless vagaries of fancy, or the impulse of 
 feelings uncontrolled: but I do wish that 
 these rules and the attention they require, 
 did not occupy the whole season of youth, 
 without leaving time then to feel that they 
 are essential. I do wish that men and wo- 
 men too, would sometimes pause in their 
 hurry after mere verbal knowledge, to think 
 for themselves; and turn away occasionally 
 from the pile of fresh books which every day 
 sees placed before them, to study that which 
 never was, and never can be written—the 
 wide field of nature ; not only as it lies spread 
 before their actual view, but as it expands in 
 their own minds, teaching them by the 
 gradual unfolding of the eternal principles 
 of truth, that we have faculties of the heart, 
 as well as of the head, and that we must 
 hereafter render an account of a moral as 
 well as of an intellectual nature. 
 
 How far my impressions in favor of a 
 country life, may arise from early habit and 
 association, lam not prepared to say; and 
 I must be candid enough to grant, that the 
 state of society in remote and isclated dis- 
 tricts, does not present an aspect at all calcu- 
 lated to support the idea that our moral facul- 
 ties are improved in proportion to the means 
 we enjoy of cultivating an acquaintance 
 with external nature; but the fact that this 
 opportunity alone is insufficient to produce 
 the effect, by no means proves, that in con- 
 junction with other advantages it is not pow- 
 erfully conducive to the end desired. In the 
 country, man may be as brutish, as stultified, 
 and as incapable of every gentle or sublime 
 emotion, as in the city he may be gross, sel- 
 fish and insensible to the happiness and 
 misery of others: but it is no more the fault 
 of nature when the eye has not been opened 
 to behold her beauties, than it is the fault of 
 the musician when his auditors are without 
 the sense of hearing. I speak of the enjoy- 
 ment which nature is capable of affording, 
 not of that which it. necessarily forces upon 
 man, whether he looks for it or not; nor 
 does the fact, that remote dwellers in the 
 country have amongst themselves a very 
 low standard of intellectual merit, prove any- 
 thing against my argument; since I believe 
 it may be asserted with confidence, that no 
 
 poet of eminence in his art, and but few in- 
 tellectual characters remarkable for the best 
 use of the highest endowments, ever lived, 
 who had not at some time or other of their 
 lives, studied nature for t! emselves, imbibed 
 strong impressions from their own observa- 
 tion of the external world, and from these 
 impressions drawn conclusions of the utmost 
 importance to society at large. 
 
 He whose mind is once deeply imbued 
 with poetic feeling, may afterwards enter 
 into the ordinary concerns of life, and even 
 engage in the active commerce of the world, 
 without losing his elevated character. It is 
 only when substituted for common sense, 
 that poetic feeling can be absurd or con- 
 temptible. Blended with our domestic oc- 
 cupations, its office is to soften, harmonize, 
 and refine; and carried along with us 
 through the more conspicuous duties of 
 social and public life, it is well calculated to 
 remind us, that there is a higher ambition 
 than that of accumulating wealth, and that 
 we have capabilities for intellectual happi- 
 ness, which may be freely and fully exer- 
 cised without interference with our aie? 
 interests. 
 
 It is not then by merely dwelling in the 
 country, that men become poetical; nor by 
 
 working their way by fair and honourable | 
 
 means, to pecuniary independence, that they 
 
 necessarily sacrifice the best part of their | 
 
 nature: though it must be confessed, that 
 the ordinary routine of city life, as it is gene- 
 rally conducted, has a tendency, to extin- 
 cuish, rather than excite poetic genius. The 
 principal reason why it does this, is obvious 
 to the candid observer, The mind as well 
 as the body is always in need of food, and 
 this necessity it naturally prefers to supply, 
 with the least possible expense of pain or 
 labour. If facts of great number and variety 
 are continually set before us, little attention 
 will be paid to principles ; because facts can 
 be received with no exertion, while princi- 
 ples must be investigated and examined, to 
 be in any degree understood. In towns, the 
 news of the day is eagerly inquired after, 
 and public journals, travellers, and frequent 
 meetings, furnish for the general demand a 
 constant supply of facts; while in the coun- 
 try even facts have often to be sought for 
 with considerable labour and industry, and 
 
54 
 
 los 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 | ean only be enjoyed, with long intervals be- 
 tween every fresh accession of intelligence. 
 Thus a real energetic mind, learns to con- 
 nect an immense number of ideas, with the 
 few facts which do transpire in the country ; 
 | but a mind of quiet and lethargic character, 
 | sinks into nothingness, and one of still lower 
 | grade, active only for loose or malicious 
 purposes, fills up the void in social commu- 
 | nion, with inferences falsely drawn, uncharit- 
 | able inuendos ingeniously thrown out, and 
 conclusions too frequently both injurious and 
 1 unjust. 3 
 I have said that a great deal may be made 
 | of the few facts which do transpire in the 
 country. “Impossible!” exclaims the pre- 
 cocious youth, learned alone in civic lore. 
 “You only hear the news once a week, and 
 as to your facts, what are they? The re- 
 | turn of the swallow, seedtime, and harvest, 
 | a shower of rain, or a thunder storm; and 
 | what is all this to the community at large ?” 
 | I answer, it isa great deal to those indivi- 
 ‘| duals who choose to reflect. It is true we 
 || are sometimes a week later than you, in 
 | learning what have been the movements of 
 a certain foreign army, that a cabinet minis- 
 ter has been dismissed, and that an elope- 
 ment has taken place in high life. There 
 are even facts similar to these, which occur 
 without ever reaching us at all, which is a 
 proof that they are of as little importance to 
 || us, as the building of our rooks, the scatter- 
 | ing of our grain, or the reaping of our corn 
 ;; to you. You snatch up the Morning Post, 
 and read of this interesting elopement; we 
 learn with as much interest that the kite has 
 | seized our favourite dove. You read thata 
 once popular statesman has been over- 
 thrown, by the strength of opposing party ; 
 we hear that a former servant of our own, 
 has been dismissed from his place. You 
 read of the dismemberment of Poland; we 
 are startled with the intelligence, a few 
 hours earlier, that the fox has been making 
 '| dreadful ravages amongst our poultry. 
 What follows? Our conclusions are at 
 least as philosophical as yours, and if you 
 take time to reflect, it is most probable they 
 will both amount to this—that the weak 
 ‘| must be the victims of the strong, all the 
 
 5 e,e mee 
 world over; that propensities to rapine, 
 
 — 
 
 —— 
 
 ee Ee 
 
 | cruelty, and wrong, are permitted to deface | 
 
 the glory of the earth, for reasons which 
 neither you nor we can understand; and 
 that man, when he boasts too proudly of his 
 superiority in the creation, forgets that in 
 the most malignant and injurious attribute 
 of the brute he is at least his equal. 
 
 And then our returning swallows, our 
 seedtime, and harvest, our rains and thun- 
 der storms, of which you think so little; why 
 they supply us with inexhaustible food for 
 deep anxiety, earnest calculation, ardent 
 hope, and trembling fear; and ‘sometimes 
 with gratitude as warm as if the success 
 which crowned our labours, was visibly and 
 palpably bestowed immediately by the hand 
 of the Giver of all good. We hail the birds 
 of spring, as the blessed messengers of hope 
 —the sced is scattered in faith—the harvest 
 is reaped in joy—the rains descend, and-we 
 give thanks for the opening of those foun- 
 tains, whose source, and whose seal is above 
 —the thunders roll, and we bow before the 
 terrors of the Almighty. 
 
 Man may, unquestionably, enjoy the same 
 sensations in the city. Surrounded by the 
 work of human hands, he may look up and 
 bless the power which bestowed such facul- 
 ties and means upon his creatures; but it 
 is a fact which few will pretend to deny, 
 that the more the mind is interested and oc- 
 cupied with artificial things, the more it is 
 carried away from the truth that is in nature ; 
 and the greater the number of objects which 
 
 intervene between us and the great First | 
 
 Cause of all, the less fixed and reverential 
 are our views of heaven. We know by rea- 
 
 soning that God is no more present in the | 
 rolling thunder than in the social meeting, | 
 or the secret thought; but our impressions |) 
 
 are often stronger and deeper than our rea- 
 soning: and when we stand alone in the si- 
 Jent night, and look up to the starry heavens ; 
 
 when we watch the play of the lightning, or || 
 listen to the roaring blast; when we gaze || 
 
 upon the wide expanse of heaving ocean, or 
 on the peaceful bosom of the lake, slumber- 
 ing in its mountain cradle at the feet of its 
 majestic guardians, whose brows are in the 
 
 sky, mantled with clouds, or crowned with |, 
 
 golden glory; when we watch the silvery 
 
 fall of summer’s evening dew, the sunset | 
 
 in the west, or the moon’s uprising over the | 
 
 eastern hills, we naturally look upon these in- | 
 
 \ 
 
 Fae id pce narcnreechanesccenaeas aasctaave sty 2-0) 
 
- P si e 
 i a dA i pcp Te a A toe tet aa ill Dn ta tantra et appsen g 
 a ne 
 
 THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 
 
 teresting phenomena as immediately influ- 
 enced by an omnipotent hand, and advancing 
 one step farther, penetrate within the veil, 
 and find ourselves alone with God. 
 
 With regard to the mere amusements of 
 the country, it is very natural for townspeo- 
 ple—such as are accustomed to games of 
 skill and hazard—to dress-parties, plays, 
 and concerts, to ask in what they can possi- 
 bly consist. Let us in the first place observe 
 a group of children at play beneath the 
 flowery hawthorn, their cheeks suffused with 
 the rosy hue of health, and their bright eyes 
 sparkling with that inward joy which natu- 
 rally animates the infant mind. Nobody 
 can tell what they are playing at—they do 
 not know themselves. They have no names 
 or set rules by which their gambols are re- 
 strained ; but when they start off from their 
 sequestered retreat, bounding over the grass 
 like young fawns, you see at once that 
 it is the fresh air, the glowing health, and 
 above all, the glorious liberty of the country 
 which constitutes their enjoyment. Then 
 they have an intimate and familiar acquaint- 
 ance with every thing around them, with 
 the woods and the winding paths, the song 
 of the different birds, and the course of the 
 streams that come down from the hills. Up- 
 on all or most of these the seasons have con- 
 siderable influence, and the welcome ap- 
 pearance of spring, the withering of autumn, 
 the heat of summer, and the winter’s snow, 
 have trains of association in the youthful 
 mind, which supply them with a perpetual 
 source of amusement, blended with instruc- 
 tion. Added to which, they not unfrequent- 
 ly have the care of domestic animals, and 
 feel almost ‘as much interest in their fate as 
 in that of their fellow-creatures. ‘They soon 
 learn that their kindness allures, and that 
 their rebukes repel. This makes them ob- 
 
 “servant of the happiness and the misery of 
 
 the creatures committed to their charge, and 
 lays the foundation of’ social and benevolent 
 feelings, which continue with them through 
 the rest of theirlives. As the mind acquires 
 strength and begins to investigate, what a 
 field of inquiry then lies before them—the 
 fall of the rains—the density of the atmos- 
 phere—the gathering of clouds—the fertility 
 of the earth—the principles of vegetation 
 
 and vitality—the production of flowers and 
 fruits—the source of streams—the planetary 
 system—chemical agency—and the study of 
 electricity, that mighty and mysterious pow- 
 er, which operates through earth and air 
 
 ful and sublime phenomena in nature. 
 
 Are these amusements of a kind to be | 
 neglected or contemned by a rational and in- || 
 
 tellectual being? Are they not rather such 
 
 as we ought to seek every possible means | 
 
 of rendering familiar and attractive to the 
 youthful mind? And surely there can be 
 
 no means more likely than to retire some- || 
 
 times within the bosom of nature, where the 
 development of Almighty power is obvious 
 above, around, and beneath us. 
 
 But above almost all other peculiarities 
 belonging to a country life, 1 would place 
 that homefeeling which has the power 
 
 through the whole course of our lives to |} 
 
 bring back the wandering affections, and 
 centre them in one point of space—one point 
 of importance, to a very limited portion of 
 the community, but a portion consisting of 
 our nearest and dearest connexions. In 
 towns there can be comparatively little of 
 this feeling. A man steps out of his door 
 immediately upon common ground. The 
 house he lives in is precisely like his neigh- 
 bour’s, one of a number which he returns to 
 without attachment, and leaves without re- 
 gret. But inthe country, not only the grass 
 we tread on, the paths, the trees, the birds 
 that sing above our heads, and the flowers 
 that bloom beneath our feet, but the very 
 atmosphere around us, seem to be our own. 
 There is a feeling of possession in our fields, 
 
 our gardens, and our home, which nothing 
 
 but a cruel separation can destroy; and 
 when absent, far away upon the deep sea, 
 travelling in foreign lands, or driven from 
 that home for ever, we pine to trace again 
 the familiar walks, and wonder whether the 
 woods and the green lawn are looking the 
 
 same as when they received our last fare- | 
 
 well. In the haunts of busy life, the music 
 of our native streams comes murmuring 
 again upon our ear; we pause beneath the 
 cage of the prisoned bird, because its voice 
 
 is the same as that which cheered our infan- |} 
 
 55 | 
 
 ne  O 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 in a manner yet but partially understood, || 
 though producing some of the most wonder- |} 
 
Sonat ar nS RN TRIDSTrpreenenney meeneeaereeeeereememecerees cree eee re a ee 
 
 ee eee a 
 
 ee ee Pe ee SO ne 
 
 56 
 
 cy; and we love the flowers of a distant 
 country when they resemble those which 
 bloomed in our own. 
 
 There are other wanderers besides those 
 who stray through foreign realms—wander- 
 ers from the ways of God. Perchance we 
 have spurned the restrictions of parental 
 authority, and cast away the early visita- 
 tions of a holier love; but the homefeeling 
 which neither change of place nor character 
 can banish from our bosoms, renews the 
 memory of our social ties, and draws us 
 back to the deserted hearth. Along with 
 that memory, associated with the soothing 
 of affection which we have lived to want, 
 and the wisdom of sage counsel which ex- 
 perience has proved true, the tide of convic- 
 tion rushes in upon the burdened heart, and 
 
 the prodigal rousing himself from the stupor 
 
 of despair, exclaims, “I will arise and go to 
 my father !” 
 
 It is difficult for those whose hearts and 
 homes are in the city, fully to appreciate the 
 enjoyment arising {ror rural scenery ; but 
 there are others whose homes are there, yet 
 whose hearts are not wholly absorbed in city 
 news, and scenes, and customs. These 
 have probably, at some time or other of their 
 lives, known what it was, not merely to 
 make an excursion to Richmond, Hamp- 
 stead; or Windsor, but to go far away into 
 the country, amongst the hills, and the val- 
 leys, where the rattling of wheels, or the 
 crack of the coachman’s whip, was never 
 heard. What, let me ask, were their sensa- 
 tions, as they rose higher and higher up the 
 side of the mountain, at every step taking in 
 a wider view of the landscape, until it lay 
 beneath them like a garden, in which the 
 ancient woods were fairy groves, and the 
 rivers threads of silver, now seen, now lost, 
 but never heard, even in their floods and 
 falls, at that far height. What are the feel- 
 ings of the traveller, when standing on the 
 topmast ridge, a mere speck in that stupen- 
 dous solitude, while the fresh breezes of an 
 unknown atmosphere sweep past him, and 
 he muses upon the past, and feels the im- 
 pressive truth, that not only the firm rock on 
 which he stands, but the ‘surrounding hills, 
 with their beetling brows, and rugged pin- 
 nacles, and hollow caves, are the same as 
 on that great day when the waters of the 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 deluge disappeared from the face of the 
 earth—that the art of man is impotent 
 against the imperishable fabric upon which 
 he rests—that the ploughshare never has 
 been there—nor track of wandering beast, 
 nor nest of soaring bird, nor hum of laden 
 bee—nothing but the winds, the rolling 
 clouds, the lightning and thunder, those tre- 
 mendous agents of eternal Power, before 
 whom the boasted sovereign of creation lies 
 trembling in the dust. 
 
 What are his feelings when he reflects 
 that such as this new and mighty world 
 appears to him, such it will remain when he 
 and his, with their ambitious hopes and en- 
 vied honours, are buried and forgotten! 
 These are sensations peculiar to the situa- 
 tion, which words are inadequate to describe. 
 Too deep for utterance, too powerful for 
 language, they teach a wisdom more pro- 
 found than is to be acquired in all the 
 schools of man’s devise. I would ask again, 
 how the wanderer on the mountain’s. sum- 
 
 mit has looked back to the narrow sphere | 
 of social life which he has been wont to call | 
 
 the world? Its laws, conventional but arbi- 
 
 trary, by which his past conduct has been | 
 
 influenced, what are they here? Scarcely 
 more important than those which regulate 
 the movements of a community of insects, 
 confined within the limits of a little mound 
 of earth. Where now is the tremendous 
 
 and potent voice of public opinion, resound- |} 
 
 ing in authoritative tones from house to 
 house, from heart to heart? Upon the 
 mountain’s brow, beneath the blue arch of 
 heaven, it is silent, lost, and forgotten. 
 
 Where are the toils, the anxieties, the heart- | 
 
 aches, which consume the vitality of our ex- 
 istence, in the lower region of our sordid 
 and selfish avocations? Already they have 
 assumed a different character ; and, despis- 
 ing the nothingness—the worse than no- 
 thingness of their ultimate end, he resolves 
 to give them to the winds, and henceforth 
 to live for some more exalted and noble 
 purpose. 
 
 There is no danger that man should feel 
 himself too little, or his Maker too great. 
 If there were, he would do well to confine 
 
 himself to a sphere, in which nothing is so | 
 
 obvious as the operation of man’s ingenuity 
 and power. But since we are all too much 
 
THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 
 
 engaged in the strife, and the bustle, and 
 the eagerness which is necessary to insure 
 an average of material comforts; since indi- 
 viduality of character is too much sacrificed 
 to the arbitrary rules of polished life; since 
 by associating exclusively with man in an 
 artificial state of being, the generous too 
 frequently become selfish, the gentle hard- 
 
 ened, and the noble debased: it is good to 
 
 shake off occasionally the unnatural bondage 
 by which the aspiring spirit is kept down, 
 to go forth into the woods and the wilds, 
 and to feel, though but for a day or an hour, 
 that man was born for something better 
 than to be the slave of his own bodily wants. 
 Bach time that we experience this real in- 
 dependence of mind, we ascend one step 
 higher in the scale of moral existence ; and 
 if circumstance or dire necessity should pre- 
 vent the frequent recurrence of such feel- 
 ings, we may at least secure a solid and 
 
 | lasting good, by learning in this way to 
 
 appreciate the mental elevation of others. 
 I am not, even on this subject, so blind an 
 
 | enthusiast, as to attempt to support my ar- 
 | gument in favour of rural life on the ground 
 | of the greater appearance of vice in the 
 | town than in the country; because I am 
 | one of those who believe that the vacancy 
 | of mind, the ‘gross bodily existence, the 
 | moral apathy, which too frequently prevail 
 | amongst persons who lead an isolated life, 
 
 are quite as much at variance with the 
 Divine law, as vices which are more obvious, 
 and which consequently fall under the cogni- 
 zance of human statutes. If amongst con- 
 gregated multitudes we are shocked to find so 
 much of riotous indulgence, treachery, out- 
 rage, and crime of every description, we are, 
 on the other hand, cheered with the earnest 
 zeal, the perseverance, the disinterestedness, 
 which are brought into exercise to counter- 
 act these evils. While in the country, 
 where men sit still and wonder alike at both 
 extremes, the average of moral good is cer- 
 tainly not higher, because vice being less 
 
 | obvious, the fear of its fatal consequences 
 | does not stimulate to those meritorious ex- 
 ! ertions which proceed from true Christian 
 
 love. The country may be abused as well 
 as the town; and since the inhabitants of 
 both, for the most part, fall into their stations 
 from circumstances rather than inclination, 
 
 under the same roof, thrown entirely upon aay 
 
 57 
 
 or if from inclination, settle themselves at a | 
 time of life when they are incapable of 
 judging of the privileges peculiar to either, 
 it is not to be supposed that they will always | 
 make the best use of the advantages around | 
 them; and those which abound in great 
 number and variety in the country, certainly 
 add weight to the moral culpability of such |} 
 individuals as live stupidly beneath the open || 
 sky, in the midst of fields, and woods, and |} 
 gardens, without exhibiting more mental || 
 energy than is displayed by their own flocks || 
 and herds. brhine 
 
 After remarking with regret upon the 
 inertness and apathy of disposition too ob- || 
 vious in the country, we must in common 
 justice observe, that where there does exist 
 sufficient mental energy for the display of | 
 peculiar traits of character, such traits have |} 
 a degree of strength and originality seldom | 
 found amongst the inhabitants of the city, 
 where social institutions have a tendency to 
 bring individuals together upon common 
 terms, and thus to render them more like 
 each other; and where the frequent contact 
 of beings similarly circumstanced rubs off 
 their eccentricities, and wears them down 
 to the level of ordinary men. 
 
 The friendships and acquaintances of the 
 country are formed upon a system essentially | 
 different from that which holds so¢iety to- || 
 gether in more compact and congregated || 
 masses. The ordinary style of visiting in 
 towns does little towards making people ac- 
 quainted with each other. Commonplace |} 
 remarks upon general topics—-remarks which || 
 derive no distinctive character from the lips || 
 which utter them, fill up the weary hours | 
 of each succeeding visit; while the same 
 education, and the same style of living, are 
 observable in every different set, of which | 
 each individual is but a part—separate but 
 not distinct. But in the country, where peo- 
 ple meet more casually, and with less of 
 common purpose and feeling, where they 
 often spend a considerable time together 
 
 —— < 
 
 a 
 their own resources, and unacquainted with || 
 any general or prevailing topic of conversa- 
 
 tion, they necessarily become more inti- 
 mately acquainted with each other’s natural | 
 character, with their individual bias of dis- |! 
 position, and peculiar trains of thought. | 
 | 
 
ee 3 
 
 a a SS 2 
 hme — te 
 
 re nen ene Seaman 
 
 58 
 
 THE POETRY OF 
 
 Dwelling apart from the tide of public 
 opinion, they know nothing~ of its influence 
 or power, and having established their own 
 opinions, formed for themselves from their 
 personal observation, their sentiments and re- 
 marks are characterised by their originality, 
 and their affections by their depth. They 
 are in fact, though less polished, less artifi- 
 cial, and less learned in mere facts than 
 their brethren and sisters of the city, infi- 
 nitely more poetical, because their expres- 
 sions convey more meaning, their sentiments 
 are more genuine, and their feelings more 
 fresh from the heart. 
 
 In speaking of the intimate knowledge of 
 individual character which rural life affords 
 abundant opportunities of obtaining, we 
 must not omit to mention the sum of happi- 
 ness derived from this knowledge when it ex- 
 
 tends amongst our domestics, labourers, and 
 
 dependent poor. The master of a family in 
 the country resembles a little feudal lord, and 
 if he makes a generous use of his authority, 
 may be served as faithfully, and obeyed as 
 implicitly through love, as any old English 
 baron ever was through fear. The agricul- 
 tural labourer becomes attached to the soil 
 which he cultivates. He feels as if he had 
 a property in the fields of his master, and 
 this feeling extends not only to the produce 
 of his toil, but, through maay links of natural 
 connection, to the interest of his master and 
 the general good of his family ; while on the 
 other hand, his own wants and afflictions, 
 and those of his wife and children, are made 
 known through the kind visitations of charity, 
 and soothed and relieved, with a familiarity 
 and unison of feeling which goes almost as 
 far as almsgiving towards alleviating the 
 distresses of the poor. There can be no dis- 
 trust between families that have dwelt to- 
 gether upon the same soil, in the mutual re- 
 lation of master and servant, from genera- 
 tion to generation. Both parties are inti- 
 mately acquainted with the characters they 
 have to deal with, and each esteeming the 
 
 other’s worth, can look upon their little | her attendant nymphs. 
 
 peculiarities with kindness, and even with 
 affection; while the mutual confidence, good 
 will, and clear understanding which subsist 
 between them, constitute a sure foundation 
 for substantial and lasting comfort. 
 
 These advantages, peculiar to rural life, 
 
 rn 
 
 | 
 
 may appear almost too homely and common- 
 place to be admitted under the character of 
 poetical; but in their relation to the social 
 affections, and to the principles of happiness 
 —that happiness which is rational, intellec- 
 tual, and moral, they are in themselves 
 highly poetical, and must often be recurred 
 to with tenderness and interest ; at the same 
 time that they supply the bard with subjects 
 of pathos and pictures of delight. 
 
 LIFE. | . 
 
 Perhaps it may better please the fanciful |! 
 
 reader to turn to themes of a more imagin- 
 ary and unsubstantial nature, of which we 
 find an endless variety in the associations 
 afforded by rural habits, pursuits, and scenes. 
 We have observed in the former part of this 
 work, that scarcely a beast, a bird, a tree, 
 a flower, or any other visible object exists, 
 without an ideal as wellas areal character ; 
 but we have not yet entered upon that re- 
 gion of poetic thought which is peopled with 
 the imaginary beings of heathen supersti- 
 tion, and which to the mind that is deeply 
 impressed with the beautiful imagery of 
 classic lore, is perpetually associated with ru- 
 ral scenery. No sooner are the gates of fan- 
 cy opened for the admission of these ethereal 
 beings, than we behold them gliding in upon 
 our favorite haunts, now floating upon the 
 sea of air, dancing in the sunbeams, or re- 
 posing upon beds of violets ; and then rush- 
 ing forth upon the destructive elements, 
 riding on the crested waves, or directing the 
 bolts of death. 
 Wandering in our fields and gardens, 
 Flora, with hx» ever-blooming cheek and 
 coronet of unfading flowers, becomes our 
 sweet companion, while with her ambrosial 
 pencil, dipped in the hues of heaven, she 
 tints the velvet leaves of the rose, scatters 
 perfume over the snowy bosom of the lily, 
 
 or turns in playful tenderness to meet the |; 
 smiles of her wayward and wandering lover, | 
 
 the sportive and uncertain Zephyrus. We 
 penetrate into the depth of the forest, and 
 
 the vestal Huntress flits across our path with }, 
 While seated under | 
 
 the cool shadow of the leafy trees, or stoop- 
 ing over the margin of the crystal stream, 
 the Dryads bind their flowing hair. The 
 harvest smiles before us with the glad pro- 
 
 mise of the waning year, and joyfully the yel- | 
 
 low grain is gathered in; but we see the 
 
Sea pein tig ease ore ee 
 
 at ea ent, pe ecatenee nraenee eee are aan 
 
 ee 
 
 eee Sel i Siaeee..i=2 
 
 i 
 
 — 
 
 ee Eee ae 
 
 | 
 
 THE POETRY OF RURAL LIFE. 
 
 | deity of rural plenty, with her unextinguish- 
 able torch and crown of golden ears, wan- 
 dering from field to field, heart-stricken, and 
 alone; too mortal in her sufferings—too 
 desolate in her divinity. We hail the purple 
 morning, Aurora rises in her rosy car, driv- 
 ing her snowy steeds over the cloud-capped 
 mountains, separating the hills from their 
 misty canopy, and scattering flowers and dew 
 over her fresh untrodden pathway through 
 the verdant valleys. We turn to the glori- 
 ous sun as he rises from his couch of golden 
 waves, and ask the inspiration of Apollo for 
 the verse or for the lyre. We sail upon the 
 ruffled sea, where the Nereides, sporting 
 with the dolphins, lave their shining hair ; 
 or where Neptune, striking his trident on the 
 foaming waters, bids the deep be still. We 
 hear the bellowing of the stormy blast, and 
 call on AXolus to spare us; or we listen to 
 the thunder as it rolls above our heads, echo- 
 ing from shore to shore, and tremble lest the 
 forked lightning should burst forth from the 
 sovereign hand of Jove. 
 
 Fanciful as these associations are, (almost 
 too fanciful to afford us any real enjoyment,) 
 they unquestionably supply the poet with 
 images of beauty not to be found in real 
 life; and they have also an important claim 
 upon our consideration, from the place they 
 occupy both in ancient and modern litera- 
 ture; as well as from the effect which this 
 system of imperfect and dangerous theology 
 
 produced, in promoting the refinements of 
 
 art, and softening the habits and feelings of 
 a barbarous people. 
 
 It is pleasant to turn from such visionary 
 sources of gratification to those which are 
 more tangible and true—to the smypathy 
 which every feeling mind believes it possi- 
 ble to experience in nature. There is no 
 state of feeling to which we may not find 
 something in the elements, or in the natural 
 world, so nearly corresponding, as to give us 
 the idea of companionship in our joys and 
 sorrows. ‘True, it would be more congenial 
 to our wishes, agul we find this companion- 
 ship amongst our fellow-creatures ; but who 
 has not asked for it in vain? and turning to 
 the woods, and the winds, and the blue skies, 
 has not believed for a moment there was 
 more sympathy in them than in the heart of 
 man. 
 
 There is scarcely any human being so 
 selfish as to wish to feed upon joy alone: 
 and what a privilege it 1s, separated from 
 those who could rejoice wih us, that we can 
 share our happiness with nature! The soar- 
 ing lark, the bounding deer, and the sportive 
 lamb, aaiiuced with a joy (ie ours, become 
 our brethieil and our sisters ; while the 
 same light buoyant spirit that fills our bo- 
 soms, smiles upon us from the shining hea- 
 vens, glows beneath us in the fruitful earth, 
 or whispers around us in the fresh glad oales 
 of spring. But, under the pressure of grief; 
 this sympathy is most perceptible and most 
 availing, because sorrow has a greater ten- 
 dency thay joy. to excite the imazination, 
 and thus it multiplies its own associations by 
 identifying itself with every thing that wears 
 the slightest shadow of gloom. 
 
 I will not say that the world in general is 
 more productive of images of sadness than 
 of pleasure; but from the misuse of our own 
 faculties, and the consequent tendency of 
 our own minds, we are more apt to look for 
 such amongst the objects around us; and 
 thus in our daily observation, passing over 
 what is lovely, and genial, and benizn, we 
 fix our minds upon the desolating floods, the 
 anticipated storm, the early blight, the can- 
 kered blossom, the faded leaf, the broken 
 bough, or the premature decay of autumn 
 fruit. This, however, is no fiult of nature’s, 
 but our own; nor does it prove avything 
 against the argument, that, whether liappy 
 or miserable, we may find a responding 
 voice in nature, to echo back our gladness, 
 and to answer to our sighs; that every feel- 
 ing of which we are capable, in its purest 
 and least vitiated state, may meet with simili- 
 tude, and companionship, and association in 
 the natural world; and above all, that he 
 who desires to rise out of the low cares of 
 artificial life, whose soul aspires above the 
 gross elements of mere bodily existence, and 
 whose highest ambition is to render up that 
 soul, purified rather than polluted, may find 
 in nature a congenial, faithful, and untiring 
 friend. 
 
 I cannot better conclude tliese remarks, 
 than by quoting a passage from the writings 
 of one, who possessed the enviable art of 
 combining science with sublimity, and philo- 
 sophy with poetic feeling. 
 
 — Oe ———— eeeeeeeeSeSGSGE 
 I BEE IESE STE DIET ———— ees Oo e——T——————— 
 Diy r 
 
 | 
 
 ee 8 A ET Nees ee a eee Ores ess 
 
 eee 
 
+/ 60 
 
 PAIS or 
 
 7 7 ~ - ~~ ~ —— - — = — - a= - = ~ nr i i ee ee vers 
 i Ee a a a ET ST SS i ORT EP a EE PLT TRIE AT ATE =e 
 
 — 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 “Nature,” says Sir Humphry Davy, 
 “never deceives us; the rocks, the moun- 
 
 | tains, the streams, always speak the same 
 
 language ; a shower of snow may bide the 
 verdant woods in spring, a thunder storm 
 may render the blue limpid streams foul and 
 turbulent; but these effects are rare and 
 transient—in a few hours, or at least days, 
 all the sources of beauty are renovated. 
 And nature affords no continued trains of 
 misfortunes and miseries, such as depend 
 upon the constitution of humanity, no hopes 
 for ever blighted in the bud, no beings full 
 of life, beauty, and promise, taken from us 
 
 |.in the prime of youth. Her fruits are all 
 | balmy, bright, and sweet; she afiords none 
 | of those blighted ones so common in the life 
 
 of man, aid so like the fabled apples of the 
 Dead Sea, fresh and beautiful to the sight, 
 but when tasted, full of bitterness and ashes.” 
 
 eS 
 
 THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 
 
 In turning our attention to the poetry of 
 pariating, 
 forms the first connecting link between the 
 physical and the iateilectual world. So far 
 as painting is a faithful representation of ex- 
 ternal nature, it belongs to the sphere of the 
 senses; but as it holds intimate connection 
 with some of the noblest efforts and attec- 
 tions of the human mind, it is scarcely infe- 
 rior to the art of poetry itself, in the value it 
 derives from the diffusion of poetic feeling, 
 through the countless varieties of style and 
 character, in which it is exhibited to man- 
 kind. | 
 The poetry of painting is perhaps more 
 felt, and less understood, than that of any 
 other subject to which we can apply our 
 thoughts; nor is it easy to define what is the 
 nature of the charm by which we are fasci- 
 nated on beholiding a picture in perfect ac- 
 cordance with our taste, especially as this 
 taste varies so much in different individuals, 
 and even in the same becomes more select 
 in its gratifications, in proportion as it is 
 more cultivated and refined. 
 
 That the poetry of painting is not mainly 
 dependent upon the choice of subjects is 
 clear, from the most simple and familiar 
 
 we enter upon a subject which. 
 
 sccnes being rendered poetically beautiful 
 by the pencil of an able artist ; yet there are 
 lines of demarcation beyond which even 
 genius dare not venture, and which cannot 
 be transgressed without the most glaring 
 violation of good taste. It is where the as- 
 sociations are such as are not only vulgar in 
 themselves, but totally destitute of any claim 
 upon the feelings or affections of the mind. 
 Nor is it in the representation of scenes the 
 most gross and degraded (though such do 
 little credit to the taste of the painter) ; yet 
 in them the violent passions which agitate 
 our nature are frequently most powerfully || 
 and strikingly exhibited. Look, for exam- 
 ple, upon a representation of the lowest stage |; 
 of intoxication, and surely the pencil of the 
 painter can pourtray no subject more loath- 
 some and repulsive; yet even here the asso- 
 ciations are not necessarily such as are alto- 
 gether debarred from connection with refined 
 intellectual speculations. In contemplating 
 such a picture, we think immediately of the 
 high capabilities of man, and of the danger- 
 ous profanation and abuse of his natural 
 powers, of the spotless infancy of the being 
 before us, the love that watched over his 
 youth, the hopes that were centered in his 
 manhood, and that now lie grovelling be- 
 neath him in his fall. This class of subjects 
 then is not entirely beyond the limits of the 
 field of poetry, though it certainly requires 
 some stretch of fancy to prove them to be 
 within it; yet there is another class so de- 
 cidedly and irrevocably excluded, that it 
 may not be uninteresting to mark the differ- 
 ence between them, and of these a single in- 
 stance will be sufficient. 
 
 I remember seeing in an exhibition of 
 paintings at Manchester, a picture of a huge 
 red brick cotton-mill, so well executed, and 
 so appropriately placed, as to look very 
 handsome in its way; and no doubt that 
 way was all-sufficient to the owner, who had 
 a train of sweet and pleasant local associa- 
 tions with this picture, enjoyed snugly to 
 himself, which if they were not poetical, had 
 most probably a weightier charm, and one 
 which he would not have exchanged for the. 
 lyre of Apollo. The surface of the picture 
 
 was almost entirely covered with the brick 
 building, and by its side was the all impor- 
 tant engine-house, with tall spiral chimney 
 
pointing to the sky, but alas! with no hea- 
 venward purpose. Jt was the picture of a 
 manufactory, and nothing more—most pro- 
 bably the owner wanted nothing more. 
 There was not, as there might have been, 
 a broken foreground, denoting the rugged 
 
 | course of one of those polluted streams 
 | which murmur on (for what can still the 
 
 voice of nature?) with the same melody as 
 in its native woods, before the click of rat- 
 tling machinery broke in upon the harmony 
 of man’s existence. There was no pale girl, 
 with darkened brow and dejected form, re- 
 turning to her most unnatural labours, a liv- 
 ing and daily sacrifice to the triumphs of 
 national prosperity ; there was not even that 
 deep and turbid stream, that dense and per- 
 petually rising fountain of thick smoke, burst- 
 ing, as if with indignation, from the gross 
 
 ' confines of its narrow birthplace, first dart- 
 
 ing upwards in one compact and sable pil- 
 lar, as if from the crater of a volcano, and 
 then folding and unfolding its dark volume, 
 until, assuming a more ethereal character, 
 it floats away upon the gale, and ambitious 
 of a higher union, mingles at last with the 
 vapours that sail alone the purer regions of 
 the sky—no, there was nothing in this pic- 
 ture but a cotton-mill; and the wealthy 
 owner, with a praiseworthy feeling of grati- 
 tude and respect for the origin of his pros- 
 perity and distinction in the world, had done 
 his best to immortalize the object that was 
 not only the most important, but the dearest 
 to him on earth. Yet notwithstanding this 
 was, in the opinion of at least one individual, 
 a picture of great merit, it was unquestion- 
 ably of that class to which no single poetical 
 idea could by any possibility be attached. 
 It is true that such a building as was here 
 represented, need not be without its intellec- 
 tual associations. It might give rise to some 
 of the most profound speculations relative to 
 trade, commerce, and the wealth of nations; 
 all that I maintain is, that this picture could 
 not in any way call forth the passions or 
 affections of our nature, or awaken those 
 emotions of the soul which constitute the 
 very essence of poetry. _ 
 
 In order to render the poetry of painting 
 a subject more tractable in an unskilful and 
 inexperienced hand, it will be necessary to 
 consider it under its three different cha- 
 
 THE POETRY 
 
 RASS eo ES Se StS A Se a BRS a eR ee a NC RR a TS EE een SS 
 
 which she has paid the highest price and 
 
 OF PAINTING. 
 
 racters—portrait, landscape, and historical 
 painting. Of these three, portrait painting 
 is decidedly the least calculated for the dis- 
 play of poetical feeling, not only because it 
 is generally practised under the arbitrary 
 will of those who possess neither taste nor 
 understanding in the fine arts, but because 
 there are so few subjects really wortliy in 
 themselves, and these few are too frequent- 
 ly beyond the reach of the artist; while the 
 rubicund and wealthy citizen, having grown 
 sleek upon turtle soup, after retiring with lis 
 rosy consort to their Belle Vue, or Prospect 
 Cottage, in the suburbs of the town, deems 
 it a suitable and gratifying appropriation of 
 some portion of his hard-earned wealth, to 
 employ one of the first artists of the day in 
 making duplicates of forms, which a full- 
 sized canvas is scarcely wide enouch to con- 
 tain, and faces, in which the expression of 
 cent. per cent., and the distinctions of white 
 and brown sauce, are the only visible cha- 
 racteristics. 
 
 While the painter is at work, sacrificing 
 allthat is noble in his art to the sad necessi- 
 ty for sordid gain, the gentleman insists up- 
 on a blue coat and buff waist-coat. but above 
 all, upon a gold headed cane, which neces- 
 sarily mars the picture with a bright yellow 
 spot full in the centre. This however isa 
 trifle by comparison, for the buttons help to 
 carry off the glare of the gold, and the artist 
 revenges himself by making the hand ap- 
 proximate to the same colour. It is in at- 
 tempting to delineate the august person of 
 the lady, that his skill and his taste are put 
 to the severest test. With consternation in 
 his countenance, he eyes the subject before 
 him, and in the first agony of despair, que- 
 ries within himself whether he cannot really 
 afford to lose the offered reward. He ven- 
 tures to remonstrate with great delicacy on 
 some particular portions of the dress. Put 
 the lady is inexorable. It is a dress for 
 
 must look well. Money rules the day and 
 the painter, covering his palette with double 
 portions of red and yellow, commences with 
 his task. Upon the head of the fair sitter is 
 a pink turban, interwoven with a massive 
 gold chain, surmounting a profusion of flaxen 
 ringlets, in the midst of which twinkle out 
 two small blue eyes, faintly shaded by thin 
 
 ——@—— 
 
 1 
 
|| 62 
 
 ——— 
 
 eyelashes of the palest yellow, while cheeks 
 
 | that might vie with the deepest peony, and 
 
 Se RN Se SNe ee ey 
 
 Se SSS SSS ee ee EE 
 
 —<—<—<——————— EEE 
 
 a figure upon which is stretched, almost 
 without a fold, a brilliant orange dress of 
 
 | costly silk, make up the rest of the picture. 
 
 It is apon the same principle, and with 
 similar restrictions, that portrait painting is 
 generally practised in the present day. 
 But let the painter rule his subject, and the 
 case will be widely different. He who is 
 worthy of his art sees at once what are its 
 capabilities. His imagination immediately 
 places the object before ‘him in some appro- 
 priate situation. He assigns to it a charac- 
 ter of which it may be wholly unconscious— 
 one to which it was by nature peculiarly 
 adapted, though circumstances may have 
 consigned it-to a totally different destiny. 
 
 Perhaps there is no class of pictures in 
 which the painter’s waat of taste is more 
 frequently displayed, than in the portraits 
 of children. We see them standing like 
 wooden images, holding in one hand an 
 orange never meant to be eaten, or flowers 
 which it is evident they have not gathered ; 
 their hair smoothly combed, their frocks un- 
 ruffled, and their blue morocco slippers un- 
 sullied by the dust of the earth. In short 
 they are always dressed in their best to be 
 painted, and the mother is often as solicitous 
 about the pink sash, as about the likeness. 
 The subject is unquestionably one of great 
 difficulty, because the beauty of childhood 
 consisting chiefly in the light easy move- 
 ment of the playful limbs, it is almost impos- 
 sible to make a child perfectly natural when 
 at rest, and not sleeping; and it is here that 
 the skill of the able artist is exercised in 
 carrying on our thoughts to what the child 
 will the next moment be doing. If he does 
 not place in its hand a bunch of flowers, he 
 throws into his picture a vivid atmosphere, 
 in which we are sure that flowers are grow- 
 ing; and by slightly ruffling the fair hair, 
 letting loose the folds of the dress, quicken- 
 ing the expression of the eye, and giving a 
 playfulness to the almost open lips, an idea 
 of life and motion is conveyed, and we are 
 deluded into the belief that the very next 
 moment the child will start off in pursuit of 
 the butterfly, and that he will bring home 
 with him a handful of flowers gathered from 
 tie gorgeous carpet of nature, or a wounded 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 eave 
 
 bird found in his woodland rambles, to place 
 on the maternal bosom, which has so fondly 
 cherished him, that: he believes it to have 
 benevolence enough for all the wants and 
 sufferings in the world. 
 
 It is possible that the same artist may be 
 called in to paint the portrait of a poor gen- 
 tleman, who having nothing else to bequeath 
 to his children, is prevailed upon to leave 
 them a likeness of the form they have been 
 accustomed to venerate. The painter finds 
 him in a mean and humble dwelling, dressed. | 
 in a manner that too plainly shows his long 
 acquaintance with urgent wants and narrow 
 means. Yet in the noble outline of the face, 
 the fair and finely moulded forehead, when 
 for a moment its wrinkles are smoothed 
 down, but above all, in the symmetry of the 
 mouth, and the graceful motion of the lips, - 
 he reads the sad history of that gradual fall , 
 from high station and noble fortune, which: 
 has never through the whole of a long life 
 been able to degrade the soul; and in paint- 
 ing the portrait of this poor ‘gentleman, he 
 makes a picture worthy of a place amongst 
 the aristocracy of the land. 
 
 Or he may be required to exercise his art 
 in painting the likeness of one of the cele- 
 brated belles of the day. It is possible that 
 the arbitrary laws of fashion may have con- 
 cealed the. beauty of a form that is perfectly 
 Grecian in its, contour. The painter casts 
 down the stately and unnatural fabric from 
 the head, and leaving a few dishevelled 
 ringlets to wander over the snowey temples, | 
 binds up the rest of the hair so gracefully 
 behind, as just to leave visible the noble pil- 
 lar of the neck, which proudly supports the | 
 whole. It is also possible that the rigid 
 rules of polished society, or early discipline, 
 or sad experience, may have rendered cold, 
 constrained, or artificial in its expression, a 
 countenance that was originally capable of 
 exhibiting the deepest passions, and the fin- 
 est sensibilities of our nature. The artist 
 whose eye is quickened to an almost super- 
 natural acuteness of perception, sees all this ; 
 and in painting the portrait of one who is by 
 compulsion a mere fine lady, he invests it 
 with the beauty and the pathos of a heroine. 
 
 Nor is it in the skillful management of 
 expression alone that the poetry of this art 
 
 consists. Though this is unquestionably | 
 
| 
 i 
 ' 
 
 _the most important, there are minor points, 
 which cannot be neglected without so glar- 
 ing a violation of good taste that the eye is 
 offended ; and as we have often had occa- 
 -sion to remark,'no sooner are the senses 
 
 -unpleasantly affected, than the powers of. 
 
 the mind are arrested in their agreeable 
 exercise, and the poetic illusion is totally 
 
 | destroyed. In the choice of costume, it is 
 
 | highly essential to the poetical charm of the 
 portrait, that every thing wearing the cha- 
 /racter of constraint or conceit should be 
 avoided. All those striking peculiarities 
 which belong only to a class of beings 
 whose feelings and avocations are entirely 
 separate from the sphere of high men- 
 tal refinement, or intellectual power, will be 
 rejected by an artist of good taste. The 
 coarse habit of the monk may be made sub- 
 | servient to the poetical interest of a portrait, 
 because it is associated in our minds with 
 ideas of reflection, study, and strict mental 
 discipline ; even that of a peasant is admis- 
 sible, because his hardy frame may be aui- 
 mated by the bold independence and rude 
 
 enerzy of a mountaineer; but he who | 
 
 would paint a butcher or a harlequin in 
 their characteristic costume, must forfeit 
 every pretension to the poetry of his art. 
 
 The local partiality of the Dutch painters 
 has rendered this error strikingly conspicu- 
 ous in some of their historical pieces. 
 Whatever may be the merits of this school 
 of artists, the national prejudice which re- 
 tained the familiar costume, habits, and cus- 
 toms of their own peculiar people, even 
 when gepresenting the higher scenes and 
 circumstances of life, proves them to have 
 been but little qualified for the most noble 
 and interesting branch of their art. 
 
 Besides the choice of costume, and of far 
 higher importance, is the proper adjustment 
 
 | of colours, and other mechanical branches 
 
 of the art of painting, which cannot properly 
 be discussed in a chapter on poetry, but 
 which are of unspeakable importance in 
 producing that delightful combination of 
 -form and colour by which the eye is so en- 
 | tirely gratified as to repose in perfect en- 
 joyment and to leave the imagination to 
 Wander as it will. 
 
 Entering upon the subject of landscape 
 
 THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 
 
 banks of this stream or pool. 
 
 specify in what the poetry of the art consists. 
 There are certain fundamental principles, 
 from whence our ideas of the beauty of na- 
 ture are derived, which the slightest sketch 
 is capable of illustrating, but which cannot 
 be neglected without offence even to the 
 most indifferent beholder. Of these princi- 
 ples, light and shade are the most important 
 and conspicuous. Thus two objects, one to 
 receive the rays of light, and another to re- 
 ceive the shadow of the first, are sufficient 
 to constitute a picture. Let one of these be 
 the massive stem of an old tree, grey with 
 time, and shattered with the storms of ages, 
 wearing round its hoary brow a wild wreath 
 of clustering ivy, and stretching forth one ver- 
 dant branch, still clothed with dense foliage 
 as in former years. Let the other be the 
 weedy banks of'a silent river, in whose clear 
 depths the shadow of this ancient tree is re- 
 flected, and we have at once a scene of 
 sufficient interest and beauty to rivet the 
 eye and fascinate the imagination. Still 
 much must depend, even in a scene so sim- 
 ple as this, not only upon the skilful conduct 
 of the pencil, but upon the poetical feeling 
 of the artist. Perhaps the subject may be 
 better understood by illustrating it with a 
 case in point. 
 
 It was, a few years ago, my good fortune 
 to receive instruction from a gentleman,* 
 who, whatever may be his other pretensions, 
 must be unanimously acknowledged to be 
 one of the most poetical artists of the present 
 day ; a fact which is sufficiently proved by 
 the fearless and independent manner in 
 which he can snatch up the most barren sub- 
 ject, and invest it with a mysterious beauty 
 of his own creating. The piece which this 
 artist first gave me to copy, was a pencil 
 sketch of a rude entrance by a little wooden 
 bridge, over anarrow stream, to what might 
 be a copse-wood, or indeed a wood of any 
 kind; for the whole picture contained no- 
 thing more than three or four trees, a few 
 planks of time-worn timber, and the reedy 
 My task was 
 performed with diligence, and with no little 
 self-approbation, for my friends pronounced 
 it to be admirable; and I saw myself that 
 
 jy an, now professe i ing’s 
 * Mr. Cotman, fessor of drawing at King 
 
 painting, it becomes much less difficult to | College, London. 
 
 63 || 
 
 SS SSS SS SS 
 
 a ap eS ee ee SN a ES ae een eens co t= seme)" 
 
Eee Eee 
 
 | water, you might enter upon that unfre- 
 
 eo ae ne 
 TY SAS | SE FT 
 
 tion, and fiaally pronounced it to be bad in | which draws forth the emotions of the soul 
 
 cil, it would be foreign to my purpose (even 
 
 64 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 —_———_——- 
 
 the foliage of the oak was edged round with | imagination beyond what was perceptible to 
 the most accurate precision, the rooks in the | the eye, farther and farther, into the silent 
 distance were eked out with the same econo- | depth of the forest. 
 
 my of number, and the bulrushes that stood From what I then saw of the metamor- 
 in the water were all manifestly tipped at | phosis wrought upon this picture, and what 
 
 the ends. While my heart bounded with | I have since learned by observation and ex- 
 
 internal triumph, I drew forth the interesting | perience, I am inclined to think that the poe- 
 
 deposit from the portfolio in which I had con- | try of landscape painting is dependent, in a 
 veyed it into the presence of my master, and | great degree, upon the idea of atmosphere 
 impatiently watched the expression of his | being clearly conveyed to the mind. That 
 eye as he glanced over it. After looking at | scene, however laboriously or delicately ex- 
 it for some time with less and less of what | ecuted, which, from its want of general har- 
 was agreeable in his countenance, he atlast | mony, conveys no such idea to the mind, 
 
 gave utterance to a low growl of disapproba- | deserves not the name of a picture; but that 
 
 two ways—bad as a copy, and bad as a | by a correspondence with impressions made 
 
 drawing. Although I was at that moment | upon it by the sun, the sky, the seasons, or 
 very much inclined to execrate the art so | the hour of the day, may be highly and in- 
 
 often called divine, I have since learned to | tensely poetical, though simple and unpre- 
 look with feelings of interest almost like af- | tendinginitself ‘This idea must be strongly 
 fection upon that simple drawing, to which | impressed upon the memory and the imagi- 
 my master, with a few strokes from his own | nation of the painter before he begins his 
 able and accomplished pencil, gave a char- | task. As in the natural world the colour 
 acter at once touching, beautiful, and poetic. | and character of every visible object is af- 
 What was practically the work of this pen- | fected by the air which is invisible, so in all re- 
 | presentations of external nature there must be 
 ' were I able) todefine.. It is sufficient to say, | that perfect harmony pervading the whole 
 that through the illusion of the eye, the mind | scene, which is in keeping with any particu- 
 was forcibly presented with the ideas of | lar state of the atmosphere, of which the 
 space and atmosphere. My drawing repre- | artist may wish to convey an impression to 
 sented nothing but an even surface, covered | others; and thus, through the medium of 
 with a minutely extended texture, woven | form and colour operating upon the eye, the 
 according to the pattern, of oak leaves, reeds, | mind receives distinctly and forcibly the idea 
 water, or whatever the uninitiated pencil | of that which possesses neither form nor col- 
 might vainly attempt to imitate. In the | our in itself} and which no eye is capable of 
 same picture, after it had received a few | beholding. 
 
 touches from an able hand, the most unprac- I never saw the want of atmospherg more 
 tised eye might behold a distinct repnentate: striking than ina picture full of peacocks. 
 tion of a quiet day in autumn. The rooks, | It was intended to illustrate the fable of the 
 which had been stationary and silent, were | presumptuous jackdaw adorned in borrowed 
 now winging their way towards that woodland | plumes; but the jackdaw was only to be 
 scene, cawing at intervals with the musical | found upon examination, for there were three 
 and melancholy cadence, which at that par- peacocks nearly as large as life crowded in- 
 ticular time of the year, and especially at that 
 particular distance, turns their harsh tones to | them having their tails expanded, the can- 
 melody. ‘The passage of the wooden bridge | vass was literally covered with feathers. 
 had now become quite practicable, and after | These feathers, it is true, were beautifully 
 looking down into the bosom of the unruffled | executed, and had the piece been called a 
 picture of peacock’s feathers, it might have 
 been admired; but there was a total absence 
 
 quented path, and hear the rustling of the 
 withered grass beneath your feet; while 
 
 | high overhead were the majestic trates | and the eye turned away with weariness 
 of old and stately trees, extended me the | | 
 
 or disgust, while the mind remained unin- 
 
 a 
 
 to a moderate sized painting, and two of 
 
 of some of the most essential parts of a scene,” 
 
Se”: CUFF 
 eS 
 ee 
 
 THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 
 
 formed as to the meaning of the painter, un- 
 
 '| impressed with a single idea. 
 
 ee ee ee re ae ee eS 
 
 Se 
 
 In describing this picture, my mind very 
 naturally reverts to one in the same exhibi- 
 tion, almost immediately opposed to it in situ- 
 ation, but still more so in character. It was, if 
 I recollect right, by one of the Nasmiths, and. 
 represented a sunset upon a level beach. 
 The sky was still glowing with all the gor- 
 geous tints of evening, but the sun was not 
 visible, and there was neither cliff nor wave, 
 nor headland to reflect his light. All was a 
 complete flat, gilded with his sidelong beams, 
 and the sea and the shore were alike unruf- 
 fled. But the artist, acquainted with the 
 principles of mind as well as matter, had not 
 sent forth this mere flat to brave the conse- 
 quent contempt of mankind. He had wise- 
 ly given to his picture a focus of interest, 
 without which it must have been a complete 
 blank. We have before observed, that what- 
 ever is beautiful or sublime, does not create 
 intense sensations of pleasure, without some 
 link of human fellowship, either real or im- 
 aginary; so the painter of this picture had 
 placed in the middle distance, or rather in 
 the foreground of his piece, two human be- 
 ings, whose tall shadows fell behind them 
 on the ground. They might be fishermen 
 consulting about the tides, or travellers rest- 
 ing by the way, or poets gazing on the gold- 
 en sky; their dress and appearance revealed 
 nothing, nor was it of consequence that they 
 should. They were human, and that was 
 enough. Imagination could supply the rest, 
 and people that glowing scene with all the 
 images, familiar or fantastic, that wait upon 
 the sun’s decline. 
 
 It was the perfect harmony of this picture 
 which made the charm so irresistible—the 
 illusion so complete ; and whenever the de- 
 light or the beauty of landscape painting is 
 considered, harmony must be acknowledged 
 to be the basis upon which both are founded. 
 It is true that the external aspect of nature 
 presents perpetual contrast, both in form and 
 colour; but this very contrast is in harmony 
 with the whole: for our ideas of beauty are 
 chiefly derived from the principles which 
 
 pervade the external world, and amongst 
 
 these we may reckon it not the least impor- | 7 
 | heat, so, on perceiving the same appearance 
 | in a picture, we persuade ourselves that it 
 
 tant that there can be no brilliant light, with- 
 out deep shadow. 
 
 ——<———-= =. 
 —— 
 
 65 
 
 In speaking of the pleasure derived from 
 painting, I have found in necessary to make 
 frequent use of the word illusion, a word 
 which might unquestionably be applied to 
 many other sources of human gratification. 
 But in reference to the illusion to which we 
 willingly and necessarily submit ourselves, 
 in order to find greater pleasure in the pro- 
 ductions of the pencil, it may not be ill- 
 timed to offer a few remarks in this place. 
 
 Those who have never studied the art of 
 painting, intellectually, are not aware how 
 much we are indebted for the pleasure we 
 receive from it, to a natural process which 
 takes place in the mind of the beholder. 
 The painter who has no brighter materials 
 than red and yellow clay to work with, can 
 so dispose them as to represent the splen- 
 dour and brilliance of a summer sunset, upon 
 which we gaze till our eyes are almost daz- 
 zied with the refulgence of those burning 
 beams. In the centre of his piece he. places 
 the glowing orb of day, smiling his brightest 
 before he sinks to rest upon his couch of 
 crimson clouds; on either side are trees 
 whose foliage is bathed in the same golden 
 hues, and if skilfully managed, they will 
 form a vista terminating in excess of light ; 
 while the whole is enlivened by a group of 
 panting cattle, some of them holding down 
 their heads as if in the very prostration of 
 patient endurance, while their tails are 
 curled about in every possible variety of 
 posture, to: show with what assiduity they 
 are lashing off the myriads of insects, whose 
 busy and unceasing hum is almost loud 
 enough to be heard. On first asking why 
 the little spot of yellow paint which repre- 
 sents the sun looks so much more brilliant 
 in the picture than on the palette, we are 
 told it is the adjustment of the different 
 grades of light which thus increases the 
 brightness of the centre. But let the same 
 colours be placed without any regard to 
 form in the same order on the palette, and 
 we behold nothing but a heap of paint, upon 
 which we might gaze till doomsday without 
 being dazzled. It is because we know that 
 that particular appearance of the sun, the sky 
 the earth, the trees, and the cattle, is in reality 
 the invariable accompaniment, of intense 
 
 = 
 
 EG tipsareereemnen pencereener remem cee ee eas ee ee eee 
 
 $e 
 
 eee eee eee eee 
 = ~ - ————— ee 
 ~ i ee 
 ny ner 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 is so there. If in the same scene, and with 
 | precisely the same colours, the artist should 
 represent the violence ofa gale of wind; or 
 if instead of the cattle, but in the same situa- 
 ‘tion, and still with the same colours, he 
 should place a leafless tree, a cottage with 
 its roof covered with snow, and a miserable, 
 halfstarved man, vainly endeavouring to 
 fold a blanket round his shivering limbs, 
 there is no eye that would feel the same dif- 
 ficulty, in gazing on the picture, no mind, 
 either of man or woman, that would be able, 
 while contemplating such a scene, to un- 
 dergo the process of (what is now commonly 
 called) realizing the ideas of light and heat. 
 
 In the selection of animals, or individual 
 
 objects thrown in from choice to diversify a 
 
 picture, the landscape painter finds wide 
 
 scope for the display of his poetic feeling. 
 The introduction of fat cattle is an error into 
 which none could fall who was not either a 
 novice in his art, or an agriculturalist irre- 
 
 vocably wedded to the best system of rear- 
 
 ing live stock. And why? Because our 
 
 associations with fat cattle, whatever satis- 
 faction they may yield in the kitchen or 
 larder, are decidedly too gross and vulgar 
 in their nature to afford any gratification in 
 a poem or a picture. Far be it from the 
 writer of this chapter to depreciate the value 
 of fat cattle, or any other agricultural pro- 
 duce; but everything has an appropriate 
 place, and there is but one kind of picture in 
 which fat cattle would be in theirs. I will 
 leave the reader to judge how far that kind 
 is worthy of the graphic art. Let the sub- 
 ject be a red brick farm house, with a barn 
 extending on one side, and a square plot of 
 garden ground on the other, circular corn 
 stacks, and a red-tiled pigeon house in front, 
 with fields in the distance, smoothed down 
 by constant culture, and intersected with 
 neatly clipped hedgerows running at right 
 angles all over them; then fat cattle would 
 unquestionably be well placed in the fore- 
 ground, and the picture, merely as such, 
 would possess the beauty of harmony in all 
 its parts, though it might be impossible to 
 call it poetical. 
 
 After condemning an extreme case, the 
 mind, by a natural effort, rushes towards its 
 opposite in search of that gratification which 
 it has failed to find, and the idea which now 
 
 presents itself, is that of a wild and varied 
 landscape, with distant mountains, rugged. 
 precipices, deep groves, green slopes, foam- | 
 ing cataracts, and wandering rills. Upon || 
 the verdant banks of one of these, beneath: || 
 the shade of a “wide spreading beech,” the 
 artist places, immediately in the foreground, 
 no less a personage than Apollo himself, 
 while the Muses dance before him to the 
 music of his lyre, and winged loves, and. 
 agile graces, skip from rock to rock, or float 
 
 upon the ambient air. Does the picture 
 please? No; because, in the first instance, 
 it is not true to nature,* and wherever the 
 conceit of man’s imagination breaks in upon 
 the harmony and pathos which belong to 
 nature alone, the poetical charm must. in 
 some measure be destroyed ; and, secondly, 
 because in the picture of a landscape, the 
 ideal of rural scenery should be distinet and 
 predominant, which it is impossible it si:ould 
 be avhere characters so important as Apollo 
 and the Muses are introduced. But let us 
 
 still retain the landscape, and see whether 
 something better may not be made of it. 
 The urtist who enters into the real spirit of 
 poetry, will place upon the broken crags of 
 the mountain a few shaggy goats, and per- || 
 haps a solitary stag,a wanderer from the || 
 herd, will be stooping over the side of the | 
 stream to lave its thirst in the cool waters of 
 the forest. The foreground he will enliven 
 with the rich colouring of innumerable wild 
 plants, woven into a gorgeous carpet, which 
 here and there gives place to a sharp pro- 
 jecting rock, or yields to the wild vagaries 
 
 of a small silvery torrent, that sparkles up 
 from a gray stone fountain, and after filling 
 a rude trough, shoots forth in bubbling ed- 
 dies, and then loses itself amongst the thick 
 leaves and brushwood overhanging the little 
 narrow bed, which with the strife of ages it. 
 has worked out for its own repose. Beside 
 this fountain, a woman is standing, not an 
 angel, or a goddess, but a simple peasant 
 woman, whose dress, coarse but gorgeous 
 in its colouring, corresponds with the rich 
 and varied tints of the foreground. She has 
 
 * “My notion of nature comprehends not only the 
 forms which nature produces, but also the nature and 
 internal fabric and organizations, as 1 may cal) it. of 
 the human mind and imagination.”—Sir Joshua Rey- 
 nolds, | 
 
 oo 
 
and is resting it for a moment on the side of 
 the stone trough, before she treads back her 
 lonely way to the herdsman’s cottage, whose 
 low thatched roof may be seen half hid by 
 the sheltering trees. Here is at-once a pict- 
 ure, which, by awakening our sympathies, 
 calling to mind a thousand delightful recol- 
 lections, and giving birth to the most agree- 
 | able associations, rivets our attention, de- 
 lights our fancy, and demonstrates more 
 } clearly than would a volume of definitions, 
 || what it is that constitutes the poetry of 
 painting; and in this manner, the most 
 | pleasing landscapes may be composed out 
 } of materials extremely simple, and some- 
 | times even barren in themselves. 
 | Perhaps no one was ever more intimately 
 || acquainted with the poetry of this branch of 
 | the art, than Salvator Rosa. In all his de- 
 | lineations of the savage dignity of nature, 
 | 
 
 | may be found a perfect correspondence, be- 
 tween the subjects which he chose, and his 
 
 | manner of treating them. “Everything is 
 
 | of a piece, his rocks, trees, sky, even to his 
 handling, have the same rude and wild cha- 
 racter whicli anmates his figures.” 
 
 As the art of poetry may be classed under 
 several different heads, so that of painting 
 has, to the poetical observer, many distinc- 
 tions of character not laid down in the tech- 
 nical phraseology of the schools. Leaving 
 the more celebrated productions of the stu- 
 dio, to which there might doubtless be found 
 corresponding specimens in the sister art, I 
 will turn to a case in point, which to my 
 mind is both striking and familiar. Itis the 
 resemblance of character between Bewick’s 
 woodcuts, and the poems of Robert Burns. 
 It is true, the artist in this instance has con- 
 fined himself to a mode of conveying his 
 ideas so simple and unpretending, that the 
 
 | comparison hardly holds good between the 
 | productions of the pencil and the pen. All 
 that I maintain is the similarity of talent, of 
 | tone of mind, and moral feeling, displayed 
 in their separate works. We find in both 
 the same adherence to nature, without orna- 
 ment or affectation, and we discover the 
 same pathos in those slight touches of which 
 genius alone is capable, with the same freaks 
 of fancy, lawless and unrestrained, describ- 
 ing as if in very wantonness, scenes the 
 
 just filled her pitcher from the pure stream, | 
 
 THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 
 
 most grotesque, ludicrous, or familiar; and 
 then soaring away amongst the wild, the | 
 melancholy, and sometimes the sublime, yet 
 retaining throughout the same moral im- 
 press, either dignified or abused. | 
 
 I was once so circumstanced as to become } 
 intimately acquainted with the private stud- | 
 ies of an artist, whose talent bore so striking [ 
 a resemblance to ballad writing, that I feel | 
 confident had circumstances in early life di- 
 rected his choice to the pen instead of the 
 pencil, he would have used it with equal fa- 
 cility, and probably with as much lasting’ 
 fame. The subjects which came under my 
 notice were. extremely small, and seldom } 
 contained more than a little patch of moun- 
 tain scenery, with two or three coats or wild 
 sheep; yet such was the characier of these 
 fairy pictures, that while the eye dwelt upon 
 them, the illusion was so perfect as almost || 
 to beguile the fancy with the belief, that the 
 
 bleat of those wandering sheep, the scent of 
 
 the purple heather, and the hum of the wild 
 
 bee, were really present to the senses. You 
 might gaze, and gaze upon those simple 
 scenes until you felt the cool « lasticity of the 
 mountain breeze, and the influence of the 
 clear blue sky, stretching pure and. high and 
 distant over the wide moor; while you wan- 
 dered on, amongst the rustling furze and 
 
 Spey aioapeaiege 
 
 yellow broom, startling the timid moor-fowl, | 
 and rousing the slumbering larx to spread }} 
 avain its folded wing, and soaring into upper | 
 air, to sing another hymn of praise and 
 thanksgiving to the Author of this perilect 
 and wonderful creation, of which we feel | 
 ourselves in such moments to be no incon- | 
 siderable or unworthy part. What is there 
 to remind us that we are unworthy? We | 
 feel not the stirrings of mean or sordid pas- 
 sion. We are away from the habitations of 
 man. Away from the envy and strife, the 
 tumult and contention, which mar the peace 
 of his hereditary and social home. Away 
 amongst the hills—away in the boundless 
 and immeasurable realm of nature, where | 
 it is impossible not to feel the love of a be- 
 nign and superintending Providerce—not to 
 behold the work of an omnipotent Creator— 
 not to acknowledge the dominion of a pure | 
 and holy God. If we are not worthy of his | 
 countenance and protection when we feel |: 
 and acknowledge all this, when we bow in 
 
 i 
 
68 
 
 all-pervading spirit that animates and sus- 
 tains the world ; when—when are the crea- 
 tures of his forcnestion to lift up the prayer 
 of gratitude, and return thanks os the bless- 
 ing of existence ? 
 
 But to return to our subiect. After all 
 that has been said of the importance of copy- 
 ing from nature, a few remarks may be ne- 
 cessary in reference to this expression, which 
 is capable of being very differently under- 
 stood. "To copy nature is not merely to 
 make the sky above, and the earth beneath, 
 or even, entering into minutia, to make the 
 clouds grey, and the grass green. The 
 artist may copy nature with the accuracy 
 
 nd precision of a Chinese,* and yet never 
 | paint a picture that will excite even momen- 
 tary almiration. Itis quite as necessary that 
 he should be able to perceive with the eye, 
 as to execute with the hand. He must learn 
 to distinguish, to separate, and to combine ; 
 but above all, he must be able to form a 
 whole, not out of the different parts presented 
 atone particular moment to his eye, but, as 
 nature is perpetually changing, and ‘as no 
 two yards of the eartl’s surface are precisely 
 alike, he must compose a whole out of the 
 various ‘aspects of the natural and visible 
 world, which he has at different times of his 
 life observed, and of which his memory re- 
 tains a distinct impression; and this proves 
 avai, that painting as well as poetry re- 
 quires time and opportunity for receiving 
 such indelible impressions, without which 
 the works of the most talented artist would 
 never exceed in merit the representations in 
 a school-boy’s sketch book. 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds remarks, in his ad- 
 mirable lectures, that Rubens makes amends 
 for the loca! peculiarities of the Dutch school, 
 by varying his landscape representations of 
 individual places, confined and uninteresting 
 in themselves, by the introduction of a rain- 
 how, a storm, or some particular accidental 
 eifect of light; while Claude Lorrain, who 
 well knew that taking nature as he found it, 
 
 tures from draughts which he had previously 
 
 TS 
 
 * This remark does not refer to the figures upon china, 
 but to the more elaborate paintings of the Chinese, 
 where a delineation of every leaf on a tree is frequently 
 attempted. 
 
 eS Se = 
 So He 
 
 simplicity and humble reverence before the 
 
 seldom produced beauty, composed his pic-, 
 
 cans si os I eae 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 made from various beautiful views and pros- 
 pects. It is a vulgar remark, often made 
 upon pictures thus composed, that they are 
 not true to nature, nor are. they like a map, 
 true to any given section of the earth’s sur- 
 face; but they are true to that conception of 
 perfect beauty with which nature animates 
 the soul of the poet, and which it is one of 
 his greatest pleasures to see diffused over 
 the external world. Itis not by represent- 
 ing nature in detail, but in character, that 
 the highest gratification is produced; and 
 he must unquestionably be the best, as well 
 as the most poetical painter, who conveys 
 by his werks an idea of the general charac- 
 ter of the external world; in short, who | 
 paints not only for the eye, but for the mind. 
 It is not the eye alone that is enlivened by |} 
 the brilliance of a sunny morning, nor is it | 
 the eye alone that reposes where the sombre 
 shades of evening fall upon our path. There 
 must be so much of character in all repre- 
 sentations of particular times and seasons, |: 
 as to convey to the mind a corresponding |, 
 idea of the general state of the sky, the air, 
 the vegetable and the animal kingdom, by 
 which such seasons are invariably accom- 
 panied. Thus the landscape painter, by 
 cultivating a familiar acquaintance with the 
 minute varieties, and the distinct character- 
 istics of the visible world; but above all, 
 by studying profoundly those phenomena by 
 which all that we know of the mysteries of 
 beauty, power, and sublimity are revealed, 
 will be able out of such materials to com- 
 pose a whole, whose highest recommenda- 
 tion it will be, that it addresses itself forcibly 
 to the imagination of the beholder, and calls 
 up a train of associations with feelings and 
 ideas the most exquisite and poetical. 
 
 On the poetry of historical painting, vol- 
 umes might be written—but as much, per- 
 haps too much, has already been said on 
 painting in general, I will merely add a few 
 remarks on this particular branch of the art. 
 It is obvious, on first turning our attention 
 to this subject, that the grand requisite for a 
 poetical painter, is a mind so cultivated and | 
 informed, and at the same time so warmed | 
 by enihusiaain, as to enable the artist to 
 enter fully and deeply into the subject before 
 him. As an instance of this we need only 
 contrast the touching pathos, the wild grace, 
 
 - 
 
and beauty given by Gainsborough to all 
 his cottage children, with some of our more 
 modern and ephemeral productions, where 
 a young lady with the airs and graces of a 
 fashionable boarding school, or where at 
 least a lay figure is dressed in rags and 
 
 ealled a beggar girl. The little motherless 
 looking children in Gainsborough’s pictures 
 offer a silent appeal to our best and tender- 
 est feelings, and it is evident he must have 
 powerfully realized in his own mind all 
 that belongs to orphan-destitution, as well 
 as to the simple habits and feelings of 
 rustic life. 
 
 Next to this qualification for’ a poetical 
 painter, is a capacity for combining a whole 
 from particular and suitable parts, and the 
 art of keeping all such parts in their proper 
 degree of relation and subordination. I for 
 instance a painter, in representing the death 
 ofa father of a family, should so far forget 
 the dignity of his subject, as to make a fa- 
 vourite dog advance to the centre of the 
 piece and lick his master’s face, the unity of 
 the whole would be destroyed; and instead 
 of the feelings being affected by sympathy 
 with the grief there represented, the general 
 and very natural exclamation would be— 
 “What can the dog be doing?’ But let 
 the afflicted family, next to their dying 
 parent, be most conspicuous in the scene. 
 Let the focus (if | may use the expression) 
 of distress diverge amongst the domestics or 
 less interested members of the household, 
 and then in the distance the same dog might 
 very properly be introduced, looking through 
 the half open door with surprise and per- 
 plexity upon the unwonted scene, and stand- 
 ing with one foot lifted up as if doubting 
 whether it were a place and time for him to 
 venture in. The same kind of subordination 
 with respect to light and colour is of im- 
 mense importance in the formation of a 
 scene. That picture which is broken up 
 with a variety of spots of light and shade, 
 
 | can neither be agreeable to the eye, nor con- 
 
 vey to the mind sensations of concentrated 
 or powerful interest. But as the rules for 
 the regulation of light and shade, as well as 
 of form and colouring, belong more exclu- 
 sively to the studio, I shall merely repeat in 
 reference to this subject, that none of these 
 rules can in any single instance be so vio- 
 
 lated as to offend the eye, or strike the fancy 
 with an impression foreign to the purpose of 
 the painter, without the charm of the whole 
 being sacrificed. With the practical parts 
 of his profession, the piinter must make 
 himself acquainted, upon the same principle 
 that the poet learns the grammatical use of 
 language, and studies the rules of composi- 
 tion; nor would a glaring breach of pro- 
 priety of style be less pardonable in one in- 
 stance, than a gross departure from the 
 established rules of art in the other. 
 
 I am induced to make these remarks be- 
 cause we are perpetually nearing of the in- 
 spiration, rather than the cultivation of 
 genius; and that the merit of a painting, 
 rather than the misfortune of the painter, 
 consists in his being selftaught. The only 
 excuse that can be made for so glaring a 
 misuse of language, is that it may serve the 
 purpose of exciting in the vulgar mind high- 
 er notions of the influence of intellectual 
 power. The constant labour and concen- 
 trated application which marked the lives of 
 the most eminent painters, prove that im- 
 mediate inspiration had little to do with the 
 work of their hands. Indeed I know not 
 what inspiration is, with regard to the fine 
 arts; unless it be the first moving spring of 
 action—the desire—the thirst for excellence 
 obtained at any cost, which operates upon 
 the talent and the will, prompting the one to 
 seek and the other to submit to, all the labo- 
 rious, irksome, and difficult means which 
 are necessary for the attainment of excel- 
 lence. 
 
 The painter knows well what it has cost 
 him to compose one entire figure out of the 
 various parts, which intense study has taught 
 him are essential to any particular whole. 
 He knows, but there is no need that he 
 should tell the world, how many thousand 
 sketches he has made of each individual 
 limb, by how many heart-breaking failures 
 the wreath of fame has been torn from his 
 brow, what days and nights he has spent in 
 the adjustment of the cloak of a favorite 
 hero, how the head of his saint has been de- 
 sioned from sketches made in Italy, the feet 
 of his martyr brought from Paris, and the 
 hand of his goddess copied from that of his 
 own lady-love at home, who had laid aside 
 her stitching, and doffed her thimble, after 
 
 for) 
 oO 
 
70 
 
 ing all the time, to sit for the likeness of her 
 hand. And this is what the vulgar call in- 
 spiration! They speak too of expression in 
 a portrait, just as if it were a sort of ma- 
 gical atmosphere thrown around the figure, 
 and capable of converting form and colour 
 of any description into a likeness. 
 not take the trouble to observe that the eye- 
 
 are ignorant that the nostrils when depressed 
 at one corner denote melancholy, when ele- 
 
 character_of the mouth, by a slight altera- 
 
 long course of study, éxperience, and unre- 
 mitting labour, that he makes himself inti- 
 mately acquainted, not only with the natu- 
 
 accompany certain emotions of the mind; 
 that: by these means he is enabled not only 
 
 is called expression. 
 On dismissing the idea of inspiration from 
 the art of painting, and acknowledging the 
 
 a poetical painter, though elevated to the 
 
 attained that eminence by a process not im- 
 properly called education; though it may or 
 may not have been conducted in strict con- 
 formity with academical rules. This process 
 may be divided into three stages. First, he 
 feels the moving spring of action—the ardent 
 desire which prompts the young artist to look 
 abroad into the works of the creation, to 
 search out with penetrating and comprehen- 
 sive vision, the eternal principles,of things, 
 and to discover and acknowledge wherever 
 
 alive to this state of feeling, who from want 
 of suitable advantages, from different. bias, 
 
 se ee ee ee i re 
 Se 0 ee eee eee 
 is 
 
 sapien farther in the walks of art; and 
 
 many fruitless entreaties, consenting for five | own shame and disappointment. 
 minutes only, and with the liberty of scold- | the young artist, stimulated with this burn- 
 
 They do |} words as the vehicle to convey his ideas to 
 brows in the original are arched, and that | gives life and splendour to his verse: and 
 the painter has made them straight; they | just with the same facility can the painter 
 vated vivacity and wit; that the artist can | his harmonious thoughts in a language un- 
 immediately produce a total change in the | known to him before. 
 
 tion in the closing line; and that it is by a | artist in time emerges, though only to ex- 
 ‘the field of those studies which the longest 
 ral formation of the human countenance, but | brings us to the third and last stage, when 
 
 also with those muscular affections anh the artist, still animated with the same en- 
 
 to perceive, but to imitate the characteristic | use of the proper means, he is now able to 
 lines and features, and thus to produce what apply b »oth the ardour of is soul, and the la- 
 
 necessity of study and experience, we see that | quainted with their internal construction, 
 
 highest distinctions of genius, can only have | Fully qualified to enter the realm of poetry, 
 
 it is to be found, the imperishable essence of moment, the accumulated influence, and 
 beauty. Hihbdsntids of human beings are power, 1a majesty, of a long life of glorious | 
 in short, from necessity, are hindered Blin captive the fallen cnOhARSt in chains which 
 
 therefore thousands are sensible of the hep allure the sylvan doit into Pirérs of his 
 ical influence of painting, who have never | own constructing ; personify the impassioned 
 
 touched a pencil, or only touched one to their | minstrel with a harmony of colouring, like 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 But let 
 
 ing desire—this unquenchable thirst for 
 physical and moral excellence, submit him- 
 self to the strictest discipline of the schools, 
 will his energy be impaired, his genius ex- 
 tinguished, or his enthusiasm subdued ? No. 
 No more than the poet in selecting suitable 
 
 mankind, will lose the Promethean fire which 
 
 strike off a perfect picture without adherence 
 to established rules, as the minstrel can pour 
 
 from the stern practice of the schools, the 
 tend the sphere of his education, and widen 
 
 life of man is insufficient to complete. This | 
 
 thusiasm, launches forth into the world. |} 
 Taving become thorou ghly initiated into the 
 
 bour of his hand, to the production of those 
 splendid works which his mind is not less 
 able to conceive, for having been made ac- 
 
 their peculiar distinctions, and limitations. 
 
 he identifies himself with the author, and re- 
 garding his hero in his moral and intellec- 
 tual character, invests him with a nobility of 
 mien and stature, which, if itis not true to his 
 physical formation, is true to nature; be- 
 cause his nature was noble, and the charac- || 
 ter which the historian is able to describe 
 with the intervention of time, and the change | 
 of scene and circumstance, he must impress |} 
 upon the canvass, as it were with one stroke, | 
 and concentrate into the space of a single || 
 
 actions. Animated by the spirit-stirring in- |; 
 fluence of poeiic feeling, he can now take 
 
 his own hand 4ings sete him; he can 
 
THE POETRY OF PAINTING. 
 
 music to the eye; and tinge an angel’s wings 
 with the golden hues of heaven. | 
 
 The greatest merit of painting is, that 
 like poetry, it addresses itself to those prin- 
 ciples of intellectual enjoyment, without 
 which its greatest beauties would neither be 
 appreciated or seen—principles implanted in 
 the human mind, and often neither felt nor 
 acknowledged, until called forth by the works 
 of art. The pleasure we derive from paint- 
 ing, is commonly and superficially consid- 
 ered to be only as it is an imitative art. 
 Why then do not coloured figures in wax, 
 rank higher in the estimation of the world, 
 than the more laborious and cumbrous pro- 
 \| ductions of the sculptor? And why do not 
 miniature landscapes, with the real elevation 
 of hills, trees, and houses, made of cork or 
 clay, and coloured to the hues of nature, 
 please more than the level surface, on which 
 form and distance are denoted merely by-a 
 particular management of colour, so as to 
 represent light and shade? The fact is, that 
 in such performances, however ingeniously 
 managed, nothing is left for the imagination. 
 We see the thing as it really is, pronounce 
 
 aaa 
 71 
 
 the power of human genius, that we hear 
 most forcibly, and if we do not understand, 
 we feel the eternal truths which have their 
 archetype in nature, and their corresponding 
 impress in the soul of man. 
 
 Ep 
 THE POETRY OF SOUND. 
 
 Amonest. the organs of perception by 
 which ideas of sensible things are conveyed 
 to the niind, it is ‘only necessary here to no- || 
 tice those which are most important and ob- 
 vious—the eye, and theear. Painting forms 
 the medium of connexion between the eye 
 and the mind: language supplies the mind 
 with ideas, through the medium of the ear. 
 Our attention has hitherto been occupied by 
 visible objects alone, and having conducted 
 them to the mind through one avenue, it is 
 necessary that we take up the subject of 
 sound, in order that we may make a pro- 
 gressive approach by another. 
 
 Sound is perhaps of all subjects the most 
 intimately connected with poetic feeling, not 
 only because it comprehends within its wide- 
 
 it to be very pretty, and think no more about 
 | it; while those in which the effect alone is 
 | obvious, and the means enveloped in their 
 
 ly extended sphere, the influence of music, 
 so powerful over the passions and affections 
 
 proper obscurity, strike the beholder with 
 feelings of wonder and admiration; while 
 through the medium of the senses, he -re- 
 ceives just so much information, as is neces- 
 sary to set the imagination afloat upon an 
 immeasurable ocean of thought. Let hands 
 proiane colour to the very life an Apollo or 
 a Venus, and we should see nothing more 
 than a fine man, and a pretty woman; but 
 in contemplating them as they are, we be- 
 hold the eternal principles of imperishable 
 beauty, handed down to us from distant ages, 
 conceived by one nation, appropriated by 
 another, and acknowledged by all with the 
 profoundest admiration. 
 
 Painting and sculpture, next to poetry, 
 constitute the grand medium by which the 
 sublimest ideas, and the most exquisite sen- 
 sations are conveyed to the human mind. 
 It is true the phenomena of nature are more 
 essentially sublime, as well as beautiful; but 
 
 | nature speaks to us in a voice which we do 
 | not always hear, and cannot always under- 
 stand. {tis when nature is interpreted by 
 
 of our nature; but because there is in poe- 
 try itself, a cadence—ea perceptible harmo- 
 ny, which delights the ear while the eye re- 
 mains unaffected. The car is also more 
 subject than the eye to the influence of 
 association, just in proportion as the impres- 
 sions it receives are more isolated or dis- 
 tinct. The eye perceives a great number 
 of objects at once, or in such rapid succes- 
 sion that they tend to destroy the identity || 
 of each, and so long as it remains unclosed, 
 continues to behold, and to perceive, without 
 amoment’s intermission ; but the ear, besides 
 being compelled to receive sounds, merely as 
 they are offered to it, without, like the eye, 
 possessing the powers of searching, selecting, 
 and investigating for itself, has its intervals 
 of silence, which render the impressions that 
 have been made more durable, and those 
 which are to follow more acute. Wherever 
 there is any visible object, the eye, and the 
 mind through the eye, may receive pleasure, 
 because light itself is beautiful, and the 
 glancing sunbeams even on the walls of a 
 
72 
 
 prison, afford to the unfortunate dwellers 
 within, associations which connect those 
 beams with the glorious orb of day, the 
 skies, the air, and a multitude of agreeable 
 ideas which naturally present themselves ; 
 but the ear is much less frequently gratified 
 than the eye, especially in towns, where it 
 is denied the negative enjoyment of silence. 
 Comyare the frequency of light and sun- 
 shine appearing even on the prison wall, 
 with the occurrence of any sweet, or sooth- 
 ing sound within those gloomy precincts. 
 Compare the beautiful specimens of art, the 
 appearance of order, regularity, and magnil- 
 icence to be seen in the city, with the per- 
 petual tumult and din, by which the ear is 
 distressed and annoyed. Compare the end- 
 less variety of charms presented to the eye 
 by external nature, with the frequent silence 
 which prevails in the country, and we shall 
 perceive at once, that the ear is an organ 
 less active, aid less occunied than the eye ; 
 and thus we may account for its impressions 
 being so intense, as. well as so peculiarly 
 fraught with associations the most powerful 
 and affecting to the mind. 
 
 Why certain sounds should be agreeable 
 or disagreeable to the ear may be best 
 understood by examining the principles of 
 music ; which for more reasons than one, it 
 would be unwise to introduce into the pre- 
 sent work. The established fact that the 
 ear is gratified by harmony, and pained by 
 discord, is quite sufficient for my present 
 purpose; but why, under certain circum- 
 stances, we are delighted with sounds which 
 are in themselves, and separate from agsoci- 
 ation, the most intolerable discord, may very 
 properly form a subject of serious consider- 
 ation here. 
 
 Perhaps one of the most striking, as well 
 as most familiar instances of this kind, is 
 the cawing of the rook. When this bird is 
 taken captive and brought into your room, 
 nothing can well be more offensive to the 
 ear, more harsh, or discordant, than its 
 voice; and yet the same voice heard in 
 certain situations in the open air is prover- 
 bially musical—heard as a number of these 
 social and sagacious inhabitants of the 
 woods are winging their slow and solemn 
 flight, while their shadows flit over the richly 
 cullivated landscape, and approaching the 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 abodes of man, they wheel round and round 
 in graceful circles, returning homeward with 
 the same speed, the same desire, and the 
 same end in view, the language of the whole 
 community reminding the listener of the 
 voices of wearied but contented travellers, 
 well pleased to return from their journey ; 
 while they congratulate each other upon 
 the peace, the comfort, and the security 
 which awaits them in their ancestral dwell- 
 ings. 
 
 Though the language of the rook is ex- 
 tremely limited, and to those who know 
 little of rural scenes or rural pleasures, ex- 
 tremely monotonous, it is capable of varying 
 that language by a cadence of expression 
 both familiar and interesting to the privi- 
 leged class of beings who draw upon the 
 inexhaustible resources of nature for their 
 amusement and delight. In the spring, 
 when the rooks first begin to be busy with 
 their nests, their language, like their feel- 
 ings and occupations, is cheerful, bustling, 
 and tumultuous. Within the rookery it is 
 perfect discord; but heard in the distance, 
 it conveys to the mind innumerable pleasing 
 associations with that delightful season of 
 the year, and the universal alacrity and joy 
 with which the animal creation resume 
 their preparations for a new and bappy life. 
 But it is in the autumn, when the bustle of the 
 spring and summer has subsided, that the 
 language of the rook is most poetical. There 
 is then a melancholy cadence in its voice, 
 heard slowly and at intervals, which is in 
 perfect unison with the general aspect of 
 nature; nor is it difficult to suppose that 
 this sagacious bird, perched upon the top- 
 most bough of some venerable tree, is mak- 
 ing observations upon the external world, 
 and sympathising in the universal tendency 
 to decay, exhibited in the scattered fruit, 
 the faded foliage, and the withered grass. 
 
 Of the same description of sound is the 
 bleating of the lamb, which in itself is as en- 
 tirely devoid of sweetness and melody, as 
 the cawing of the rook; yet the voice of the 
 
 lamb has been so long and so intimately , 
 
 connected in idea with the season of spring, 
 with green fields and sunny slopes, with 
 scented hawthorn, yellow cowslips, rich 
 meadows, and wandering rills; as well as 
 with plenty, and innocence, and peace ; that 
 
 ; 
 
 i 
 ( 
 
our best poets have deemed it no violation 
 of the laws to which genius is amenable, to 
 mingle the bleating of the lamb, with the 
 sweetest harmony of nature. 
 
 } . One more instance of the same kind will 
 || suffice—the croak of the raven, which ex- 
 ‘| ceeds the other two in the harshness and 
 ‘| dissonance with which it strikes upon the 
 ear; and yet how perfectly harmonious is 
 the croak of the raven when it echoes 
 amongst the rocky heights of the mountain, 
 r rising from the rugged cliffs of the shore, 
 |} mingles with the hollow and tumultuous 
 roar of the ever restless ocean. 
 
 The voices of the innumerable singing 
 | birds, which people our gardens, fields, and 
 groves, filling the air with one perpetual 
 || melody, are well known to every listening 
 ear and feeling mind, both in their natural 
 music, and in their poetical associations. 
 From the sweet, plaintive notes of the robin, 
 to the rich, full warble of the thrush and 
 blackbird, they are in themselves, and sepa- 
 rate from all relative ideas, most delightful 
 to the ear, under almost all imaginable cir- 
 cumstances except one; and that is, when 
 heard through the bars of the solitary prison 
 to which the wild minstrels of nature are too 
 often inhumanly condemned. The iwo 
 most melancholy sounds in the world, are 
 the song of the caged bird, and the voice of 
 the street minstrel. It makes the heart that 
 has been accustomed to the wild, joyous 
 minstrelsy of nature, sicken to hear either. 
 Suspended in his*narrow cage, and excluded 
 by an outer prison from all participation in 
 the fresh and genial air, or hung without 
 these walls in the heat and din and suffoca- 
 tion of the crowded city, perhaps the little 
 prisoner feels a gleam of sunshine fall upon 
 /his plumed wing, and in an instant the fire 
 | of nature is kindled in his bosom. He may 
 know nothing of the flowery fields, let us 
 hope he possesses not the faculty of remem- 
 bering what once he was; but in his bound- 
 ing breast instinct supplies the place of 
 memory and imagination,’ and he pines for 
 he knows not what. Animated with the 
 energy of a wild free life, he flutters his light 
 
 wings with a quick and fairy motion, almost 
 || spiritual in its grace, and oh! how touching 
 in the perpetual fruitlessness of its efforts 
 to “flee away and be at rest.” Still the life 
 
 THE POETRY OF SOUND. 
 
 of its little soul is unsubdued, and it war- 
 bles out its longest, loudest notes, even there, 
 as if in defiance of the power of man, or to 
 prove that there is a power in nature, a 
 power of expansion and vitality, beyond the 
 
 ‘reach of his controlling, contracting, and 
 
 contaminating hand.) 
 There is a scene exhibited every day 
 throughout the summer months, in the out- 
 skirts of London, which it is possible to con- 
 template until the mind is filled with mis- 
 anthropy, and we learn to loathe and shun 
 our own species. In fields sufficiently re- 
 mote from the city to admit of their being 
 the resort of birds, men are accustomed to 
 | 
 
 { 
 3 | 
 “4 I 
 
 station themselves with a trap and snare, in 
 order to obtain a supply of singing birds for 
 the London markets. The trap isa large 
 net, so contrived that it can be drawn up in 
 a moment; the snare is a little chirping 
 bird, tied fast to the end of a pliant stick, 
 which rebounds with the flutter of its wings, 
 and thus the bird alternately rising and 
 sinking has something the appearance of 
 dancing at will upon the light and buoyant 
 spray. ‘I'he man, the monarch of creation, 
 all the while crouches on the ground to watch 
 his prey, aud when one little sufferer has by 
 its fruitless struggles so weil mimicked the 
 movements of a joyous flight, as to allure 
 its fellow victims into the snare, the fatal 
 knot is drawn, the man chooses out from the 
 number the sweetest songsters, and after 
 depositing them separately in an immense 
 number of little cages, brought with him for || 
 the purpose, they are conveyed to the mar- | 
 ket, purchased, and made miserable during || 
 the rest of their lives, for. the delectation of 
 London ears, and the benefit of society in 
 general. 
 
 I know not whether it was che effect of 
 my own fancy, or that such was really the 
 fact, but the men whom I have seen employ- 
 ed in this business, looked to me uncom- 
 monly large, that is, personally large. 
 There was so strange a contrast. between 
 their magnitude and that of the little fragile 
 beings they were contending with upon 
 such unequal terms; between the frantic 
 fluttering of the decoy bird and the joyous 
 flight of the free ones ; between this system 
 of deception, artifice and cruelty, and the 
 open and manly performance of that Chris- 
 
 eS ee es _eeueee 
 _ -——————— SS t— 
 
74 
 
 tian duty which teaches us to deal merci- 
 fully even with the meanest of God’s crea- 
 tures, that I have always considered this 
 scene as amongst the most melancholy of 
 tlose incident to a congregated mass of 
 human beings in an imperfect state of moral 
 cultivation. 
 
 But to return from this digression to the 
 immense number and variety of sounds 
 made conducive to the embellishment of 
 poetry amongst which that of the wind is 
 perhars the most productive of poetical as- 
 sociations. Strike out this master chord 
 from the harp of nature,.and the music of 
 the spheres would be harmony no more. 
 Upon the bosom of the waveless sea; in 
 the wide desert, where the sterile sand re- 
 poses unruffled; or in more domestic and 
 familiar scenes, when the sky is concealed 
 behial a dense mass of motionless cloud, 
 when the flowers no longer tremble on their 
 slender stems, and even the aspen leaves 
 are still a voice is wanting to remind us of 
 the prevalence and potency of one mighty 
 element; and we feel as if the great spirit 
 of nature were either sleeping or dead. 
 Tie least perceptible movement in the_air, 
 the slightest sound of the passing breeze as 
 it whispers through the leafy boughs of the 
 forest, fills up the dreary void; an all-per- 
 va ling intelligence again lives around us, 
 and the imaginative mind holds ideal inter- 
 course with invisible beings, whose home is 
 in the wilderaess, and whose mystical com- 
 panionship is the symbolical language in 
 which nature is ever speaking to her chil- 
 dren. According to the temper and con- 
 struction of that mind, the voice of the wind 
 briags tidings either joyful or melancholy. 
 lt may whisper in those low sweet tones 
 which are sacred to the communication of 
 happiness, or it may axswer to the sadness 
 of the soul in long ylaintive notes that re- 
 semble a continued, unbroken, and universal 
 sizh. Itmay tell of the gardens of the Kast, 
 of the perfumes of Arabia that float upon its 
 buoyant wings, of the cooling flow of spark- 
 liig waterfalls, of the “delicate breathing” 
 of summer flowers; or of the bleak moun- 
 tain, the howling wilderness, the deep echo 
 of the gloomy cave, the rustling of the with- 
 ered grass, and the waving of the boughs 
 | of the cypress. Precisely as the mind is 
 
 — a 
 ————— ese 
 
 - ee 2 
 OL PT a a I ST SE a LL SS NTS 
 
 SS aa 
 
 errr reeset re eS 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 affected it interprets the language of the 
 wind, and receives its portion of joy or sor- 
 row from the associations which that fa- 
 miliar sound conveys. This, however, can 
 only be the case under ordinary circum- 
 stances. There are situations in which the 
 howling of the wind so closely resembles 
 
 ‘the low monotonous wail of inexhaustible 
 
 sorrow, that the pleasure it is known to afford 
 to some individuals of particular taste and 
 feeling, can only be accounted for by sup- 
 posing that it forcibly reminds them, by 
 
 contrast, of their own uninterrupted enjoy: 
 
 ment. In the same manner, those who love 
 to listen to the nightly tempest are wont to stir 
 the fire and pity the sailors, and then turn- 
 ing inward to their own contracted circle of 
 delight, congratulate themselves that it is 
 broken in upon by no storms, invaded by no 
 distress, and subject to no apprehensions of 
 impending calamity. 
 
 Amongst the varieties of sound rendered 
 familiar to us by their frequent and natural 
 occurrence, the voice of the storm is the 
 most potent in its influence. Whether it 
 comes bounding and booming over the sur- 
 face of the raging sea, or roaring through 
 the stately forest, it is alike grand and ter- 
 rific—alike full of association with images 
 of majesty and awe, and ideas of partial or 
 universal destruction by a mighty but un- 
 seen power. The speed with which it tra- 
 vels seems scarcely to admit of any distine- 
 tion in the feelings which it awakens, but 
 swift as the wind may be in its irresistible 
 progress, it is not more so than thought, to 
 which even a sudden explosion. of matter 
 affords time for the combination of a number 
 of familiar ideas, by a process unknown to 
 the mind in which it takes place. The rag- 
 ing of the tempest, to those who have never 
 heard it with feelings alive to the poetry of 
 nature, would be described as one continu- 
 ous and monotonous sound; but to those 
 who have, it is marked by a variety of dis- 
 
 tinctions, which accounts for the variety of 
 
 sensations it occasions. To begin first with 
 the hollow roar marking the interval when 
 it seems to be retreating as if to gather 
 strength, then the mighty gathering and the 
 irresistible progress with which it rushes as 
 swift as lightning through immeasurable 
 space, leaving just time for the most appal- 
 
 ET A EE 
 
 i 
 
SS ee ae ae 
 
 oa Ent ae: re ne CC ar Se CR NES Se Sa cries 
 EE | 
 
 THE POETRY OF SOUND. 
 
 viy 
 
 ing apprehensions, as it comes louder, and 
 louder, and at last bursts upon us in one 
 overwhelming tumult, mingling every ima- 
 ginable combination of terrific sound, from 
 the crash of falling matter, to the shrieks of 
 wild despair. And it is this combination of 
 impressions, each bringing along with it a 
 train of associations, which constitutes what 
 is called the excitement of the scene—an 
 excitement either distressing or mvigorating, 
 fearful or exquisitely delightful, according 
 to the peculiar temper or capability of the 
 mind of the listener. 
 
 There are three important attributes be- 
 longing to the wind, which combine to in- 
 vest it with a character of intelligence. Mo- 
 tion, which gives the appearance of life to 
 ihe external world; Sound, which operates 
 upon the mind through the medium of ano- 
 ther sense, and resembles the universal 
 voice of creation; and (if I may be allowed 
 the expression) omnipresence, an attribute 
 so potent in its influence upon our feelings, 
 that from the searching, penetrating, and 
 pervading power of the wind, we are accus- 
 tomed to assign to it a character which dif- 
 fers little from actual personality. From 
 ancient times down to the present moment, 
 the wind is spoken of as a swift and faithful 
 messenger. We say—“tell it not to the 
 winds,” lest they should carry the report to 
 the utmost parts of the earth, and commu- 
 nicate the tidings to its inmost recesses; 
 “ Give thy sorrow to the winds,” that they 
 may bear it away on their elastic wings, and 
 disperse it too widely for any single particle 
 to remain perceptible, through the regions 
 of illimitable space; and the great master 
 magician who could wield at will all the 
 passions of human nature, and all the influ- 
 ences of the elements, has thus powerfully 
 represented the instrumentality of the winds 
 in calling forth the self-upbraidings of a 
 guilty conscience : 
 
 O, it is monstrous ! monstrous! 
 
 Methought, the billows spoke, and told me of it; 
 The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder, 
 That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d 
 The name of Prosper !— 
 
 Next to the sound of wind, that of water 
 is perhaps the most poetical; whether it 
 falls clear, and sharp, and tinkling drop by 
 
 Se 
 
 drop into the hollow basin of rock, or wan- 
 ders through the woodland with a warbling 
 and mellow voice, or glides in the sheeted 
 water-fall down the sides of the mountain, 
 with a soft and silvery sound, or rushes over 
 its pent-up channel, in all the wild tumult of 
 an impetuous torrent—whether rising and 
 falling upon the distant shore, with a solemn 
 and monotonous motion, or bellowing forth 
 the mandates of the imperious ocean, it 
 threatens to overwhelm and destroy, by 
 sweeping every atom of moving or perisha- 
 ble matter, into the unsearchable abyss of 
 its unfathomable waters ; it is the same mu- 
 sical voice that salutes our ear, whilst wan- 
 dering over the mountains, reposing in the 
 valley, or meditating upon the wave beaten 
 shore. : ; 
 
 As the representation of water in a land- 
 scape, is said in the language of painters, to 
 give repose to the picture by harmonizing 
 with the colours of the sky, so the soothing 
 and melodious sound of water, harmonizing 
 with the winds, softens down the wild ery of 
 different animals, and the sharp shrill min- 
 strelsy of the woods, blending into one de- 
 lightful symphony, the universal voice of na- || 
 ture. If anything can be added, to render 
 this symphony more perfect—if the refine- 
 ments of art may so mingle with the sym- 
 plicity of nature, as to enhance our enjoy- 
 ment of both, it is when sweet music is heard |! 
 upon the water; for music is the great mas- 
 ter key which unlocks the feelings and pas- 
 sions of mankind, bringing to light more 
 hidden things than ever were called forth 
 or revealed by the direct language of words. 
 When plaintive, it addresses itself 1o sensi- 
 bilities that have long been dormant, or never 
 were awakened before, softening the flinty || 
 heart, and suffusing with the warm tribute 
 of genuine tenderness, eyes that had forgot- 
 ten to weep; when light and joyous, it 
 touches as with electric power, the springs 
 of animal motion and elasticity, and in an 
 instant the dark brow becomes enlivened, the || 
 old resume their youth, the weary step is |; 
 quickened, and the shadows of life are 
 trampled down in the light and_ playful 
 dance; when wild, and free, and national in 
 its associations, it strikes the soul of the |} 
 patriot, and the chains of the oppressor are |j 
 burst asunder; while, planting himself on 
 
ee ae 
 
 76 
 
 his native hills, with a step as firm as the 
 beetling rock, a heart as invincible as the 
 storm, and a front as undaunted as the 
 mountain’s brow, he defies the might of the 
 
 invading foe, and nerves himself to defend’ 
 
 his liberties or die; or when slow, and so- 
 lemn, and majestic in its strains, it falls upon 
 the spirit like the mantle of deep thought, 
 soothing down the idle flutter of evanescent 
 joy, the fruitless stirrings of ambition, the 
 selfish and sordid cares that desolate the 
 mind, and diffuses a holy calm, which if not 
 religion itself, brings with it one of religion’s 
 best and sweetest attributes—the sanctity of 
 peace. 
 
 The evil purposes to which music is capa- 
 ble of being applied, might afford a fertile 
 subject for the pen of the moralist ; its power 
 over the human mind, is all that is attempted 
 to be established here. Operated upon by 
 this power, how many thousands of human 
 beings have been led on to do, and to dare, 
 what they would never have dreamed of 
 attempting, but for the influence of this po- 
 tent spell—potent in its immediate effects 
 upon the feelings and affections, but, Oh! 
 how much more potent in the recollections it 
 awakens ! 
 
 Music is the grand vehicle of memory, the 
 key which unlocks the hoarded treasure of 
 the soul. Words may define, and place be- 
 fore our mental perceptions, as in a map, all 
 that has been; but music, suspending the 
 active energies of the mind, addresses itself 
 directly to the soul, in a voice that makes 
 itself be heard, amongst the tumult and ex- 
 citement of present things—the voice of the 
 irrevocable past. 
 
 We listen, as to a curious specimen of art, 
 to the national music of some distant country, 
 about which we interest ourselves no farther 
 than as it occupies a place upon the globe. 
 We listen, we criticise, we remark upon the 
 peculiarity of the air, and then turn away; 
 but there may be one in the crowd of audi- 
 
 country—a wanderer without a home— 
 driven about from one inhospitable shore to 
 
 ity of his suffermgs—he hears that well- 
 known strain, and in an instant plunges into 
 the very centre of his early attachments, and 
 
 ‘ tors—a heart-stricken exile from that very | ture without reverence, and without wor- 
 
 another, and stupified with the very extrem- | to the sun without blessing his light; we 
 
 the warm comforts of his ancestral, home. | desert plain; tous the dews may have fallen, 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 He sees again the stately woods that bound- 
 ed his hereditary domain, and hears the 
 rush of the torrent that guarded and defined 
 its limits. He stands again upon his father’s 
 hearth, and feels himself a free-born man, 
 proud to maintain and strong to defend his 
 liberties and rights. The music ceases; a 
 shadow like the sable pall of death falls upon 
 the ideal picture, and again he stands upon: 
 ra foreign land, an alien, desolate, and alone. 
 We have all known sonie blessed season 
 of our lives, before the wheels of time had 
 grown heavy with an accumulation of harass- 
 ing cares, when the morning was bright |) 
 upon our path, and the evening fell around 
 us calm and serene as the repose of our 
 own souls; when the friends we loved, loved 
 us, and the smiles that betrayed our happi- 
 ness were answered by smiles that told of 
 gladness in return; when the fields and the 
 woods, the mountains and the sky, were parts 
 and pillars of that great temple, where we 
 met to worship all that was sublime, eternal, 
 and holy; when the moon was the centre of 
 love and beauty, and the sun of life and light; 
 when the rivers and wandering streams were 
 a perpetual refreshment and delight, and the 
 ocean was a flood of glory; when the dews, 
 and the flowers, and the stars of night, blend- 
 ed their sweet influences together, and the 
 song of the birds, the murmuring of the wa- 
 terfall, and the whispering of the gentle gales, 
 rose in a perpetual anthem of gratitude and 
 joy ; and when music, heard as it was heard 
 then, told in its sweetest tones of all that we 
 treasured of the past, all that we enjoyed of 
 the present, and all that we hoped of the fu- 
 ture. We have gone forth since then upon 
 the pilgrimage of life, and the morning may 
 have risen without brightness upon our path, 
 and the evening may have come without re- 
 pose; we may have missed the warm wel- 
 come of the eyes we loved, and the smile 
 that was wont to answer to our own; we 
 may have stood alone in the temple of na- 
 
 re eeeeneeememeeneemeeeeeeeeeeeneentneeeeenmnn ene eeene teed 
 
 A 
 
 ship; we may have looked up to the queen 
 of night without beholding her beauty, and 
 
 may have wandered where the rippling flow 
 of the crystal stream brought no gladness, 
 and turned away from the ocean as from a 
 
ed 
 
 THE POETRY OF SOUND. 77 
 
 the flowers may have bloomed, and the stars 
 of night may have shone unheeded; and 
 the grateful and harmonious voice of nature 
 may have sounded without expression, weari- 
 ;some and void. But let the music of our 
 | early days be heard again, and the flood- 
 gates of memory are opened ; creation re- 
 sumes the vividness of. its colouring; the 
 melody of sound is restored; and the soul, 
 expanding her folded wings, soars once 
 again up to her natural element of long for- 
 gotten happiness. 
 
 We have said that the song of the caged 
 _ bird, and that of the street minstrel, are 
 |, hoth sad; and yet how many millions pass 
 jon their daily walk, hearing, without re- 
 garding either. It is because music ad- 
 dresses itself to the most exquisite sensations 
 of which we are capable, that its vulgar 
 profanation is so peculiarly distressing ; it is 
 because of its own purity, and refinement, 
 and adaptation to delicate feelings, and high 
 sentiments, that we grieve over its prostitu- 
 tion to low purposes; it is because it is pro- 
 perly the language of ecstacy or woe, that 
 we cannot bear to hear it sold for filthy pence, 
 grudgingly doled out, or still more grudging- 
 ly denied. We hear, at intervals, amidst all 
 the dust and tumult of the city, the tinkling 
 sound of distant music, with the accompani- 
 ment of a voice that might once have been 
 sweet. We listen to a lively strain that 
 should have echoed through stately halls, 
 amongst marble pillars, and wreaths of flow- 
 ers. The voice of the minstrel is strained 
 beyond its natural pitch, but no ear will lis- 
 ten; it is modulated, but no heart is charmed. 
 The discord of city sounds, the rattle of 
 wheels, and the busy tread of many feet, 
 carry away the sound, and the sweetness 
 is lost. A plaintive lay comes next, but it is 
 alike unavailable in moving the multitude ; 
 and the wretched minstrels wander on, a 
 living exemplification of the impotence of 
 music performed without appropriate feel- 
 ing, persisted in without fitting accompani- 
 ments of time and place, and poured upon un- 
 grateful and inattentive ears. 
 
 The cultivation of music as a science, 
 clearly marks the progress of national civili- 
 zation. In almost all countries on the face 
 of the earth, however simple or barbarous 
 the state of their inhabitants, humble at- 
 
 a 
 
 tempts to produce something like music 
 have been detected, which proves beyond a 
 doubt that there is a natural faculty or feel- 
 ing in the human mind that pines for this 
 peculiar enjoyment. As the eye is gratified 
 with the blending of different colours, so is 
 
 the ear regaled with the harmony of differ. 
 
 ent sounds. The general aspect of the ex- 
 ternal world, and the wonderful construc- 
 tion of the organ of sight, show how admir- 
 ably they are adapted to each other; yet 
 much is left to the ingenuity of man, that he 
 may exercise his faculties in carrying on the 
 same principle of intellectual enjoyment de- 
 rived from nature, and diffusing it through 
 the region of art. As relates to the eye, 
 this is most effectually accomplished by 
 painting; as relates to the ear, by music. 
 They each constitute links of the same de- 
 gree of relative connection between the 
 organs of sense and the operations of the 
 mind. Painting is generally considered 
 
 more intellectual than music, because it re- |. 
 mains extant and tangible to criticism ; |; 
 
 while music is more instantaneous, and 
 more evanescent in its effect upon the feel- 
 ings; but they have both worked their way 
 as an accompaniment in the progress of 
 civilization and general refinement; they 
 have both occupied the lives of many able 
 men, requiring the exercise of much pa- 
 tience, and much intellect, to bring them to 
 their present state of perfection; and they 
 both afford pleasure, upon principles which 
 form an important part of our nature, and 
 are inseparable from it. 
 
 It is true there are human beings so 
 strangely constituted that deficient in no 
 other faculty, they yet declare themselves 
 incapable of being charmed by music; but 
 rather than consign them at once to the 
 well-known anathema against “the man 
 that has not music in his soul,” I have some- 
 times fancied that these individuals were 
 influenced by prejudice, or early bias, 
 against music in some particular character ; 
 that they might probably each have their 
 favourite song bird, and that if they could 
 once be convinced that the music to which 
 they professed themselves insensible, was 
 only a different arrangement of the same 
 notes they were accustomed to listen to 
 with delight from a bird, they would no 
 
longer turn away with indifference from the 
 music of the harp or the viol. There is 
 one kind of music, which, above all others, 
 I would make the test of their capability— 
 the music of the voices of children. If they 
 remain unmoved by that, the case would be 
 fully proved against them, and there would 
 appear no reason why sentence should not 
 be immediately pronounced by declaring 
 them 
 
 “Fit for treason’s stratagems and spoils.” 
 
 There is no sound that salutes us in our 
 daily and familiar walk, more affecting than 
 the voice of infancy in its happiest moods. 
 It reminds us, with its fairy tones of silvery 
 music, at once of what we are, and what 
 we might have been; of all that we have 
 lost in losing our innocence, of the flowers 
 that still linger upon the path of life, of the 
 sweetness that may yet be extracted from 
 affection and simplicity, from tenderness 
 and truth; and of the cherub choir that sing 
 around the eternal throne. 
 
 The poetry of village sounds, when heard 
 by the evening wanderer, scarcely needs 
 description here. ‘The clap of the distant 
 gate, the bark of the faithful watch-dog, the 
 bleat of the folded sheep, the faintly distin- 
 suished shout of some victorious winner in 
 the village game, the cry of the child under 
 the evening discipline, and the hum of many 
 voices, telling of the toils of the past, or of 
 the coming day, are all poetical when they 
 come floating upon the dewy air; though 
 each in itself is discordant, and such as we 
 should shun a nearer acquaintance with. 
 Yet such is their intimate and powerful as- 
 sociation with the calm of evening’s hour, 
 the close of labor, and the refreshment of 
 repose, that heard in the distance they are 
 mellowed into music, and thus become sym- 
 bolical of happiness and peace. 
 
 and allure the mind onward from sensible to 
 spiritual things, echo seems to have assumed 
 her mysterious place in the great plan of 
 creation. As shadow inthe visible world is 
 more productive of poetical associations than 
 objects which possess the qualities of sub- 
 stance, light, and colour, so is echo in the 
 region of sound. It speaks to us in a lan- 
 guage so faithful, yet so airy and spiritual in 
 
 As if to multiply our sources of enjoyment, 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 its tones, that we willingly adopt the fanciful 
 conception of the poet, as the most natural 
 and satisfactory manner of accounting for 
 the existence of a being so sensitive and 
 ethereal, as to be perpetually speaking in the 
 language of the woods and waterfalls, yet 
 never seen, even for a moment, in the depth 
 of the cool forest, listening to the melody of || 
 the winds, or stooping over the side of the | 
 crystal fountain to catch the silvery fall of | 
 its liquid music. How could a being of in- 
 telligence be made so faithful, but by love; 
 or so timid, but by suffering? And from 
 these two common circumstances of love and 
 sorrow, the poet has drawn materials for 
 that beautiful and fantastic story, of echo 
 sighing herself away, until her whole exis- | 
 tence became embodied in a sound—a sound 
 of such exquisite but mysterious sweetness, 
 wandering like a swift intelligence from hill 
 to hill, from cave to mountain crag, from 
 waterfall to woodland, that he must be des- |} 
 titute indeed of all pretentions to poetic feel- 
 ing, who can listen to the voice of echo with- 
 out connecting it in idea with the language 
 of unseen spirits. 
 
 As in the material world every visible ob- 
 ject has its shadow, and every sound its 
 echo, so in accordance with the great har- 
 monious system of creation, no single idea 
 is presented to the mind without its imme- 
 diate affinity and connection with others; 
 nor are we capable of any sensation, either 
 painful or pleasurable, that does not owe 
 half its weight and power to sympathy. 
 
 Such is the vital character of the principle 
 of poetry, that touch but the simplest flower 
 which blooms in our fields or our meadows, 
 and the life-giving spell widens on every 
 side, including in its charmed circle the dews, 
 and the winds, light, form, and loveliness, the | 
 changes of the seasons, and an endless va- |! 
 riety of associations, each having its own | 
 circle, widening also, and extending for | 
 ever without bound or limitation. Strike | 
 but a chord of music, and the sound is echoed | 
 and re-echoed, bearing the mind along with | 
 it, far, far away, into the regions of illimita- 
 ble space; examine but one atom extracted | 
 from the unfathomable abyss of past time, 
 apply it to the torch of poetry, and a flame 
 is kindled which lights up the past, the 
 present, and the future, as with the golden 
 
 —— 
 
THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 | radiance of an eternal and unextinguishable 
 
 fire. 
 
 | ‘To speak of the poetry of one particular 
 thing, is consequently like expatiating upon 
 the sweetness of a single note of music. It 
 is the combination and variety of these notes 
 that charm the ear; just as it is the spirit of 
 poetry pervading the natural world, extract- 
 ing sweetness, and diffusing beauty, with 
 the rapidity of thought, the power of intelli- 
 gence, and the energy of truth, which consti- 
 tutes the poetry of life. 
 
 | al eae 
 THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 LANGUAGE, as the medium of communi- 
 cation, has the same relation to the ear and 
 the mind, as painting has to the mind and 
 the eye. The poetry of language, like that 
 of painting, consists in producing upon the 
 organs of sense such impressions as are 
 
 | most intimately connected with refined and 
 intellectual ideas; and it is to language that 
 we appeal for the most forcible and obvious 
 proofs that all our poetic feelings owe their 
 existence to association. 
 
 The great principle therefore to be kept 
 in view by the juvenile poet is the scale (or 
 the tone, as the popular phrase now is) of 
 his associations; and this is of importance 
 not only as regards his subjects, but his 
 words: for let the theme of his muse be the 
 
 highest which the human mind is capable 
 
 | of conceiving, and the general style of his 
 
 versification tender, graceful, or sublime, the 
 occasional occurrence of an ill-chosen word 
 may so arrestithe interest of the reader, by 
 || the sudden intervention of a different and 
 || inferior set of associations as entirely to de- 
 stroy the charm of the whole. 
 
 Without noticing words individually, we 
 are scarcely aware how much of their sense 
 is derived from the*relative ideas which cus- 
 tom has attached to them. Take for exam- 
 ple the word chariot, and supply its place in 
 any poetical passage with a one-horse chaise, 
 | or even a coach and six; and the hero who 
 
 had been followed by the acclamations of a 
 wondering people, immediately descends to 
 the level of a common man, even while he 
 _ travels more commodiously. 
 
 | 
 
 i 
 
 | 
 Dean Swift has a treatise on the “art of | 
 sinking in poetry,” to which curious addi- 
 tions might be made by striking out any ap- 
 propriate expression from a fine passage, 
 and, without materially altering the sense, 
 supplying its place with some vulgar, famil- 
 iar, or otherwise ill-chosen word. For ex- 
 ample,— 
 “ Come forth, sweet spirit, from thy cloudy cave.” 
 Come out, &c. 
 “ But hark ! through the fast flashing lightning of war, 
 “ What steed of the desert flies frantic afar.” 
 What steed of the desert novo gallops afar. 
 
 We shall hold in the air conversation divine. 
 * Around my ivy’d porch shall spring 
 * Bach fragrant flower that drinks the dew.”’ 
 ‘Each fragrant flower that sups the dew. 
 “To Bristol’s fount I bore with trembling care 
 “ Her faded furm: she bow’d to taste the wave, 
 
 * And died.” 
 
 | 
 *% We shall hold in the air a communion divine.’ : 
 She sioop’d to sip the wave. | 
 
 “ We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
 “ And smooth’d down his lonely pillow, 
 “That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his 
 head, 
 “ And we far away on the billow.” 
 
 { 
 
 | 
 
 *“ We thought as we hollowed his /zid/e bed, | 
 * And dug out his lonely pillow, 
 
 “That the foe and the stranger would walk o’er his 
 
 head, &e. | 
 
 | 
 
 “ Be strong as the ocean that stems 
 “ A thousand wild waves on the shore.”’ 
 
 Nine hundred wild waves on the shore. 
 
 ‘This life is all chequered with pleasures and woes.”’ 
 This life is all dappled, &c. 
 
 There can scarcely be a more beautiful 
 and appropriate arrangement of words, than 
 in the following stanza from Childe Harold. 
 
 “ The sails were fill’d, and fair the light winds blew, - 
 “ As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
 * And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
 “ And soon were Jost in circumambient foam. 
 *% And then, it may be of his wish to roam 
 “ Repented he. but in his bosom slept 
 “ The silent thought, nor from his lips did: come 
 “ One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
 “ And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.” 
 
 Without committing a crime so heinous as 
 that of entirely spoiling this verse, it is easy « 
 to alter it so as to bring it down to the level I 
 of ordinary composition; and thus we may 
 illustrate the essential difference between 
 poetry and mere versification. 
 
 The sails were trimm’d and fair the light winds blew, 
 As glad to force him from his native home, 
 
 And fast the white rocks vunish’d from his view, 
 
 And soon were Jost amid the circling foam: 
 
80: 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And then, perchance, of his fond wish to roam 
 * Repeuted he, but in his hosom slept 
 
 The wish, nor from his si/ent lips did come 
 
 One mournful word, Whilst others sat and wept, 
 And to the heedless breeze their fruilless moaning kept. 
 
 It is impossible not to be struck with the 
 harmony of the original words as they are 
 placed in this stanza. The very sound is 
 graceful, as well as musical; like the motion 
 of the winds and waves, blended with the 
 majestic movement of a gallant ship. “'T'he 
 sails were filled” conveys no association 
 with the work of man; but substitute the 
 word trimmed, and you see the busy sailors 
 at once. The word “waft” follows in per- 
 fect unison with the whole of the preceding 
 line, and maintains the invisible agency, of 
 the “licht winds;” while the word “ glad ” 
 before it, gives an idea of their power as an 
 unseen intelligence. “Fading” is also a 
 happy expression, to denote the gradual ob- 
 scurity and disappearing of the “white 
 rocks;” but the “circumambient. foam” is 
 perhaps the most poetical expression of the 
 whole, and such as could scarcely have pro- 
 ceeded from a low or ordiaary mind. It is 
 unnecessary however to prolong this minute 
 examination of particular words. It may be 
 more amusing to the reader to see howa 
 poet, and that of no mean order, can unde- 
 signedly murder his own offspring. 
 
 To LIBERTY, BY SHELLEY. 
 
 ' “From a single clond the lightning flashes, 
 * Whilst a thousand isles are illumin’d around, 
 * Harthquake is ¢rumpling one city to ashes, 
 . s > 2 . s 
 “ But keener thy gaze than the lightning’s glare, 
 * And swifter thy step than the earthquake’s tramp ; 
 “ Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean; thy STARE 
 “ Mukes blind the volcanoes ; de 
 
 The images called up before the mind, by 
 this personification of earthquake in the act 
 of “trampling,” and liberty “staring,” are 
 sufficiently absurd to saalashee the sublimity 
 of ‘the poem. 
 
 To 
 
 “Music, when soft voices die, 
 
 ‘ Vibrates in the memory— 
 
 “ Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
 “Live within the sense they quicken.” 
 
 A Diner. 
 
 > ® s 2 ° . 
 
 “Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled, 
 “The ra‘s in her heart 
 
 “ Will have made their nest. 
 
 “And the worms be alive in her golden hair.” 
 
 '° 
 
 Sone For Tasso. 
 
 * * * * 2 s 
 
 “ And if I think, my thoughts come fast, 
 “T mix the present with the past, ; 
 “ And each seems uglier than the last.” 
 
 a 
 
 OpE To NAPLEs. 
 
 “ Naples ! thou heart of men, which ever pantest 
 “ Naked, beneath the lédless eye of heuven !” 
 
 The same fault, as it applies to imagery 
 rather than to single words, is still more fre- 
 quently found in poetry, because the ear as- 
 sists the judgment in its choice of words, 
 but imagery is left entirely to the imagina- 
 tion. The same poet, rich as he is in passa- 
 ges of beauty, must still supply us with 
 examples. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 “Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all 
 ‘* We can desire, O Love!’ 
 
 A VISION OF THE SBA. 
 
 “Tis the terror of tempest. The rags of the sail 
 
 * Are flickering in ribbons within the fierce gaie ; 
 
 “From the stark night of vapours the dim rain is driven, 
 
 “Aud when lightning is loosed, like a deluge from 
 heaven, 
 
 ‘ She sees the black trunks of the water-spout spin, 
 
 ** And bend as if heaven was raining in.” 
 
 THE FUGITIVES. 
 
 “In the court of the fortress 
 ’* Beside the pale portress, 
 “ Like a blood-hound well beaten, 
 “The bridegroom stands, eaten 
 “ By shame ;” 
 
 THE SuNSEYT. 
 
 ‘For but to see her were to read the tale 
 
 “ Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts 
 “ Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;— 
 
 “ Her eyelashes were worn away with tears.” 
 
 THE BoaT on THE SERCHIO. 
 
 “ Our-boat is asleep on the Serchio’s stream, 
 
 “Its sails are folded Jike thoughts in a dream, 
 
 “The elm sways idly, hither and thither ; 
 
 “ Dominic, the boatman, has brougiii. the mast, 
 
 “ And the oar and the sails; but ’tis sleeping fast, 
 
 &“ Ltke a beast unconscious of tts tether.” rm 
 
 A vulgar proverb tells us that “seeing is 
 believing ;” and it is quite necessary to see, 
 in order 1 to believe, that the same poet who 
 wrote that exquisite line, 
 
 “Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream.” 
 
 should go on to tell us in the language of 
 poetry, that 
 
 Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast,” 
 
and that the boat itself 
 
 “Ts sleeping fast, 
 “ Like a beast unconscious of its tether.” 
 
 The same poet has addressed himself to 
 night, in language seldom surpassed for 
 sublimity and grace; but even Here he calls 
 up one image which spoils the whole. 
 
 “ Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, 
 “Star inwrought! ; 
 “ Bind with thine hair the eyes of day, 
 “\ Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
 “Then wander o’er city, and,sea, and land, 
 “ Touching all with thine opiate wand— 
 ‘¢ Come, long sought!” 
 
 Lings ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DeatH or Na- 
 ‘ POLEON. 
 
 2 * ® s 
 
 “ And livest thou still, mother earth?  - 
 “ Thou wert warming thy fingers old 
 “ O’er the embers covered and cold 
 “Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled——.” 
 
 It is an ungracious task to busy one’s fin- 
 gers in turning over the pages of our best 
 writers, for the purpose of finding out their 
 faults, or rather detecting instances of their 
 forgetfulness ; yet if any thing of this kind 
 can assist the young poet in his pursuit of 
 excellence, it ought not to be withheld; 
 especially as it can in no way affect the de- 
 cided merits of those who have so few flaws 
 in their title to our admiration. 
 
 “ What behold I now? (says Young,) 
 “ A wilderness of wonders burning round; 
 “‘ Where larger suns inhabit higher spheres; 
 “ Perhaps the illus of descending Gods. 
 “Nor halt I here; my toil is but begun; 
 “Tis but the threshold of the Deity.” 
 
 The idea of “descending gods” requiring 
 “villas,” or half-way houses to halt at, is 
 wholly unworthy of the dignity of the author 
 of “ Night Thoughts.” 
 
 It is remarkable that Milton, whose choice 
 of subjects would have rendered an inferior 
 poet peculiarly liable to such errors, has a 
 few, and but a very few, instances of the 
 same kind. 
 
 a a a I PS aa ep eli =i apa aol SEE 
 
 “ And now went forth the moon, 
 “‘ Such as in highest heaven, arrayed with gold 
 “ Empyreal; from before her vanished night, 
 “ Shot through with orient beams.” 
 
 Through the whole of the works of this 
 master mind, the passage which describes 
 the combat between Satan and the Arch- 
 
 THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 | sublimity and power: but the subject itself 
 
 81 
 
 angel, is perhaps the most in danger of fall- 
 ing into burlesque, and even this has great 
 
 —a fleshly combat in the air, is one which 
 necessarily requires such descriptions and 
 allusions as we find it difficult to reconcile | 
 with our notions of ethereal or sublime. For } 
 instance, when 
 
 ‘“‘ From each hand with speed retired, 
 “ Where erst was thickest fight, the angelic throng, 
 “ And left large field, unsafe within the wind 
 “ Of such cumotion.”? 
 
 And again, when the sword of Michael 
 “shares all the right side of his antagonist” 
 and 
 
 “A stream of nectareous humour issuing flowed 
 “ Sanguine, such as celestial spirits may bleed.’’ 
 
 This, and the minute description of the 
 process by which the wound is healed, have 
 little connexion with our ideas of the essen- 
 tial attributes of gods. Nor is there much 
 dignity in the allusion made by Adam to his 
 own situation after the fall, compared with 
 that of Eve. 
 
 —————" On me the curse aslope 
 “ Glanced on the ground; with labour I must earn 
 “ My bread.’’ 
 
 But above all, in describing the building 
 of the tower of Babel, our immortal poet 
 seems wholly to have forgotten the neces- 
 sary difference between the inhabitants of 
 Karth, and those of Heaven. 
 
 “ Forthwith a hideous gabble rises loud 
 
 “ Among the builders; each to other calls 
 
 “ Not understood; till hoarse, and all in rage, 
 
 “ As mocked they storm ; great laughter was in heaven 
 “ And looking down, to see the hubbub a SNE & 
 
 % And hear the din.?— 
 
 It is into such incongruities as these, that 
 young poets and enthusiasts, whether young 
 or old, are most apt to fall: young poets, 
 because they are not so well acquainted 
 with the world, and with the tastes and 
 feelings of mankind in general, as to know 
 what particular associations are most uni- 
 formly attached to certain words; and en- | 
 thusiasts, because their own thoughts are 
 too vivid, and the tide of their own feelings 
 too violent and impetuous, to admit of inter- 
 ruption from a single word, or even a whole | 
 sentence; and forgetting the fact that their 
 
ee Saas ca ro RR RAT OBULORES 57 
 
 | 99 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 ‘afrenzied brain. 
 
 books will be read with cool discrimination 
 rather than with enthusiasm like their own, 
 they dash forth in loose and anomalous ex- 
 pressions, which destroy the harmony, and 
 weaken the force of their language. 
 
 The introduction of unpoetical images 
 may however be pardoned on the score of 
 inadvertency, but it is possible for such 
 images to be introduced in a manner which 
 almost insults the feelings of the reader, by 
 the doggrel or burlesque style which obtains 
 favour with a certain class of readers, chiefly 
 such as are incapable of appreciating what 
 is beautiful or sublime. One specimen of 
 this kind will be sufficient. It occurs in a 
 volume of American poetry. | 
 
 “ There’s masic in the dash of waves 
 “ When the swift bark cleaves the foam; 
 “ There’s mnsic heard upon her deck, 
 “The mariner’s song of home. 
 * When moon and star-beams smiling meet 
 * At midnight on the sea— 
 % And there 7s music onve a week 
 “ In Scudder’s balcony.’ 
 
 > « * ial e 
 
 “The moonlight music of the waves 
 “Ty storms is heard no more, 
 
 “% When the living lightning mocks the wreck 
 ‘“ At midnight on the shore; 
 
 “ And the mariner’s song of home has ceased ; 
 “is course is on the sea — 
 
 * And thereis music when tt rains 
 * In Scudder’s balcony.” 
 
 _ What could induce the poet to spoil his 
 otherwise pretty verses in this manner, it is 
 difficult to imagiue; but as this is by no 
 means a solitary instance of the kind, we 
 are led to suppose that the minds in which 
 such incongruities originate, must be influ- 
 enced by the popular notion of imitating 
 Lord Byron, in the wild vagaries which 
 even his genius could scarcely render en- 
 durable. What his genius might have 
 failed to reconcile to the taste of the public, 
 was however sufficiently effected, by the 
 proofs we find thruughout his writings, of 
 the agony of a distorted mind, of that worst 
 and deepest of all maladies, which hides its 
 internal convulsions under the mask of hu- 
 mour, and throws around, in lurid flashes of 
 wit and drollery, the burning ebullitions of 
 There is. a depth of ex- 
 perience, and bitterness of feeling, in the 
 playful starts of familiar commonplace with 
 which he forcibly arrests the tide of his own 
 tenderness, or “turns to burlesque” his own 
 
 $$. 
 
 elevated sentiments, which sets all imitation 
 at defiance ; and might, if properly felt and 
 fully understood, serve as a warning to those 
 who aspire to be poets in the style of Byron, 
 that to imitate his eccentricities without the 
 power of his genius and the pathos of his 
 soul, is as obviously at variance with good 
 taste, natural feeling, and common sense, as 
 to attempt to interest by aping the frolic 
 of the madman, without the deep-seated 
 and burning passions that have overthrown 
 his reason. 
 
 Another prevailing fault in poetry, as in- 
 timately connected with association as the 
 foregoing, is the introduction of words or pas- 
 sages, In which the ideas connected with 
 them are too numerous, or too remote from 
 common feeling and common observation, 
 for the attention to travel with the same ra- 
 pidity as the eye. Under such circumstan- 
 ces the mind must either pause and examine 
 for itself, or pass over the expression as an 
 absolute blank; in either of which cases, the 
 chain of interest and intelligence is broken, 
 and the reader is either wearied, or unin- 
 formed as to the meaning of+the writer. 
 
 The same poet who has afforded us so 
 many instances of his own faults, will serve 
 our purpose again. 
 
 “the whirl and the splash 
 “ As of some hideous engine, whose brazen teeth smash 
 
 “The thin winds and soft waves into thunder; the 
 screams 
 
 *“ And hissings craw] fast o’er the smooth ocean streams, 
 * Hach sound like a centipede.’’ 
 
 Descriptions such as this, are beyond the 
 
 power of the most vivid imagination to con- 
 vert into an ideal scene: all is confusion, be- 
 cause the mind no sooner forms cone picture, 
 than other objects, differently coloured, are 
 forced upon it, and consequently the whole 
 is indefinite and obscure. 
 Again, in the Song ofa Spirit— 
 “ And as a veil in which I walk through heaven, 
 “T have wrought mountains, seas, and waves, and clouds, 
 
 “ And lastly, light, whose inferfusion dawns 
 “ In the durk space of interstellar air.” 
 
 Milton is by no means free from this fault. 
 Witness his frequent crowding together of 
 appellations, which even the most learned 
 readers must pause before they can proper- 
 ly apply, as well as passages like the follow- 
 ing, with which his works abound. 
 
 SNE Te See ee Bee eh 
 
ee nts tere ences 
 
 i 
 
 THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 ——_——_——_——“ There let him victor sway, 
 * As battle hath adjudged, from this new world 
 “Retiring, by his own doom alienated ; 
 
 * And henceforth monarchy with thee divide 
 
 “ Ofall things parted by the empyreul bounds, 
 
 “ THis quadrature, from thy orbicular world ; 
 
 “ Or try thee, now more dangerous to his throne.” 
 
 But of all our poets, Young is perhaps the 
 most liberal in bestowing upon his readers 
 examples of this kind. His ideas. are, ab- 
 solutely ponderous. His associations crowd 
 upon us in such stupendous masses, that we 
 are often burdened and fatigued, instead 
 of being refreshed and delighted with his 
 otherwise sublime, and always imaginative 
 style. 
 
 The poetry of language consists, there- 
 fore, not only of words which are musical, 
 harmonious, and agreeable in themselves, 
 but of appropriate words, so arranged as 
 that their relative ideas shall flow into the 
 mind, without more exertion of its. own, 
 than results from a gentle and natural stim- 
 ulus. That quality in poetry which is 
 most essentially conducive to this effect, is 
 simplicity; and perhaps, from the humble 
 
 ideas we attach to the word, simplicity is too 
 
 much despised by those who are. unac- 
 quainted with its real power and value. 
 Yet is there nothing more obvious, upon re- 
 flection, than the simplicity of the language 
 of some of our best poets. We feel that it is 
 only from not having been the first to think 
 of it, that we have not used precisely the 
 same language ourselves. It contains no- 
 thing apparently beyond our own reach and 
 compass. The words which terminate the 
 lines seem to have fallen naturally and with- 
 out design into their proper places; and the 
 metre flows in like the consequence of an 
 impulse, rather than an effort. Simplicity 
 in poetry, when the subject is well chosen 
 and skilfully managed, like order in archi- 
 tecture, where the materials and workman- 
 ship are good, establishes a complete whole, 
 which never fails to please, not only the 
 scientific observer, but even those who are 
 least acquainted with the principles from 
 which their gratification arises. 
 
 Our business thus far has been to point 
 out what is not poetical in language; and 
 so far as it serves to establish the fact, that 
 the poetry of language, as well as that of 
 feeling, arises from association, the task can 
 
 that which now lies before us is one of a 
 much more grateful character. 
 
 We are told by Blair, that it is an essen- 
 tial part of the harmony (and consequently 
 of the poetry) of language, that a particular 
 resemblance should be maintained between 
 the object described, and the sounds em- 
 ployed in describing it; and of this we give | 
 practical illustrations in our common con- 
 versation, when we speak of the whistling 
 of winds, the buzz and hum of insects, the 
 hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber, 
 and many other instances, where the word 
 has been plainly framed upon the sound it 
 represents. ; 
 
 Pope also tells us, in his Poetical Essay 
 on Criticism, 
 
 1 
 scarcely be altogether uninteresting: but 
 
 “?Tis not enough no harshness gives offence ; 
 “The sound must seem an echo to the sense 
 
 * Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, | 
 “ And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flaws ; 
 
 “ But when loud surges lash the sounding slivre, | 
 “The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.” 
 
 And faithful to his own maxims, he thus |! 
 describes the felling of trees in a forest: | 
 
 * On all sides round the forest hurls her aks 
 “Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brawn, 
 “Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down,” 
 
 “ Loud sounds the air, redoubling stroke on strokes, | 
 
 liarly adapted by their sound tg the length- 
 ened and melancholy cadence with which 
 they are generally uttered ; and quick, lively, 
 frolic, fun, are equally expressive of what 
 they describe. Of the same character are 
 the following examples:—whirring of the 
 partridge—booming of the bittern, &c. 
 
 “ Scarce 
 “ The bittern knows his time. with bill ingulft 
 
 The words alone, gone, no more, are pecu- 
 “To shake the sounding marsh,” 
 Tug Horse DRiNKING IN SUMMER. 
 
 ‘6 He takes the river at redoubled draughts, 
 “ And with wide nostrils, snorting, skims the wave.” 
 
 Storm In SUMMER. 
 “The tempest growls: 
 
 “ Rolls its awful burden on the wind. 
 
 Follows the loosen’d aggravated roar, 
 
 “ Bularging, deenening, mingling; real on peat 
 “ Crush’d horrible. convulsing heaven and earth. 
 * Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, 
 
 “ Or prone descending rain.” 
 
On WINTER. 
 
 j 
 5 
 
 ‘¢ At last the rous’d-up river pours along, 
 “ Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes ” &c. 
 ‘Tumbling thro’ rocks abrupt,”’ &c. , 
 
 ‘ T hear the far-off curfew sound 
 ‘“ Over some wide water’d shore, 
 “Swinging slow with sullen roar.” 
 
 “The reeling clouds 
 “ Stagger with dizzy poise.’””—THoMSON. 
 
 “Have you not made an universal shout, 
 
 ‘ That Tyber trembled underneath his banks, 
 “To hear the replication of your sounds, 
 
 “ Made in his concave shores ?”—SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 But above all our poets, he who sung in 
 darkness most deeply felt and studied the 
 harmony of his versification. Shut out from 
 the visible world, his very soul seemed 
 wrapped in music, and confined to that one 
 medium of intelligence, through it he receiv- 
 ed as well as imparted, the most exquisite 
 delight. Witness his own expression,— 
 
 $$$ $$ __________——__ "tg 
 “ Feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 
 “ Harmonious numbers.”’ 
 
 “The multitude of angels, with a shout 
 ‘Loud as from numbers without number.”? 
 
 “The harp 
 “ Wf¥ad work and rested not, the solemn pipe, 
 “And dulcimer, all organs of sweet stop, 
 ‘All sounds on fret by string or golden wire, 
 “Temper’d soft tunings,” &c. 
 
 The contrast between the two following 
 passages, displays to great advantage the 
 poet’s art. , 
 
 “On a sudden, open fly, 
 ‘“ With impétuous recoil, and jarring sound, 
 ‘Th’ infernal doors; and on their hinges grate 
 “¢ Harsh thunder.”’ 
 
 “ Heaven opened wide 
 “ Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 
 “ On golden hinges turning.” 
 
 And again,— 
 
 * When the merry bells ring round, 
 
 “ And the jocund rebecks sound, 
 
 “To many a youth, and many a maid \ 
 ‘Dancing in the chequer’d shade.” 
 
 “ Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow 
 “ Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.” 
 
 “Now gentle gales, 
 “ Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
 “ Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
 “ Those balmy spoils.” 
 
 “Tripping ebb, that stole 
 “With soft foot toward the deep,” &c. 
 
 “ Sabrina fair, 
 “ Listen where thou art sitting 
 “Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave.” 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 = 
 
 “ At last a soft and solemn breathing sound 
 
 *“‘ Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes, 
 
 “ And stole upon the air, that even silence 
 
 “‘ Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might 
 “ Deny her nature, and be never more 
 
 “ Still to be so displaced.” 
 
 “How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
 
 “ Of silence, through the empty vaulted night, 
 ‘ At every fall smoothing the raven down 
 
 “ Of darkness till it smiled.” 
 
 “* Midnight shout and revelry, 
 
 “ Tipsy dance and jollity.”’ 
 
 “The sun to me is dark 
 
 “ And silent as the moon, 
 
 ‘’ When she deserts the night, 
 
 ‘“ Wid in her vacant interlunar cave.””—MILTON. 
 
 The measure of the following two lines is 
 remarkably descriptive of the tardy leave- 
 taking of our first parents, when they pass- 
 ed for the last time through the gates of 
 Paradise. 
 
 “They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, 
 “ Through Eden took their solitary way.” 
 
 How bright and crystalline is the follow- 
 ing description: 
 
 “ How from the sapphire fount, the crisped brook, 
 “ Rolling on orient pearl, and sands of gold, 
 “With mazy error, under pendent shades.” 
 
 The following specimens, from different 
 authors, are all illustrative of the harmony 
 of numbers. 
 
 “ Flow beautiful is night! 
 “ A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; 
 “ No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain 
 ‘ Breaks the serene of heaven: 
 “Tn full orb’d glory yonder moon divine 
 * Rolls through the dark blue depths. 
 ‘ Beneath her steady ray 
 “The desert circle spreads, 
 “Like a round ocean girded with the sky. 
 “ How beautiful is night !’’—SouTHey. 
 
 “ From peak to peak the rattling crags among, 
 “ Leaps the live thunder !” 
 
 “ And first one universal shriek there rush’d, 
 “Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 
 “ Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush’d, 
 “Save the wild wind, and the remorseless dash 
 
 “Of billows: but at intervals there gush’d, ‘i fi 
 
 “ Accompanied with a convulsive splash, = 
 “ A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
 “ Of some strong swimmer in his agony.’’—BYRON. 
 
 “ And dashing soft from rocks around, 
 “ Bubbling runnels join’d the sound.””—CoLLIns. 
 
 “That orbed maiden with white fire laden 
 “ Whom mortals call the moon, 
 “ Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor 
 “ By the gy breezes strewn.”’—SHELLEY. 
 
 i Sad, on the soliende of night, the sound, 
 3 As i in the stream he plung’d, was teak” around : 
 
THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 “Then all was still,—the wave was rough no more, 
 “The river swept as sweetly as before, 
 “The willows wav’d, the moonbeams shone serene, 
 “ And peace returning brooded o’er the scene.” 
 
 H. K. WuitTe. 
 
 Gray is scarcely inferior to Milton in his 
 musical versification; indeed so much less 
 important are the subjects of his muse, and 
 consequently so much more easily woven in 
 with soft and musical words, that as regards 
 mere versification he stands unrivalled in the 
 literature of our country. 
 
 ‘“ Now the rich stream of music winds along, 
 ** Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong.” 
 
 * Woods that wave o’er Delphi’s steep, 
 ‘Isles, that crown th’ Egean deep, 
 “ Fields that cool Ilissus laves.” 
 
 “ Bright-eyed fancy, hov’ring o’er, 
 “ Scatters from her pictured urn 
 “ Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.” 
 
 “ Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 
 
 *“ While proudly riding o’er the azure realm 
 
 “In gallant trim the gildéd vessel goes ; 
 
 “ Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ; 
 
 “ Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, 
 
 “ That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.” 
 
 “ Bright rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, 
 ‘¢ Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour’d wings.”’ 
 
 “ Now the storm begins to lour, 
 
 “ (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) 
 Tron sleet of arrowy shower 
 
 “ Flurtles in the darkened air.” 
 
 “Now my weary lips I close: 
 “ Leave me, leave me to repose.” 
 
 Nothing can be more expressive of weari- 
 ness than the simple words which compose 
 || these two lines. We could scarcely find in 
 j/our hearts to detain the enchantress who 
 utters them more than once, even were she 
 capable of realizing to our grasp the imag- 
 inary dominion of a world. 
 The elegy written in a country church- 
 yard is altogether the most perfect specimen 
 | of poetical harmony which our language af- 
 fords; but like some other good things it 
 has been profaned by vulgar abuse, and 
 many who have been compelled to learn 
 ‘| these verses for a task at school, retain in 
 ‘| after life a clear recollection of their sound, 
 || without any idea of their sense, or any per- 
 | ception of their beauty. Still this elegy 
 contains many stanzas, and one in particu- 
 | lar, to which the ear must be insensible in- 
 baecd if it can listen without delight. 
 
 l 
 “ The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 } “The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, 
 
 “The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 *“ No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.” 
 
 Amongst our modern poets, there is not 
 one who possesses a more ¢xquisite sense of 
 the appropriateness of sou.id and imagery, 
 than Moore. His charmed numbers flow 
 on like the free current of a melodious 
 stream, whose associations are with the sun- 
 beams and the shadows, the leafy boughs, 
 the song of the forest birds, the dew upon 
 the flowery bank, and all things sweet, and 
 genial, and delightful, whose influence is 
 around us in our happie.t moments, and 
 whose essence is the wealth that lies hoarded 
 in the treasury of nature. In reading the 
 poetry of Moore, our attention is never ar- 
 rested by one particular word. His sylla- 
 bles are like notes of music, each composing 
 parts of an harmonious whole : and the in- 
 terest they excite, divided between the ear 
 and the mind, is a continued tide of gratifi- 
 cation, gently but copiously poured in upon 
 the soul. There is scarcely a line of his 
 that would not gratify us by its sound, even 
 were we ignorant of its sense; but the per- | 
 fect correspondence between both is what || 
 constitutes the soul-felt music of his lyre. 
 
 It would be as useless to select passages || 
 
 from what is altogether harmonious as to 
 point out particular parts in.a chain of 
 beauty, whose every link is perfect; but 
 from an almost affectionate remembrance 
 
 of the delight with which they first struck | 
 
 upon my youthful ear, [am tempted to quote 
 a few examples powerfully illustrative of the 
 poetry of language. 
 
 “Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, 
 “ In a blue summer ocean far off and alone.” 
 
 “ Not the silvery lapse of the summer eve dew.” 
 
 ““T saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
 ‘“ A bark o’er the waters move gloriously on; 
 
 “T came when the sun o’er that beach was declining, 
 ‘“ The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.” 
 
 ‘“ There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream, 
 ‘“ And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; 
 “In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream, 
 ‘To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.” 
 
 What a picture of innocent enjoyment is 
 here! A picture whose vividness and beau- 
 ty are recalled in after life as light and col- 
 ouring only—whose reality is gone with the 
 innocence which gave it birth. 
 
 t 
 
 — 
 
86 
 
 ‘| In the poet’s farewell to his harp, the last 
 || two lines are exquisitely poetical : 
 
 “Ifthe pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 
 “ Have throbb’d at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone; 
 “ Twas but as the wind passing heedlessly over, 
 “ And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own!” 
 
 A few more passages, quoted at random 
 and without comment, will sufficiently illus- 
 trate what is meant by embodying in ap- 
 propriate words, ideas which are purely 
 poetical. 
 
 ‘So fiercely beautiful, in form and eye, 
 & Like war’s wild planet in a summer sky.” 
 
 ———— “ who with heart and eyes 
 “ Could walk where liberty had been, nor see 
 “ The shining foot-prinis of her Deity.” 
 
 “But ill-according with the pomp and grace, 
 “ And silent lull of that volupiuous place !”? 
 
 “and gave 
 “ His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave 
 “Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid.” 
 
 —— “still nearer on the breeze, 
 “ Come those delicious dream-like harmonies.—” 
 
 ** Awhile they dance before him, then divide, 
 “ Breaking like rosy clouds at eventide 
 “ Around the rich pavilion of the sun—” 
 
 “°Tis moonlight over Oman’s sea ; 
 “ Her banks of pearl and palmy isles 
 “ Bask in the night-beam beauteously, 
 “ And her blue waters sleep in smiles.” 
 
 .“To watch the moonlight on the wings 
 “ Of the white pelicans, that break 
 “ The azure calm of Meris’ lake.” 
 
 ‘* when the west 
 “ Ovens her golden bowers of rest.” 
 
 “ Our rocks are rough, but smiling there, 
 “ Th’ acacia waves her yellow hair, 
 
 “ Lonely and sweet, nor lov’d the less, 
 “For flowing in a wilderness. 
 
 “Our sands are rude, but down their slope, 
 “ The silvery-footed antelope 
 
 “ As gracefully and gaily springs, 
 
 * As o’er the marble courts of kings.” 
 
 _ Nor is the prose of this delicious bard less 
 musical than his verse. 'The very cadence 
 of his sentences would charm us, independ- 
 ent of their meaning, were it possible to lis- 
 ten without understanding ; but his choice 
 of words is such, that their mere sound con- 
 veys no small portion of their sense. 
 
 “ Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed such a scene. 
 The ground that formed the original site of the garden 
 had, from time to time, received continual additions ; 
 and the whole extent was laid out with that perfect 
 taste, which knows how to wed Nature with Art, with- 
 out sacrificing her simplicity to the alliance. Walks, lead- 
 ing through wildernesses of shade and fragrance—elades 
 opening, as if to afford a play-ground for the sunshine— 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 temples, rising on the very spots where imagination her- 
 self would have called them up; and fountains and 
 lakes, in alternate motion and repose, either wantonly 
 courting the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its embrace 
 —such was the variety of feature that diversified these 
 fair gardens; and, animated as they were on this occa- 
 sion, by the living wit and loveliness of Athens, it af- 
 forded a scene such as my own youthful fancy, rich as it 
 was then in images of luxury and beauty, could hardly 
 have anticipated. 
 
 “For, shut out, as I was by my creed, from a future 
 life. and having no hope beyond the narrow horizon of 
 this, every minute of delight assumed a mournful pre- 
 ciousness in my eyes, and pleasure, like the flower of the 
 cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the neighbour- 
 hood of death.” r 
 
 “Kvery where new pleasures, new interests awaited 
 me; and though melancholy, as usual, stood always 
 near, her shadow fell but half way over my vagrant 
 path, and left the rest more welcomely brilliant from the 
 contrast.” 
 
 “Through a range of sepulchral grots underneath, the 
 humbler denizens of the tomb are deposited,—looking 
 out on each successive generation that visits them, with 
 the same face and features they wore centuries ago. 
 Every plant and tree that is consecraied to death, from the 
 asphodel flower to the mystic plantain, lends its sweetness 
 or shadow to this place of tombs; and the only noise that 
 disturbs its eternal calm, is the low humming sound of the 
 priests at prayer, when a new inhabitant ts added to the 
 silent city.” 
 
 “The activity of the morning: hour was visible every 
 where. Flights of doves and lapwings were fluttering 
 among the leaves, and the white heron, which had been 
 roosting all night in some date tree, now stood sunning 
 its wings on the green bank, or floated, like living silver, 
 over the flood. The flowers, too, both of land and water, 
 looked freshly awakened ;—and, most of all, the superb 
 lotus, which had risen with the sun from the wave, and 
 was now holding up her chalice for a full draught of his 
 light.” 
 
 “To attempt to repeat, in her own touching words, 
 the simple story which she now related to me, would be || 
 like endeavouring to note down some strain. of unpre- | 
 meditated music, with those fugitive graces, those felii at 
 
 ties of the moment, which no art can restore, as they || 
 
 first met the ear.” 
 
 “The only living thing I saw was a restless swallow, 
 whose wings were of the hue of the grey sands over 
 which he fluttered. “Why (thought 1) may not the 
 mind, like this bird, take the colour of the desert, and 
 sympathise in its austerity, its freedom, and tis calm I”? 
 
 It would scarcely be possible to exchange 
 any one word in the writings of Moore for 
 another more fitting or appropriate, nor can 
 the young poet be too often reminded that 
 it is appropriateness, rather than uniform 
 elevation of diction which he has to keep in 
 
 view. There are certain kinds of metre to 
 which peculiar expressions are adapted— 
 expressions which even if the subject were 
 the same, would be extremely out of place 
 elsewhere; and here again Moore is preem- 
 inent for the skill with which he maintains 
 
THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 | (if we may so call it) the proportions of his 
 verse, by keeping the familiar and playful 
 language with which he sports like a child 
 with his rainbow-tinted bubbles, always in 
 their proper degree of subordination; so 
 that they never break in upon the pathos of 
 a sentiment, or check the flow of elevated 
 thought. 
 
 Lines on the burial of Sir John Moore af 
 ford a beautiful instance of what may be 
 called ¢act in the choice and application of 
 words. It is not the splendour of an excited 
 imagination flashing upon us as we read 
 these lines, which constitutes their fascina- 
 tion; but the entire appropriateness of the 
 words, and the metre, to the scene described. 
 Simple as these verses are throughout— 
 simple almost as the language of a child, 
 and therefore to be felt and understood by 
 | the meanest capacity, they yet convey ideas 
 of silence, solemnity, and power, such as 
 especially belone to the hour of night, the 
 awful nature of death, and the indignant 
 | Spirit of the unconquered warrior. 
 || Beyond the mere appropriateness of 
 | words, poetical language affords a deeper 
 | interest, in those rapid combinations of 
 | thought and feeling which a few words may 
 | convey, by introducing in descriptions of 
 | present things allusions to those which are 
 || remote, and which from being easily and 
 | naturally presented to the mind of the rea- 
 der, glide in like the shadow of a passing 
 
 _ || cloud upon the landscape, without obscuring 
 _ 4| Our view, or interrupting our contemplation 
 
 of the scene. 
 
 Crabbe, who is by no means remarkable 
 for the harmony of his numbers, aboundsin 
 passages of this kind; and it is to them that 
 
 | we are mainly indebted for the interest, as 
 well as the power of his poetry. The first in- 
 stance which occurs to me, is in the intro- 
 duction to the sad story of the smugglers, 
 and poachers—a story almost unrivalled for 
 the natural and touching pathos with which 
 it is described. 
 
 * One day is like the past, the year’s sweet prime 
 “ Like the sad fall,—for Rachel heeds not time; 
 
 “ Nothing remains to agitate her breast, 
 
 “Spent is the tempest, and the sky at rest ; 
 
 “ But while it raged her peace its ruin met, 
 
 “ And now the sun is on her prospects set ; 
 
 “ Leave her, and Jet us her distress explore, 
 
 “ She heeds it not—she has been left before.” 
 
 87 
 
 Here is the story of the sufferer, told at 
 once by a sudden transition from the de- 
 scription of her settled grief, to that which 
 had been the bane of her past life—its me- 
 lancholy cause. Yet the chain of associa- 
 tion so far from being broken acquires ten- 
 fold interest from the transition of thought,. 
 and we hasten on to learn the particular 
 history of this lonely being, who has experi- 
 enced the most melancholy fate of woman— 
 that of being “left.” 
 
 Again, towards the conclusion of the same 
 story, when Rachel finds the dead body of 
 her lover, and, as if incapable of compre- 
 hending any further grief, takes no note of 
 the intelligence that her husband is dead 
 also. 
 
 —_—_—_—__——_" But see, the woman creeps 
 “Tike a lost thing, that wanders as she sleeps. 
 ‘See here her husband’s body—but she knows 
 “ That other dead ! and that her action shews. 
 “Rachel! why look you at your mortal foe? 
 She does not hear us—achither will she go?” 
 
 Here we have three distinct ideas, not 
 necessarily connected with each other, pre- 
 sented to us in quick succession, without any 
 interruption.to the interest excited by each in- 
 dividually. First, we see the dead body of 
 the husband, and then “that other dead,” 
 with the total abstraction of the mourner, 
 who in her silent grief sees.only one, and 
 this proves the strength of her affection, 
 which life might have subdued, but which 
 death reveals in all its overwhelming power ; 
 then follows the simple query, “ whither will | 
 she go?” presenting us at once with a view | 
 of her future life, and its utter desolation. | 
 
 Moore has many passages of the same | 
 description :— : 
 
 “ Here too he traces the kind visitings 
 
 “Of woman’s love, in those fair, living things 
 
 “ Of land and wave, whose fate,—in bondage thrown 
 “ For their weak loveliness—is like her own!’ 
 
 The reader may, without any flaw in the 
 chain of association, pause here to give one 
 sigh to the fate of woman, and then go on 
 with the poet while he proceeds to describe 
 other fair things, amongst which the stran- 
 ger was wandering. 
 
 There is somewhere in the writings of 
 Wordsworth a highly poetical passage, 
 equally illustrative of the subject in question. 
 
88 
 
 It is where he describes a mourner whose 
 grief has all the bitterness of self-condem- 
 
 nation :— 
 
 “It was the season sweet of budding leaves, 
 
 “ Of days advancing towards their utmost length, 
 
 “ And small birds singing to their happy mates. 
 
 “ Wild is the music of the autumnal wind 
 
 * Amongst the faded woods ; but these blythe notes 
 “ Strike the deserted to the heart ;—JI speak 
 
 “ Of what Iknow, and what we feel within.” 
 
 When he leaves the subject which he has 
 so beautifully described, to attest by his own 
 experience, and by his knowledge of human 
 nature, the truth of what he has asserted, 
 our thoughts are not diverted from the ori- 
 ginal theme, but our feelings are riveted 
 more closely to it by the force of this attesta- 
 tion, which meets with an immediate re- 
 sponse from every human bosom. 
 
 In Gray’s description of Milton, where he 
 says :— 
 
 : “ The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
 “ Where angels tremble while they gaze, 
 
 “ He saw, but, blasted with excess of light, 
 * Clos’d his eyes in endless night.” 
 
 The transition is immediate from what the 
 poet saw, to what he suffered; yet the asso- 
 ciations are highly poetical, and so clear as 
 in no way to interfere with each other. 
 
 It is related of the Emperor Nero, when 
 in the last mental agonies of his wretched 
 life, he sought from others the death he shud- 
 dered to inflict upon himself, that finding 
 none who heeded his appeal, he pathetically 
 exclaimed, “ What! have I neither a friend 
 nor an enemy?” Although no man could 
 possibly be thinking less of poetry than the 
 fallen monarch at that moment, yet such is 
 the language which an able poet would 
 have used, to express the three separate 
 ideas of the helplessness of Nero’s situation, 
 his pitiful appeal to the kindness of his peo- 
 ple, and his internal consciousness that if he 
 had not a friend, he had at least done enough 
 to deserve the stroke of an enemy in his last 
 hour. 
 
 Personification is another figure of speech 
 by which poetical associations are powerful- 
 ly conveyed. It seems to be peculiarly in 
 accordance with the infant mind—infant 
 either in experience or in civilization, to iden- 
 tify every thing possessed of substance: mo- 
 tion, form, or power, with an intelligence of 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 its own; hence the strong disposition shown 
 by children to revenge themselves upon 
 whatever has given them pain, and to battle, 
 however vainly, with all that obstructs the 
 gratification of their wishes; and hence those 
 bursts of figurative language with which 
 semi-barbarous people are accustomed to 
 express what they deeply feel. As if to ac- | 
 commodate themselves to the natural tastes 
 and feelings of mankind, originating in the 
 principles of our nature, all good poets have 
 made frequent use of this style, and always, 
 when it is well managed, with great effect. 
 How beautiful is the following passage from 
 Barry Cornwall, where he speaks of the 
 wind murmuring through the pine trees on 
 mount Pelion :— 
 
 ( 
 
 “ And Pelion shook his piny locks, and talked 
 “Mournfuilly to the fields of Thessaly.” 
 
 Shakespeare abounds in examples of this 
 kind, in no one instance more touching or 
 powerful than in the lament of Constance, 
 after the French king tells her she is as fond 
 of grief as of her child :— 
 
 “ Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
 “Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me; 
 “ Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
 ‘Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
 “Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
 “Then have I reason to be fond of grief.” 
 
 The following example from Cowper is 
 remarkable for its elegance and beauty. Al- 
 luding to the lemon and the orange trees—_ ae 
 
 “The golden beet of Portugal and Western radia baat 
 
 he says, they / 
 
 ‘ Peep through the polished foliage at the storm, 
 “ And seem to smile at what they need not fear.” 
 
 The next figure of speech noticed by 
 Blair is metaphor, of immense importance 
 to the poet, because, if for one moment 
 he loses the chain of association, an image 
 wholly out of place is introduced, the charm 
 of his metaphor is destroyed, and his verse 
 becomes contemptible. From Lord Boling- 
 broke, whose writings abound in beauties of 
 this kind, Blair has selected one example of 
 perfect metaphor. The writer is describing 
 the behaviour of Charles the First to his 
 parliament. “In a word,” says he, “about 
 a month after their meeting, he dissolved | 
 
 I} 
 
 See | epee nee 
 ——. 
 
THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 them; and, as soon as he had dissolved them, 
 j he repented ; but he repented too late of his 
 rashness. Well might he repent, for the 
 vessel was now full, and this last drop made 
 ithe waters of bitterness overflow.” 
 
 The works of Ossian abound with beauti- 
 ful and correct metaphors; such as that on 
 a hero: “In peace, thou art the gate of 
 spring ; in war, the mountain storm.” Or 
 this on woman: “She was covered with the 
 light of beauty ; but her heart was the house 
 of pride.” : 
 
 Young, in speaking of old age, says, 
 
 “ It should 
 
 “ Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore 
 * Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.” 
 
 In the following lines Prior gives us an 
 example of allegory, which may be regard- 
 ed as continued metaphor. 
 
 “ Did I but purpose to embark with thee 
 
 “On the smooth surface of a summer’s sea, 
 
 ** While gentle zephyrs blow with prosperous gales, 
 
 * And fortune’s favour fills the swelling sails, 
 
 “ But would forsake the ship, and make the shore, 
 “ When the winds whistle and the tempests roar ?’’ 
 
 Beyond these figures of speech, there yet 
 remain hyperbole, apostrophe, comparison, 
 and a variety of others, which the young 
 poet would do well to study, and which are 
 scientifically described in books expressly 
 devoted to the purpose; I shall therefore 
 pass on to the colloquial language of the 
 Irish-——the simple, unsophisticated, genuine, 
 Irish, which has always appeared to me par- 
 ticularly imaginative, powerful and pathetic ; 
 but unfortunately for the writer, it is only 
 heard in moments of excitement, of which the 
 feelings alone\keep a record, and this record 
 || being one of impressions rather than words, 
 | it is difficult to recall the precise expressions 
 which, striking the chords of sympathy, pro- 
 duce a momentary echo to the music of the 
 soul. - 
 
 Mrs C. Hall, in an Irish story, illustrative 
 of the strong and metaphorical language of 
 the Irish peasantry, makes this observation 
 proceed from the mouth of a poor man, who 
 
 had listened to the recital of the misfortunes 
 of one who was brave, just and virtuous. 
 
 “The gardener pierces the vine even to bleeding, and 
 suffers the bramble to grow its own way.” 
 
 But it is to the author of Traits and Sto- 
 
 a eee 
 
 | his native language. 
 
 89 
 
 ries of the Irish Peasantry, that we are 
 chiefly indebted for our knowledge of what 
 is peculiarly national and characteristic in 
 He gives us a spirited 
 and amusing chapter upon Irish swearing, 
 by no means confined to those malevolent 
 wishes which it would be a painful task to 
 transcribe, but which, as they issue from the 
 impassioned lips of the Irishman, have some- 
 thing of that sentimental nature (though far 
 deeper in its character) triumphantly dis- 
 played by Acres before his friend. “May 
 the grass grow before your door,” conveysa 
 striking picture of desolation and ruin. 
 “May you melt off the earth like the snow 
 off the ditch,” is another figure of the same 
 description. 
 
 If positive good had the power to neutra- 
 lize evil, we might comfort ourselves in read- 
 ing such expressions as these, with what the 
 author goes on to tell us, that the Irish have 
 a superstitious dread of the curse of the pil- 
 grim, mendicant, or idiot, and of the widow 
 and the orphan. And so high is his idea of 
 the duty he owes to these, that his heart is 
 ever open to their complaint, and his hand 
 ready to assist them. Thusit is not uncom- 
 mon for them to say of a man whose affairs 
 do not prosper, “He has had some poor 
 body’s curse ;” and a woman who unexpect- 
 edly receives a guest, welcome in no way 
 except that she was a stranger and a wand- 
 erer without a home, is described as exclaim- 
 ing, “'The blessing o’ goodness upon you, 
 dacent woman.” 
 
 The frequent recurrence of the word heart 
 in its unlimited capacity, gives a warmth and 
 fervency to their expressions of tenderness 
 or sorrow. “The beloved fair boy of my 
 heart.” “Father! son of my heart! thou art 
 dead from me!” ‘Heavy and black was 
 his heart.” “The world’s goodness is in 
 your heart.” “Light of my eyes, and of my 
 heart ;” but above all, “ Cushla machree— 
 the pulse of my heart,” ismost expressive of 
 that deep-toned affection which the heart 
 alone can understand. 
 
 What can exceed the following words for 
 refined yet genuine and fervent sympathy, 
 
 such as those who have been intimately ac- 
 
 ee ee ae 
 - eR RN <r 
 
 quainted with suffering alone can feel; and |} 
 
 hence it is that the Irish derive their pathos, 
 
 for what strain of human’ misery’ can’ be’ |] 
 
ie 
 
 touched, to which their own experience has 
 
 not an echo ? 
 
 “ Hunger and sickness and sorrow may 
 ‘| come upon you when you'll be far from your 
 own, and from them that love you.” Or, 
 “He’s far from his own the crather—the 
 pretty young boy.” 
 
 “ Mavourneen dheelish—my sweet dar- 
 ling,” is expressive of great tenderness. 
 
 “My father, the heavens be his bed!” 
 when uttered with fervency has both solem- 
 nity and pathos. 
 
 In their good wishes the Irish are most 
 ingenious. ‘May every hair of your hon- 
 our’s head become a mould candle to light 
 you into-glory.” “May you live a hundred 
 years and a day longer,” which last words 
 seem to be added from a sudden impulse, to 
 
 ready overflowing. 
 
 principles of good or evil. 
 unjust steward who wore his ears stuffed 
 with wool, was said to have adopted this 
 custom that he might not hear the cries of 
 the widow and the orphan. 
 
 In reply to instructions that were to prove 
 || his constancy, a peasant exclaims, “ Manim 
 i| asthee hir, my soul is within you.” A mother 
 thus regrets her son’s approaching mar- 
 
 your father’s hearth and mine.” A broken- 
 hearted mother exclaims, “ My soul to glory, 
 but my child’s murthered !” 
 
 In a note by Crofton Croker, in his Fairy 
 Legends, he remarks, “The Irish, like the 
 Tuscans, as observed by Mr. Rose in his in- 
 teresting Letters from the North of Italy, are 
 extremely picturesque in their language. 
 Thus they constantly use the word dark as 
 synonymous with blind ; and a blind beggar 
 will implore you to ‘ Look down with pity on 
 a poor dark man.” 
 
 It may be observed here that the Irish, 
 like the Scotch, by a very beautiful and 
 tender euphemism, call idiots, innocents. A 
 lady of rank in Ireland, the lady Bountiful 
 of her neighbourhood, was one day asking a 
 
 | man about a poor orphan: “Ab! my lady,” 
 
 throw another weight into the scale, or to | 
 heap another blessing into the measure al- , 
 
 There is also a great deal of imagination | 
 in the manner in which they account for | 
 what they do not, or will not understand ra- | 
 
 tionally: always referring directly to the | 
 Thus a hard and | 
 _ of the Italians, makes the same observation 
 
 riage, “You’re going to break the ring about | 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 fl 
 
 but they can see without despising it. 
 
 _ both people. 
 
 said he, “ the poor creature is sadly afflicted 
 with zmnocence /” And another peculiarity 
 in the phraseology of the Irish, is their fond- 
 ness for using what Mr. Burke would term 
 “ sublime adjectives,” instead of the common 
 English adverbs—very, extremely, &ec. 
 Thus an Irishman will say, “Its a cruel cold 
 morning;” or “There’s a power of ivy | 
 growing on the old church.” 
 
 There is a peculiarity of constitution both | 
 mental and bodily, observable in the Irish | 
 people, for which it is difficult to account. | 
 One of their most amiable characteristics is | 
 the absence of satire, perhaps it would be 
 more correct to say contemptuous satire ; 
 for the Irish are quick to see the ridiculous, | 
 Un- 
 acquainted with that qualifying medium be- 
 tween what amuses them, and what excites 
 their passions—that medium which an Eng- 
 lishman fills up with every variety and degree 
 of contempt, they pass immediately from 
 laughter to indignation; and thus amongst 
 the least civilized classes of the Irish, the 
 social meeting too often terminates in the 
 deadly fray. Madame de Stael in speaking 
 
 with regard to the absence of contemptuous 
 satire from their national character; and it 
 is to this amiable trait, in connection with 
 great natural enthusiasm, that we may rea- 
 sonably attribute the poetical constitution of 
 It is impossible to imagine that 
 those combined ebullitions of music and 
 verse, for which Italy has been celebrated, 
 and which have unquestionably given a po- 
 etical tone to the character of her people ;— 
 that those bursts of impassioned feeling find- 
 ing at the same time a language and a 
 voice, should ever have flourished under the 
 auspices of John Bull; or that he should 
 have sat by, aud witnessed with delight 
 those exhibitions of irrelevant tropes, and 
 metaphors, and splendid perorations, and 
 flashes of wit, and peals of passionate elo- 
 quence, for which Ifrish oratory has been 
 distinguished. No; there is nothing more 
 destructive to enthusiasm and poetry, indeed 
 to genius in its most unlimited sense, than 
 contempt. It is true, the calm judgment of 
 the censor is often necessary to restrain the 
 exuberance of undisciplined fancy, but he | 
 who prides himself upon being able to put 
 
peer Ry 
 
 THE POETRY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 91 
 
 down witha sneer, whatever is unnecessary And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: yea, he did fly 
 
 agination, ought to feel bound to supply, 
 with something equally conducive to happi- 
 ness, the void which this practice must ne- 
 cessarily occasion in the highest range of 
 intellectual gratification. 
 
 If other evidence were necessary, beyond 
 what is afforded by the nature of the human 
 mind, to prove that poetry may not only be 
 mingled with, but highly enhance all that 
 we enjoy and admire, we have this evidence 
 in the Bible, abounding as it does in every 
 variety of poetical language which it has 
 entered into the mind of man to conceive. 
 A slight examination of the different mean- 
 ings attached to words of common and fa- 
 miliar signification, will sufficiently illustrate 
 the high tone of imaginative interest flowing 
 through the whole. 
 
 The words I have selected are, hand, wing, 
 foot, head, mind, heart, and soul, of which 
 hand is perhaps the most unlimited in its 
 application. 
 
 in feeling, and extraneous in taste and im- 
 
 HAND. 
 
 His hand will be against every man, and every man’s 
 hand against him.—And the children of Israel went out 
 with an high hand.—The day of their calamity is at hand. 
 —The Lord made all that he did to prosper in his hand. 
 The hand of the Lord is sore upon us.—For he put his 
 life in his hand, and slew the Philistine.—As soon as the 
 kingdom was confirmed in his hand.—I will set his hand 
 also in the sea, and his right Aand in the rivers.—In the 
 shadow of his hand hath he hid me.—Wonld we had died 
 by the hand of the Lord —The hand of the Lord is gone 
 out against me.—The hand of the Lord was strong upon 
 me.—If thou wilt take the left hand, then I wil] go to the 
 right; or if thou depart to the right and, then I will go 
 to the left.—Let not thy left hand know what thy right 
 hand doeth.—I will remember the years of the right hand 
 of the Most High —A wise man hears at his right hand. 
 —Let my right hand forget her cunning.—Is there nota 
 lie in my right hand.—If thy right hand offend thee, cut 
 it off—They gave to me and Barnabas the right hand of 
 fellowship. 
 
 Here we find the word hand is not only 
 used for the instrument of performing, main- 
 taining, and possessing, but that it supplies 
 the place of power, in all its different modi- 
 
 fications of will, action, and suffering. 
 
 ‘ WING. 
 
 As one gathereth eggs that are Jeft, have I gathered all 
 the earth; and there was none that moved the wing.— 
 Ye have seen what I _have done unto the Egyptians, and 
 how I bore you on eagles’ wings, and brought you unto 
 myself.—A full reward be given thee of the Lord God 
 of Israel], under whose wings thou art come to trust. 
 
 upon the wings of the wind.—Oh that I had wings like a 
 dove! for then would I fly away and be at rest.—Hide 
 me under the shadow of thy wings.—IfI take the wings 
 of the morning, and dwell in the nttermost parts of the 
 sea.—Riches make themselves wings.— Wo to the land 
 shadowing with wings!—The wind hath bound her up 
 in her zo/ngs.—The sun of righteousness shall arise with 
 healing in his wings. f af 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 The word wing is here used not only as 
 the instrument of conveying aloft, or away; 
 but as the means of sheltering and protect- 
 ing; from the two different associations 
 which we have with the flight of a bird, and 
 the brooding of its young. 
 
 FOOT. 
 
 He will keep the feet of.his saints, and the wicked shall 
 be silent in darkness.—le maketh my feet like hinds’ 
 feet.—He that is ready to slip with his feel, is as a lamp 
 despised in the thought of him that is at eaxe.—I was | 
 eyes to the blind, and fee/ was J to the Jame —J¥e shall 
 subdue the people under ns, and the nations under our 
 Jeet.—Suffer not our fre’ to be moved.—My fret were 
 almost gone.— Lift up thy feet unto the perpetual desola- 
 tions.-Her feet go down to death.—How beautiful upon 
 the mountains are the fve/ of him that bringeth good 
 tidings.—Thou hast put al] things in subjection ander his 
 Jeet.—No man lifted up his foof in all the land.—The | 
 flood breaketh out from the inhabitant: even the waters 
 forgotten of the fool; they are dried up, they are gone 
 away from men. 
 
 We see by these passages that foot is used 
 in a very unlimited sense, as a foundation 
 and a stay, as well as a means of establish- 
 ing, confirming, moving, overcoming, and 
 destroying. 
 
 BEAD. 
 
 Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up thine head, 
 and shalJ restore thee unto thy place.—Thou hast kept 
 me to be the head of the heathen.—Thy blood shall be 
 upon thine own Acad.—Though his excellency mount up 
 into the heavens, aud his /ead reach the clounds.—Mine 
 iniguities are gone over mine head.—-Blessings are upon 
 the head of the just.—Thou shalt heap coals of fire npon 
 his head.— Mine head is filled with dew.--Thou hast 
 built thy high places at every head of the way.—Thy 
 dream and the visions of thy heed upon thy bed.—Vor 
 this cause ought the woman to have power on her head, 
 becanse of the angels. 
 
 We find head used here as it is in our or- 
 dinary language, not only as the chief’ por- 
 tion of any whole, and the centre from whence 
 our ideas flow; but as a figure it is most fre- 
 quently made to stand for the bighest part |! 
 of man’s nature—that which is most capable 
 of being exalted or depressed—most calcu- 
 lated for receiving honour, as well as sutfer- 
 ing degradation. 
 
 Le ai gee erent eran een 
 
92 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. | 
 
 MIND. 
 
 And they put him in ward, that the mind of the Lord 
 might be shown them.—Bring it again to mind, O ye 
 transgressors.—Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace 
 whose mind is stayed on thee.—Sitting clothed, and in 
 his right mind.—The carnal mind is enmity against God. 
 —Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind.— 
 Even their mind and conscience is defiled.—Be all of one 
 mind.—It was in my mind to build an house.—To do 
 good or bad of mine own mund.—I know the for ward- 
 ness of your mind.—Gird up the loins of your mind.— 
 Comfort the feeble-777nded.—A double minded man is un- 
 stable in all his-ways. 
 
 Here we see that in the language of scrip- 
 ture, precisely the same license is used as in 
 that of our poets. The word mind repre- 
 sents an ideal centre from whence volitions 
 flow, and relates almost exclusively to the 
 understanding, the memory, and will. 
 
 HEART. 
 
 And God saw that every imaginatiou of the thoughts 
 of man’s heart was only evil continually.—And Jacob’s 
 hearl fainted, for he believed them not.—Pharaoh’s heart 
 was hardened.—Lay up these my words in your heart.— 
 My brethren that went up with me made the heart of 
 the people melt.—For the divisions of Reuben there were 
 great searchings of heart.—And it was so, that when he 
 had turned his back to go from Samnel, God gave him 
 anowvher heart.—David’s heart smote him.—His heart died 
 within him.—And God gave Solomon wisdom and un- 
 derstanding exceeding much, and largeness of heart, 
 even as the sand that is on the sea shore.—His wives 
 turned away his heart.—I caused the widow’s heart to 
 sing for joy.—A broken and contrite heart, O God, thou 
 wilt not despise.—By sorrow of heart is the spirit broken. 
 —lI am pained at my very heart.—I weep for thee with 
 bitterness of heart.—Out of the heart proceed evil 
 thoughts. —Where your treasure is, there will your heart 
 be also.—Did not our heart burn within us, while he 
 talked by the way.—Love the Lord thy God with all thy 
 heart. 
 
 The difference between heart and mind is 
 here apparent. Heart comprehends the un- 
 derstanding and the affections, but has no- 
 thing to do with either memory or will, ex- 
 cept as the affections may be considered as 
 the moving cause of impressions upon the 
 memory, and operations upon the will; while 
 mind confined to the sphere of the intellects 
 has nothing to do with the affections. 
 
 SOUL. 
 
 And man became a living soul.—Set your soul to seek 
 tne Lord.—The law of the Lord is perfect, converting 
 the sou/.—He satisfieth the longing svul, and filleth the 
 hungry soul with goodness.—Fear not them which kill 
 the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather 
 fear him which is able to destroy both sow! and body in 
 hell.—He hath poured out his soul unto death.—My soul 
 is weary of my life.—Unto thee, O Lord, do J lift up my 
 soul.—We were willing to have imparted unto you, not 
 the gospel of God only, but also our own souls, because 
 
 ye were dear unto us.—In patience possess ye your souls, 
 —He that winneth souls is wise.—Thou fool, this night 
 shall thy soul be required of thee.—Take heed to thyself; 
 and keep thy soul diligently, Jest thou forget the things | 
 which thine eyes have seen.—Why art thon cast down, |; 
 O my soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? ~ | 
 As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth 
 my soul after thee, O God !—My soul shall be joyful in 
 the Lord.—Save me, O God, for the waters are come in 
 unto my soul.—Unless the Lord had been my help, my 
 soul had almost dwelt in silence.—My soul fainteth for 
 thy salvation.—My soul is even as a weaned child.—I 
 shall go softly all my years in the bitterness of my soul. 
 —The Lord is my portion, saith my soul.—My soul doth 
 magnify the Lord. 
 
 We now find that every attribute both of 
 the mind and the heart are comprehended 
 in the meaning of the word soul. Not only 
 is the soul capable of willing, acting, and 
 suffering, but also of loving; and when we 
 pursue the idea of love through all its gra- 
 dations, down to simple preference, we shall 
 have traversed a region comprising every 
 impulse by which our nature is capable of 
 being influenced. But in addition to the 
 most extensive signification of mind and 
 heart, soul obtains a character more digni- 
 fied and profound, from being associated 
 with the principle of life—with man’s moral 
 responsibility—and with eternity. 
 
 In examining these few words we are 
 struck with the idea, of how much they 
 would lose in beauty and interest by being 
 confined to their literal and absolute signifi- 
 cation; and just in the same proportion 
 would our intellectual attainments and pur- 
 suits be robbed of their ornament and charm, 
 by being separated from the poetry of life. 
 
 SeenngeEEI coe 
 
 THE POETRY OF LOVE. 
 
 On entering upon the poetry of the human 
 mind, the passions naturally present them- 
 selves as a proper subject of interesting dis- 
 cussion ; because as poetry belongs not so 
 much to the sphere of intellect, as to that of 
 feeling, we must look to the passions, as to 
 the living principle, which gives intensity to 
 perception, and vividness to thought. All 
 mankind who are gifted with common sense, 
 are capable of writing verses, but all cannot 
 feel, and still less can all write poetically. In 
 order to do this it is necessary to feel deep- 
 ly. By the exercise of intellectual | 
 
THE POETRY OF LOVE. 
 
 93 
 
 we may learn what are the component parts | and blushes, as well as of that which never 
 
 of a flower, but this alone will never make us 
 sensible of its beauty. The same power may 
 collectand disseminate the truths most impor- 
 tant to the well being of society, but it cannot 
 enforce their reception. In short, though it 
 may instruct, improve, invigorate, and sup- 
 ply the mind with a perpetual fund of infor- 
 mation, intellectual power alone can never 
 make a poet, nor excite that love of poetry— 
 that ardent desire in the soul for what it 
 feeds on, which gives to the poetic mind a 
 refinement, an energy, and a sense of hap- 
 piness unknown to that which subsists mere- 
 ly upon knowledge. Hence we may fairly 
 conclude, that the man who is wholly dispas- 
 sionate himself, and who has neither ob- 
 served, nor studied the nature of passion in 
 others, can never be a poet; any more than 
 the artist who has never felt the exhilaration 
 of joy, nor witnessed its effects, can repre- 
 sent in painting or marble a personification 
 of delight. 
 
 To examine the passions individually 
 would be a work of time and patience, or 
 rather of impatience. We will therefore 
 dismiss those which are malevolent or inju- 
 rious to the peace of society; for though 
 rage, envy, malice, jealousy, and above all 
 the master passion of revenge, may supply 
 the poet with images of majesty, and hor- 
 ror, which give to the productions of his 
 genius a character of depth and power; yet 
 as those to which we are about to turn our 
 attention are so much more congenial to the 
 peaceful spirit of the muse, we will devote 
 our time solely to the consideration of the 
 poetry of love, and grief. 
 
 First then we begin with love; a subject 
 hourly trampled in the dust, and yet hourly 
 rising from its degredation with fresh life, 
 and fresh vigour, to claim, in spite of the 
 perpetual profanation of vulgar familiarity, 
 the best and warmest tribute of the poet’s 
 lay. By love I do not mean that moderate 
 but high-toned attachment which may be 
 classed under the general head of affection 
 —of this hereafter. For the present I am 
 
 daring enough to speak in plain prose, and 
 even in this enlightened day, of the love of 
 May-day queens, and village swains ; of the 
 love of Damon and Delias; of the love 
 which speaks in the common-place of sighs 
 
 told its tale ; of the love which Milton thought 
 worthy of being described in its purest, ho- 
 liest character; and of the love which lives 
 and glows in the pages of every poet from 
 Milton down to Byron, Burns, and Moore. 
 That all who have touched the poet’s ma- 
 gic pen, have at one time or other of their 
 lives made love their theme, and that they 
 have bestowed upon this theme their highest 
 powers, is proof sufficient to establish the 
 fact that love is of all the passions the most 
 
 poetical; a fact in no way contradicted or | 
 
 affected by the vulgar profanation to which 
 this theme more than any other has been 
 subjected. All human beings are not capa- 
 ble of ambition, of envy, of hate, or indeed 
 of any other passion; but all are capable of 
 love, in a greater or less degree, and accord- 
 ing to certain modifications; it follows there- 
 fore as a necessary consequence, that love 
 should form a favourite and familiar theme, 
 
 with multitudes who know nothing of its | 
 
 refinements, and high capabilities. 
 
 The universal tendency of love to exalt 
 its object, is a fact which at once gives it 
 importance, dignity, and refinement. Im- 
 portance because of its prevalence amongst 
 mankind; dignity, because whatever raises 
 the tone of moral feeling, and disposes to- 
 wards kindly thoughts of our fellow-crea- 
 tures, must be conducive to the good of soci- 
 ety; and refinement because it enters into 
 the secrets of social intercourse, and delights 
 in nothing so much as communicating the 
 happiness it derives from all that is most 
 admirable in art and nature. If that is a 
 contemptible or insignificant passion under 
 whose influence more has been dared, and 
 done, and suffered, than under any other ; 
 then is the human mind itself contemptible, 
 and the name of insignificance may very 
 properly be applied to all those impulses of 
 human nature which have given rise to the 
 revolutions of past ages, and the most con- 
 
 spicuous events which mark the history of 
 
 the world. 
 
 It seems to me that love originates in a 
 mixturé of admiration and pity. Without 
 some feeling of admiration, no sentient be- 
 ing could first begin to love; and without 
 some touch of pity, love would be deficient 
 
 in its character of tenderness, and that irre- | 
 
lho 
 
 sistible desire to serve the object, which im- 
 pels to the most extraordinary acts of disin- 
 terestedness and devotion. I grant that 
 after love has once taken possession of the 
 heart, it becomes a sort of instinct, and can 
 then maintain an existence too miserable, 
 and degraded, for a name, long after admi- 
 ! ration and even pity have become extinct. 
 But in the first instance there must be some 
 quality we admire to attract our attention 
 and win our favour, and there must be some 
 deficiency in the happiness of this object, 
 which we think we can supply, or we should 
 never dream of attaching ourselves to it. It 
 may be asked since love sometimes fixes it- 
 self upon an inferior object, degraded below 
 the possession of dignity or virtue, where 
 then can be the admiration? I answer, that 
 in such cases the mind that loves must be 
 degraded too, and consequently it is subject 
 to call evil good, and may thus discover 
 qualities admirable to its perverted vision, 
 which a more discriminating eye would turn 
 from with disgust. Again, it is still more 
 reasonable to ask when love is fixed upon 
 an object apparently the centre of hap- 
 piness, to which prosperity in every shape 
 is ministering, where then can be the pity ? 
 | We all know that the appearance of happi- 
 ness is deceitful, and we all suspect that 
 even under the most flattering aspect, there 
 is a mingled yarn in the web of life, which 
 renders the experience of others, like our 
 own, a mixture of joy and sorrow; but if a 
 being can be found in whose happiness is no 
 broken link, no chord unstrung, who has no 
 false friend, no flattering enemy, no threat- 
 ening of infirmity, no flaw in worldly comfort 
 and security ; I would answer the question 
 by asking, is human happiness of so firm 
 and durable a nature that once established, 
 it remains unshaken? No; the summit of 
 earthly felicity is one of such perilous attain- 
 ment, that the nearer we see any one ap- 
 proaching it, the more we long to protect 
 them from the danger to come—to stretch 
 out our arms, and if we cannot prevent, at 
 least to break their fall. We feel towards 
 such an one, that the day will come when 
 they may want a real friend, a firm support, 
 a true comforter, and we hasten the bond 
 that unites our fate with theirs, that we may 
 be ready in the days of “trial and wo.” 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 If admiration did not form a competent 
 part of our love, we should not feel so ardent 
 a desire as is generally evinced, to obtain 
 for the object beloved, the admiration of 
 others. We long for others to behold them 
 with our eyes, that they may participate in 
 our feelings and do what we consider jus- 
 tice to the idols of our imagination; and 
 though this can seldom be the case to the 
 extent of our wishes, we know that to listen 
 to the well-merited praises of those we love, 
 is (at least to women) the most intense en- 
 joyment this world can afford. To purchase 
 this gratification what anxiety we endure, 
 what study we bestow, what ardent desire 
 we experience, that they may commit no 
 errors cognizable to the world’s eye; but 
 steering an open, honourable, upright course, 
 may defy the scrutiny of envious eyes, and | 
 claim as their due from society at large, that 
 tribute of admiration which we are ever 
 ready to bestow. But the unspeakable an- 
 guish with which we behold any departure 
 from this honourable course of conduct, is 
 perhaps the strongest proof; how intimately 
 our sense of all that is admirable in the hu- 
 man character is interwoven with our affec- || 
 tions. J do not pretend to say, that we are 
 all so influenced by right feeling, or so well } 
 assured of the precise line of demarcation 
 between good and evil, as to lament over 
 the errors of those we love, exactly in pru- 
 portion to their moral culpability. Far from 
 it. But let that which ail hearts can feel— 
 let the stigma of the world’s disgrace fall 
 upon them—let it at the same time be vol- 
 untarily incurred, and richly merited, and ye 
 who tell us of the loss of friends or fortune, of 
 poverty, or sickness or death, match the 
 agony of this conviction if you can. No; it |; 
 has neither companion nor similitude. In 
 the wide range of human calamity there 
 is not one that bears any proportion to this. 
 
 It may be said of pity also, that there are 
 cases in which we are scarcely aware of its 
 forming any part of our love ; but is not our 
 love at such times languid, spiritless, and 
 inert? No sooner does sickness or misfor- 
 tune assail the object of our regard, than it . 
 assumes a new life, and all that was dear : 
 before, becomes doubly valuable beneath the | 
 pressure of affliction, or on the brink of the | 
 erave. How oftem has pity brought to light 
 
 Ne er a a ee oR a 
 
 aetna. 
 
 ae ee 
 
| a love whose existence we were unconscious 
 of before; and those whom we should once 
 have deemed it impossible to regard with 
 tenderness, have becgme, under the shadow 
 of misfortune, thé objects of our most devoted 
 affection. : 
 
 The power which love possesses of en- 
 haneing our enjoyments, is of itself sufficient 
 to entitle this sentiment to a high place 
 amongst those that are most influential in 
 their operations upon the human mind. [| 
 appeal to the young, or rather to the old 
 who have not forgotten their youth, whether 
 | love has not at some period of their existence, 
 given a life and vividness to the aspect of 
 creation, a music to sound, and an intensity 
 to all their capabilities of simple and natural 
 delight, which, while the enchantment lasted, 
 seemed to raise the pleasures of earth above 
 this sublunary sphere, though in remem- 
 brance it claims nothing but a_ passing 
 smile, or perhaps a faint sigh of regret, that 
 we have lost so much of what constitued 
 the life of our early existence. We smile 
 because we have lived to awake from our 
 delusion—to know that the sunshine which 
 then appeared to us a flood of radiance 
 pouring its golden streams over hill and 
 grove, and diffusing the principle of happi- 
 ness through all the secret mysteries of na- 
 ture, was but the ordinary light of day, lia- 
 ble to be obscured by mists, and hid from 
 us by the intervention of dense snd gloomy 
 clouds. We smile because the brook that 
 murmured at our feet with such continuous 
 and unbroken melody, to our young imagi- 
 nations pure, and clear, and vivid, like the se- 
 cret springs of unsophisticated feeling, since 
 then has wearied us with the constant mo- 
 notony of its sound, seeming to tell of little 
 else than\ pebbles and clear water. We 
 smile, because the song of at least half the 
 birds whose voices were then all music, has 
 degenerated into a mere chirp; but most of 
 all we smile, because that bright being 
 whose brow was garnished with a glory—at 
 whose feet we would have laid the accumu- 
 lated treasures of the whole world had we 
 possessed them—the idol whom irreligiously 
 we had placed upon the high altar of the 
 soul, has stepped down from that exalted 
 pedestal, and passing forth into the world 
 endowed only with the customary functions 
 
 THE POETRY OF LOVE. 
 
 of humanity, has mixed in the common ayo- 
 cations of life, and become 
 
 ‘An eating, drinking, bargain-making man.” 
 
 Or if after such a retrospection, perchance 
 we sigh, it is not so much with any positive 
 regret, as with a vague sense of some inde- 
 finite loss—a mere illusion—a false colouring 
 —a, deceitful tone—an evanescent charm 
 which owed its existence to the infatuation 
 of the mind, and yet we sigh; because not 
 the longest period of man’s natural life, not 
 the rapid and entire success of all our 
 schemes, not the riches of prosperity poured 
 into our lap, around our feet, and even be- 
 yond the circle of our hopes, can restore 
 what is lost to us, when we are driven to 
 the conviction that we can love no more. It 
 was an idle phantasy, we tell ourselves in 
 after life, and we join in the ridicule that re- 
 probates this foolish passion; but would we 
 not give all that time and tears have pur- 
 chased for us, to sit again in the bright sun- || 
 shine, to look round upon the fields and the 
 woods, to listen to the singing of the birds, 
 and without the excitement of art, or the aid 
 of borrowed attributes, to feel each individual 
 moment sufficient in its fulness of felicity to |; 
 lull the memory of the past, and soothe down 
 the anxieties of the future, concentrating into 
 one point of present time, all that we spend 
 after years in search of, and realizing with- 
 out purchase, and without sacrifice, in one 
 single isolated particle of blissful experience; 
 the happiness for which countless myriads 
 are pining in vain. 
 
 It is a strong proof of the poetical charac- 
 ter of love, that all the contempt, and all the 
 ridicule it meets with in the world, are una- 
 ble to deprive it of the legitimate place which 
 it holds in the popular works of our best 
 authors. Caleb Williams is the only novel 
 that occurs to me, in which the interest of 
 the story is in no way connected with love. 
 The author has supplied this deficiency, by || 
 conducting the reader through his pages 
 with an intensity of anxiety, scarcely equalled 
 elsewhere ; but well as this story is penned, 
 we arrive in the end at the unsatisfactory 
 conviction, that we have been reading an 
 uncongenial, hard, bad book, the whole tenor 
 of which is in direct opposition to the good 
 providence of God. It may be remarked, in 
 
a ae lag cape er SS een nasiaiaceentgren SoeeRe 
 
 Ge RRR ma cen ER TET ae 
 
 — re a 
 
 i 96 ‘THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 ‘| connexion with the same fact, that Sir Wal- 
 | ter Scott after he had spell-bound the public 
 by the easy natural flow of his first poems, 
 tried his skill upon the battle of Waterloo, 
 and produced one which it is difficult to 
 read, though the same master hand is there. 
 He has since atoned for this want of fealty 
 to the tender passion, by the most delicate 
 | and judicious distribution of it through the 
 whole of his novels, where we find always 
 enough, and (what is saying a great deal 
 for the writer) never too much. At the 
 same time however that love forms an es- 
 sential part in our popular works of fiction, 
 it seems to be inconsistent with the genius 
 of the English nation, to make it the entire, 
 or even the leading subject of any particular 
 work. Richardson approaches the nearest 
 to this extreme, but his novels are more re- 
 markable in this day, for presenting minute 
 descriptions of human character, of the social 
 habits and customs of the times in which he 
 | lived, than as dissertations upon love. Miss 
 '| Porter, kind as she is in mating all her cha- 
 || racters, and marching them off the stage in 
 couples, gives us battles innumerable, with 
 lively exhibitions of valour, patriotism, and 
 | various other passions, good and evil, among 
 which her love scenes form a very small, 
 and certainly a very inferior part. And Miss 
 Edgeworth, “the great enchantress,” who 
 manages love with more tact, and often with 
 dexquisite pathos, introduces it always with 
 due subserviency to that substantial, sound 
 moral, which to the honour of her sex and 
 the benefit of her fellow-creatures, she makes 
 the chief object of her clear, well regulated, 
 and comprehensive mind. 
 
 We have no work in our language which 
 bears any resemblance to the sorrows of 
 Werter or to Corinne, each admirable in 
 their way, and far above the praise of an 
 ordinary pen. No Englishman could pos- 
 sibly have written either. He could not 
 have resigned himself so entirely to any 
 subject of a tender and evanescent nature, 
 as to have studied it metaphysically. The 
 spirit of sarcasm is so predominant in the 
 English constitution, that he would have 
 laughed at his work before it was half com- 
 pleted, and the other half would have re- 
 mained unfinished, for fear of bringing upon 
 
 || himself the contempt of his friends, and the 
 
 = 
 
 gran, cba a ca eeaeeageeineeer ees! 
 NEES I ETT TL NE I DE Do ELI EOE OL ED LYELL A IAI oN, 
 
 sneers of his enemies. The loves of Black- | 
 eyed Susan, Will Watch, and Roderick 
 Random, are more pleasing to John Bull ; 
 because such is his extneme sensitiveness on 
 the score of ridicule, that as soon as the ' 
 fatal smile appears, love, such as it is in these 
 and similar productions, can be dismissed 
 altogether as a joke, and no more need be 
 said or done about it. But to be convicted 
 of sentimentality—to be detected in the act 
 of exhibiting or infusing, pathos, would be a 
 dilemma as unprecedented, as insupportable 
 to that powerful subborn genius, the grand 
 aim of whose life is never to commit him- 
 self; and that man is unquestionably com- 
 mitted—committed beyond the power of re- 
 demption, who writes a book about love. 
 Still even to critics—to John Bull, who on 
 the score of non-commitment, constitutes 
 himself the chief of critics, love must be al- 
 lowed to have the power of developing hu- 
 man character beyond what is possessed by 
 any other passion, sentiment, or feeling. 
 There is a class of beings so numerous that 
 they form a very important, and in many-re- 
 spects a very useful part of society, who can 
 listen to the most enchanting music, with 
 ears, and thoughts, and memory alive only 
 to the sound of individual notes, imprint- 
 ing them separately upon the tablet of 
 their minds, in order that they may be 
 
 carried home, pricked down upon paper, 
 and played upon their own pianos; or who 
 on beholding the finest specimens of ancient 
 painting, or sculpture, immediately—before 
 they have had time to take in the whole view, 
 snatch out the ready sketch-book, and with 
 that energy which men exlibit in associat- 
 ing themselves and their own powers with | 
 all that they admire, apply the busy pencil 
 to the outline, in order that they may exhibit 
 to their wondering friends a pattern of the 
 colouring of the ancients, of a Roman san- 
 dal, or a Grecian nose. Even by this class | 
 
 | 
 
 of beings, the most impervious to the tender || 
 passion, love must be acknowledged to be a 
 Jine study, because it draws forth the capa- 
 bilities of the human mind, and brings for- 
 ward its leading features into a strong light. | 
 The first effect which love produces upon || 
 the imagination is that-of exalting or enno- | 
 bling its object, and upon the principle of 
 adaptation, it consequently extends a similar 
 
 { 
 
 ——— 
 
THE POETRY OF LOVE. 
 
 97 
 
 influence over the mind where it exists. Un- 
 der favorable circumstances, and before it 
 reaches the crisis of its fate, it has a natural 
 tendency to smooth dows the asperities of 
 the temper, to soften the manners, and to dif- 
 fuse a general feeling of cheerfulness and 
 good will even beyond the sphere of its im- 
 mediate object. But under circumstances 
 of an opposite description, love is remarkable 
 for exhibiting in its train all the evil and frail- 
 ty which belong to ournature. We aresel- 
 dom betrayed by any other passion to throw 
 {| aside entirely that veil, beyond which pride 
 || coneeals her hidden store of private faults 
 | and follies. But love is stronger than pride ; 
 and it is besides so absorbing in its nature, 
 that we are apt to forget while devoting 
 ourselves to one object, the figure we are 
 exhibiting to the eyes of the world, the se- 
 crets we are disclosing, and the open rev- 
 elation we are making of our “heart of 
 hearts.” 
 
 * Love,” says a popular and powerful wri- 
 ter, “is a very noble and exalting sentiment 
 in its first germ and principle. We never 
 loved without arraying the object in all the 
 glories of moral as well as physical perfec- 
 tion, and deriving a kind of dignity to our- 
 selves from our capacity of admiring a crea- 
 ture so excellent and dignified; but this 
 lavish and magnificent prodigality of the 
 imagination often leaves the heart a bank- 
 rupt. Love in its iron age of disappointment 
 ‘becomes very degraded—it submits to be 
 satisfied with merely external indulgences— 
 a look—-a touch of the hand, though occur- 
 riag by accident—a kind word, though ut- 
 tered almost unconsciously, suffices for its 
 humble existence. In its first state, it is like 
 man before the fall, inhaling the odours of 
 paradise, and enjoying the communion of 
 the Deity ; in the latter, it is like the same 
 being toiling amid the briar and the thistle, 
 barely to maintain a squalid existence, with- 
 out enjoyment, utility, or loveliness.” 
 
 Shakespeare has done little towards giv- 
 ing dignity to this passion, though he seems 
 io have been intimately acquainted ‘with its 
 
 j| son is obvious. Love is a familiar feéling, 
 ‘|| associating itself with mankind in their dai- 
 ly walk, and entering into the ordinary and 
 domestic scenes of life; it therefore speaks 
 
 Mh ee See 
 
 7 
 
 in a language simple and familiar, scarcely 
 admitting of poetical ornament, except in 
 memory or imagination; and as the drama 
 compels all persons to speak for themselves, 
 almost exclusively from the impulse of the 
 moment, they can only speak of love in the 
 colloquial language of the day, which lan- 
 guage changing with the tastes and fash- 
 ions of the world, that of Shakespeare’s dra- 
 matic characters, when they speak of love is 
 not only offensive to modern. ears, but de- 
 grading to the sentiment itself—a sentiment 
 which always maintains the most elevated 
 character where the proprieties of life are 
 most scrupulously observed, and the stand- 
 ard of moral feeling is the highest. Yet 
 Shakespeare has left a striking proof that he 
 could reverence this feeling, in the following 
 beautiful stanza. 
 
 “Let me not to the marriage of true minds, 
 Admit impediments. Love is not love 
 That alters when it alteration finds, 
 Or bends with the remover to remove. 
 Oh! no! it is an ever fixed mark, 
 That looks on tempest and is never shaken : 
 It is the star of every wandering bark, 
 Whose worth’s unknown although its height be taken. 
 Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
 Within his bending sickle’s compass come; 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
 But bears it out even to the edge of doom.” 
 
 It would be wholly at variance with na- 
 ture, were the poet to make his characters 
 speak in tropes and metaphors, with classi- 
 cal allusions, and rounded periods,..of the 
 passion whose powerful influence was then 
 upon them. No man ever yet could speak 
 or write poetically, for any length of time, of 
 the love he was then experiencing. Thusit 
 is only by occasional touches of feeling that 
 burst upon us in all their genuine intensity, 
 that the depth of the sentiment is discovered. 
 Our language may be forcible and affecting, 
 but it is impossible that it should be elabo- 
 
 ‘rate when weare feeling acutely ; and there 
 is a certain identity with self; an exclusive- 
 ness, giving something like sacredness to the 
 sensations which belong to love, that ren- 
 ders an open, full, unsparing exposure of it 
 repulsive, even in the pages of the poet. It 
 
 influence upon the human mind. The rea- | is this sacredness, which, above all other 
 
 things constitutes the poetry of love. Those 
 who live under its influence possess, so 
 long as that influence lasts, a secret trea- 
 sure, and often betray by their inadvertent 
 
938 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 expressions, and by a speaking smile, that 
 ‘they believe themselves to be enjoying an 
 inward source of satisfaction, which their 
 {| companions know not of. Imagination, in- 
 vests with a peculiar importance and a mys- 
 terious charm, all the minutie of life, as it is 
 connected with one individual being, and the 
 mind broods over its own private and par- 
 | ticular hoard of joy, with a constant watch- 
 fulness and jealousy lest the world, that fell 
 spoiler, should break in and pollute, even if 
 it had no inclination or ability to steal. 
 Under the influence of love, we are sus- 
 picious even of ourselves. We shrink from 
 making it the common topic of conversation. 
 It is a feeling which admits of no participa- 
 tion. We would not, if we could, make 
 converts, any farther than our admiration 
 extends; and as there is no sympathy to be 
 obtained by communication, no one at all 
 acquainted with the world, or with the prin- 
 ciples of human nature, would ever tell their 
 love, were it not for the power which this 
 passion possesses to overthrow the rational 
 faculties, to blind perception, and to silence 
 experience, holding the wise man captive in 
 
 drawing him on from one folly to another, 
 until at last he awakes from his dream, and 
 feels, like the unfortunate bellows-mender, 
 that he is wearing an ass’s head. No soon- 
 er is the spell dissolved, than he turns upon 
 his fellow-creatures the weapons of ridicule, 
 dipped in the venom of his wounded pride ; 
 he laughs the more in order that he may ap- 
 pear to make light of his recent bonds, and 
 thus revenges himself for his own mortifica- 
 tion. 
 
 Those who are wise enough to profit by 
 the experience of others, learn to keep si- 
 lence on this theme, but it pervades their 
 thoughts and feelings not the less. It is 
 present with them in the morning when they 
 awake, and in the evening when they seek 
 repose. It is cradled in the bosom of the 
 scented rose, and rocked upon the crested 
 waves of the sea. It speaks to them in the 
 lulling wind. and gushes forth in the foun- 
 tain of the desert. It is clothed in the gold- 
 en majesty of the noonday sun, and shrouded 
 in the silver radiance of the moon. It is the 
 soul of their world, the life of their sweet and 
 
 chosen thoughts, the centre of their exis- 
 
 IL 
 
 SS 
 
 the leading strings of second childhood, and’ 
 
 a 
 
 tence, which gathers in all their wandering 
 hopes and desires. Here they fix them ‘to 
 one point, and make that the altar upon 
 which all the faculties of the soul pour out 
 their perpetual incense. 
 
 Burns, who has written of love more fre- 
 quently, yet with more simplicity of sweet- 
 ness than any other of our poets, strikingly 
 illustrates the potency of this sentiment 
 in associating itself with our accustomed 
 amusements and avocations. There was 
 no object in nature which he did not find it 
 possible to compare or contrast with the 
 reigning queen of his affections; but the 
 memory of one, above all others, he has im- 
 mortalized in strains as touching and poet- 
 ical, as ever flowed from a faithful recollec- 
 tion, a warm imagination, and a too fond 
 heart. 
 
 The lines beginning 
 
 “Thou lingering star with less’ning ray,” 
 
 are, or ought to be, too familiar to every 
 reader of taste and sensibility to need repeti- 
 tion here, as well as those to Highland Ma- 
 ry, equally expressive of ardent and poetical 
 feeling, a feeling which all the rough usages 
 of the world were unable to deprive of its 
 tenderness, and which all the allurements of 
 vice and folly were unable to divest of its 
 purity. In glancing over the pages of this 
 genuine bard of nature, we are every mo- 
 ment struck with the particular pathos with 
 which he speaks of love. Read as an in- 
 stance the following lines, so unlike anything 
 that we meet with in the productions of 
 the present day. 
 
 “ Had we never lov’d sae blindly, 
 Had we never lov’d sae kindly, 
 Never met or never parted, 
 
 We had ne’er been broken-hearted. 
 
 A SN NE 
 
 “ Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
 Fare the weel, thou best and dearest! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 
 Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
 
 “ Ae fond kiss. and then we sever ; 
 Ae fareweel, alas for ever! i 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.” 
 
 Or,— 
 
 ' “ Not the bee upon the blossom, 
 In the pride o’ sunny noon; 
 Not the little sporting fairy, 
 All beneath the summer moon! 
 
ey 
 
 a ee ye snr fesse een oor eo ep nner renee ase a eneneeneeeees 
 
 THE POETRY OF LOVE. 
 
 Not the poet, in the moment 
 Fancy lightens on his e’e, 
 
 Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 
 That thy presence gies to me.” 
 
 Or again,— 
 
 “ Altho’ thou maun never be mine, 
 Altho’? even hope is denied ; 
 ’Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 
 Than aught in the world beside.” 
 
 And where in the records of feeling can 
 we find a more aflectionate description of 
 love and poverty contending against each 
 other, than in the following song; the first 
 and last stanza of which I shall quote for 
 the benefit of those who are too wise to 
 think of love, who are too happy to have 
 ever been compelled to take poverty into 
 their calculations, and who are consequently 
 unacquainted with the fact that both together 
 struggling for mastery over the wishes and. 
 the will, create’a warfare as fearful and 
 desolating as any which the human heart 
 is capable of enduring. 
 
 “O Poortith cauld, and restless love, 
 Ye wreck my peace between ye; 
 Yet Poortith a’ I could forgive 
 An ’twere na for my Jeanie. 
 O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
 Life’s dearest band untwining ? 
 O why sae sweet a flower as love, 
 Depend on fortune’s shining ? 
 = = = * 
 “How blest the humble cotter’s fate ! 
 He woos his simple dearie ; 
 The silly bogles, wealth and state, 
 Can never make them eerie. 
 O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
 Life’s dearest bands untwining ? 
 _ Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
 Depend on fortune’s shining ?”? 
 
 Moore has done much, perhaps more than 
 any other man was capable of doing, to ren- 
 der this hackneyed theme agreeable to mod- 
 ern tastes, by arraying the idol whose divin- 
 ity the public had begun to question, in every 
 kind of drapery, graceful and gorgeous, and 
 placing if in every possible variety of light 
 and shadow. Yetthroughout the many ele- 
 gant lines which he has devoted to this sub- 
 ject, there are none which occur to my re- 
 collection more poetically simple and touch- 
 ing than these. 
 
 “ A boat sent forth to sail alone 
 At midnight on the moonless sea, 
 
 A harp whose master chord is gone, 
 A wounded bird that has but one 
 Unbroken wing to soar upon, ) 
 Are like what I am without thee.” . 
 
 In the pages of Shelley we find more fresh- 
 ness, and sometimes more pathos. There 
 is a vividness in his thoughts, and in the 
 character of his mind, which we may well 
 believe to have proved too keen and restless 
 for the mortal frame in which his delicate, 
 
 sensitive, and ethereal spirit was inclosed—. 
 
 too refined for the common purposes of life, 
 too brilliant for reason, and too dazzling for 
 
 religion, and too exquisite for repose. The 
 
 following lines have great poetical beauty. - 
 
 “Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 
 
 Or the death they bear, 
 
 The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove 
 With the wings of care; 
 
 In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 
 Shall mine cling to thee, 
 
 Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 
 It may bring to thee.” 
 
 And the. following fragment, addressed to 
 love itself, with the exception of the first line, 
 which is in extremely bad taste, is perhaps 
 
 without its equal in poetry of this descrip- i 
 
 tion. 
 
 “Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all 
 We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, 
 Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall, 
 
 “ Catch thee and feed from their o’erflowing bowls 
 Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew ;— 
 Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls 
 
 ‘‘ Investest it; and when the heavens are blue 
 Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair 
 The shadows of thy moving wings imbue 
 
 “Tts deserts, and its mountains, till they wear 
 Beauty like some bright robe ;—thou ever soarest 
 Among the towers of men, and as soft air 
 
 “In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, 
 Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, 
 Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest 
 
 ‘That which from thee they should implore :—the weak 
 Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts 
 The strong have broken—-yet where shall any seek 
 
 ‘¢ A garment whom thou clothest not?’ 
 
 From love, as a passion, it is truly delight- 
 ful to turn to the consideration of love in its 
 more social and domestic character; and 
 here again we find the same poet offering to 
 his wife the noblest tribute of affection, in 
 language as tender as it is elevated and 
 pure. 
 
100 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 ghd ps ic hacen sca np ct EDEL EAA ELAS SE ea at ete oe ne RA a ne eens 
 
 “So now, my summer task is ended, Mary, | 
 And I return to thee, mine own heart’s home; . 
 As to Fis queen some victor knight of faery, 
 Earning bright spoils for his enchanted dome ; 
 Nor thou disdain that ere my faine become 
 A star among the stars of mortal might, 
 
 If it indeed may change its natal gloom, 
 Its doubtful promise, thus I would unite 
 With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light. 
 
 “ The toil which stole from thee so many an hour 
 Is ended, and the fruit is at thy feet! 
 No longer where the woods to frame a bower 
 With interlaced branches mix and meet, 
 Or where with sound like many voices sweet 
 Waterfalls leap among wild islands green 
 Which formed for my lone boat a lone retreat 
 Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen; 
 But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been.” 
 
 It is worthy of remark, that these lines 
 form the introduction to a work in which 
 the poet concentrated all the powers of his 
 genius. The merits of this work have no- 
 thing to do with the fact, that it was the 
 richest offering he had to lay upon the shrine 
 of affection, and that that offering was dedi- 
 cated to his wife. 
 
 The late amiable Bishop of Calcutta, a 
 less exceptionable poet, and a less eccentric 
 genius, has left us a beautiful and affecting 
 tribute to affection, under the same pure and 
 sacred form; and the woman who could in- 
 spire these lines ought to have been satisfied 
 for the rest of her life, never to receive the 
 incense of less hallowed praise. 
 
 “Tf thou wert by my side, my love! 
 How fast would evening fail 
 In green Bengala’s palmy grove, 
 Listening the nightingale ! 
 
 “If thou, my love! wert by my side, 
 My babies at my knee, 
 How gaily would our pinnace glide 
 O’er Gunga’s mimic sea! 
 
 “T miss thee at the dawning ray 
 When on our deck reclined, 
 In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
 And woo the cooler wind. 
 
 J miss thee when by Gunga’s stream 
 My twilight steps I guide, 
 But most beneath the moon’s pale beam 
 I miss thee from my side. 
 
 “T spread my books, my pencil try, 
 The lingering noon to cheer, 
 But miss thy kind approving eye, 
 
 Thy meek attentive ear. 
 
 But when of morn and eve, the star 
 Beholds me on my knee, 
 I feel, though thou art distant far, 
 Thy prayers ascend for me. 
 
 Then on! then on! where duty leads, 
 My course be onward still, 
 
 O’er broad Hindostan’s sultry meads, 
 O’er bleak Almorah’s hill. 
 
 “ That course, nor Delhi’s kingly gates, 
 Nor wild Malvah detain, 
 For sweet the bliss us both awaits a 
 On yonder western main! 
 
 Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 
 Across the dark bine sea, 
 
 But ne’er were hearts so light and gay, 
 As then shall meet in thee!”’ 
 
 If the language of a pure and dignified at- 
 tachment, proved by long trial, refined by 
 suffering, clothed in humility, and wholly di- 
 vested of weakness or selfishness, was ever 
 wrung out by the power of affliction from the 
 inmost recesses of an elevated and virtuous 
 mind, it is in the words of Mrs. Hutchinson, 
 where she speaks of the love of her lamented 
 husband. 
 
 “There is only this to be recorded, that never was |! 
 there a passion more ardent and lesse idolatrous; he | 
 loved her better than his life, with inexpressible tender- 
 nesse and kindnesse, had a most high obliging esteeme 
 of her, yet still considered honour, religion, and duty 
 above her, nor ever suffered the intrusion of such a do- 
 tage as should blind him from marking her imperfec- 
 tions: these he looked upon with an indulgent eie, which 
 did not abate his Jove and esteeme of her, while it aug- 
 
 mented his care to blot out all those spotts which might }} 
 
 make her appeare lesse worthy of that respect he payed i 
 her; and thus indeed he soon made her more equal] to 
 him than he found her; for she was a very faithful mir- 
 ror, reflecting truly, though but dimly, his own glories 
 upon him, so long as he was present; but she that was 
 nothing before his inspection gave her a faire figure, 
 when he. was removed, was only filled with a darke 
 mist, and never could again take in any delightful object, 
 nor return any shining representation. The greatest 
 excellencie she had was the power of apprehending, and 
 the virtue of loving his: soe as his shadow she waited 
 on him every where, till he was taken into that region 
 of light, which admitts of none, and then she vanished 
 into nothing. ’I'was not her face that he loved, her 
 honour and her virtue were his mistresses, and these 
 (dike Pigmalion’s) images of his own making, for he 
 polished and gave form to what he found with all the 
 roughnesse of the quarrie about it; but meeting with a 
 compliante subject for his own wise government, he 
 found as much satisfaction as he gave, and never had oc- | 
 casion to number his marriage among his infelicities.” 
 
 This beautiful illustration of love combines 
 all that is essential to the most ardent, as 
 well as the most ennobling sentiment, and 
 wants nothing but metre to entitle it to a 
 high place in the scale of poetical merit. 
 
 There remains one important observation 
 to be made on the subject of love, that it 
 marks the progress of national civilization, 
 and the improvement or the deterioration of 
 public morals. Love, above all other pas- 
 sions, is capable of producing the greatest 
 happiness, or the greatest misery; of being 
 the most refined, or the most degraded. It 
 
 \" 
 eee 
 
SR = 
 
 ——— 
 
 may be associated with the highest virtue, 
 ‘or made the companion of the lowest vice. 
 ' Where a nation or a community is the most 
 ilicentious, love is the least respected. Where 
 deference i is paid to moral laws, and religious 
 duties, love is regarded as the bond of do- 
 mestic union, the charm which diffuses a 
 secret, but holy influence over our domestic 
 enjoyments. In patriarchal times, when 
 men were dispersed over the face of the 
 earth in separate families or tribes, love 
 dwelt among them like a patient handmaid, 
 ministering to their private comfort, but 
 wholly uninfluential in directing their im- 
 portant movements. In the days of chivalry, 
 when men, following the standard of false 
 glory, maintained their possessions by force 
 of arms, sacrificed ease, honesty, or life, to 
 the laws of honour, and the adventures of 
 knight-errantry, love was worshipped as 
 a goddess, whose inspiration endowed 
 her votaries with superhuman power, and 
 whose protection was a shield of adamant. 
 And thus through the different changes of 
 national character and customs, love adopts 
 itself to all, luxuriating in the indulgence of 
 artificial life, or sharing the drudgery of cor- 
 poreal toil. 
 
 Even in individuals, it is not going too far 
 to say, that low notions of the nature and 
 attributes of love, bespeak a vitiated mind, 
 and show, like the “ trail of the serpent,” in 
 the garden of Eden, that the principle of 
 evil has been there. ‘There is in its elevated 
 nature, a character of constancy, truth, and 
 dignity, which constitutes the essence of' its 
 being, and no pure eye can behold it robbed 
 of these, without sorrow and indignation. 
 
 It is this faculty of adaptation to all circum- 
 stances and states of being, which renders 
 love so entirely subservient to the purposes 
 of the poet; because it takes the tone of the 
 times, as well as that of individual charac- 
 ter, and participating in good or evil, calls 
 forth these opposing principles in all their 
 power. 
 
 ' Besides the love here spoken of, poetry 
 abounds in descriptions of that which assumes 
 the sober garb of friendship, and which is 
 perhaps of all others the most substantial 
 support to the human mind, through the 
 difficulties and temptations necessarily en- 
 countered in the journey of life. A friend 
 
 | THE POETRY OF LOVE. “* 
 
 well chosen is the greatest treasure we can 
 possess. We have in such a friend the ad- 
 dition of another mind, whose strength sup- 
 plies our weakness, and whose virtues render 
 us ambitious of the same. We see frequent 
 instances that men alone in the world—un- 
 known, and unvalued, will commit errors, we 
 
 might say vices, from which the well-timed 
 
 warning of a friend would have restrained 
 them, and stain their character with follies, 
 
 for oehietl if'a friend had blushed, they oo. 
 All tite oe 
 
 would ees been ashamed. 
 ing associations which onhance our. 
 sures, or console us under affliction, » ‘are 
 epntead in the name of friend. When the 
 stroke of adversity falls upon us, the sympa- 
 
 thy of a true friend takes away half its | 
 
 heaviness. When the world misunderstands 
 our meaning, and attributes bad motives to 
 what are only ill-judged actions, we think 
 (with what satisfaction those who have ex- 
 perienced the feeling alone can tell) that 
 there is one who knows us better. When 
 good fortune comes unexpectedly upon us, 
 ina tide too sudden and too full for enjoy- 
 ment, we hasten to our friend who shares the 
 overplus and leaves us happy. When 
 doubttully we tread the dangerous path of 
 life, misdirected by our passions, and bewil- 
 dered by our fears, we look for the hand of 
 friendship to point out the safe footing, from 
 whence we shall bless our guide. When 
 wounded, slighted, and cast back into the 
 
 distance, by those whose fickle favor we had | 
 
 sought to win, we exclaim in the midst of 
 our disappointments, “ There is one who loves 
 me still!’ And when wearied with the 
 warfare of the world, and “sick of its harsh 
 sounds, and sights,” we return to the com- 
 munion of friendship, as we rest after a labo- 
 rious journey, in a safe sweet garden of re- 
 freshment and peace. There is unquestion- 
 ably much to be done in the way of cultiva- 
 ting this garden, and maintaining our right 
 to possess it; but it repays us for the price, 
 and when we have exercised forbearance, 
 and interchanged kind offices, and spoken, 
 and borne to hear, the truth, and been faith- 
 ful, and gentle, and sincere, we find a recom- 
 pense in our own bosoms, as well as in the 
 affections of our friend. 
 
 There are yet other modifications of love 
 such as that which constitutes the chain of 
 
102 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 domestic union—the love of brothers and 
 sisters; and lastly, and most to be revered 
 as the foundation of family concord and s0- 
 cial happiness, we might almost say of 
 moral feeling, the love which subsists be- 
 tween parents and children, uniting on one 
 hand the tenderest impressions we have re- 
 ceived, with the first lessons we have learn- 
 ed; on the other, the warmest affection, with 
 the weightiest responsibility. The weakness 
 and the waywardness of a child watched 
 over by parental love, directed by parental 
 care, and reclaimed by parental authority, 
 are so frequently alluded to in the Scrip- 
 tures, when describing the condition of man 
 in reference to his Maker, and in themselves 
 harmonize so entirely with that relation, that 
 we use the name of “ Heavenly Father,” not 
 only in obedience to scriptural authority, but 
 because we comprehend in these holy words, 
 the highest object of our love, our gratitude, 
 and our veneration. 
 
 We cannot better conclude this chapter 
 than with the following appropriate lines by 
 Southey. 
 
 ‘They sin who tell us love can die. 
 With life all other passions fly, 
 All others are but vanity. 
 In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
 Nor avarice in the depths of hell. 
 Earthly these passions, as of earth, 
 They perish where they have their birth. 
 But love is indestructible ; 
 Its holy flame for ever burneth, 
 From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; 
 Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
 At times deceived, at times oppressed, 
 It here is tried and purified, 
 And hath in heaven its perfect rest; 
 It soweth here with toil and care, 
 But the harvest time of love is there. 
 Oh! when a mother meets on high 
 The babes she lost in infancy, 
 Hath she not then, for pains and fears, 
 The day of wo, the anxious night, 
 From al] her sorrows, all her tears, 
 An over-payment of delight!” 
 
 —__—__— 
 THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 
 
 Tue poetry of grief is exhibited under so 
 great a variety of forms, all capable of so 
 wide a difference in character and degree, 
 that it will be necessary to speak of the sen- 
 timent of grief, first, under that mild and 
 softened aspect which assumes the name of 
 
 -venly beatitude fail to interest our feelings. 
 
 sadness or melancholy, and then as. a. 
 
 gloomy passion, absorbing every faculty of | 
 
 the soul. es) 
 
 Of all the distinctive characters assumed — 
 by grief, from simple sadness to wild despair, - 
 melancholy is the most poetical, because | 
 while it operates as a stimulant to the im- 
 agination, its influence is so gentle as to 
 leave all the other intellectual powers at full 
 liberty to exercise their particular functions. 
 Burton speaks of melancholy as engender- 
 ing strange conceits—as quickening the per- 
 ceptions, and expanding the faculties of the 
 mind; and Lord Byron, scarcely less inti- 
 mate than this quaint old writer with the 
 different mental maladies to which our na- 
 ture is liable, describes the “ glance of mel- 
 ancholy” as “a fearful gift.” 
 
 ‘What is it but the telescope of truth 
 Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
 Making the cold reality too real ?”’ 
 
 When melancholy takes possession of the |} 
 soul, we lose as it were the perspective of || 
 our mental vision. We forget the relative 
 proportions of things, and mistaking the 
 small for the great, or the distant for the 
 near, magnify their importance, examine 
 their particular parts, and fill our imagina- 
 tions with their nature and essence. This 
 is in fact “making the cold reality too real ;” 
 for though there is much of truth in the vivid 
 perceptions ef melancholy, it is truth mis- |} 
 placed; truth with which the wise man has 
 little to do, but which ministers powerfully to 
 the wretchedness of the “ mind diseased.” 
 
 Being in our nature as liable to pain as we 
 are susceptible of pleasure; and by the |} 
 neglect of our privileges, and abuse of our 
 faculties, subjected to the experience of even 
 greater suffering than enjoyment; it neces- 
 sarily follows, that those views of the condi- 
 tion of man which are tinctured with the 
 sombre hues of melancholy, should be re- |} 
 garded as the most natural as well as the 
 most interesting. There is little poetry in 
 mirth, or even in perfect happiness, except 
 as it is contrasted with misery; and thus all 
 attempts to describe the perfection of hea- 
 
 The joys of heaven are, according to the 
 writers who have ventured upon these de- 
 
THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 
 
 103 
 
 scriptions, chiefly made up of luxuries which 
 in this world money alone can purchase, and 
 money is connected in our ideas with toil 
 and strife, with envy, and jealousy, and 
 never-ending vexation; or they consist of 
 fountains always pure, flowers that never 
 fade, and skies which no cloud has ever ob- 
 scured—things which we find it difficult to 
 conceive: or of perpetual praises sung by-an 
 innumerable host of saints—an employment 
 which we are not yet able to separate from 
 ideas of monotony and weariness. Far 
 more touching and more descriptive of that 
 state to wliich the experienced soul learns to 
 aspire as to its greatest bliss, are those de- 
 scriptions and allusions adounding in the 
 Holy Scriptures, and particularly in the 
 Book of Revelations, where a great multi- 
 tude which n® man could number, are seen 
 standing around the throne arrayed in 
 white robes, and with palms in their hands: 
 and when the question is asked, who are 
 these, and whence came they? it is answer- 
 ed, “these are they which came out of great 
 tribulation—they shall hunger no more, 
 neither thirst any more; neither shall the 
 sun light on them, nor any heat. For the 
 Lamb which is in the midst of the throne 
 shall feed them, and shall lead them unto 
 living fountains of waters: and God shall 
 wipe away all tears from theireyes.” Here 
 the allusion to the sufferings and wants of 
 our moral nature is continued throughout, 
 forming that natural and necessary contrast 
 with periect happiness, which is the very 
 essence of poetry. Such expressions as 
 these come home to the heart that has known 
 tribulation, and therefore can conceive the 
 blessednegs of eternal repose—which has 
 known the anguish of morta! sorrow, and 
 therefore, can appreciate the healing of the 
 heavenly Comforter. 
 
 Kiverything that deeply interests our feel- 
 ings has some connexion with our own con- 
 dition, or some accordance with our own 
 tastes. All who experience a healthy state 
 of mind have a keen relish for happiness ; 
 but all are not so free from envy or selfish- 
 ness as fully to enjoy the happiness of 
 others; and that which falls to our own 
 share is so absorbing in its nature, that we 
 
 ence lasts; and when it is over, it can only 
 be alluded to with a certain degree of sad- 
 nessandregret. Ithas been justly observed, 
 that it requires a more amiable temper of 
 mind to laugh with those who laugh, than 
 to weep with those who weep; and expe- 
 rience must have taught all who have made 
 the experiment that it is less difficult to ex- 
 cite interest by detailing our sorrows, than 
 our joys. Our friends weep with us, but for 
 themselves ; and perhaps at the bottom of 
 their hearts are not grieved to find that they 
 do not suffer alone. But when we fly to 
 them, full of our own individual hopes and 
 joys, they often unconsciously throw some 
 damp upon our ecstatic emotions, or coldly 
 turn away, deeming us selfish, and incon- 
 siderate to have wholly forgotten their sit- 
 uation in the enjoyment of our own. 
 
 Lord Byron, the most melancholy of all 
 our poets found a home in every heart. 
 The love-lorn maiden fed upon his pages, 
 well pleased to read expressions which des- 
 cribed a passion hopeless and irremediable 
 as her own; the disappointed and the disso- 
 lute discovered there the language of a 
 sympathy, which they sought in vain of the 
 giddy world around them; but above all. 
 the misanthrope curled his contemptous 
 lip, and gloried in having found a high and 
 titled bard who scorned mankind as he did. 
 It would be dificult to point out the produc- 
 tions of any light and joyous poet, which 
 have been equally popular and equally pen- 
 etrating to the soul of the reader. Some 
 there are which have been great favourites 
 with the public ; but such for the most part 
 have been recommended by the force of 
 their satire, and the poignancy of their jests, 
 rather than for the pure stream of rational 
 happiness flowing through their strains. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to repeat, that 
 poetry, in order to meet with a welcome in 
 
 the world, must address itself to the feelings: 
 
 of mankind as they are, not as they should 
 be. It may be, and unquestionably has 
 been, the means of raising in the soul a high 
 tone of moral feeling, of purifying what is 
 gross, and subduing what is harsh; but 
 this can only be effected by establishing a 
 chain of connexion between our low wants 
 
 feel little inclination to pour it forth in| and wishes, and that which is high, and 
 
 poetical descriptions, at least while its influ- | pure, and holy. Happiness therefore—hap- 
 
 | 
 
 OUST re a Sy A SN oT SE EET IS 
 pee ee | eR | cn PR a SR A 
 
 il relent ett pda pee vara eens usu open crvos-octio mares 
 a ae Oe ee ee teen eer 
 
 ¢ 
 
104 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 eu 
 
 piness without alloy, can never be a 
 suitable theme for the muse until we enter 
 upon a state of existence where it shall more 
 frequently be our experience. But melan- 
 choly, towards which all our feelings have 
 some tendency, either immediate or remote, 
 will add a charm to the language of poetry 
 so long as it is understood and felt by all. 
 Descriptions of life without its cares and 
 sorrows, would appear to us little less wea- 
 risome and unnatural than landscapes with- 
 out shadow; but those which are varied by 
 the sombre colouring borrowed by experi- 
 ence from the hand of grief, exhibit the 
 principles of harmony, and the essential 
 characteristics of truth. 
 - It has been wisely ordered by the Author 
 of our being, that we should be stimulated to 
 action by certain wishes and wants arising 
 within ourselves. Had man, constituted as 
 he now is, been placed in a situation of per- 
 fect enjoyment, it must necessarily have been 
 one of supineness and sloth, in which his 
 mental powers would have experienced no 
 exercise, and consequently no improvement. 
 Thus when we look with regret upon the 
 daily wants of mankind, and feel disposed to 
 regard them as a defect in his nature, or an 
 error in his morals, we do not reflect that 
 they are parts of a powerful machine, so 
 constructed and designed as to awaken and 
 stimulate man’s highest capabilities, yet so 
 liable to derangement, misapplication, and 
 abuse, as to be frequently converted by his 
 ignorance, or want of care, into the engine 
 of his own destruction. It was the want of 
 some medium of communication which first 
 led to the use of certain sounds as signs 
 of our ideas, and it was the same want 
 which produced such an arangement of these 
 sounds as to constitute a copious language ; 
 it was the want of some sweet influence to 
 soothe the asperities of pain, and labour, and 
 fatigue, which prompted the cultivation of 
 music; it was the want of some visible and 
 substantial personification of their own ideas 
 of beauty and grandeur, which operated upon 
 | the genius of the first artists, and produced 
 those massive but sublime attempts at sculp- 
 ture which arose among the Egyptians, 
 and were afterwards improved upon by the 
 more refined inhabitants of ancient Greece ; 
 and it was the want of a higher tone of lan- 
 
 a 
 
 guage, suited to the most elevated concep- 
 tions of the human mind, which first diffused 
 the refreshing stream of poetry over the 
 world, gave the charm of melody to the 
 hymns of Israel’s minstrel king, inspired the 
 father of ancient verse with those heroic 
 strains which still delight the world, founda 
 language anda voice for the impassioned soul 
 of Sappho, fired the genius of Euripides, and 
 which still continues, though often unknown 
 and unacknowledged, to tune to harmony the 
 poet’s secret thoughts, operating upon the 
 springs of sympathy and love, like the airs |: 
 that touch unseen the chords of the A#olian 
 harp. 
 
 But above all, it is under the influence of 
 sorrow that this want is felt. Joy is suffi 
 cient of itself; the soul receives it, and is 
 satisfied. But sorrow is burdensome, and 
 the soul would gladly throw it off; and be- 
 cause it cannot give what no one is willing 
 to receive, would cast it upon the winds, | 
 or diffuse it through crention’s space. The 
 mind that is under the influence of melan- 
 choly, knows no rest. Itis wearied with an 
 incessant craving for something beyond it- 
 self. It seeks for sympathy, but never finds 
 enough. Itis dissatisfied with present things, 
 and because the beings around it are too 
 gross or too familiar to offer that refined 
 communion for which it ever pines, it pours 
 forth in poetic strains the transcript of its 
 own sorrows, trusting that the world con- 
 tains other sufferers at least half as wretched 
 as itself, who will read, with a pity too dis- 
 tant to offend, descriptions of a fate more 
 lamentable than their own. 
 
 There needs no greater proof that melan- 
 choly is poetical, than the effect it produces 
 upon the imagination, converting everything 
 into its own bitter food. Under the influ- 
 ence of melancholy, the voice of friendship 
 often sounds reproachful and always unfeel- 
 ing when it speaks the truth; the looks of 
 gladness worn by others, are proofs of their |' 
 want of consideration for ourselves; acts of || 
 kindness are instances of pity, and pity, un- | 
 der such circumstances, always appears ac- 
 companied with contempt. Love is apt to | 
 attack those who are victims of melancholy, | 
 but it is always in some forbidden shape; |! 
 
 and religion, which is, or ought to be, the 
 
 sovereign balm for all mental aan 
 
 a ER te ST OD 
 >- 
 ‘ 
 
 a ee a ee Ee 
 a ee ee ee ee ene Sanna aS aa 
 
 rte re eens ees eee. 
 7 = 
 
 1 
 
ne ee 
 
 THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 
 
 105 
 
 pears to them like a sacred inclosure drawn 
 around a chosen few, from which they are 
 eternally shut out. If they read the Bi- 
 ble, they tura to the lamentations of Jer- 
 
 -emiah, Ecclesiastes, or the Book of Job ; 
 and seated on a cushion of ease, in the full 
 enjoyment of health, and wealth, and luxury 
 
 of every kind, they believe themselves to be 
 
 -as severely tried, as miserable, and perhaps 
 /as patient, as the heroic sufferer. 
 
 If they 
 
 go forth into the fields, the flowers either 
 
 look wau and sickly, or mock them with their 
 
 | gorgeous hues; the tree spread around a 
 
 gloomy shade; the streams murmur, as eve- 
 rything on earth has aright to do; the birds 
 and the insects that flutter in the sunshine, 
 are poor deluded victims of mortality, sport- 
 ing away their short-lived joy; the clouds 
 which vary the aspect of the landscape, and 
 the calm blue heavens, are emblematical of : 
 the “ palpable obscure” in which their own 
 fate is involved; and if the sun shines forth | 
 in his glory, it is to remind them that no sun 
 
 will ever more rise to disperse the darkness 
 
 of their souls. Instead of indulging in those 
 
 wide and liberal views which embrace the 
 
 perfection and beauty of the universe, they ; 
 fix their attention upon objects single and 
 minute, choosing out such as may most 
 easily be connected with gloomy associa- | 
 tions. In the gorgeous hues of the autumnal } 
 foliage, the eye of melancholy can distin 
 
 ' 
 t 
 H 
 i 
 
 guish nothing but the faded leaves just sep- 
 arated from the bough, and flickering down- 
 wards on the reckless wind, with those dizzy 
 and convulsive movements which are wont 
 to precede an irrevocable fall; from amongst 
 the cheerful songsters of the grove, it singles 
 out the bird with wounded wing; it per- 
 ceives the rifled nest, and knows by the scat- 
 tered plumage that the spoiler has been there; 
 throughout the flowery wilderness of the 
 fields, or the gorgeous bloom of the cultiva- 
 ted garden, it sees only the blighted blossom, 
 the broken stem, or the fatal ravages of the 
 canker-worm ; in the heavens, it beholds on- 
 ly the setting sun, the wanj~g moon, or the 
 feeble star that glitters ina world of gloom ; 
 in the animal kingdom, it selects those spe- 
 cies which prey upon each other, and turns 
 from the sportive gambols of the lamb, to 
 the kite that hovers over the feathery brood, 
 or the tiger and the cat that torture ere they 
 
 devour their victims’; in the city, it is sensi- 
 bie only of poverty, disease, and accumu- 
 lated crime; and in the social circle, it sees 
 only the lip of scorn, the pale cheek, or the 
 averted eye. Over the calendar of births, 
 marriages, and deaths, the melancholy hold 
 themselves peculiarly privileged to mourn, 
 because, in the first instance, another sen- 
 tient and responsible being is added to the 
 dark catalogue of those who come into the 
 world to sin and suffer; in the second, an 
 additional proof is about to be exhibited be- 
 fore the world of the fallacy of human hopes, 
 and the disappointment which inevitably at- 
 tends our pursuit of earthly happiness; and 
 the third is an awful evidence of that fatal 
 doom to which we are all hastening. In 
 short, there is nothing natural or familiar, 
 sweet or soothing, good or great, which does 
 not set the gloomy and morbid imagination 
 afloat upon “asea of troubles :” and it is this 
 exuberance of fancy, this illimitable range 
 of thought, this fertility of the mind in 
 producing objects of mournful associations, 
 which constitutes the poetry of melancholy. 
 
 “T have of Jate,’ says Hamlet, ‘(but wherefore I 
 know not,) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of ex- 
 ercises ; and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my dispo- 
 sition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a 
 sterile promontory ; this most excellent canopy, the air, 
 look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majes- 
 tical roof, fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no 
 other thing to me, thana foul and pestilent congregation 
 of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble | 
 in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form, and mov- 
 ing, how express, and admirable! in action, how like an 
 angel! in apprehension, how likea god! The beauty of 
 the world, the paragon of animals! and yet to me, what 
 is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me—nor 
 woman neither.” 
 
 We now come to the consideration of grief 
 as a passion, under which character there is 
 one peculiarity to be remarked, tending pow- 
 erfully to invest it with the poetical charm it 
 unquestionably possesses—it is the peculiar 
 force and vividness of some of our percep- 
 tions while the mind is under the immediate 
 influence of grief. It is true we cannot 
 reason, nor calculate, nor detect the weak- 
 ness of sophistry, because the mind in this 
 state is incapable of action. The only fa- 
 culty awakened in it, is that of receiving im- 
 pressions ; a power considerably heightened ; 
 and increased by the total suspension of its 
 active operations, But it is to trifles alone | 
 
 | 
 | 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 that this power is applied—to things of no 
 importance, and such as hold no relative 
 connexion with the cause of grief. Thus 
 the criminal at the bar, though wholly in- 
 capacitated for taking into consideration the 
 poste of the laws by which he is tried, 
 looks round upon the judge, the witnesses, 
 | and the whole court; and with an acuteness 
 || and vividness of perception which seem 
 | actually to be the means of forcing every 
 unwelcome object upon his sight, he beholds 
 the breathless and expectant multitude 
 around him, from amongst whom he is able 
 to distinguish, and single out particular faces, 
 which, if he is happy enough to escape the 
 dreaded dcom, will remain impressed upon 
 | his memory till his latest day. The mes- 
 senger who brings us evil tidings, is, for any 
 thought or interest that we bestow upon him 
 individually, a mere intelligence, a voice, a 
 breath of air; and yet we find afterwards 
 that we have involuntary noted down in 
 || characters never to be obliterated, his coun- 
 || tenance, his dress, his manner, and the tones 
 in which his errand was delivered. We 
 waich by the bedside of the dying, our very 
 souls absorbed by the near prospect of that 
 fearful dissolution which is about to deprive 
 | us of a child, a parent, a friend or a brother, 
 unconscious that our thoughts have wander- 
 ed for one moment from what was most im- 
 | portant or impressive in that awful scene ; 
 yet in after life, even when the heavy wheels 
 of time have rolled over us, laden with other 
 accidents and other griefs, we are able to 
 reeall, with a distinctness almost incredible 
 to those who have never known it, the par- 
 ticular aspect of that sick chamber—the fold- 
 ed curtains—the pillow without rest—the 
 wild delirious wanderings—the countenance 
 of the nurse—the voice of the physician— 
 and all the other minutie of that mournful 
 scene. 
 
 It is with the tide of feeling as with a 
 swollen river. ‘The violent and overwhelm- 
 ing force of the torrent bears along with it 
 innumerable fragments from the desolated 
 shore. \Yhnile the stream rushes on, swollen 
 
 E tumultuous, these fragments are scarcely 
 
 Hy?) 
 
 j 
 
 distinguishable amongst the whirlpools, and 
 rapids, and roaring falls; but when it sub- 
 sides and again glides calmly within its nat- 
 
 afford clear and palpable evidence of the 
 tremendous strength and violence of the: 
 overwhelming flood. 
 
 Lord Byron has described with his wonted 
 power and pathos this capability of the 
 mind, when under the influence of grief, in 
 that most affecting (I might almost say 
 most beautiful) of his poems “'The Dream.” 
 In the melancholy scene so forcibly exhibi- 
 ting the deep but silent anguish of plighting 
 the hand without the heart, how naturally 
 do ithe thoughts of the gloomy being he has 
 chosen to represent, rush back to the season 
 of his first—his only love, and settle upon 
 the last agonizing moment of separation, 
 which life has now no power to equal by any 
 future suffering. A minor poet, or a less 
 experienced reasoner, would have centred all 
 the recollections of the heart-stricken bride- 
 groom in the person of the lady herself; but 
 Lord Byron, who could at his own pleasure 
 make use of expressions as delicate as poeti- 
 cal—as poetical as true, colouring the whole 
 scene with those ethereal tints which belong 
 to the hightest genius, merely alludes to the 
 sacred object of such deep, and fervent, and 
 forbiding thoughts as a “destiny ;” while he 
 gives us the minor parts of the picture, clear, 
 and distinct as they would be in the me- 
 mory of one who could feel and suffer like 
 himself. 
 
 “ He could see 
 
 Not that which was, but that which should have been 
 Jut the remembered chambers and the place, 
 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,— 
 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 
 And her who was his destiny, came back 
 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light. 
 What business had they there at such an hour?” 
 
 We might add to what has already been 
 said of grief, the pleasure which it is sup- 
 posed to afford in recollection; a subject 
 much sung and celebrated by the poets, but 
 one to which I confess myself too ignorant, 
 or too obtuse to be able to do justice. Still 
 we all know there are those who can linger 
 over the grave recently closed over their 
 heart’s treasure, who love to revisit scenes 
 of former suffering, and dwell in lengthened 
 detail upon the sorrows they have endured ; 
 and I am inclined to believe that such are 
 the individuals best qualified to describe the 
 poetry of grief; rather than those who shrink || 
 
 ural boundaries, they rise to the surface and | from allretrospection of their own experience, | 
 
| 
 
 | 
 
 | and hurry on through life to find in the 
 | future what has failed them in the past. 
 We turn from this subject to the con- 
 | sideration of griefunder that peculiar charac- 
 | ter which appears to claim more than its 
 due share of interest, and which by the 
 world is called first grief. 
 
 The first grief generally arises from disap- 
 || pointment in love, death of parents, change of 
 | fortune, or neglect of friends; al! sufficient 
 causes of sorrow, yet by no means so pow- 
 | erful or durable in their effects, as the ac- 
 cumulated cares, crosses, and _ afflictions, 
 which beset us «in after life. This grief is 
 comparatively without association, and there- 
 | fore, though touching and pathetic in the 
 | extreme, because it falls upon the young, 
 | and often upon the beautiful, cannot in the 
 
 experience of the mourner be comparassle 
 
 to those. in which are combined the accu- 
 mulated sufferings that arise from memory, 
 | and anticipation—the recollection of happi- 
 ness that never can return—the fear of fu- 
 | ture evil yet more intolerable than the pre- 
 sent. 
 | The first grief is unquestionably a fertile 
 ‘| subject for the poet, because it supplies all 
 the interest arising from strong contrast; asa 
 sudden blight falling upon the luxurious vege- 
 tation of a productive soil, affords more mat- 
 | ter for affecting and melancholy description, 
 than the leafless desert stretched out in 
 | its perpetual sterility beneath a burning 
 sun. 
 
 The first grief comes to the young heart 
 like the rough wind to the blossom—like the 
 early frost to the full blown flower—like the 
 gathering vapours to the smiling sun—like 
 the dark cloud to the silver moon—like the 
 storm to the summer sea—like the sudden 
 influence of all those fatal accidents which 
 deface the lovely and verdant aspect of na- 
 ture; not like that dull monotony of constant 
 care which experience proves to be far more 
 intolerable, but which the poet rejects for 
 its very weariness. The tears which dim 
 the eye of youthful beauty are wholesome, 
 natural, and refreshing, compared with those 
 which wear away the waning sight. When 
 youthful beauty weeps, what heart so cal- 
 lous as not to be touched with pity? What 
 benevolence so limited as not to extend to 
 the fair sufferer the consolation of love, and 
 
 THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 
 
 107 
 
 the comfort of protection? There is some- 
 thing in our very nature which makes us 
 yearn with peculiar tenderness over those 
 who mourn for their first grief. They have 
 never troubled us with their complaints be- 
 fore. We have been wont to see them light 
 and joyous, bounding forth upon their mor- 
 tal race; but now their speed is checked, 
 the wished for goal has vanished from their 
 sight, the stimulus is withdrawn, and unable 
 either to pause, or to retrace their rapid way, 
 they begin to feel that the long dull path be- 
 fore them must be trod by manya weary step. 
 We have learned this truth ourselves, we 
 know that all who live must learn it, and 
 yet to spare those who are untutored in life’s 
 harsh discipline, théugh but for another 
 year—a day—an hour of innocent enjoy- 
 ment, we would almost be willing to bear a 
 fresh stroke of the axe to which we have 
 already become accustomed—the loss of 
 another branch—the blight of another bough. 
 It is this tenderness, felt and acknow- 
 ledged by all, which gives the charm of 
 ideal loveliness to the tears of the young 
 mourner, which heightens the interests of 
 those afflictions that are but a faint type of 
 what life has yet in store, and which in fact 
 constitutes the poetry of the first grief: 
 Another and perhaps the most legitimate 
 cause of grief is death; a calamity common to 
 all, but not felt the less for being alike incident 
 to the young, and the old ; the good, and the 
 evil; the rich, and the poor; the noble and 
 the abject. Under all other afflictions we 
 may school ourselves into the belief that 
 
 some hope of remedy or alleviation yet re- 
 
 mains; but our reflections upon this fatal 
 catastrophe are uniformly stamped with that 
 word of awful and irrevocable import— 
 never.* Never more shall we listen to the 
 voice whose familiar tones were like the 
 
 * Madame de Stae] has remarked upon the words no 
 more, that both in sound and sense they are more de- 
 scriptive of melancholy meaning than any other in our 
 language If not before these, at least secoud in the 
 scale, | would place the single word alune, and text to 
 this never. I have heard of a poor maniac, who spent 
 her life in singing or chanting this word three times re- 
 peated “never—nerer—nerer,” in a mournful cadence, 
 composed of six different notes of music; and it might 
 afford matter of interesting speculation to the poet, to 
 ask what was the nature of her grief, that could never 
 die—of her loss that could never be restored 3 
 
108 
 
 memory of sweet music heard in childhood 
 —never shall the beaming eye, whose lan- 
 guage was better understood than words, 
 || light up the secrets of our souls again— 
 || never shall the parental hand be laid upon 
 our own with the earnestness of experience, 
 and the warmth of love—never shall the in- 
 nocent prattle of those cherub lips now 
 sealed in death awaken us from our morn- 
 ing slumbers—never shall the counsel of 
 that long tried friend guide us again through 
 the mazy paths of life. We might have 
 lived and perhaps we have, without their 
 actual presence ; seas might have rolled be- 
 tween us; and wide countries separated 
 their home and ours: but to believe in their 
 existence was enough—to think that they 
 looked upon the same world with ourselves 
 —that the same sun rose to them and to us 
 —that we gazed upon the same moon—and 
 that the same wind which breathed its spirit- 
 ual intelligence into our ears, might in its 
 wild and lawless wanderings, have sighed 
 around their distant dwelling. But above 
 all, that the time might come when we 
 should yet meet to recognize the same fea- 
 tures, though changed by time—the same 
 voice though altered in its language—and the 
 '| same love, though long estranged, yet never 
 totally extinguished. We must now satisfy 
 ourselves that this can never be; and why ? 
 not from any cause which the power and 
 ingenuity of man can remedy, or the cas- 
 uality of after events avert; but simply be- 
 cause the vital principle which never can 
 be revived, is extinct, the functions of hu- 
 manity are destroyed, and the friend of our 
 bosom is no more. 
 
 It is true that religion points to the ethe- 
 real essence existing in a happier sphere, 
 directs the attention of the mourner to the 
 undying soul, and urges on his hope to an 
 eternal union ; but we have earthly feelings 
 too frequently usurping the place where 
 religion ought to reign; and love that is 
 “strong as death,” turns away from the 
 Heavenly Comforter, and will not be con- 
 soled. Love holds a faithful record of the 
 past, from which half the interest, and half 
 the endearment must now be struck out, 
 rendering the future barren, waste, and 
 void. Love keeps an inventory of its secret 
 treasures, where it notes down things of 
 
 renee = Leen 
 
 bear ARRNROBUNPSIO ING acre csroernreregrre ee NE IR FECES PLIERS NARS EEE SENT IN PPE ER RS 
 SS.  TFTETFTE OO eeeEeETTlTlTlTlTlTllllleeeeeeeel_loooo 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 which the higher faculties of the soul take 
 
 no cognizance—the smiles—the tones of 
 
 mutual happiness—the glowing cheek—the 
 
 sunny hair—the gentle hand—the well 
 
 known step—and all that fills up and makes 
 
 perfect the evidence of long cherished affec- |; 
 tion; exchanged for what? For the mo- 
 
 tionless' and marble stillness of death, and 
 the cold, unnatural gloom of that deep sep- 
 
 ulchre which conceals what even love itself 
 
 has become willing to resign—for the sad 
 
 return to the desolate. home—the silent 
 
 chamber—the absent voice—the window 
 
 without its light—the familiar name un- 
 
 spoken—the relics unclaimed—the harp 
 
 untouched—the task unfinished—the blank 
 
 at the table unfilled up—the garden walks | 
 untrodden—the flowers untended—the fa- 
 
 vourite books closed up as with a seal—in 
 
 short, the total rending away of that sweet 
 
 chord, without which, the once harmonious 
 
 strains of social intercourse are musical no 
 
 more. . 
 
 The effect produced upon the mind by 
 the contemplation of death, is of a character 
 peculiarly refined and gentle. We neces- 
 sarily forgive the dead, even though they |! 
 may have been our enemies: and if our |: 
 friends we remember their virtues alone. | 
 
 | 
 and therefore their faults are forgotten. It | 
 is true, there are associations with the bodily | 
 part-of death which scarcely come under || 
 the denomination of refined, but from these | 
 our nature shrinks; even the common nurse 
 performs her last sad office in silence, and 
 delicacy shrouds in everlasting oblivion the 
 mortal remains of the deceased. It is the 
 task of the poet to record their noble actions 
 —their benevolence—their patient suffering 
 —their magnanimity—their self-denial ; and 
 while he performs this sacred duty, his 
 bosom burns with enthusiasm to imitate the 
 virtues he extols. 
 The loss of fortune is another cause of | 
 grief, not less severely felt for being of com- | 
 | 
 
 They have lost the power to offend again, 
 
 mon occurrence. ‘Those who have never 
 tasted the real bitterness of poverty, tell us 
 in the language of philosophy, that the loss 
 of fortune is a very insufficient cause for the 
 grief of a wise man; that our nature is not |' 
 degraded when our bodies are clad in | 
 homely garments; and that the friends | 
 
THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 
 
 109 
 
 whose esteem is worthy of our regard, will 
 follow us as willingly to the clay cottage, as 
 to the “ courts of kings?’ This might be all 
 very true, did reason alone govern the 
 world ; but we have another law—the law 
 of feeling, more potent in its influence upon 
 the affairs of mankind; and in this law tke 
 poet is often much better instructed than the 
 philosopher. The poet knows that to at- 
 tempt to remove the pressure of the calami- 
 ties of life, by reasoning, however plausibly, 
 upon their transient or trifling nature, is 
 not, in effect, to speak the language of com- 
 mon sense; because it does not adapt itself 
 to the feelings of those to whom it is address- 
 ed, so as to render it available o1 even in- 
 telligible. As well might we tell the victim 
 of raging fever, that it is absurd to thirst. 
 || again, because he has but lately moistened 
 his lips, as endeavour to persuade him who 
 suffers from the loss of worldly wealth, to 
 be comforted, because it is vain to grieve. 
 The poet’s sphere being one of feeling, he 
 has within himself so quick and clear an ap- 
 preliension of all the sources of human pain 
 or pleasure that he sees and understands at 
 once why the change of fortune, the depri- 
 | vation of accustomed privileges and enjoy- 
 ments, and the gradual sinking to a lower 
 | rank in social life, should occasion the deep- 
 est sorrow and regret. Were reason the 
 sole regulator of our passions and propensi- 
 ties, we should never grieve; because we 
 are taught by the experience of every day, 
 that good may arise out of what we have 
 blindly called evil; and because we are 
 assured upon the highest evidence, that our 
 worldly affairs even when darkest and most 
 perplexed, are under the government of a 
 gracious and unerring Providence: but the 
 experience of every day teaches us also, 
 that these important truths have not their 
 proper weight in human calculations. Who, 
 for instance, can meet with equanimity the 
 clamorous attacks of suspicious creditors, 
 whose claims he knows he is unable to.sup- 
 ply? Who can bear the mute appeals of 
 those who have been dependent upon his 
 bounty and protection, when he has no 
 longer the power to offer either—the looks 
 estranged of former friends ; for friendship 
 in the world is not what it is fabled to be in 
 books, but will sometimes deviate from the 
 
 rule of Scripture, by showing respect unto 
 the persons of men—the reproaches, covert 
 and open, which always fall upon Bie 
 whose success has not been equal to their 
 endeavours ; as if the affairs of this life were 
 so regulated, that to succeed in obtaining 
 money were the highest proof of merit—the 
 
 gradual declension (owing to the taking 
 away of props on every side when most 
 needed) into a lower grade of society, where 
 intellectual refinement is little valued, and 
 difficult to be maintained—the signs of en- 
 vious triumph exhibited by those who in our 
 better days would have been our enemies 
 if they had dared. Who can endure ail | 
 these, and an endless variety of other causes | 
 of suffering incident to fallen fortune, and | 
 yet so fortify his soul by sage reasoning 
 that it shall feel no anguish? No; the poet | 
 knows what is in nature and in man; and | 
 therefore he finds a fruitful theme of never- | 
 failing interest in the fountain of his own | 
 feelings, which, through the medium of | 
 
 poetic language, is so conducted, as to mix, 
 and blend, and harmonize with those of' 
 others. 
 A well known cause of grief, and one {a- | 
 miliar to every poetic mind, is lonelincss. | 
 In one sense it may be said that the poet | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 is never alone; but let us ask how it is that 
 he learns to make | 
 
 Perhaps there never was a poet who had | 
 not first sought to find in his own species 
 that real sympathy, for which he becomes 
 afterwards satisfied to substitute the ideal. |, 
 It is impossible but that the elevated and 
 finely constituted mind should often find | 
 itself alone, and if morbid and too sensitive, | 
 as such minds generally are, it must be |: 
 always so in the common hauhts of human | 
 kind. The poet who can be satisfied with | 
 nothing less than entire communion aru | 
 sympathy of soul, is alone in the crowded | 
 city, where, amidst the rush of thousands | 
 of busy feet not one is found to pause because | 
 he is near—alone in the garden’s flowery 
 paths, where there is no eye to look lor 
 beauty and delight in the same objects with | 
 
 —“him friends of mountains; with.the stars, 
 And the quick spirits of the universe 
 Ze hold his dialogues Th 
 
 his—alone beneath the starry canopy of 
 
 per BERGA N yo ites cn ee de) 
 
110. 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 heaven, where none will join his midnight 
 rambles---alone at the altar, where his pecu- 
 liar, fnith is liable to be contemned---alone in 
 the senson of grief---alone in the hour of 
 joy--alone in all those cestatic emotions 
 which give the power of life and action to 
 the lighest faculties of our nature, raising it 
 avove the common level of ordinary exis- 
 tsnec---alone in those moments of weakness 
 and dependence, when the soulis hungering 
 aiter that intellectual sustenance which 
 never yet was found in the selfish or sordid 
 avocations of life, pining for the consolations 
 | of a higher sympathy than the world affords, 
 | and reaijy to lean upon the veriest reed for 
 {j its support. To feel all this without the 
 | power either of communicating or receiving 
 | what is most intimately connected with ihe 
 soul, is true loneliness; and therefore the 
 poct, escaping from the contact of uncon- 
 genial minds, flies to his own peculiar home 
 in the bosom of nature, where, if the inter- 
 course he meeis with be ideal, it is sufficient 
 to satisfy a mind ctherealized like his; es- 
 pecially as it differs from that of the world, 
 in being such as will neither mock nor mar 
 the harmony of hisown breast. But this in- 
 tercourse is notin reality ideal. The Author 
 of our being has so constructed the world, 
 wnimate and inanimate, that there are laws 
 of sympathy and association unmarked by 
 ihe obtuse perceptions of sensual beings, 
 which connect the different, and to us appa- 
 rently incongruous parts of the universe, so 
 is to form an entire and perfect whole. 
 
 We read of a solitary prisoner immured 
 withia the bare walls of a dungeon, who 
 tamed a spider, and even loved it; because 
 the principle of love was strong within him, 
 anil he ha. no other object for his affections. 
 Love is hut one of the many stimulants that 
 urge us on to seek through the world for 
 objects on which these affections can be 
 lavished, and situations in which they may 
 be indulged; and if deprived of the power 
 of cratilying our tastes and wishes by change 
 of’ scene or circumstance, imagination will do 
 her utmost to transform what is repulsive 
 in itsell) into an object of tenderness, interest 
 or admiration: for such are the bounds 
 Which couneet our intellectual nature with 
 the material world, that the mind must lay 
 hold of something to grapple with, appropri- 
 
 | 
 
 ——— 
 —<<$___ 
 
 ate, or destroy. It cannot exist alone and 
 separate from association. . 
 
 As it isthe nature of all grievances to 
 awaken suggestions of their own remedy, so 
 he poet, after deeply experiencing the grief 
 arising from loneliness, learns to satisfy his 
 soul in its pining after a spiritual communion 
 with all that is pure, and lovely, and sublime, 
 by an ideal converse with nature. Having 
 found the objects of his search but seldom, 
 or where they existed, but faintly revealed 
 amongst the children of men, he returns 
 with fresh ardour, and renewed desire to the 
 solitude of the sequestered valley, the heights 
 of the trackless mountain, or the echoing 
 shores of the ever restless sea; not because 
 he actually believes, what his muse some- 
 times fantastically describes, that “myriads 
 of happy spirits walk the air unseen,” de- 
 livering their earthly errand to his privileged 
 
 ‘and attentive ear; but because there exists | 
 
 in his bosom an insatiable love of what is 
 sweet,and calm, and soothing, which he finds 
 in the freshness and repose of nature—an 
 intense enjoyment of what is elevated, and 
 majestic, which crowns his labour in climb- 
 ing to the mountain’s brow—a deep sense 
 of power, and grandeur, and magnificence, 
 which leads him to the ocean’s brink, to pour 
 his soul forth in its native element—the true 
 sublime. 
 
 The last character under which we shall 
 attempt to describe the poetical nature of 
 grief, is that of pity—a sentiment so admira- 
 bly adapted to the relief of the wants and 
 sufferings of humanity, that we regard it as 
 one of our greatest blessings; because we owe 
 to pity half the kind offices of life, never feel- 
 ing the pain itawakens in ourselves, without 
 feeling also some laudable impulse, and 
 seldom witnessing the signs of it in others, 
 without hailing them as omens of good. In- 
 deed so powerful is the influence of pity, that 
 it is the first refuge of innocence—the last 
 of guilt; and when artifice would win from 
 feeling what it*wants merit to obtain from 
 discretion, it never fails to appeal to pity 
 with an exaggerated history of suffering and 
 distress. 
 
 But for the gentle visitations of pity, the 
 couch of suffering would be desolate indeed. 
 Pain, and want, and weakness would be 
 left to water the earth with tears, and reap 
 
ee ce 
 
 eS I a a ST _ 
 
 —_— ee 
 
 THE POETRY OF GRIEF. 
 
 m solitude the harvest of despair. The 
 prisoner in his silent cell, would listen in vain 
 for the step of his last earthly friend; and 
 the reprobate beneath the world’s dread 
 stigma, involving in wretchedness and ruin, 
 would find no faithful hand to lift the pall of 
 public disgrace, and reclaim the lost one 
 from a living death. But more than all, 
 without pity, we should want the bright 
 opening in the heavens through which the 
 radiance of returning peace shines forth upon 
 the tears of penitence—we should want the 
 ark of shelter when the waters of the deluge 
 were gathering around us—we should want 
 the cloud by day, and the pilliar of fire by 
 night to guide our wanderings through the 
 wilderness. 
 
 The griefarising from pity is the only dis- 
 interested grief we are capable of; and 
 therefore it carries a balm along with it, 
 which imparts something of enjoyment to 
 the excitement it creates; but for its acute- 
 ness of sensation, we have the warrant of 
 the deep workings of more violent passions, 
 which pity has not unfrequently the power 
 to overcome. History affords no stronger 
 proof of this, than when Coriolanus yielded 
 to the tears of his mother, and the matrons 
 of Reme, what he had refused to the entrea- 
 ties of his friends, and the claims of his 
 country. 
 
 But if pity, connected with the power of 
 alleviating misery, is mingled with enjoy- 
 ment, pity without this power is one of 
 the most agonizing of our griefs. To live 
 amongst the oppressed without being able 
 to break their bonds—amongst the poor with- 
 out the means of giving—to walk by the side 
 of the feeble without a hand to help—to hear 
 the cries of the innocent without a voice to 
 speak of peace, are trials to the heart, and 
 to the will, unparalleled in the register of 
 grief. And it is this acuteness of sensation, 
 connected with the unbounded influence of 
 
 | pity, and the circumstance of its being woven 
 
 in with the chain of kindness, and love, and 
 
 | charity, by which human suffering is con- 
 
 | nected with human virtue, that constitutes 
 
 the poetry of grief in its character of pity 
 —a, character so sacred, that we trace it not 
 | only ‘through the links of human fellowship, 
 binding together the dependent children of 
 
 |; earth; but also through God’s government, 
 
 | 
 
 I A 
 
 up to the source of all our mercies, where, 
 separate from its mortal mixture of pain, pity 
 performs its holy offices of mercy and for- 
 giveness. 
 
 ny SL, 
 
 THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 
 
 Arter what has already been said of love 
 and grief, we feel that to treat at large upon 
 the poetry of woman, must be in some mea- 
 sure to recapitulate what forms the sub- 
 stance of the two preceding chapters; be- 
 cause, from the peculiar nature and tenden- 
 cy of woman’s character, love and grief may 
 be said to constitute the chief elements of 
 her existence. That she is preserved from 
 the overwhelming influence of grief, so fre- 
 quently recurring, by the reaction of her 
 own buoyant and vivacious spirit, by the 
 fertility of her imagination in multiplying 
 means of happiness, and by her facility in 
 adapting herself to place and time, and lay- 
 ing hold of every support which surrounding 
 circumstances afford, she has solely to thank 
 the Author of her life, who has so regulated 
 the balance of human joys and sorrows, that 
 none are necessarily entirely and irremedia- 
 bly wretched. On glancing superficially at 
 the general aspect of society, all women, and 
 all men who see and speak impartially, 
 would pronounce the weaker sex to be 
 doomed to more than an equal share of suf- 
 fering ; but happily for woman, her internal 
 
 resources are such as to raise her at least to |: 
 
 a level with man in the scale of happiness. 
 Bodily weakness and liability to illness is 
 one of the most obvious reasons why woman 
 is looked upon as an object of compassion. 
 Scarcely a day passes in which she has not 
 some ache or pain that would drive a man 
 melancholy, and yet how quietly she rests 
 her throbbing temples; how cheerfully she 
 converses with every one around her, thus 
 beguiling her thoughts from her own suffer- 
 ings; how patiently she resigns herself to 
 the old accustomed chair, as if chained to 
 the very hearth-stone; while the birds are 
 warbling forth their welcome to returning 
 spring, and she knows that the opening 
 flowers are scenting the fresh gales that 
 
 play around the garden where she may not 
 
 ST ep ees 
 
 ee aay ans 
 111} 
 
 eee 
 
a 
 
 — 
 
 112 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 | tread, and that the sunny skies are lighting 
 up the landscape with a beauty which she 
 may not look upon—it is possible, which she 
 | never may behold again. Yet what is all 
 | this to woman? Her happiness is not in 
 physical enjoyment, but in love and faith. 
 | Give her but the voice of kindness—the pure 
 | sweet natural music of the feminine soul, 
 | to soothe her daily anguish—to cheer her 
 | nightly vigil, and she will ask no more: tell 
 | her of the green hills, the verdant woods, 
 '| and the silver streams, of the songs of the 
 | birds, and the frolic of the lambs, of nature’s 
 radiant beauty glowing beneath a cloudless 
 | sky, and of the universal gladness diffused 
 | through the animal creation—tell her all this, 
 in which she has, personally, no participa- 
 | tion, and she will be satisfied, nay, blest. 
 | Inthe natural delicacy of woman’s con- 
 | stitution, however, we see only one of the 
 slightest of the causes of suffering peculiar to 
 her character and station in society ; because 
 '| her feelings are so entirely relative and depen- 
 dent, that they can never be wholly, or even 
 half absorbed by that which is confined to her 
 own experience, without reference to that of 
 others. There are unquestionably many 
 exceptions to this rule, but the rule is the 
 same notwithstanding; and I desire to be 
 understood to speak not of women. indivi- 
 dually, but of the essential characteristics 
 of. woman as a genius. Amongst these 
 characteristics, 1 am almost proud to name 
 her personal disinterestedness, shown by 
 the unhesitating promptness with which she 
 devotes herself to watchfulness, labour, and 
 suffering of almost every kind, for, or in lieu 
 of others. In seasons of helplessness, mis- 
 ery, or degradation, who but woman comes 
 forward to support, to console, and to re- 
 claim? From the wearisome disquietudes 
 of puling infancy, to the impatience and 
 decrepitude of old age, it is woman alone 
 that bears with all the trials and vexations 
 which the infirmities of our nature draw 
 down upon those around us. Through the 
 monotony of ceaseless misery, it is woman 
 alone that will listen to the daily murmur- 
 ings of fruitless anxiety, and offer again the 
 cup of consolation after it has been petulantly 
 dashed at her feet. It is woman who with- 
 , draws not her sweet companionship from 
 | that society whose intercourse is in sighs 
 
 and tears. What is it to her that the bril- | 
 liance of wit is now extinguished, the fa- | 
 vourite anecdotes untold, and silent all the 
 flattering enconiums that flow from love and 
 gratitude. It is enough for her that the lips 
 now sealed by grief, the eye now dim with 
 tears, and the heart now tortured with agony, 
 are dear—dearer in their unutterable wo, 
 than the choicest pleasures of the world, did 
 they centre in herself alone. No; woman 
 will not leave the idol of her worship be- 
 cause the multitude have turned away to 
 bow before another shrine, because the 
 wreaths have faded away from the altar, or || 
 because the symbols of religion are no more. 
 She hears the popular outery that her vows 
 are offered to a false deity, but she will not 
 believe, because her faith makes it true. A 
 higher object of devotion is pointed out to 
 her, but she clings to that which her imagi- 
 nation has invested, and still invests, with 
 all the attributes of a celestial being; until 
 at last it falls before her, a hopeless and 
 irrecoverable ruin, and then, after vainly. 
 struggling to hide its degradation, she goes 
 forth into the wilderness alone. 
 
 For the poetry of her character, woman |} 
 is chiefly indebted to her capability of feel- 
 ing, extended beyond the possibility of cal- 
 culation, by her naturally vivid imagination ; 
 yet she unquestionably possesses other men- 
 tal faculties, by no means inconsiderable in 
 the scale of moral and intelligent beings. 
 Those who, depriving woman of her right- | 
 ful title to intellectual capacity, would con- | 
 sign her wholly to the sphere of passion and 
 affection; and those who, on the opposite | 
 side, are perpetually raving about her equal- 
 ity with man, and lamenting over the inferior 
 station in society which she is doomed to 
 fill, are equally prejudiced in. their view of 
 the subject, superficial in their reasoning 
 upon it, and absurd in their conclusions. In 
 her intellectual capacity, 1 am inclined to 
 believe that woman is equal to man, but in her 
 intellectual power she is greatly his inferior ; 
 because, from the succession of unavoidable 
 circumstances which occur to interrupt the 
 train of her thoughts, it is seldom that she is 
 able to concentrate the forces of her mind, 
 and to continue their operations upon one 
 given point, so as to work out any of those 
 splendid results, which ensue from the more 
 
 Slee 
 
a a = es 
 
 eee — 
 
 a wa > 
 
 | 
 
 i 
 
 ES 
 
 THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 
 
 113 
 
 fixed and determinate designs of man. To 
 woman, belong all the miner duties of life, 
 she is therefore incapable of commanding 
 her own time, or even her own thoughts ; 
 in her sphere of action, the trifling events 
 of the moment, involving the principles of 
 good and evil, which instantly strike upon 
 her lively and acute perceptions, become of 
 the utmost importance ; and each of these 
 duties, with its train of relative considera- 
 tions, bearing directly upon the delicate fa- 
 bric of her mind, so organized as to render 
 it liable to the extremes of pain or pleasure, 
 arising out of every occurrence, she is con- 
 sequently unable so to regulate her feelings, 
 as to leave the course of her intellectual 
 pursuits uninterrupted. 
 
 Suppose for instance, a woman is studying 
 Euclid when she hears the ery of her child ; 
 in an instant she plunges into the centre of 
 her domestic cares, and Euclid is forgotten. 
 Suppose another, (for such things have 
 been,) deeply engaged in the dry routine of 
 classic lore, when suddenly the fair student 
 sees something in the eye of her tutor, or 
 hears something in his voice, which puts to 
 flight the Roman legions, and dismisses the 
 Carthaginian queen to weep away her 
 wrongs unpitied and alone. Suppose a 
 woman admitted within the laboratory of a 
 
 — 
 
 chymist, and listening with the mute attention 
 
 of a devotee to his learned dissertations 
 upon his favourite science, when, behold, 
 her watchful eye is fixed upon the care-worn 
 brow and haggard cheek of the philosopher, 
 and she longs to lead him away from his 
 deleterious drugs and essences, into the 
 green fields, or home to the quiet comforts 
 of her own fire-side, where she would rather 
 cherish his old age with warm clothing and 
 generous diet, than ponder upon the scien- 
 tific truths he has been labouring to instil 
 into her mind. Suppose another studying 
 the course of the stars, when by one of those 
 |, involuntary impulses by which thoughts are 
 let into the mind we know not how, the form 
 | of her departed friend rushes back upon her 
 memory, and suddenly, beneath that hea- 
 i venly host, whose sublimity her rapt soul 
 had been almost adoring, she stands alone, 
 
 || a weak and trembling woman; and asks no 
 
 more of the glistening stars, than some faint 
 
 8 
 
 glimmering of hope that she may yet be 
 permitted to shelter herself beneath the 
 canopy of domestic and social love. Sup- 
 pose a woman mentally absorbed in the 
 eventful history of past times, pondering 
 upon the rise and fall of nations, the princi- 
 ples of government, and the march of civ- 
 ilization over the peopled globe ; when sud- 
 denly there is placed in her hand a letter— 
 one of those mute messengers which some- 
 times change in a moment, the whole col- 
 ouring of a woman’s life, not only clothing 
 
 | in shade or sunshine the immediate aspect 
 
 of nature and surrounding things, but the 
 illimitable expanse of her imaginary future. 
 
 A letter to a woman is not a mere casual |! 
 
 thing, to be read like a newspaper. Its 
 arrival is an event of expectancy, of hope, 
 and fear; and often seems to arrest in a 
 moment the natural current of her blood, 
 sending it by a sudden revulsion, to circle in 
 
 a baekward course through all her palpi- 
 
 tating veins. In the instance we have sup- 
 posed, the letter may convey the sad intel- 
 ligence of the sickness of a friend or relative, 
 who requires the immediate attention of a 
 faithful and devoted nurse. The book is 
 closed. The quiet hours of reading, and 
 study, are exchanged for the wearisome 
 day, the watchful night, the soothing of 
 fretfulness, and the ministration of comfort 
 and kind offices ; while the heroes of ancient 
 Greece are forgotten, and the Cesars and 
 the Ptolemies are indiscriminately consigned 
 to an ignominious tomb. 
 
 It is owing to circumstances such as these, 
 daily and even hourly occurring, that women 
 are disqualified for great literary attain- 
 ments; and every impartial judge will 
 freely acknowledge that itis not her want 
 of capacity to understand the fundamental 
 truths of science and philosophy; but her 
 utter inability from circumstance and situa- 
 tion, diligently to pursue the investigation 
 of such truths, and when clearly ascertained, 
 to store up and apply them to the highest 
 intellectual purposes, which constitutes the 
 difference between the mental faculties of 
 woman and those of a nobler sex. 
 
 Nor let the pedant call this a defect in wo- 
 man’s nature ; that alone can be a defect by 
 which anything is hindered from answering 
 
 aoe perenne feiec ion ai aay alpen aise lineees oF <Aiiaieeeeassis—aesaey so Sasa ellie neti einetauensnbunsatieaea 
 
 | 
 
 revelation of her earthly destiny—some | the purpose for which it was designed. | | 
 
114 
 
 Man is appointed to hold the reins of goy- 
 ernment, to make laws, to support systems, 
 to penetrate with patient labour and unde- 
 viating perseverance into the mysteries of 
 science, and to work out the great funda- 
 mental principles of truth. 
 poses he would be ill qualified, were he 
 liable to he diverted from his object by the 
 quickness of his perception of external things, 
 by the ungovernable impulse of his own 
 
 feelings, or by the claims of others upon his | 
 
 | regard or sensibility; but woman’s sphere 
 | being one of feeling rather than of intellect, 
 all her peculiar characteristics are such as 
 essentially qualify her for that station in so- 
 ciety which she is designed to fill, and which 
 she never voluntarily quits without a sacrifice 
 of good taste—I might almost say, of good 
 principle. Weak indeed is the reasoning of 
 those who would render her dissatisfied with 
 this allotment, by persuading her that the 
 station, which it ought to be her pride to or- 
 nament, is one too insignificant or degraded 
 for the fyll exercise of her mental powers. 
 Can that be an unimportant vocation to 
 which peculiarly belong the means of happi- 
 ness and misery? Can that be a degraded 
 || sphere which not only admits of, but re- 
 | quires the full developement of moral feel- 
 ing? Is ita task too trifling for an intellect- 
 ual woman, to watch, and guard, and stimu- 
 late the growth of reason in the infant 
 | mind? Is it a sacrifice too small to practice 
 the art of adaptation to all the different char- 
 acters met with in ordinary life, so as to in- 
 
 tastes ona pursuits ? Is it a duty too easy, 
 faithfully and constantly to hold up an ex- 
 ample of self-government, disinterestedness, 
 
 est good—to be nothing, or anything that is 
 not evil, as the necessities of others may re- 
 quire—to wait with patience—to endure 
 
 soothe by sympathy judiciously applied—to 
 be quick in understanding, prompt in action, 
 and, what is perhaps more difficult than all, 
 
 of perplexity, trial, and temptation, to main- 
 tain the calm dignity ofa pure and elevated 
 character, earthly in nothing but its suffering 
 
 For such pur- | 
 
 fluence, and give a right direction to their | 
 | supply the mind with so many interesting | 
 
 with fortitude—to attract by gentleness—to | 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 time to sacrifice her lover to her love of pow- 
 | * . + 
 er; and those affairs, said to be of the heart, 
 
 _ bewildered travetler; but without the light ' 
 pliabte yet firm in will—-lastly, through a life 
 
 in the seraphic ardour of its love, its faith, 
 and its devotion. 
 
 The same causes which operate against 
 the intelectual attainments of woman, unfit 
 her for arbitrary rule. Queen Elizabeth, 
 one of the most distinguished of female sove- 
 reigns, was womanly in nothing but her 
 vanity and artifice. She was ready at any 
 
 which rendered her despicable in old age 
 were nothing better than flirtations founded 
 upon personal adulation, selfishness, and 
 caprice. But deficient in the nobler charac- 
 teristics of generous feeling, in enthusiasm, 
 and devotedness, she was the better qualified 
 to maintain her regal dignity, and to pursue 
 those deep-laid scuemes of policy and ambi- 
 tion which raised her to a level with the 
 greatest potentates of Europe; while her 
 ill-starred rival, Mary of Scotland, a “ very, 
 very woman!” who, with the richest en- 
 dowments of head and heart, might, as a 
 wile, have proved a blessing to any man who 
 had the good feeling to appreciate her 
 worth, raised to the throne, became the bane 
 of her empire; and as a queen, was eventu- | 
 ally the most unfortunate that ever let in 
 misrule and rebellion upon her state, or 
 brought down disgrace and destruction up- 
 on herselt: 
 
 It is only in her proper and natural sphere, 
 that woman is poetical. Self-supported, as 
 a sovereign or a save, she 
 loveliest attributes. 
 alone, firmly, and without support, can never j, 
 
 and poetical associations, as that which has | 
 
 | a relative existe:ce and is linked in with the 
 and zeal for that which constitutes our bigh- | 
 
 chain of creation by the sympathies or neces- II 
 sities of its own nature. A single barren | 
 hill, in the midst of a desert, without sun- |! 
 shine, without shade, without verdure, or i 
 any perceptible variety in its surface, would |, 
 afford little to interest the feelings of the | 
 
 | 
 
 i 
 
 poet. It might serve as a landmark to the | 
 of the sun, or the shadow of intervening 
 
 — 
 
 clouds upon its summit, without the gar- 
 ment of verdure, or the varieties of beetling a 
 
 rock, and precipice, and deep ravine around 
 
 and weakness; refined almost to sublimity | its sloping sides; and above all, without its 
 
 | 
 
 wants all her |/ 
 That which stands | 
 
THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 
 
 “mighty shadow in a weary land,” it could 
 not be an object upon which the eye would 
 linger with delight, or the excursive faculty 
 of imagination find food and exercise. ‘The 
 lightest bird that plumes its wing upon the 
 leafy bough, or, “tuning its native wood 
 notes wild,” soars up to the clear expanse 
 of heaven’s ethereal blue; the frailest plant 
 twining its parasitical arms around the sup- 
 porting stem, lavishing its prodigal sweets 
 upon the morning air, or scattering its faded 
 leaves upon the gales of the wilderness ; 
 the faintest cloud that sails before the face 
 of the moon, basking for a moment in her 
 vestal smile, wearing her silver livery, and 
 then wreathing her forehead in fantastic 
 folds of mist and vapour before it floats 
 away, formless, and void, into the dark 
 abyss of unfathomable night, are objects in 
 themselves, in their attributes, relations, 
 and associations, infinitely more poetical 
 than the single mountain: and it is precisely 
 upon the same principle, that woman with 
 her boundless sympathies, her weakness, 
 her frailty, her quick perceptions, her inex- 
 haustible energies, in all that constitutes 
 the very essence of her character, is more 
 poetical than man. 
 
 Yet notwithstanding all this, in the art 
 of writing poetry, women prove themselves 
 
 decidedly inferior to the other sex; for the. 
 
 same causes which retard their progress in 
 the more laborious walks of science, are 
 equally forcible here. Beyond a very limited 
 extent woman is incapable of concentrated, 
 fixed, and persevering attention. We have 
 many instances that she can, as it were out 
 of the momentary fulness of her own heart, 
 * discourse most eloquent music,” but she is 
 unequal to any of those lasting productions 
 of poetic genius, which continue from age to 
 age to delight the world. Iam unwilling 
 however even in this instance to attribute to 
 her mental inferiority, what appears to me 
 as more probably owing to the uncontrolled 
 influence of her imagination, the faculty 
 most essential to the poet, which women 
 possess in so great a degree, that its very 
 exuberance of growth prevents the ripening 
 of those rich fruits of which its profusion of 
 early blossom gives deceitful promise. The 
 imagination of woman may be compared to 
 
 la quick growing plant, which shoots out so 
 
 many slender twigs and tendrils, that the 
 main stem is weakened, and the whole plant 
 unable to raise itsellfrom the earth, continues 
 to bud and blossom, and send forth innu- 
 merable shoots which altogether form a 
 
 beautiful group of flowers and verdure, but. 
 nothing more; while the imagination of. 
 man resembles a stately tree, whose firm’ 
 
 and continuous stem, exactly’ proportioued 
 
 to the support and nourishment of the nu- 
 
 merous branches in their subordinate place 
 completes the majesty, the utility, and the 
 beauty of the whole. The imagination of 
 woman is sufficiently vivid and, excursive to 
 iake in the widest range of poetical sublimity, 
 but unfortunately it meets with so many in- 
 terruptions in that range, and deviates so 
 often from its proper object to waste itself 
 upon others of minor imporiance, that it sel- 
 dom attains any laudable end, or accom- 
 plishes any lasting purpose. 
 
 It is impossible for those who have merely 
 studied the nature of woman’s mind, to com- 
 prehend the rapidity of her. thoughts, and 
 the versatility of her feelings. ‘Touch but 
 one sensitive chord, and her imagiration 
 takes flight upon the wings of the butterfly 
 over the garden of earth, up into mid air. 
 beyond the lark, that sweetest intelligencer 
 of sublunary joy, higher, still higher, 
 through illimitable space, ascending to the 
 regions of peace and glory, and passing 
 through the everlasting gates into the com- 
 munion of sainis, and blessed spirits, whose 
 feet “sandalled with immortality,” trace the 
 green margin of the river of eternal life. 
 
 Would that the imagination of woman 
 had always this upward tendency, but, 
 alas! it is not satisfied even with the frui- 
 tion of happiness; it cannot rest even in the 
 bosom of repose ; it is not sufficiently re- 
 freshed, even by that stream whose waters 
 make glad the celestial city. The light of 
 some loved countenance perchance is want- 
 ing there, and the spirit, late soaring on de- 
 lighted wing, now plunges downward 
 amongst the grosser elements of earth, 
 while lured on by the irresistible power of 
 sympathy, it chooses rather to follow the 
 erring or the lost through all the mazy 
 windings of sin and sorrow, than to rise 
 companionless to glory. 
 
 With such an imagination, startled, ex- 
 
 i 
 a TT Tete ET I 
 
| than anxious to investigate. 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 cited. and diverted from its object, not only 
 by every sight or sound in earth or air, but 
 by every impulse of the affections and the 
 will, it is impossible that woman in her in- 
 tellectual attainments should ever equal man, 
 nor is it necessary for her usefulness, her 
 happiness, or the perfection of her charac- 
 ter, that she should. As she is circum- 
 stanced in the world, it is one of her great- 
 est charms, that she is willing to trust rather 
 While she 
 does this she will be feminine, and while she 
 is feminine she must be poetical. 
 
 The power of adaptation is another qua- 
 lity, which, next to imagination, is strikingly 
 conspicuous in woman, and without which 
 she would lose half her loveliness, and half 
 her value. There is no possible event in 
 human life which she is unable, not only to 
 understand, but to understand feelingly ; 
 and no imaginable character, except the 
 cross or the vile, with which she cannot im- 
 mediately identify herself. 
 
 it is considered a mere duty, too common 
 for observation, and too necessary for 
 
 rows to smile with the gay, or lays aside 
 her own secret joys to weep with the sad. 
 | But let lordly man make the experiment for 
 
 | one half hour, and he will then be better ac- 
 
 quainted with this system of self-sacrifice, 
 which woman in every station of society, 
 from the palace to the cottage, maintaiis 
 through the whole of her life, with little 
 commendation, and with no reward, except 
 that which is attached to every effort of dis- 
 interested virtue. It is thought much of, 
 and biazoned forth to the world, when the 
 
 || Victim at the stake betrays no sign of pain ; 
 
 but does it evince less fortitude for the vic- 
 tim of corroding care to give no outward 
 evidence of the anguish of a writhing soul ? 
 —to go forth arrayed in smiles, when burn- 
 ing ashes are upon the heart ?—to meet, as 
 a woman can meet, with a never-failing 
 welcome the very cause of all her suffering ? 
 —and to woo back with the sweetness of 
 her unchangeable love, him who knows 
 neither constancy nor truth ? 
 
 It is unquestionably the exercise of this 
 faculty of adaptation, which attaches to wo- 
 
 has no power to command, therefore to at- 
 
 praise, when a woman forgets her own sor- } 
 
 tain her purpose she can only win; and in 
 order to win, she must in some measure 
 adapt herself to the feelings of those who: 
 hold the object of her wishes in their keep- 
 ing. But for one instance in which this is || 
 done to serve a selfish purpose, we might || 
 count a thousand where it is done for pure || 
 sympathy and love, and tens of thousands 
 where she submits to the disappointment of 
 her dearest hopes, without attempting, even 
 in this humble manner, to obtain what she 
 desires. 
 
 Women can not only adapt themselves to 
 the habits and peculiarities of others, but 
 they can actually feel with them—enter into | 
 their very being and penetrate the deep re- 
 cesses of their souls. ‘Thus they are no less | 
 interesting in themselves, than really interest- 
 ed in what they hear and see. Insociety they 
 have the character of being diligent talkers, 
 but are they not good listeners also? And 
 where they do not actually listen, they can 
 pretend to do so, which answers the purpose 
 of the speaker just as well. A truly ayvree- 
 able woman knows how to give a quick and 
 delicate turn to conversation, so as to avoid 
 an unpleasant dilemma or produce a pleas- 
 ing eflect; she knows how, and to whor, 
 to address her good things, and never wastes 
 them upon the wrong person; she discovers | 
 the secret bias of the character, and benis 
 the same way, or Opposes so gently, that 
 resistance becomes an agreeable amuse- 
 tent; she reads the eye, and discourses 
 eloquently in the language of the heart; 
 and she allows herself caprice enough to 
 ruffle the monotony of life, but not sufficient 
 to create tumult or confusion. Without 
 diving so deep as to be lost, she glides over 
 the surface of things and makes herself ac- 
 quainted with their nature, and their impor- 
 tance in the aggregate of lile. She can 
 enter into the different elements of hu- 
 man nature, and assuming every variety of 
 form of which it is capable, can endure 
 every change of time, and place, and cir- 
 cumstance, and, what is most wonderful, 
 retain her own identity in each. All this 
 she can do with little of the “borrowed aid 
 of ornament.” The charm is within herself, 
 and like the great enchantress of the Nile, 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 : pa it 
 
 a ee ep ee ee 
 
 man’s character the stigma of artifice. She | she imparts it to everything around her. 
 
 For want of the power which is in nature, 
 
 . 
 
eo 
 
 ee 
 
 our writers of romance are compelled to 
 } make all their heroines beautiful—to place 
 them upon thrones, or beds of violets—to 
 -spangle them over with pearls, and blanche 
 them to the whiteness of snow—to wreath 
 them with roses, and scatter flowers beneath 
 their feet—to endow them with all languages, 
 and all gifts of music and eloquence, pour- 
 ing forth the wisdom of the sage from the 
 lips of the cherub. But it is not so in com- 
 mon life; there is a witchery in nature 
 which it is impossible for art to attain, anda 
 truly charming woman clad in russet weeds, 
 may darn her husband’s stockings and be 
 ‘| charming still. 
 
 Yet after all, it is not by the examination 
 of any particular talent, faculty, or endow- 
 ment, that we become acquainted with the 
 true poetry of woman’s character; for such 
 is her liability to be affected by every change 
 of circumstance, and such her capacity for 
 receiving pain and pleasure, that we must 
 always speak of her in reference to her 
 state of feeling, rather than her capability 
 of mind. Her thoughts for the most part, 
 are combinations of indistinct ideas, which 
 | flow together in.a tide too rapid, too impetu- 
 | ous, and too generally directed by her affec- 
 tions, to admit of the strict government of 
 | right reason. She beholds not only the 
 | presentand the palpable, but the contrast, and 
 | the similitude ofeverything around her. The 
 | past and the future are spread before her 
 like pictures, whose colouring varies with 
 | the tone and temper of her own mind. In 
 one moment, the vivid glow of happiness is 
 diffused over the scene, and in the next, the 
 sombre shadow of despair. Exulting in the 
 acquisition of some unexpected joy, what a 
 glad free spirit is that of woman, soaring 
 without bound or limitation, far beyond the 
 reach of fear, and spurning at the appre- 
 hension of future pain—under the pressure 
 of atfliction, how sad, how low, how utterly 
 cast down! Bursting forth upon the wings 
 of hope, the soul of woman knows no im- 
 pediment. Impossibility is no barrier to its 
 course. It sees that which is without form, 
 hears voices in the depth of silence, and lays 
 hold of things which have no tangible exis- 
 tence. 
 
 All this may be called absurd, and so it 
 would be, if the allusions of the mind were 
 
 THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 
 
 ‘her affection could retain the character with 
 
 117 
 
 not permitted to lift us occasionally above 
 the grossness and heaviness of life. Without 
 this mysterious power to create food for its 
 own felicity, the mind of woman would sink 
 beneath its burdens, and in tead of a bright, 
 vivacious being, ever the iirst to welcome 
 sunshine—the last to yield to gloom, woman 
 would be alike wearisome as a companion, 
 feeble as a helpmate, and impotent ag a 
 comforter. All this would be absurd too, if 
 the sphere of woman were the same as that 
 of man; but as a woman I am well con- 
 vinced that those peculiarities for which she 
 is too frequently ridiculea and despised, 
 arise either from the excess or the abuse of 
 natural qualities, which under proper disci- 
 pline, might have been made conducive to 
 her own, and other’s happiness. 
 
 The want of stability, consistency and 
 depth, is perceptible only in woman’s intel- 
 lectual pursuits. In all that belongs to her 
 affections, and her social duties, she is 
 faithful, sincere, and firm. It is true, she is 
 called fickle, but as has been remarked hy 
 an amiable and talented writer, “ her incon- 
 sistency is of the head rather than of the | 
 heart.”* Believing what she hopes, she 
 takes her friends upon trust, and loving 
 rashly, must necessarily be often deceived ; 
 but it does not follow that if the object of 
 
 which her own fancy invested it, she would 
 not still love with the same constancy, and 
 “love for ever.” : 
 From the varied and fluctuating nature | 
 of woman’s feelings, as well as from their 
 power, their expansion, and their depth, it is 
 impossible to say individually what she is, 
 or what she might be, because the ordinary 
 routine of life, particularly of polished life, 
 admits of little development of the passions 
 and affections. It is only in cases of trial || 
 that she proves herself, and therefore all | 
 writers who have drawn from nature, in | 
 attempting to delineate the character of || 
 woman, have done it by a few impressive |! 
 strokes, rather than by general description. | 
 Amongst numerous instances of this kind | 
 abounding in the works of Shakspeare, I 
 shall point out one which bears most strik- | 
 
 * Mrs. Sandford, anthor of “ Woman in her Social and 
 Domestic Character.”’ 
 
118 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 | 
 
 ingly the impress of a master hand. It is 
 the last speech of Desdemona in the horrible 
 scene of her murder. ASmilia, her attend- 
 ant, hears her dying voice, and, beginning 
 to suspect there has been foul play, ex- 
 claims, 
 
 ‘« QO, who hath done 
 This deed 7” 
 
 “Nobody; I myself; farewell: 
 Commend me to my kind lord; O, farewell!” 
 
 is answered by the wretched victim. Who 
 can read these lines without acknowledging 
 the writer’s profound and intimate acquaint- 
 ance with the heart of woman? First, Des- 
 demona answers “ Nobody,” from the impulse 
 of a sudden desire to clear her hushand 
 from suspicion ; but immediately recollecting 
 that this will not be sufficient, she adds, “J 
 myself ;” and. then to complete the whole— 
 to give the climax to her faithfulness and 
 devotion, she continues, “Commend me to 
 my kind lord”—to that very lord whose 
 hand was just unloosed from its fatal hold, 
 and who stood beside her neither penitent 
 nor triumphant, but literally stupified with 
 the magnitude and the horror of the deed 
 which yet he had not the power to behold 
 as a crime. 
 
 Another instance of a gentler and more 
 pleasing character, occurs in Wallenstein, 
 as translated by Coleridge, where the prin- 
 cess, after the death of Max, claims the 
 tenderest office of friendship from her faith- 
 ful companion. 
 
 THEKLA. 
 
 “ Now gentle Newbrun, show me the affection 
 \Which thou has ever promised ; prove thyself 
 My own true friend and fellow-pilgrim. 
 
 This night we must away. 
 
 NEWBRUN. 
 
 6 Away! and whither? 
 THEKLA. 
 
 “Whither! There is but one place in the world. - 
 Thiiher where he lies buried !” 
 
 In these few words we see the magnitude 
 of woman’s love, and the absorbing nature of 
 her grief. Herself and the whole universe 
 sink into nothing in comparison with that 
 single point of space. She is surprised that 
 her friend should ask “ whither,” and almost 
 
 SEY I SULT SEES ROTTS IEE 
 
 there is now “but one place in the world.” 
 Lord Byron has in many instances proved 
 both his talent and his taste, by giving us 
 the true poetry of woman’s character in a 
 few touching words. I shall select one re- 
 markable for its simplicity and pathos. It 
 occurs in Cain, after the perpetration of the 
 first murder, where the fratricide has re- 
 ceived the malediction of one parent, and 
 been driven out by the other. Adah, whose 
 character is beautifully and justly drawn 
 throughout, remains with him after the others 
 have departed, and addresses him in these © 
 words :— 
 
 | 
 reproaches her for not remembering that | 
 | 
 
 ADAH. 
 
 “Cain! thou hast heard we must go forth. Iam ready, 
 So shall our children be. _ I will bear Enoch, 
 And thou his sister. Tre the sun declines 
 Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
 Under the cloud of night,—Nay, speak to me, 
 To me—thine own. 
 
 Cain. 
 
 ‘Leave me! 
 ADAH. 
 
 “ Why all have left thee. 
 CAIN. 
 
 1 * F 
 “ And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not fear 
 To dwell with one who hath done this? 
 ADAH. 
 
 “T fear 
 Nothing except to Jeave thee, much as 1 
 Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
 I must not speak of this, zt ts between thee 
 And the great God.” 
 
 There can be no stronger bond to a firm 
 and faithful woman, than that “all have lefi” 
 the object of her love. Adah feels this, and 
 offers no other reason. Besides which she 
 utters no reproach; enough has already 
 been said, and like a pure spirit descending 
 upon earth for purposes of love and mercy, 
 she stoops with her husband beneath his 
 degradation, and though confessedly shrink- 
 ing from the fatal deed, meekly and reveren- 
 tially places it solely between him “and the 
 great God.” ; 
 
 In order to define with greater precision || 
 what it is that constitutes the poetry of wo- || 
 man’s character, we must enter yet more |: 
 closely into her individual feelings, and for || 
 this purpose it is necessary to trace her ex- | 
 perience through the different stages of ex- 
 
A te SS ee 5S Se tract Lie a aoe Per 
 
 | THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 
 
 istence, in which we behold her asa girl, 
 a maiden, a wife, a mother, and an old wo- 
 man. . 
 
 It is difficult to say which is least impor- 
 tantin the scale of human beings—a little girl 
 or anold woman; but certainly the former in- 
 spires us with a kind of tenderness, which is 
 rarely, too rarely, bestowed upon the latter. 
 So long as the sphere of her childish enjoy- 
 ments is unassailed by affliction, especially 
 by that heaviest of all domestic calamities, 
 the loss of a kind and judicious mother, the 
 existence of a young girl is happy as it is 
 innocent. With her, day after day dances 
 on in the perpetual sunshine of domestic 
 love, and night only comes to remind her of 
 the shelter of the maternal wing. Directed 
 by the impulse of her feelings towards those 
 duties which are to be her portion in after 
 life, she tends her flowers, cherishes her pet 
 lamb, or nurses the wounded bird; and true 
 to the dictates of nature, devotes her feeble 
 strength, her earnest thoughts, and her ar- 
 dent wishes to the happiness of others. If 
 from the mal-administration of domestic dis- 
 cipline she should become selfish, her sole 
 gratification continues to be derived from 
 surrounding things, and she never seeks it 
 in the centre of her own bcsom, but remains 
 dependent still. It may be, that she is some- 
 times unreasonable in requiring more than 
 she bestows, but the perfect abandonment 
 with which she throws herself upon the good 
 will and generosity of others, ought at least 
 to claim their protection, if it fails to ensure 
 their esteem. 
 
 But let us suppose any of the dark visita- 
 tions of sin and sorrow to fall upon the do- 
 mestic scene. It is then that the rosy girl is 
 called in from her play, to watch and wait, 
 to bear the harsh rebuke, to know the inno- 
 cent wish denied, to sympathize with the un- 
 told grief, to cultivate a premature acquaint- 
 ance with the outward signs of inward wo, 
 and to feel what it is to have the cherub 
 wingsof childhood burdened with the cares of 
 age. Perhaps the maternal voice is hushed, 
 and the hand that used to smooth her 
 nightly pillow cold in the grave. Who then 
 is left to pity the little mourner, as silently, 
 and unobserved, she passes on through life, 
 seeking for what the whole world is too poor 
 to bestow—a second mother ? 
 
 agreeable to others, purely because it is 
 
 a erent 
 
 Lig 
 
 Time passes, and the impulse of affection 
 mingles with the dawn of reason. Her in- 
 tellects are limited to the regular routine of 
 education, while her passions are left free: 
 and thus her feelings become matured, while 
 her talents remain in the bondage of infan- 
 cy. Ifthe page of history is held up before 
 her, she sees it not as it is, but in the vivid 
 colouring of her ownimagination. She will 
 not learn the truth, because it accords not 
 with her aspiring hopes, and ardent wishes, 
 which have already taken precedence of her 
 knowledge. She cannotlisten to the lore of 
 past ages, because she is busy combating 
 present disappointments, and just beginning 
 to feel that her eflorts are in vain; for the 
 voice of experience, louder that that of in- 
 struction, rises above the light carolling of 
 joy, and will be heard. Her buoyant spirit 
 repelled, as easily as it is attracted, mounts 
 in exultation, or sinks in despair, and occu- 
 pies with its alternations of | ain and pleasure, 
 those hours which ought to be devoted to 
 the cultivation of the intellectual powers. 
 Thrown by her natural dependence upon the 
 esteem and affection of those around lier, 
 woman learns to regard the smile of appro- 
 bation as the charmed spell by which the 
 gates of happiness are opened; and to look 
 for the frown of contempt as the signal of her 
 darkest doom. Trembling between these 
 two extremes, there can be no wonder that 
 she should study every means to attain the 
 one, and avoid the other: and this is what 
 the world calls vanity ; while it is in fact an 
 ardent, and in some measure a laudabie de- 
 sire to do, and to be, tliat which is most 
 
 a RA RE EPEC PP ALIEDL LAIN ILD ETE DEE 
 : — s 
 
 gratifying, not to herself but to them; and 
 an involuntary shrinking from ail which can 
 repel, disgust, or in any way offend, because 
 to be the source of dissatisfaction, to give 
 pain, or to excite uneasiness, is most*abhor- 
 rent to the natural delicacy and generosity 
 of her own mind. 
 
 It is on the verge of womanhood that we 
 see the female character in its greatest va- 
 riety and beauty; while the rich colouring 
 of fresh-born fancy, the warm gush of gen- 
 uine feeling, and the high aspirations of 
 ambitious youth, are yet unsubdued by the 
 tyranny of custom, or forced back into the 
 bursting heart by the cold hand of expe- 
 
 nn re {Se aL Rage ot ee 
 a SOE SRST A LEI CLO LITLE IOS LO TAIT LS NE LEAL aS ee 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 "first creation is still lingering around her, 
 
 ‘beauty, her tenderness, and her liability to 
 ' danger and suffering, is all that the poet can 
 desire to inspire his happiest lays. 
 
 | Itisin this stage of her existence, while 
 
 i 
 j 
 
 | blended with the melancholy symbols of her | 
 ‘fall,-in her character and attributes, her 
 
 H 
 
 rience. Woman, fresh as it were from the | them, and therefore they can no longer re- 
 garden of Eden, while the loveliness of her pay us for the expenditure of time, and | 
 
 thought, and affection, which in their origi- 
 nal ardour they required. We have other 
 objects in pursuit, different aims, and hopes, 
 and wishes. We have become more con- 
 centrated in our feelings, and therefore have 
 less disposition to give out the love that once | 
 flowed in a tide too rapid and impetuous to | 
 
 | love, her most insidious enemy, folding his | be restrained. But let us pause, and ask, 
 
 | rosy wings, lies shrouded at the bottom of 
 | her heart, ready to rush forth on his impe- 
 {i tuous flight towards the highest point of 
 | happiness, or the lowest depth of wo, that 
 ;, woman lays hold of friendship as her great- 
 
 ‘| est solace and support. Her mind is agi- 
 tated with a world of indefinite thoughts 
 
 and feelings which she is unable to commu- 
 
 nicate, because she does not understand 
 
 them. While they are confined within her 
 
 own bosom, she feels like one burdened with ; 
 
 an immense and incalculable load, and 
 therefore, she seeks the society of those, 
 whose sympathy, arising from a similarity 
 of feeling, supplies the want of a common 
 medium of communication. Ardently de- 
 siring to find in her friend all those qualities 
 which she most admires, and prone by na- 
 ture to believe whatever she desires, she 
 pauses not to enquire whether the choice 
 |she makes is not rather the result of her 
 own necessities, than a tribute justly paid to 
 virtue; and thus the two friends similarly 
 circumstanced, and mutually in need of each 
 | other, trust most implicitly to the strength and 
 durability of their attachment: and happy isit 
 for those to whom experience does not teach 
 the emptiness of what the world calls friend- 
 ship. Ido notsay the worthlessness, because 
 that cannot be worthless, which supplies us 
 || with enjoyment for the present, and wisdom 
 || for the fature. 
 
 Nor let the world be quarrelled with be- 
 cause its friendships do not always last. 
 Formed out of the warm feelings of youth— 
 feelings which it would be impossikle to 
 carry on with us through life, it is but rea- 
 sonable that we should lose our friendships 
 as we journey onwards, or that retaining 
 them, their character and mode of exhibition 
 should be wholly changed; because we 
 cease in some measure to feel the want of 
 
 have we found anything to compare in the 
 genuine and heartfelt happiness it affords, 
 with the social hours of unguarded confi- 
 dence—the truth—the tears—the affections 
 which belonged to the friendships of our 
 early youth ? 
 
 I] am far from from asserting that we may 
 not have friends—true and zealous friends. 
 —friends who would protect our reputation 
 as their own, through every stage of life; 
 but they are for the most part such, as hav- 
 ing lost their enthusiasm, are become keenly 
 observant of our faults, and strict to correct 
 them, rather than tender and faithful confi- 
 ders in our virtue: such as, wearied with 
 our peculiarities, vainly endeavour to make 
 us submit to the common rule, and finding 
 their endeavours ineffectual, grown nig- 
 gardly in their charitable allowance for our 
 deviations; not such as looked kindly on our 
 foibles, because they made a part of us, and 
 felt if we were better, that they could not 
 love us more: such as freely enter into our |! 
 views and feelings, when in full accordance 
 with their own éstablished notions of what is 
 praiseworthy and prudent; not such as are 
 the last to step forward and tell us we have 
 been in error, purely because they would be 
 the last to give us pain. Such friends as 
 these we should do wisely to keep along 
 with us even to the end of life—they are “in 
 fact the only true friends, because they are 
 true to our best interests: but, oh! they are 
 not like the friends who loved us in our 
 early youth ! 
 
 T'o return to woman in her girlish days. 
 How beautifully has our own fair poetess, 
 whose lays, mournful as they are musical, 
 remind us of the fabled melody of the dying 
 swan, described the particular yearning of 
 the heart with which the experienced ob- 
 server regards the tender years of woman. 
 
ee ee ee eee 
 
 ————— 
 
 * Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep, 
 Aud patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour, 
 Aud suiless riches, from aifection’s deep, 
 To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower ! 
 And to mike idols, and to fiud them clay, 
 Aud to bewail that worship—therefore pray ! 
 
 “ Tfer lot is on you !—to be found antir’d, 
 Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 
 With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspind 
 With a true heart of hope, though hope be vain! 
 Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 
 Aud, Oli! to love through all things —therefore pray !” 
 
 Trace her experience to the next stage of 
 her existence, and woman is more poetical 
 still; because so long as her youth and 
 beauty inspire admiration—so long as there 
 is any thing to be gained by her favour, she 
 is subjected to the deceitful flatteries of 
 man, whom she is naturally desirous to 
 please, not only as her superior, guide, and 
 friend, but as he holds the reins of govern- 
 ment, and can therefore deprive her of all 
 or most of her pleasures. Asa girl, she 
 was deceived only by her own heart, she is 
 now deceived by the general aspect of so- 
 ciety. Way is made for her to walk forth 
 as a queen, and when suppliants bow before 
 her, no wonder that they should assume the 
 dignity of one, and learn to love the scep- 
 tre placed for a moment of mockery in her 
 feeble hand. Trusting and sincere herself, 
 she dreams not of falsehood, and when told 
 
 that she is beautiful, she lookgin the mirror 
 and believes it true. Finding that beauty 
 is the only sure title to the admiration of 
 that sex, which it is her wish and her inter- 
 est to please, she vaiues her personal 
 charms as her richest dower; and if she 
 smiles not frora the fullness of a glad heart, 
 but because smiles are lovely, frowns to pro- 
 {| duce effect, or sighs to excite a momentary 
 | interest, it is because she has learned in her 
 intercourse with society that she must be 
 personally lovely to be heloved, and person- 
 ally interesting to avoid contempt. © 
 4| When we think oi the falsehood practised 
 towards women, at that season of life when 
 their minds are most capable of receiving 
 impressions, and when their intellectual 
 / powers, just arriving at maturity, are most 
 | liable to serious and important bias, we can 
 | only wonder that there should be any sub- 
 stantial virtue found amongst them. Butas 
 
 THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 
 
 121 
 
 awake, so there comes to almost all women, 
 atime when their eyes are opened to the 
 truth—when their beauty charms not, and 
 their step is heard without a welcome— 
 when they tune the harp without an au- 
 dience, and speak unanswered—when they 
 smile without imparting happiness, and 
 frown without exciting alarm—when others 
 step forward to receive the adulation once 
 offered to them, while they are thrust down 
 from their imaginary thrones, by the very 
 hands which supported them in their ascent. 
 Compelled to descend, though sometimes 
 gradually, from the state of ideal exaltation 
 to which she has been raised, woman— 
 weak woman, catches at every slender hold 
 that may break her fall. To the last voice 
 that speaks flatteringly, she listens with an 
 avidity which subjects her to the ridicule of 
 the world; while to the last kind hand that 
 is held out to her, she clings with a despair- 
 ing energy, an ardent gratitude, which per- 
 mit her not to perceive its unworthiness. 
 Hence follow the absurdities for which she 
 is more blamed than pitied, and the rash 
 sacrifice of herself, for which she meets 
 with little merey from the world. But the 
 censor of woman should be a woman her- 
 self, to know what it is to have lived in that 
 vortex of-falsehood, flattery, and dissipation, 
 which surrounds a young and beautiful fe- 
 male; and then to pass away into the sullen 
 calm of neglect—to have basked in the 
 warm and genial atmosphere of real or pre- 
 tended affection; and then to “bide the 
 pelting of the pitiless storm,” with which 
 envy never fails to assail her whose capa- 
 bility of loving has outlived her charms—to 
 have listened to the voice of adulation, 
 breathing her praises like a perpetual con- 
 cert all around her; and then to hear no- 
 thing but the cold dull language of truth, 
 exaggerated into harshness, or sharpened 
 into reproof—to have lived a charmed life, 
 under the fascination of man’s love, in the 
 very centre of all that constitutes ideal happi- 
 ness, ministered to on every hand, and feed- 
 ing, like the butterfly, upon the flowers of 
 life, without a wish ungratified, a thought 
 untold, or a tear unpitied; and then upon 
 the world’s bleak desert to stand alone! I 
 
 there is a time to sleep, and a time to | repeat, that the censor of woman should be 
 
 _ 
 SS a a I a Te a ae Ee ESTOS SS ay 
 
i 
 
 | 
 
 I = an Se aE al a a A ea LR SE NS RD ET 
 
 oS OO  ~-—-—- Oo rarer SS 
 
 122 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 a woman herself—a woman who has been 
 admired, and then neglected. 
 
 We have here spoken only of women 
 whose personal charms recommend them to 
 general admiration, because it is of these 
 alone that the poet delights to sing; yet 
 such is the influence of personal admiration 
 in checking the growth of moral and intel- 
 lectual beauty, and engendering selfishness 
 and vanity, that we are inclined to believe 
 the deep pathos of the feminine heart is to 
 be found in the greatest perfection concealed 
 behind the countenance that has seldom at- 
 tracted the public gaze. It is in such hearts, 
 whose best offerings are rarely estimated 
 according to their real value, that disinter- 
 ested affection, in all its natural warmth, 
 lives and burns for the benefit of the suffer- 
 ing or the beloved; that enthusiasm and 
 zeal, tempered down by humility, are ever 
 ready for the performance of the arduous 
 duties of life; and that ambition, if it exists 
 at all, is directed to the attainment and dif- 
 fusion of more lasting happiness than mere 
 beauty can afford. 
 
 In the capacity of a wife we next observe 
 the character of woman, and it is here, if 
 ever, that she learns the truth—learns what 
 is in her own heart, and what are her duties 
 to nerself and others. Not that she learns 
 all this through the gentle instrumentality 
 of affection, but by the moral process of ex- 
 perience, which if less congenial to her taste, 
 is more forcible in its convictions, and more 
 lasting in its effects. In assuming this new 
 title, woman is generally removed to a new, 
 and often to a distant sphere, where she has 
 to take her stand in society upon common 
 ground. None within the circle to which 
 she is at once admitted, know precisely 
 what she has been, and therefore every eye 
 is open to see what she is. All the little 
 caprices, and peculiarities, nurtured up 
 with her bodily growth in the bosom of her 
 own family, not only forgiven there, but in- 
 dulged from the fond consideration that “ it 
 was always her way,” or, “that she was 
 always thus,” now stand forth for the full 
 discussion, and impartial inspection of the 
 many, who, seeing no just reason why such 
 should have been her way, and no plausible 
 pretext for her being always thus, soon con- 
 trive means to convince her, if not: by per- 
 
 rr nce 
 
 sonal information, by the unanimous opinion 
 of society, that the more entirely she lays 
 aside such peculiarities of character, the 
 more she will be respected and valued. Nor 
 is this all. She has perhaps a stronger 
 corrective within her own household. Her 
 husband begins to see with the eyes of the 
 world. His vision no longer dazzled by her 
 beauty, or his judgment cheated by her 
 caresses, he involuntarily, and often without 
 sufficient delicacy, points out faults which 
 he neither saw, nor believed her capable of 
 possessing before. “Why did I marry 2?” 
 is the question which every woman, not 
 previously disciplined, asks of herself under 
 such circumstances, “ why did I marry, if 
 not to be loved and cherished as I was in 
 my father’s house?” Such are her words, 
 for she has not yet learned to understand 
 her own heart ; but she means in fact, “ why 
 did I marry, if not to be flattered and ad- 
 mired as in the days of courtship, when the 
 competition for my favour excited unremit- 
 ting assiduity in all who sought to win it, 
 and who, because they knew my vanity and 
 
 weakness, sought to win it by these means 
 
 alone?” The answer is an obvious one— 
 because it is not good for us to go deluded 
 to our graves, and therefore merciful means 
 have been designed, as various as appro- 
 priate to compel us to open our reluctant 
 eyes upon the truth; and woman as a wife, 
 does open her eyes at last, from the dream 
 in which her senses have been lulled, while 
 with the tide of conviction, as it rushes in 
 
 upon hernewly-awakened mind, come serious. 
 
 thoughts, and earnest calculations, and 
 
 deeper anxieties; with higher hopes, and 
 
 nobler aims, and better regulated affections 
 to counterbalance them. 
 
 As a mother we next behold woman in 
 her holiest character—as the nurse of inno- 
 cence—as the cherisher of the first principles 
 of mind—as the guardian of an immortal 
 being who will write upon the records of 
 eternity how faithfully she has fulfilled her 
 trust. And let it be observed that, in as- 
 suming this new and important office, she 
 does not necessarily lose any of the/charms 
 which have beautified her character before. 
 She can still be tender, lovely, delicate, re- 
 fined, and cheerful, as when a girl; devoted 
 to the happiness of those around her, affec-: 
 
—— a 
 
 THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 
 
 Besar 
 
 tionate, judicious, dignified, and intellectual, 
 as when a wife only; while this new love, 
 deep as the very wells of life, mingles with 
 the current of her thoughts and feelings, 
 giving warmth and intensity to all, without 
 impairing the force or the purity of any. 
 Yet while her attributes remain the same, 
 her being is absorbed in the existence of her 
 child. Now more than ever she forgets 
 herself, deeming nothing impossible which 
 has reference to her own devotedness, and 
 its good—computing neither time, nor space, 
 nor capability in the single consideration of 
 its happiness—regarding neither labour, 
 watching, nor weariness, as worthy of a 
 thought in comparison with its lightest 
 slumber, or its minutest pain. 
 
 If the lave of a mother be considered as 
 an instinet which pervades all animated na- 
 ture, it is not the less beautiful when exhi- 
 bited in the human character, for being dif- 
 fused throughout creation ; because it proves 
 that the Author of our being, knew that the 
 distinetive attributes of humanity would be 
 insufficient to support the mother through her 
 anxieties, vexations and cares. He knew 
 that reason would be making distinctions 
 between the worthy and the unworthy, and 
 prematurely consigning the supposed repro- 
 bate to ruin; that fancy would make selec- 
 tions, and doie upon one while it neglected 
 another; that caprice would destroy the 
 bond of domestic union; and that intellec- 
 tual pursuits would oftert take precedence 
 of domestic duties. And therefore he pour- 
 ed into woman’s heart the same instinct 
 which impels the timid bird to risk the last 
 extremity of danger for her helpless young. 
 Nor let any one think contemptuously of 
 this peculiar capability of loving, because 
 under the extinct it is shared with the brute. 
 
 It is not a sufficient recommendation to our, 
 
 respect that it comes immediately from the 
 hand of our Creator—that we have no 
 power to control or subdue it—that it is 
 “Strong as death”—and lastly, that it im- 
 bues the mind of the mother with equal ten- 
 derness for her infirm, or wayward, or un- 
 lovely child, as for him who gives early 
 promise of personal as well as mental 
 beauty 2 But for this wonderful provision 
 in human nature, what would become of 
 the cripple, the diseased, the petulant or 
 
 123 
 
 the perverse ?. Who would be found to ful- 
 
 fil the hard duties of serving the ungrateful, 
 ministering to the dissatisfied, and watching 
 over the hopeless? No. There is no in- 
 stance in which the providential care of our 
 heavenly Father is more beautifully exhi- 
 bited than in that of a mother’s love. Wind- 
 ing its silken cords alike around every na- 
 tural object, whether worthy or unworthy, 
 it creates a bond which unkindness cannot 
 break. It pursues the wanderer without 
 weariness, and supports the feeble without 
 fainting. Neither appalled by danger, nor 
 hindered by difficulty, it can labour without 
 reward, and persevere without hope. “Many 
 waters cannot quench” it; and when the 
 glory has vanished from the brow of the 
 beloved one, when summer friends have 
 turned away, and guilt, and misery, and 
 disgrace have usurped their place, it steals 
 into the soul of the outcast like the sunbeams 
 within the cell of the prisoner, lighting the 
 darker dungeon of the polluted heart, bring- 
 ing along with it fond recollections of past 
 happiness, and wooing back to fresh parti- 
 cipation in the light and the gladness that 
 still remain for the broken and contrite 
 spirit. 
 
 If the situation of a wife brings woman to 
 
 ‘a right understanding of her own character, 
 
 that of a mother leads to a strict knowledge 
 of her own principles. Scarcely is any one 
 so depraved as to teach her child what she 
 conscientiously believes to be wrong. And 
 yet teach it she must, for its “clear pure 
 eyes” are fixed upon hers to learn their 
 meaning, and its infant accents are inquir- 
 ing out the first principles of good and evil. 
 How, with such a picture before her, would 
 any woman dare to teach what she did not 
 implicitly, as well as rationally, and from 
 mature examination believe to be true. In 
 a few days—hours—nay, moments, that 
 
 child may be a cherub in the courts iG Hea- | 
 
 ven. What if a stain should have been 
 upon its wings, and that stain the impress 
 of a mother’s hand! or if its earthly life 
 should be prolonged, it is the foundation of 
 the important future that the mother lays. 
 Other governors in after years may take 
 upon themselves the tuition of her child, 
 and lead him through the paths of academic 
 lore, but the early bias—the bent of the 
 
 a a a AE a ASE EE TE IE IT EE ELIT TEL ELE ALTE 
 
ae al Led o Be ammintees "he see ed eC aetY Menge, 
 
 124 
 
 moral character—the first principles of spi- 
 ritual life, will be hers, and hers the lasting 
 glory or the lasting shame. 
 
 There is no scene throughout the whole 
 range of our observation, more strikingly 
 illustrative of intellectual, moral, and even 
 physical beauty than that presented by a 
 domestic circle, where a mother holds her 
 proper place, as the source of tenderness, 
 the centre of affection, the bond of social 
 union, the founder of each salutary plan, 
 the umpire in all contention, and the general 
 fountain of cheerfulness, hope, and consola- 
 tion. Itis to clear up the unjust suspicion 
 that such a mother steps forward; to ward 
 off the unmerited blow; to defend the 
 wounded spirit from the injury to which it 
 would sullenly submit; to encourage the 
 hopeless, when thrown back in the competi- 
 tion of talent; to point out to those who 
 have been defeated, other aims in which 
 they may yet succeed; to stand between 
 the timid and the danger they dread; and, 
 on behalf of each, and all, to make their 
 peace with offended authority, promising, 
 hoping, and believing, that they will never 
 willingly commit the same fault again. 
 
 Even amongst her boys, those wayward 
 libertines of nature’s commonwealth, the 
 mother may, if she acts judiciously, be both 
 valuable and dear; for wild and impetuous 
 as they are when they first burst forth from 
 the restraints of childhood, and rush on re- 
 gardless of every impediment and whole- 
 some check, as if to attain in the shortest 
 space of time, the greatest possible distance 
 from dependence and puerility, they are apt 
 to meet with crosses and disappointments 
 which plunge them suddenly back into the 
 weakness they have been struggling to over- 
 come, or rather to conceal; and it is then 
 that a mother’s love supplies the balm which 
 their wounded feelings want, and provided 
 they can mingle respect with their affection, 
 they are not ashamed to acknowldege their 
 dependence upon it still. 
 
 It may here be observed how much de- 
 pends upon the word respect. When the boy 
 respeuts his mother, she is associated with 
 his highest aspirations, and therefore he has 
 \| pride as well as pleasure in her love. But 
 | he will not respect her merely because she 
 has nursed him when an infant. No. He 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 must find as he gains experience, a perfect 
 accordance between the principles of virtue 
 and the instruction he first heard from his 
 mother’s lips, as well as the rules by which 
 her own conduct is regulated. It is this re- 
 spect mingled with natural affection, that 
 constitutes the strongest and most durable 
 bond which is woven in with the life-strings 
 of the heart; that draws back the wanderer 
 to his home; and is the last, the very last, 
 which the reprobate casts off. 
 
 In turning from the contemplation of a 
 
 mother in the midst of her family, to that of 
 
 a mere old woman, we make a melancholy 
 descent from important usefulness to neg- 
 lected imbecility. Perhaps we have been 
 dwelling too much upon what ought to be, 
 but the bare mention of an old woman brings 
 us down at once to what is. To inquire 
 why it should be thus, belongs more to the 
 writer on morals than on poetry ; yet so itis 
 —that woman who has been cherished in 
 her infancy and flattered in her youth, who 
 has been exalted to the most honourable 
 station which her sex can fill, and who has 
 spent the meridian of her life in toils and 
 anxieties for the good of others, becomes in 
 old age, a mere proverb, and a by-word—a 
 warning to the young and the gay of what 
 they must expect—a similitude for all that is 
 feeble and contemptible—an evidence of the 
 destructive power of time—a living emblem 
 of decay. 
 
 It is true the mother is a mother still, and 
 greatly is it to be feared, that where she 
 sinks into a state of total neglect, it is from 
 the absence of all feeling of respect in the 
 minds of her children; nor are there want- 
 ing instances to prove this fact—instances in 
 which the want of youthful beauty has been 
 more than supplied by the loveliness of a 
 mind at peace with all the world, and with 
 its God; where the weakness of old age has 
 been dignified by the services of a well-spent 
 life: and where the wants and wishes of 
 second childhood have been soothed by af- 
 fection, whose vital principle is gratitude, 
 and whose foundation is esteem. But we 
 
 speak of the world, and the things of the 
 world as we find them, and we find old wo- 
 men so frequently neglected and despised, 
 that it becomes a duty, as well as a plea- 
 sure, to show, that though bereft of every 
 
 bt TERR Re A 
 i . i ne a bul 
 
 rn ee 
 
 RSS 
 
was sleeping. 
 
 other charm, they may still be poetical—po- 
 etical in their recollections, beyond what hu- 
 man nature can be in any other state or 
 stage of ifs existence. 
 
 It is an unkind propensity that many 
 writers have, to make old women poetical 
 through the instrumentality of their passions, 
 exaggerating them into witches and mon- 
 sters of the most repulsive description, and 
 that not so much “to point a moral,” as “to 
 adorn a tale;” but in such instances the 
 writer is indebted to their recollections for 
 all the interest which his unnatural exhibi- 
 tions excite—to flashes of former tenderness 
 shooting through the gloom of despair—to 
 bright and glowing associations following in 
 the wake of madness—and to once familiar 
 images of love and beauty, re-animated by a 
 strange paradox, at. the touch of the wand 
 of death, and bending in all their early love- 
 liness over the brink of the grave. 
 
 Infinite indeed beyond the possibility of 
 calculation, must be the recollections and 
 associations of her, whose long life, from its 
 earliest to its latest period, has been a life of 
 feeling—whose experience has been that of 
 impressions, rather than events—and whose 
 sun goes down amidst the varied and innu- 
 merable tints which these impressions have 
 given to its atmosphere. Endued with an 
 .nexhaustible power of multiplying relative 
 ideas, how melancholy must be the situation 
 of her who was once beloved and cherished, 
 now despised and forsaken—who in her turn 
 loved and cherished others, and is now neg- 
 lected. If she be a mother—one of those 
 fond mothers who expect that mere indul- 
 gence is to win the lasting regard of their 
 children, what sad thoughts must crowd 
 upon her at every fresh instance of unkind- 
 ness, and every additional proof that she has 
 fallen away from what she was, both in her 
 own and others’ estimation. Over the brow 
 that now frowns upon her, she perbaps has 
 watched withunutterable tenderness through 
 the long night when every eye but hers’ 
 The lips that now speak to 
 her coldly, or answer her with silence when 
 she speaks, she has bathed with the welcome 
 draught when they were parched and burn- 
 ing with contagious fever. The scorn with 
 
 which her humble pretensions are looked 
 down upon, arises in the hearts of those for 
 
 THE POETRY OF WOMAN. 
 
 to come. 
 
 tions which surround her path. 
 
 12 
 
 Ou 
 
 whose higher intellectual attainments she 
 has made every sacrifice, and exerted every 
 faculty. And what if she be unlearned in 
 the literature of modern times, she under- 
 stands deeply and feelingly the springs of 
 affection, and tenderness and sorrow. She 
 knows from what source flow the bitterest 
 tears, and 
 
 ‘“ How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is 
 To have a thankless child.” 
 
 She sees the young glad creatures of 
 another generation sporting around her, and 
 her thoughts go back to the playmates of 
 her childhood—some reduced to the lowest 
 state of helplessness or suffering—some 
 dead and some forgotten. She hears the 
 reluctant answer when she asks a kindness 
 of one of the merry group, and she thinks 
 of the time when kindness was more freely 
 granted her, though far less needed than 
 now. She starts at the loud laugh, but can- 
 not understand the jest, and no one explains 
 it to her listening ear. She loses the thread 
 of earnest conversation, and no one restores 
 the clue. She sits within the social circle, 
 but forms no link in the chain of social union. 
 
 Her thoughts and feelings cannot harmo-- 
 
 nize with those of her juvenile companions, 
 and she feels in all its bitterness, that least 
 tolerable portion of human experience—what 
 it is to be desolate in the midst of society— 
 surrounded by kindred and friends, and yet 
 alone. 
 
 In looking at the situation of woman 
 merely as regards this life, we are struck 
 with the system of unfair dealing by which 
 her pliable, weak and dependent nature is 
 subjected to an infinite variety of suffering, 
 and we are ready to exclaim, that of all 
 earthly creatures she is the most pitiable. 
 And so unquestionably she is, when unen- 
 lightened by those higher views which lead 
 her hopes away from the disappointments 
 of the present world, to the anticipated 
 fruition promised to the faithful in the world 
 But the whole life of woman, 
 when studied with reference to eternity, pre- 
 sents a view of the great plan of moral dis- 
 cipline mercifully designed to assist her 
 right conduct through the trials and tempta- 
 In child- 
 hood she is necessarily instructed in what 
 
 “4 
 | 
 
————— 
 
 ne eae SS nN” Ae ne 
 
 126 
 
 | 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 belongs to social and domestic duty, and 
 here she learns the difficult but important 
 task of submitting, and of making her own 
 gratification give place to that of others. In 
 Pratt she is plunged into a sphere of greater 
 || temptations, and of more intense enjoyments, 
 where her experience, embracing the widest 
 extremes of pain and pleasure, teaches her 
 all the different means to be made use of in 
 avoiding or palliating the one, and promot- 
 ing the other. As a wife and a mother she 
 has an opportunity of acting upon the know- 
 ledge thus acquired, and if her practice does 
 honour to her theory, it is here that she ob- 
 tains an importance, and derives a satisfac- 
 tion, which might be dangerous even to a 
 disciplined mind, did not age steal on and 
 diffuse his sombre colouring over the plea- 
 sant pictures to which her affections had 
 given too warm a glow, and which her hap- 
 | piness had persuaded her to be satisfied with 
 contemplating. But this cold, blank me- 
 dium intervening between life and eternity 
 —between beauty and ashes—between love 
 and death, comes to warn her that all she 
 has been desiring, is but as the scattering 
 f the harvest to be reaped in heaven; that 
 all she has been trusting in, is but typical of 
 that which endures for ever; and that all 
 she has been enjoying, is but a foretaste of 
 eternal felicity. 
 
 Let then the aged woman be no longer 
 an object of contempt. She is helpless as a 
 child; but as a child she may be learning 
 the ey awful lesson from ber Heavenly 
 Father. Her feeble step is trembling on the 
 brink of the grave; but lier hopes may. be 
 firmly planted on the better shore which 
 lies beyond. Her eye is dim with suffering 
 and tears; but her spiritual vision may be 
 contemplating the gradual unfolding of the 
 gates of eternal rest. Beauty has faded 
 eon her form; but angels in the world of 
 light may be weaving a wreath of glory for 
 her brow. Her lip is silent; but it may be 
 only waiting to pour forth celestial strains 
 of gratitude and praise. Lowly, and fallen, 
 and sad, she sits amongst the living; but 
 exalted, purified, and happy, she may arise 
 from the dead. Then turn if thou wilt from 
 the aged woman in her loneliness, but re- 
 member she is not forsaken of her God! 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 In tracing the connexion of poetry with 
 subjects most frequently and naturally pre- 
 sented to our contemplation, we observe 
 how it may be associated with our pursuits, 
 so as to give interest to what is familiar, to 
 refine what is material, and to heighten 
 what is sublime. We now open the Bible, 
 and find that poetry as a principle of intel- 
 lectual enjoyment derived from association, 
 is also diffused through every page of the 
 sacred volume, and so diffused, that the 
 simplest child, as well as the profoundest 
 sage, may feel its presence. This in fact, 
 is the great merit of poetry, (a merit» which 
 in no other volume but the Bible, can be 
 found in perfection,) that it addresses itself 
 so immediately to the principles of feeling 
 inherent in our nature, as to be intelligible 
 to those who have made but little progress 
 in the paths of learning, at the same time 
 that it presents a source of the highest 
 gratification to the scholar and the philoso- 
 pher. Let us refer as an example, to the 
 first chapter of Genesis: 
 
 In the beginning, God created the heaven and the 
 earth. 
 And the earth was without form and void; and dark- 
 
 "ness was upon the fice of the deep. And the Spirit of 
 
 God moved upon the face of the waters. 
 And God said, Let there be light; aud there was light. 
 
 A child but just grown familiar with the 
 words contained in these verses, not only 
 understands their meaning here, but feels 
 something of their sublimity—something of 
 the power and the majesty of the God who 
 could create this wonderful world, whose 
 Spirit moved upon the face of the waters, 
 and who said, Let there be light: and there 
 was light! While learned men of all ages 
 have agreed, that no possible combination 
 of words, could express more clearly and 
 powerfully than these, the potency of the 
 first operations of almighty power of which 
 mankind have any record. 
 
 We have more than once observed that 
 poetry must have some reference, either 
 uniformly or partially, to our own circum- 
 stances, situation, or experience, as well as 
 to the more remote and varied conceptions 
 
 of the imagination; and in the Scriptures, 
 
 a 
 
 et a ee 
 
 sy 
 
 —— oe 
 
 a ea. ae 
 
 rs re 
 
THE POETRY 
 
 we find this fact fully illustrated. Witness 
 the frequent recurrence of these simple 
 words—and God said. We are not told 
 that the mandates of almighty power issued 
 forth from the heavens, but simply, chat God 
 said: a mode of speech familiar to the least 
 cultivated understanding, yet in no danger 
 of losing its sublimity as used here, because 
 immediately alter, follow those manifesta- 
 tions of universal subordination, which give 
 us the most forcible idea of the omnipotence 
 of Divine will. 
 
 Again, alter the transgression of our first 
 parents, when 
 
 in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his 
 wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God 
 umongst the trees of the garden. 
 
 Aud the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto 
 him, Where art thou ? 
 
 Aud he said, f heard thy voice in the garden, and Iwas 
 alraid, because I was nuked; and I hid myself. 
 
 OF THE BIBLE. 127 
 
 Am I my brother’s keeper ? is a question 
 with which we are too apt to answer the re- 
 proaches of conscience, when we have vio- 
 lated the most important trust or neglected 
 the duties which ought to be the dearest in 
 life. And what sufferer under the first in- 
 
 fliction of chastisement, consequent upon | 
 his own transgressions, has not given utter- | 
 ance to the expressive language—my pun- |} 
 
 ishient is greater than I can bear? Thus 
 
 far this striking passage contains what is fa- | 
 
 /millar and natural to every human being, 
 
 they heard the voice of the Lord God walking — 
 
 | 
 
 but beyond this, yet at the same time con- 
 nected with it, it has great power and even 
 
 presence of the Lord. 
 The peculiarly emphatic manner in which 
 the Lord promises to bless Abraham, 
 
 | . 
 say ing— 
 
 Whiat description of shame and abase- | 
 
 ment can be more true to human iature 
 than this? But the character of Cain ul 
 fords the earliest, the most consistent, and 
 pe haps, the most powerlul exemplifications 
 of affections and desires perverted from 
 their original purity and singleness of pur- 
 pose. Cain, the second man who breathed 
 upon the newly-created earth, felt all the 
 stirrings of envy and jealousy, precisely as 
 we feel them at this day, and he 
 
 —— talked with Abel his brother: and it came 
 to pass, when they were in the field. that Cain rose up 
 against Abel his brother. and slew him. 
 
 And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy 
 brother? and he said, | know not: am IT my brother's 
 keeper ? 
 
 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy 
 brother’s blood erieth unto me from the ground. 
 
 And now art thon cursed from the earth, which hath 
 opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from 
 thy hand; 
 
 1 will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that 
 curseth thee: and in thee shall all the families of the 
 earth be blessed. 
 
 As well as afterwards when— 
 
 —— the Lord came unto Abram in a vision, say- 
 
 | ing, Fear not. Abram: Lam thy shield, and thy exceed- 
 
 ing great reward— 
 
 is comprehensive and full of meaning be- 
 yond what more elaborate language could 
 
 possibly convey. And also after the sepa- 
 
 When thou tillest the ground. it shall not henceforth | 
 
 yield nnto thee her strength ; a fugitive and a vagabond 
 shalt thon be in the earth. 
 
 And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater 
 than f can bear. 
 
 ration from Lot, where the Lord said unto 
 Abrabam, 
 
 Lift up now thine eyes, xnd look from the place where 
 thon art, northward, and southward, aud eastward and 
 Westward: 
 
 For all the land which U.ou seest, to thee will I give 
 it, und to thy seed for ever. 
 
 And Twill make thy ced as the dust of the earth: so 
 that if a man can number the dust of the earth, then shall 
 thy seed also be numbered. 
 
 Arise, walk through the land in the length of it, and in 
 the breadth of it; for | will give if unto thee. 
 
 Shen Abram removed his tent, and came and dwelt in 
 the plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and built there 
 
 - an altar to the Lord. 
 
 ~ Behold. thou hast driven me ont this day from the face | 
 
 of the earth: and from thy face shall Lbe hid; and [shall 
 be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall 
 come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay 
 me. 
 
 And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever 
 slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. 
 And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him 
 should kill him. 
 
 And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord.— 
 
 Here the act of stretching the sight to the 
 northward, and soulhward, and eastward, 
 ant westward, and 
 
 of it, presents to the mind ideas of space 
 
 and distance, at once simple and sublime ; 
 
 and when we read that whenever the fiith- 
 
 ful patriarch found rest in his wanderings, 
 
 | sublimity, in no instance more so, than || 
 where it is said, that Cain went out froin the || 
 
 walking through the | 
 land in the length of it, and in the breadth | 
 
=, 
 
 128 
 
 | he built there an altar to the Lord, our 
 | thoughts are led on by a natural transition 
 | to our own experience, to ask what record 
 | we have left, or could leave in the past, to 
 ii prove that the same divine presence was 
 with us in our journey through life. 
 
 The story of Hagar is one of great poeti- 
 i, cal interest. We pursue the destitute mo- 
 ther and her helpless child into the solitude 
 of the wilderness, and behold a_ picture 
 | which has become proverbial for the utter 
 
 desolation, which it represents. Compelled 
 
 by a stern necessity, with the ultimate good 
 | of which she was wholly unacquainted, the 
 
 mother goes forth as she believes, un- 
 friended and alone, to trust herself and the 
 treasure of her affections to the mercy of the 
 ‘elements, and the shelter of the pathless 
 wilds, unconscious that her peculiar situation 
 is made the especial care of the Father of the 
 fatherless, and the Protector of the forlorn. 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast 
 the child under one of the shrubs. 
 
 And she went, and sat her down over against him a 
 good way off, as it were a bow-shot; for she said, Let 
 me not see the death of the child. And she sat over 
 against him, and lift up her voice and wept. 
 
 And God heard the voice of the Jad: and the angel of 
 God called to Hagar ont of heaven, and said unto her, 
 Whataileth thee, Hagar? Fear not; for God hath heard 
 the voice of the lad where he is. 
 
 Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand ; for 
 I will make him a great nation. 
 
 And in the following chapter, where 
 Abraham, faithful, even to the resigning 
 his dearest treasure, goes forth with his son, 
 prepared to render him up if the Lord 
 should require it at his hand ; 
 
 And Isaac. spake unto Abraham his father and said, 
 My father? and he said, Heream I, my son: and he said, 
 Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for 
 
 a burnt offering ? 
 And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself 
 a burnt offering: so they went both of them together. 
 
 How strong must have been the faith of 
 | the patriarch at that moment; or if not, how 
 agonizing his feelings as a father! But if 
 there were any of the natural struggles of 
 humanity between his faith and his love, 
 , they are sealed to us, by the simple and 
 | beautiful conclusion,—so they went both of 
 || them together. 
 || Yet it isnot merely in particular instances, 
 || Such as may be singled out for examples, 
 fees 3 
 
 a es Ee ee as 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 that we see and feel the poetry even of the 
 historical parts of the Bible. 
 accounts of the creation and the deluge, 
 handed down to us in language the most 
 intelligible and unadorned, present to the 
 imagination pictures of sublimity so awful 
 and impressive, that it seems not improbable 
 we may in some measure have derived 
 our ideas of sublimity and power, from 
 impressions made by our first reading of 
 the Bible. Beside which, we find descrip- 
 tions of the desert, and the wilderness, the 
 wells of water, and the goodly pastures, of 
 
 the intercourse of angels with the children 
 
 of men, and of the visitations of the Supreme 
 Intelligence, if not personally, in the diffe- 
 rent manifestations of his power and his 
 love—as a voice, and an impulse—all con- 
 veyed to us in language as simple as if a 
 shepherd spoke of his flocks upon the moun- 
 tain—as sublime as if an angel wrote the 
 record of the world. 
 
 Nor is the poetry of the Bible by any 
 
 means confined to those passages in which 
 
 the power of the Almighty is exhibited as 
 operating upon the infant world. The same 
 influence extending over the passions and 
 affections of human nature, is described with 
 the most touching pathos, and the most im- 
 pressive truth. That moving and controll 
 ing influence, so frequently spoken of as 
 the word of the Lord coming with irresisti- 
 ble power upon the instruments of his will, 
 is nowhere set before us in a stronger light, 
 than in the character of Balaam, when he 
 declared that if Balak would give him his 
 house full of silver and gold. he could not go 
 
 beyond the word of the Lord his God to do } 
 Not even when he stood | 
 upon the high place amidst the seven altars | 
 with the burning sacrifice, and all the princes | 
 of Moab around him, and knew that the ex- | 
 press object of his calling was to curse the | 
 
 less or more. 
 
 people whom the most high had blessed ; 
 
 yet here, before the multitudes assembled to | 
 
 hear the confirmation of their hopes, he was 
 compelled to acknowledge how. those hopes 
 were defeated, saying, 
 
 —— Balak, the king of Moab, hath brought me from |! 
 
 Aram, out of the mountains of the east, saying, Come, 
 curse me Jacob, and come, defy me Israel. 
 
 How shall I curse, whom God hath not cursed? or 
 how shall I defy, whom the Lord hath not defied ? 
 
 For from the top of the rocks 1 see him, and from the 
 
 The separate 
 
THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 ') hills 1 behold him: Jo, the people shall dwell alone, and 
 
 shall not be reckoned among the nations. 
 
 Who can count the dust of Jacob, and the number of 
 the fourth part of Israel?) Let me die the death of the 
 rizhteous, and let my last end be like his! 
 
 And Balak said unto Balaam, What hast thou done 
 unto me? LTtook thee to curse mine enemies, and, be- 
 hold, thou hast blessed them altogether. 
 
 And be answered and said, Must I not take heed to 
 speak that which the Lord hath put into my mouth? 
 
 Although Balaam knew that by obeying 
 the word of the Lord he was sacrificing the 
 favour of his master, who had promised to 
 promote him to honour, yet again, when 
 brought to the top of another mountain with 
 
 the vain hope of escaping from the power 
 
 of Omnipotence—when seven altars were 
 again built, and seven bullocks and seven 
 rams sacrificed, the people of Moab were 
 again told, that the Lord 
 
 hath not beheld iniquity in Jacob, neither hath he 
 
 seen perverseness in Israel: the Lord his God is with 
 him, and the shout ofa king is among them. 
 
 Disappointed and defeated, Balak now 
 very naturally exclaims, Neither curse them 
 at all, nor bless them at all. Yet still will- 
 ing to try for the third and last time, the 
 power of man against his Maker, he leads 
 Balaam to the top of Mount Peor, where 
 the same ceremonial gives the sanction of 
 truth, and the majesty of power, to the words 
 of the prophet; and here it is that he pours 
 forth for the last time, a blessing, still richer 
 and more unlimited than before, beginning 
 with the beautiful and poetic language, 
 
 How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy taberna- 
 cles, O Israel! 
 
 As the valleys are they spread forth, as gardens by the 
 tiver’s side, as the trees of lign aloes which the Lord hath 
 pliuuted, and as cedar trees beside the waters. 
 
 To those wno are best acquainted with 
 the poetry of the human heart, the sad his- 
 tory of Jephthah and his daughter affords 
 particular interest, told as itis in language 
 never yet exceeded for simplicity and gen- 
 uine beauty, by any of the numerous wri- 
 ters who have given us, both in prose and 
 verse, imaginary details of this melancholy 
 story. 
 
 And Jephthah vowed a vow unto the Lord, and said, 
 if thou shalt without fail deliver the children of Ammon 
 
 into mine hands. 
 Then it shall be, that whatsoever cometh forth of the 
 
 doors of my house to meet me, when I return in peace 
 
 9 
 
 listines trembled, after rending the lion, and 
 
 129 
 
 from the children of Ammon, shall surely be the Lord’s, 
 and I will offer it up for a burnt-offering. 
 
 So Jephthah passed over unto the children of Ammon 
 to fight against them; and the Lord delivered them into 
 his hands. 
 
 And he smote them from Aroer, even till thou come 
 to Minnith, even twenty cities, and unto the plain of the 
 vineyards, with a very great slaughter. Thus the child- 
 ren of Ammon were subdued befure the children of 
 Israel. 
 
 And Jephthah came to Mizpeh unto his house, and be- 
 hold his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels 
 and with dances: and she was his only child; beside 
 her he had neither son nor daughter. 
 
 And it came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent 
 his clothes, and said, Alas, my daughter! Thou hast 
 brought me very low, and thou art one of them that 
 trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, 
 and I cannot go back. 
 
 And she said unto him, My father, if thou hast opened 
 thy mouth unto the Lord, do to me according to that 
 which hath proceeded ont of thy mouth; forasmuch as 
 the Lord hath taken vengeance for thee of thine enemies, 
 even of the children of Ammon. 
 
 The character of Samson displays in a 
 powerful manner that combination of strength 
 and weakness, which too frequently pro- 
 duces the most fatal and irrevocable ruin. 
 It is a character well worthy of our greatest 
 poet, yet one, to the interest of which, his 
 genius could add nothing, and (what is say- 
 ing much) could expatiate upon without 
 taking anything away. We first behold 
 Samson as the man before whom the Phi- 
 
 scattering thousands with a single arm, 
 stooping to the dalliance of a false and 
 worthless woman—three times deceived— 
 wantonly and wickedly deceived, yet trust- 
 ing her at last with the secret of his strength. 
 Next, betrayed into the hands of his enemies, 
 we find him, 
 
 “ Kyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves.” 
 
 And lastly, as if this punishment were not 
 sufficient, he is Jed forth and placed between 
 the pillars in the public hall of entertain- 
 ment, to make sport at the festival of his 
 enemies, rejoicing in his weakness and his 
 bonds; where the indignation of his uncon- 
 querable soul finally nerves him for that 
 tremendous act of retributive vengeance, 
 by which the death of Samson is commem- 
 orated. 
 
 The story of Ruth is familiar in its touch- 
 ing pathos, to every feeling heart; as well 
 as intrinsically beautiful to every poetic 
 mind. What for instance can exceed the 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 a Sienna aslg teense 
 
 exhibited in that of Saul. 
 
 description of the separation of the. sisters, 
 when their mother entreats them to leave 
 
 her. 
 
 And they lifted up their voice and wept again: and 
 Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto 
 her. 
 
 And she said, Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back 
 unto her people, and unto her gods: return thou after 
 thy sister-in-law. 
 
 And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to re- 
 turn from following after thee: for whither thou goest, 
 
 I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy peo- ° 
 
 ple shall be my people, and thy God my God: 
 
 Where thou diest, will I die, and there will | be buried : 
 the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death 
 part thee and me. 
 
 In speaking of poetry as it relates to the 
 passions, and tothe minor impulses, and 
 finer sensibilities of human nature, as well 
 as to the scenes and circumstances most 
 calculated for their developement, we have 
 no hesitation in pointing out the life and 
 character of Saul, as one, abounding per- 
 haps more than any other in the Scriptures, 
 with poetical interest. The book of Job is 
 one of poetry itself, yet the character of the 
 sublime sufferer does not afford the variety 
 Prostrate in the 
 dust of the earth, and still holding commu- 
 nion with the Deity, we behold him as an 
 isolated being, struck out from the common 
 lot, and set apart for a particular dispensa- 
 tion, whose severity was sufficient to fill a 
 more human heart with bitterness. | But the 
 experience of Saul is that of a more ordi- 
 nary man, with whom we can fully sympa- 
 thize, as we go along. with him through 
 those great national and social changes, by 
 which men of common mould are often 
 placed before the world in a point of view 
 so striking and important, as to entitle them 
 to the name of great. We recognize in the 
 king of Israel the same motives and feelings 
 by which men in all ages have been influ- 
 enced; yet while we speak of him as a less 
 extraordinary character than Job, it is only 
 so far as the features of his character are 
 more intelligible and familiar to our obser- 
 vation and experience; for every thing 
 recorded of him in his eventful history, 
 bespeaks a mind imbued at the same time 
 with power and sensibility, and a soul capa- 
 ble of the extremes both of good and evil. 
 
 We behold him first a simple youth—a 
 choice young man, and a goodly, so uncon- 
 
 scious of the high honour which awaited 
 him, that when Samuel emphatically asks, 
 “Is not the desire of the people on thee, and 
 on thy father’s house?” he answers with 
 perfect humility and simplicity of heart, 
 
 Am not I a Benjamite, of the smallest of the tribes of 
 Israe]? and my family the least of all the families of the 
 
 tribe of Benjamin? wherefore then speukest thou so to 
 me? 
 
 Yet, 
 
 it was so, that when he had turned his back to 
 go from Samuel, God gave him anather heart. 
 
 We have no reason to suppose an ambi- 
 tious heart, but rather a heart enlarged with 
 a conception of the favour of the Almighty, 
 and filled with the spirit of prophecy, and 
 with all heavenward aspirations; so that, 
 under a sense of the responsibility of send- 
 ing forth as a king, an edict among his 
 people, he built an altar unto the Lord, and 
 asked counsel of God before he went down 
 after the Philistines. Thus far we find him 
 obedient as a man, and faithful as a sove- 
 reign; for his heart was yet uncorrupted by 
 the temptations which surround a throne: 
 but the power of leading and governing 
 others, soon. produced its natural and fre- | 
 quent consequence—a disposition to be 
 guided by his own inclination, and to resist |} 
 all higher authority. Thus, when com- | 
 
 -manded to go and smite the Amalekites, 
 
 and utterly to slay both men and women, 
 infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel || 
 and ass, he spared Agag and the best of |{ 
 the sheep, and of the oxen, and of the fat- || 
 lings, and of the lambs, and all that was 
 good, and would not utterly destroy them ; 
 thereby transgressing the great paramount 
 law, no less necessary for the right gov- |f 
 ernment of an infant mind, than for an || 
 infant world—the law of obedience. | 
 
 Then came the word of the Lord unto Samuel, saying, 
 
 It repenteth me that I have setup San] to be king: for 
 he is turned back from following me, and hath not per: 
 formed my commandments. And it grieved Samuel; 
 and he cried unto the Lord all night. 
 
 And when Samuel rose up early to meet Saul in the 
 morning, it was told Samuel, saying, Saul came. up. to 
 Carmel, and, behold, he set him up a place. and is gone 
 about, and passed on, and gone down to Gilgal. 
 
 And Samnel came to San): and Saul said unto him, 
 Blessed be thon of the Lord: I have performed the com- 
 mandment of the Lord. 
 
 And Samuel said, What meaneth then this bleating of 
 
| degradation. 
 
 THE PORTRY OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 the sheep in mine ears, and the lowing of the oxen which — 
 
 I hear? : 
 And Saul said, They have brought them from the 
 Amalekites: for the people spared the best of the sheep 
 
 Then Samuel said unto Saul, Stay, and 1 will tell thee 
 what the Lord hath said to me this ufght. 
 unto him, Say on. 
 
 And Samuel said, When thou wast little in thine own 
 sight, wast thou not made the head of the tribes of Israel, 
 
 and the Lord anointed thee king over Israel? 
 
 And the Lord sent thee on a journey, and said, Go-and 
 utterly destroy the sinners of the Amalekites, and fight | 
 
 against them until they be consumed. 
 
 Wherefore then didst thou not obey the voice of the | 
 Lord, but didst fly apon the spoil, and didst evil in the | 
 
 sight of the Lord ? 
 
 After this reproof from Samuel, Saul again. 
 | endeavours to justify himsell’by proving that | 
 | the reservation he ha.l made was solely for 
 | the purpose of sacrificing to the Lord; when 
 | the prophet emphatically asks, 
 Hath the Lord as great delight in burnt offerings and 
 
 | sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? 
 
 | to obey is better than sacrifice, and to learken than the 
 | fat of rams. 
 
 To Samuel, who seems hitherto to have 
 
 || stood in the capacity of an intercessor be- | 
 | tween him and the Divine Majesty, Saul 
 } now humbles himsel!} and entreats that he 
 
 will pardon his sin, and turn again with him, 
 
 |] that he may worship the Lord. And when 
 | still rejected, he humbles himself yet more, 
 |) and prays (Oh! how naturally!) that at_ 
 | least the prophet will honor him before the- 
 people, that the world may not witness his_ 
 And now Samuel yields, but - 
 
 we are told soonafter that he came no more 
 
 | to see Saul until the day of his death; never- 
 \| theless he mourned for him, and the Lord | 
 | repented that he had made Saul king over | 
 
 | Israel. 
 
 And the Spirit of the Lord departed from Saul, and an 
 
 ;} evil spirit from the Lord troubled him. 
 
 How descriptive is this passage of this. 
 
 gradual falling away from Divine favour, 
 
 which sometimes darkens and weighs down | 
 
 the soul, filling it with gloomy thoughts, and 
 
 | sad forebodings, long before the melancholy | 
 change is perceptible in the outward charac- | 
 And how strikingly does it illustrate 
 the hidden, and to us mysterious workings | 
 of the great plan of Providence, that the fu-. 
 ture king of Israel, already secretly appointed | 
 
 ter. 
 
 by Divine commission, should be the min- 
 
 And he said | 
 
 Behold, 
 
 and of the oxen, to sacrifice unto the Lord thy God; ani | 
 the rest we have utterly destroyed. 
 
 | afraid of David ; and he became his eneny 
 | continually: yet once more at the earnest. 
 
 { and he smote the javelin into the wall: and David fled, | 
 
 | went forth to pursue the chosen of the Lord, 
 
 ee eeeeEEooEeEeEoEoToeoToTOoooeoooooEooEEeE 
 
 fought with the Philistines, and slew them with a great | 
 
 strel chosen to come and charm away, with | 
 
 the melody of his harp, the evil spirit from | 
 the mind of his predecessor in authority ; 
 and that Saul should arise relieved and re- 
 freshed by the music of the instrument of his _ 
 future torment. For it is not long before envy 
 enters into his heart, adding its envenomed 
 
 stings to the anguish he is already enduring. | 
 He hears the song of the dancing women as | 
 
 they meet him with tabrets and with joy, 
 answering one another, and saying, that 
 Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his 
 tens of thousands, and he asks, What can 
 David have more but the kingdom? Yet 
 alter this he promises him his daughter in 
 marriage, but quickly repenting him of the 
 purposed honour, bestows her upon another. 
 Again, hoping she may be a snare to him, 
 he offers him his second daughter; and then 
 we are told that he saw and knew that the 
 Lord was with David, and that his daughter 
 loved him. And Saul was yet the more 
 
 intercession of Jonathan, Saul consents to - 
 receive David again into his presence. 
 
 And Jonathan calied David, and Jonathan shewed him 
 all those things. And Jonathan brought David to Saul, 
 and he was in his presence as in times past. 
 
 And there was war again: and David went out and | 
 
 slaughter; and they fled from him 
 
 And the evil spirit from the Lord was upon Saul, as he 
 sit in his house with his javelin in his hand: and David 
 played with his hand. 
 
 And Saul sought to smite David even to the wall with | 
 the javelin; but he slipped away out of Saul’s presence, | 
 
 and escaped that night. 
 
 The struggle was now passea. The ear- | 
 ly tendency of the soul of the king to seek, 
 and to do good, was finally subdued, and he | 
 
 as an open and avowed enemy; yet, en-— 
 vouring to justify himself by proving that 
 David had first risen up against him, he ap- 
 peals to his servants, and fully conscious 
 that his cause would not stand the test of 
 impartial examination, he appeals to their 
 interest, and to their compassion, rather than 
 to their judgment. 
 
 Hlear now, ye Benjamites ; will the son of Jesse give 
 every one of you fields and vineyards, and make you all 
 captains of thousands, aud captains of hundreds ; 
 
 That all of you have conspired against me, und there 
 
 ee 
 ne 
 
 | 
 | 
 
pegeramentuanesny acon es aa cc DTRERE GE SELL SRT SESERASLMA ES oe eos eee ae : « = ! F 
 132 | THE POETRY OF LIFE. ~ ‘| 
 
 is none that sheweth me that my son hath madea league 
 with the son of Jesse, and there is none of you that is 
 sorry for me, or sheweth unto me that my son hath 
 stirred up my servant against me, to lie in wait, as at 
 this day ? 
 
 Filled with rancour and jealousy, height- 
 ened by the rising fame and influence of 
 David, Saul pursues him to the wilderness 
 of Engedi, where we meet with a remark- 
 able instance of forbearance on the part of a 
 persecuted man. With the skirt of the 
 king’s robe in his hand, David shows him 
 that he had advanced so near his person 
 as to have been able with the same facility 
 to destroy his life, but that he spared him 
 from reverence for the Lord’s anointed. 
 When, struck at once with a sense of his 
 own recent danger, with the honourable 
 dealing of one whom he believed to be an 
 enemy, with the sight of the man he had 
 once loved—loved in the days when his 
 heart was not as now, seared with the 
 worst of passions; and perhaps touched 
 more than all with the tones of the voice 
 which in those happier days had been his 
 music, Saul exclaims, Js this thy voice, my 
 son David? and then he lifted wp his voice 
 and wept. After this burst of tenderness, 
 his heart is opened to express the full sense 
 he had of David’s superiority, and the strong 
 feeling ever present to his mind, that he 
 should one day be compelled to resign the 
 reins of government into his hands. 
 
 And he said to David, Thou art more righteous than 
 I: for thou hast rewarded me good, whereas I have re- 
 warced thee evil. 
 
 And now, behold, I know well that thou shalt surely 
 be king, and that the kingdom of Israel shall be esta- 
 blished in thine hand. 
 
 A second instance of a similar kind oc- 
 curs, in which Saul appears to be struck, 
 though less forcibly, with the generosity of 
 David, whom he still addresses as his son, 
 and of whom he again prophesies, that he 
 “shall do great things, and shall still pre- 
 vail.” But these transient ebullitions of 
 former feeling pass away before the gather- 
 ing influence of David, and Saul humbles 
 himself to seek consolation under his falling 
 fortunes from the last miserable and barren 
 resource of the utterly destitute in soul. 
 Samuel is dead, and though the king had, 
 from the impulse of his better judgment, 
 
 7 | 
 put away all who had familiar spirits, and | 
 wizards, out of the land, he stoops to | 
 
 ‘ 
 
 guise himself, and to go at midnight to cast 
 his forlorn hopes upon the enchantments of 
 the witch of Endor 
 
 And he said to the woman, I pray thee, divine unto me 
 by a familiar spirit, and bring up him, whom I shall name 
 unto thee. 
 
 And the woman said unto him, Behold, thou knowest 
 what Saul hath done, how he hath cut off those that have 
 familiar spirits, and the wizards. out of the land: where- 
 fore then layest thou a snare for my life, to cause me to 
 die? 
 
 And Saul sware to her by the Lord, saying, As the 
 Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee 
 for this thing. 
 
 Then said the woman, Whom shall 1 bring up nnto 
 thee? And he said, Bring me up Samuel. 
 
 And when the woman saw Samuel. she cried with a 
 loud voice; and the woman spake to Sau], saying, Why 
 hast thou deceived me? for thou art Saul. 
 
 And the king said unto her, Be not afraid: for what 
 sawest thou? And the woman said unto Saul, I saw 
 gods ascending out of the earth 
 
 And he said unto her, What form is he of? And she ], 
 said, An old man cometh up; and he is covered with a 
 mantle. And Sanl perceived that it was Samuel, and he 
 stooped with his face to the ground, and bowed himself. 
 
 And Samuel said to Saul, Why hast thou disquieted 
 me, to bring me up? And San] answered, Tam sore dis- 
 tressed: for the Philistines make war against me. and 
 God is departed from me, and angswereth me fio more, 
 neither by prophets, nor by dreams: therefore I have 
 cilled thee, that thou mayst make known unto me what 
 T shall do. 
 
 Then said Samnel, Wherefore then dost thon ask of 
 me, seeing the Lord is departed from thee, and is become 
 thine enemy? Or 
 
 And the Lord hath done to him as he spake by me: 
 for the Lord hath rent the kingdom out of thine hand, 
 and given it to thy neighbour, even to David : 
 
 Because thou obeyedst not the voice of the Lord. nor 
 executedst his fierce wrath upon Amalek, therefore hath 
 the Lord done this thing unto thee this day. 
 
 Moreover the Lord will also deliver Israel with thee 
 into the hand of the Philistines: and to-morrow shalt 
 thou and thy sons be with me: the Lord also shall de- 
 liver the host of Israel into the hand of the Philistines. 
 
 Then Saul fell straightway all along on the earth, and 
 was sore afraid, because of the words of Samnel: and 
 there was no strength in him; for he had eaten no bread 
 all the day, nor all the night. 
 
 How affecting is this picture of the abject 
 state of a fallen king—fallen not so much 
 from earthly honour, as from the counte- 
 nance and protection of the King of kings. 
 Even Saul, the envious persecutor of his 
 unoffending successor, becomes an object of 
 compassion, when he answers to the ques- 
 tion of Samuel, “ Why hast thou disquieted 
 me?” “Because I am, sore distressed.” 
 And when it is said that “he stooped with 
 his face to the ground,” and finally “fell 
 
 ng ERs... eee SS ee ed 
 
2 ee SE eS : —— a 
 a 
 
 nn EID EnEIEnEESE NEESER 
 
 = 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 133 
 
 straightway all along upon the earth,” there 
 camscarcely be a stronger description of to- 
 tal abandonment of soul under a deep sense 
 of the overwhelming might of Omnipotence ; 
 as well as of a melancholy presage of the 
 entire uprooting of all that he had trusted 
 and gloried in. Yet scarcely trusted in, for 
 he had greatly feared the thing which was 
 about to come upon him, and which the aw- 
 ful voice of the prophet risen from the dead 
 had solemnly confirmed. 
 
 The doom of the king of Israel was now 
 sealed. And when the Philistines arose and 
 fought against Israel, and “followed hard 
 after Saul and his sons, and the Philistines 
 slew Jonathan, and Abinadab, and Melchi- 
 shua, Saul’s sons ;” 
 
 And the battle went sore against Saul, and the archers 
 hit him; and he was sore wounded of the archers ; 
 
 Then said San] unto his armour-bearer, Draw thy 
 sword, and thrust me through therewith; lest these un- 
 circumcised come and thrust me through, and abuse me. 
 But his armour-beurer would not; for he was sore afraid. 
 Therefore Saul took a sword, and fell upon it. 
 
 Through the whole of this history, we 
 trace the same strong and natural develope- 
 ment of feeling, which all our most talented 
 authors-aspire to in their descriptions, and 
 upon which they chiefly depend for the po- 
 etical interest of what they describe. But 
 while in the character of Saul are forcibly 
 portrayed the fatal workings of the passions 
 of envy, jealousy, and remorse, accompanied 
 with many of those delicate shades, which 
 denote the latest yearnings after good, and 
 the earliest tendency to evil, the character 
 of Davyjd is scarcely less poetical in its 
 strength, and beauty, and consistency, va- 
 ried by a few instances of natural weakness, 
 producing their own atonement in the humi- 
 liation, the abasement, the agony of mind, and 
 the final welcome back to Divine love, by 
 which they are succeeded. 
 
 The attachment between David and Jona- 
 than is perhaps the most beautiful and per- 
 fect instance of true friendship which we 
 have on record. As a shepherd, and a 
 prince, their first covenant is made. 
 
 Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because 
 he Joved him as his own soul. 
 
 And Jonathan stripped off the robe that was upon him, 
 and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his 
 sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle. 
 
 And we see the same covenant binding 
 them together through all the changes of 
 their after life ; for Jonathan, who loved the 
 simple minstrel boy that charmed away the 
 evil spirit from his father, ki cw not the envy 
 of Saul when that minstrel lecame a man 
 of war, and multitudes were gathered be- 
 neath his banner. And David, persecuted 
 as he was by the father of his friend, never 
 once betrayed towards him or his, the bitter- 
 ness of an injured spirit, but followed him 
 even to his death, with the reverence due to 
 the Lord’s anointed. It is then that he pours 
 forth, both for Saul and Jonav~an, that beau- 
 tiful and affecting lamentation, which no 
 language can exceed in poetry and pathos. 
 
 The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: 
 how are the mighty fallen! 
 
 Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of As- 
 kelon; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest 
 the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. 
 
 Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither 
 let there be rain, upon you, nor flelds of offerings: for 
 there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the 
 shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with 
 oil. 
 
 From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, 
 the bow of Jonathan turned not back, and the sword of 
 Saul returned not empty. 
 
 Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their 
 lives, and in death they were not divided: they were 
 swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. 
 
 Ye daugiters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed 
 you in Jet, with other delights, who put on orna- 
 ments\. (gold von your apparel. 
 
 | How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! 
 
 O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. 
 
 I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very 
 pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was 
 wonderful, passing the love of woman. 
 
 How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war 
 perished! 
 
 There is an instance of maternal aflec- 
 tion recorded in the 21st chapter of the same 
 book, which in speaking of the strength of 
 human passions ought not to be passed over 
 without notice. It is where David was com- 
 manded to destroy the remnant of the house 
 of Saul, and seven sons of the late king 
 were delivered up into his hand, but he 
 spared Mephibosheth, the son of Jonathan, 
 because of the Lord’s oath that was between 
 David and Jonathan. ; 
 
 But the king took the two sons of Rizpah, the daughter 
 of Aiah, whom she bare unto Saul, Armoni and Mephi- 
 bosheth; and the five sons of Michal, the daughter of 
 Saul, whom she brought up for Adriel, the son of Bar- 
 zillai, the Meholathite ; 
 
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 | love than this. 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeon- 
 
 | ites, and they hanged them in the hill before the Lord: 
 
 and they fell all seven together, and were put to death 
 in the days of harvest, in the first days, in the beginning 
 of barley harvest. 
 
 And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and 
 spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of 
 harvest, until water dropped upon them out of heaven, 
 and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them 
 by day, nor the beasts of the field by night. 
 
 Of all the instances, imaginary or real, 
 handed down to us by fable or history, we 
 have not one of a more intense and devoted 
 A solitary woman seated 
 upon a rock, watching the wasting bodies 
 of her two dead sons, day after day—night 
 after night—with no shelter but the open 
 canopy of heaven—no repose but the sack- 
 cloth spread upon the: rock, an emblem of 
 her own abasement—no hope but to see the 
 last—the very last of all she loved—no con- 
 solation but her constancy—no support but 
 the magnitude of her own incommunicable 
 grief. It was the beginning of harvest, and 
 the feet of a busy multitude might come and 
 go beneath that solitary rock—the shout of 
 gladness—the acclamation of the joyous 
 reapers might be heard from the valleys 
 below; but there she sat in her loneliness 
 upon the dismal watch tower of death, 
 faithful to her silent and sacred trust, suffer- 
 ing neither the birds of the air to rest on 
 them by day, nor the beasts of the field by 
 night. 
 
 The whole life of the prophet Elijah, 
 especially his last appearance upon earth, 
 is remarkable for an interest whose Teast 
 recommendation is that of being highly po- 
 etical ; for deeply as this subject has occu- 
 pied the heart of the writer, it must be 
 confessed that in pursuing it through the 
 Holy Scriptures, and tracing its connexion 
 with the revelation of those sacred truths 
 upon which depend our hopes of eternity, 
 the consideration of poetry loses much of 
 its importance by comparison, and the task 
 of the writer becomes like that of one who 
 culls with adventurous hand, the flowers 
 that grow around the fountain of life. This 
 view of the subject would of itself be suffi- 
 cient to prevent any near approach to the 
 doctrinal parts of the Scriptures, whose 
 strictly spiritual import, though still couched 
 in language both figurative and poetical in 
 the extreme, places them above the reach 
 
 of ordinary discussion, in a sphere more 
 exclusively appropriated to considerations 
 of infinitely greater importance. 
 
 Some further progress may however be 
 justifiable in the course we hope we have 
 hitherto pursued without profaning what is 
 pure, or violating what is sacred; and we 
 consequently pause at that passage in the 
 book of Kings, in which the prophet Elijah 
 is described as escaping from his enemies 
 into the solitude of the wilderness, where, 
 casting himself upon the ground, he ex- 
 claims, “It is enough; now, O Lord, take 
 away my life, for I am not better than my 
 fathers.” 
 
 Such were the human feelings contending 
 for the empire of his mind, that he was 
 almost weary of the service of his Divine 
 Master, accompanied as it was with disap- 
 pointment, hatred, and persecution. How 
 simple, and yet how admirably adapted to 
 his peculiar state, are the means here adopted 
 to bring him again to a sense of the super- 
 intending care and love of his heavenly 
 Father. 
 
 And as he lay and slept under a juniper tree, behold, 
 then an angel touched him, and said unto him, Arise and 
 eat. 
 
 And he looked, and behold, there was a cake baken on 
 the coals, and a cruse of water at his head. And he did 
 eat and drink, and Jaid him down again. 
 
 And the angel of the Lord came again a second time, 
 and touched him, and said, Arise and eat; because the 
 journey is too great for thee. 
 
 And he arose, and did eat and drink, and went in the 
 strength of that meat forty days and forty nights unto 
 Horeb the mount of God. 
 
 And he came thither unto a cave, and lodged there, 
 and behold}the word of the Lord came unto him, What 
 dost thou here, Elijah? 
 
 And he said, I have been very jealous for the-Lord God 
 of hosts: for the children of Israel have forsaken thy 
 covenant, thrown down thine altars, and slain thy pro- 
 phets with the sword; and I, even I only, am left; and 
 they seek my life, to take it away. 
 
 And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount be- 
 fore the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, anda 
 great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in 
 pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not 
 in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the 
 Lord was not in the earthquake. 
 
 And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not 
 in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. 
 
 And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped 
 his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the en- 
 tering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice 
 unto him, and said, What dost thou here, Elijah ? 
 
 Where, through the wide range of modern 
 literature can we find a passage to be com- 
 pared with this, for the conciseness and sim- 
 
ee clement 
 
 | dren of Israel, 
 
 plicity with which ideas the most sublime 
 
 and elevated are conveyed into the mind? 
 The prophet had been looking, (perhaps 
 impatiently) for some striking exhibition of 
 Almighty power amongst the children of 
 men, forgetful of the secret springs of action, 
 and action itself being alike under the con- 
 trol of Omnipotence; when his faith and his 
 confidence are reanimated by witnessing 
 one of those tremendous and awful convul- 
 sions of the elements, by which forests are 
 uprooted, and rocks overthrown, accompa- 
 nied with the internal conviction that the 
 immediate presence of the Lord was not 
 there. Again, an earthquake shakes the 
 world; but the Lord is not in the earth- 
 quake ; after the earthquake a fire, but the 
 Lord is not in the fire. No; though such 
 are the open manifestations of his power, 
 by which he makes the nations tremble, yet 
 the prophet was convinced that the war of 
 the elements might exist, and the destruction 
 of the earth ensue, without that sensible 
 presence of the Almighty, for the want of 
 which his soul was fainting. At last, after 
 the fire, there came a still small voice, and 
 Elijah felt that the Lord was near, that he 
 was not forsaken, and that, independent of 
 the outward symbols of illimitable power, 
 the Creator of the world is able to carry on 
 his operations in the mind of man, by the 
 desire of the heart, the silent thought, or the 
 secret impulse directed towards the accom- 
 plishment of his inscrutable designs. 
 
 A great proportion of the Holy Scriptures 
 is not only poetical, but real poetry. Under 
 this head the song of Moses, and “the chil- 
 is the first instance that 
 occurs. In this song, the passage of the 
 children of Israel through the Red Sea, the 
 overthrow of Pharaoh’s host, and the won- 
 derful dealing of the Lord with his chosen 
 people, are commemorated in language 
 highly figurative and sublime. 
 
 The Lord is my strength and song, and he is become 
 my salvation: he is my God, and I will prepare him an 
 habitation; my father’s God, and I will exalt him. 
 
 Thy right hand, O Lord, is become glorious in power: 
 
 thy right and, O Lord, hath dashed in pieces the enemy. 
 And in the greatness of thy excellency hast thou over- 
 thrown them that rose up against thee: thou sentest 
 forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble. 
 And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters were 
 gathered together, the floods stood upright as an heap, 
 and the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea. 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the gods? who || 
 is like thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing 
 wonders ? 
 
 Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, the earth swal- 
 lowed them. 
 
 Thou in thy mercy hast led forth the people which 
 thou hast redeemed: thou hast guided them in thy 
 strength unto thy holy habitation. 
 
 Thou shalt bring them in, and plant them in the moun- 
 tain of thine inheritance, in the place, O Lord, which 
 thou hast made for thee to dwell in, in the sanctuary, O | 
 Lord, which thy hands have established. 
 
 The Lord shall reign for ever and ever. 
 
 When Moses pours forth before the peo- 
 ple his last public testimony to the mercy, 
 the might, and the vengeance of the Al- 
 mighty, it is in the same powerful strain of 
 poetical fervour. 
 
 Give ear, O ye heavens, and I will speak; and hear, O 
 earth, the words of my mouth. 
 
 Do ye thus requite the Lord, O foolish people and un- 
 wise? Is: not he thy father that hath brought thee? 
 Hath he not made thee, and established thee ? 
 
 Remember the days of old, consider the years of many | 
 generations: ask thy father, and he will shew thee, thy 
 elders, and they will tell thee. 
 
 When the Most High divided to the nations their in- 
 heritance, when he separated the sons of Adam, he set 
 the bounds of the people according to the number of the 
 children of Israel. 
 
 For the Lord’s portion is his people; Jacob is the ef 
 of his inheritance. 
 
 He found him in a desert land, and in the waste how 
 ing wilderness; he led him about, he instructed him, he 
 kept him as the apple of his eye. 
 
 As an eagle etirreth up her nest, fluttereth over her 
 young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, bear- 
 eth them on her wings: 
 
 So the Lord alone did lead him, and there was no 
 strange God with him. 
 
 To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense; their 
 foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity 
 is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them 
 make haste. 
 
 For the Lord shall judge his people, and repent him- 
 self for his servants, when he seeth thut their power is 
 gone, and there is none shut up, or left. 
 
 And he shall say, Where are their gods, their rock in 
 whom they trusted ? 
 
 And again, the last blessing of Moses-is 
 delivered in language full of poetry. 
 
 And he said, The Lord came from Sinai, and rose up 
 from Seir unto them; he shined forth from mount Pa- 
 ran, and he came with ten thousands of saints: from hia 
 right hand went a flery Jaw unto them. 
 
 And of Joseph he said, Blessed of the Lord be his land, 
 for the precious things of heaven, for the dew, and for 
 the deep that coucheth beneath, 
 
 And for the precious fruits brought forth by the sun, 
 and for the precious things put forth by the moon, 
 
 And for the chief things of the ancient mountains, and 
 for the precious things of the lasting hills. ; 
 
 There is none like unto the God of Jeshurun, who | 
 rideth upon the heaven in thy help, and in his excellency 
 on the sky. 
 
136 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 RS I a a a a a a TS RRR aa a aa 
 
 The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the 
 everlasting arms, and he shall thrust out the enemy from 
 before thee; and shall say, Destroy them. 
 
 | Israel then shall dwell in safety alone: the fountain of 
 Jacob shall be upon a land of corn and wine, also his 
 heavens shall drop down dew. 
 
 Happy art thou, O Israel: who is like unto thee, O 
 | people saved by the Lord, the shield of thy help, and 
 who is the sword of thy excellency! and thine enemies 
 shall be fonnd liars unto thee; and thou shalt tread upon 
 their high places. 
 
 These two examples are, however, infe- 
 || Tior to the song of Deborah and Barak, for 
 the high tone of metaphorical ornament, 
 characterizing the whole of that incompar- 
 able specimen of poetical imagery, which 
 immediately strikes us with the idea of its 
 having been the archetype of some of the 
 finest passages in Ossian, as well as the ori- 
 ginal from which many of our own notions 
 of the beauty and melody of language are 
 derived. 
 
 Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when 
 the people willingly offered themselves. 
 
 Hear, O ye kings; give ear, O ye princes; I, even I, 
 will sing unto the Lord; I will sing praise to the Lord 
 God of Israel. 
 
 Lord, when thou wentest out of Seir, when thou 
 marchedst out of the field of Edom, the earth trembled, 
 and the heavens dropped, the clouds also dropped water. 
 
 The mountains melted from before the Lord, even that 
 Sinai from before the Lord God of Israel. 
 
 And the princes of Issachar were with Deborah; even 
 Issachar, and also Barak: he was sent on foot into the 
 valley. For the divisions of Reuben there were great 
 thoughts of heart. 
 
 Why abodest thou among the sheepfolds, to hear the 
 bleatings of the flocks? For the divisions of Reuben 
 there were great searchings of heart. . 
 
 Gilead abode beyond Jordan: and why did Dan re- 
 main in ships? Asher continued on the sea-shore, and 
 abode in his breaches. 
 
 Zebulun and Naphtali were a people that jeoparded 
 their lives unto the death in the high places of the field. 
 
 The kings came and fought; then fought the kings of 
 Canaan in Taanach by the waters of Megiddo: they 
 took no gain ef money. 
 
 They fought from heaven; the stars in their courses 
 fought against Sisera. 
 
 The river of Kishon swept them away, that ancient 
 river, the river Kishon. O my soul, thou hast trodden 
 down strength. 
 
 Curse ye Meroz, (said the angel of the Lord,) curse ye 
 bitterly the inhabitants thereof; because they came not 
 to the help of the Lord, to the help of the Lord against 
 the mighty. 
 
 Blessed above women shall Jael the wife of Heber the 
 Kenite be; blessed shall she be above women in the tent. 
 
 She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the 
 workman’s haminer: and with the hammer she smote 
 Sisera; she smote off his head, when she had pierced 
 and stricken through his temples. 
 
 At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet 
 a tie he fell; where he bowed, there he fell down 
 
 ead, ’ 
 
 The mother of Sisera looked out at a window, and 
 cried through the lattice, Why is his chariot so long in 
 coming ? why tarry the wheels of his chariots? 
 
 Her wise ladies answered her, yea, she returned an- 
 swer fo herself: 
 
 Have they not sped ? have they not divided the prey ; 
 to every man a damsel or two? to Sisera a prey of divers 
 colours, a prey of divers colours of needle-work, of divers 
 colours of needle-work on both sides, meet for the necks 
 of them that take the spoil? 
 
 So let all thine enemies perish, O Lord: but let them 
 that love him be as the sun when he goeth forth in his 
 might. 
 
 Were it possible to take away the poetry 
 from these passages, and leave their sense 
 entire, we should then see how much they 
 owe in intellectual beauty, to that peculiar 
 style of language, which adorns the whole 
 of the Scriptures. lt would, however, be a 
 vain attempt to remove one, and leave the 
 other untouched ; because their sense as 
 well as their poetry consists in allusion, and 
 association. We are not merely told of | 
 that, which it is the direct object of the in- 
 spired minstrels to describe, but our 
 thoughts are extended beyond to an infinity 
 of relative ideas, which neither crowd upon 
 nor neutralize each other, but all flow natu- 
 turally and easily into the same stream of 
 enjoyment, mingling with and accelerating 
 its uniform and uninterrupted course. 
 
 We now conclude this minute examina- 
 tion of the Scriptures, not only because it is 
 unnecessary for our purpose to pursue it 
 further, but because we should soon arrive 
 at those portions of the sacred record, which 
 consist entirely of poetry, the most genuine 
 and sublime. We have already seen 
 enough to convince us that the same princi- 
 ple which is associated with our highest in- 
 tellectual enjoyments, is diffused—copiously 
 diffused throughout the written revelation 
 of eternal truth, a revelation whose wonder- 
 ful adaptation to every variety of human 
 nature, feeling, and condition, carries along 
 with it the clearest evidence of its divine au- 
 thority. Coeval with the infancy of time, 
 it still remains, and widens in the circle of 
 its intelligence. Simple as the language of 
 a child, it charms the most fastidious taste. 
 Mournful as the voice of grief, it reaches to 
 the highest pitch of exultation. Intelligible 
 to the unlearned peasant, it supplies the 
 critic and the sage with food for earnest 
 thought. Silent and secret as the reproofs 
 
 eens, 
 
of conscience, it echoes beneath the vaulted 
 dome of the cathedral and shakes the trem- 
 bling multitude. The list companion of the 
 dying and the destitute, it seals the bridal 
 vow, and crowns the majesty of kings. 
 Closed in the heedless grasp of the luxu- 
 rious and the slothful, it unfolds its awful re- 
 cord over the yawning grave. Sweet, and 
 gentle, and consoling to the pure in heart, it 
 thunders and threatens against the un- 
 awakened mind. SGright and joyous as the 
 morning star to the benighted traveller, it 
 rolls like the waters of the deluge over the 
 path of him who wilfully mistakes his way. 
 And, finally, adapting itself to every 
 shade of human character, and to every 
 grade of moral feeling, it instructs the igno- 
 rant, woos the gentle, consoles the afflicted, 
 encourages the desponding, rouses the neg- 
 ligent, threatens the rebellious, strikes home 
 to the reprobate, and condemns the guilty. 
 
 It may be observed, that all this might 
 have been effected without the instrumen- 
 tality of the principle of poetry ; and so un- 
 questionably it might, had the Creator of 
 the human heart seen meet to adapt it to 
 different means of instruction; but as that 
 heart is constituted, the delicate touches of 
 feeling to be found in every part of the Holy 
 Scriptures accord peculiarly with its sensi- 
 bilities ; the graceful ornaments which 
 adorn the language of the Bible correspond 
 to the impressions it has received, the ideas 
 which have consequently been formed of 
 the principles of taste and beauty ; and by 
 no other medium that we are capable of 
 conceiving, could the human heart have 
 been more forcibly assured of the truths to 
 which belong eternal life. 
 
 Had the Bible been without its poetical 
 character, \we should have wanted the voice 
 of an angel to recommend it to the accept- 
 ance of mankind. Prone as we are to neg- 
 lect this banquet upon which the most ex- 
 alted mind may freely and fully feast, we 
 should then have regarded it with tenfold 
 ‘disdain. But such is the unlimited goodness 
 of him who knew from the beginning what 
 was in the heart of man, that not only the 
 wide creation is so designed as to accord 
 with our views of what is magnificent and 
 beautiful, and thus to remind us of his 
 glory; but even the record of his imme- 
 
 Ce a + em 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 137 
 
 diate dealing with his rational and responsi- 
 ble creatures, is so filled with the true me- 
 lody of language, as to harmonize with all 
 our most tender, refined, and elevated 
 thoughts. With our established ideas of 
 beauty, and grace, and pathos, and sub- 
 limity, either concentrated in the minutest 
 point, or extended to the widest range, we 
 can derive from the Scriptures a fund of 
 gratification not to be found in any other }' 
 memorial of past or present time. From 
 the worm that grovels in the dust beneath 
 our feet, to the track of the leviathan in the 
 foaming deep—from the moth that corrupts 
 the secret treasure, to the eagle that soars || 
 above his eyry in the clouds—from the wild 
 ass of the desert, to the lamb within the 
 shepherd’s fold—from the consuming locust, 
 to the cattle upon a thousand hills—from the 
 rose of Sharon to the cedar of Lebanon— 
 from the crystal stream gushing forth out of 
 the flinty rock, to the wide waters of the 
 deluge—from the barren waste to the fruit- 
 ful vineyard, and the land flowing with milk 
 and honey—-from the lonely path of the 
 wanderer, to the gathering of a mighty mul- 
 titude—from the tear that falis in secret, to 
 the din of battle, and the shout ofa trium- 
 
 phant host—from the solitary in the wilder- 
 ness, to the satrap on his throne—from the 
 mourner clad in sackcloth, to the prince in 
 purple robes—from the gnawings of the 
 worm that dieth not, to the seraphic visions || 
 of the blest—from the still small voice, to 
 the thunders of Omnipotence—irom the 
 depths of hell, to the regions of eternal 
 glory, there is no degree of beauty or de- 
 formity, no tendency to good or evil, no 
 shade of darkness or gleam of light, which 
 does not come within the cognizance of the 
 Holy Scriptures; and therefore there is no 
 impression or conception of the mind that 
 may not find a corresponding picture, no 
 thirst for excellence that may not meet with 
 its full supply, and no condition of humanity 
 necessarily excluded from the unlimited 
 scope of adaptation and of sympathy com- 
 prehended in the language and the spirit of 
 the Bible. | 
 
 How gracious then—how wonderful, and 
 harmonious, is that majestic plan by which 
 one ethereal principle, like an electric chain 
 of light and life, extends through the very 
 
| ce 
 
 eee ee, 
 
 138 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 + 
 
 elements of our existence, giving music to 
 language, elevation to thought, vitality to 
 feeling, and intensity, and power, and beau- 
 ty, and happiness, to the exercise of every 
 faculty of the human soul! 
 
 eR A Soe 
 
 THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 
 
 Nor are the Holy Scriptures the utmost 
 bound of the sphere through which poetry 
 extends. With that religion which is the 
 essence of the Bible, it may also be associated. 
 Tke power of human intellect has never 
 yet worked out from the principles of thought 
 and feeling, a subject more sublime than 
 that of an omnipotent Being presiding over 
 a universe of hisown creating. There have 
 been adventurous spirits who have dared to 
 
 | sing the wonders of a world without a God, 
 
 but as a proof how much they felt the 
 want of this higher range of poetical interest, 
 they have referred the creation and govern- 
 ment of the external world to an ideal spirit 
 of nature—a mysterious intelligence, single 
 or multiplied, smiling in the sunshine, and 
 frowning in the storm, with the mock majes- 
 ty of omnipotence. 
 
 Again, the propensities of our nature—the 
 low grovelling hopes and fears that agitate 
 the human heart, when centred solely in 
 what is material, without connection with, or 
 reference 1o eternal mind, as subjects for the 
 genius of the poet, are robbed of half their 
 interest, and all their refinement; but when 
 the feelings which form the sum of our ex- 
 perience are regarded as the impress of the 
 hand of our Creator, when the motives which 
 lead us on to action are considered as deriving 
 their stimulus and strength from almighty 
 power, and when the great chain of cireum- 
 stances and events which influence our lives 
 are linked in with the designs of a superin- 
 tending Providence, they assume a character 
 at once poetical and sacred, a colouring which 
 blends the light of heaven with the shades 
 of earth, and an importance which raises 
 them from what is ordinary and familiar, to 
 what is astonishing and sublime. 
 
 The most serious objection ever advanced 
 against poetry, is that of its not necessarily 
 constituting any part of our religion, and be- 
 
 ing in no way essential to our spiritual 
 progress. Upon precisely the same prin- 
 ciples it might be argued, that beauty does 
 not necessarily form any part of utility, 
 and that happiness is not essential 1o the 
 moral constitution of man. The same an- 
 swer will apply in both cases; and it is one 
 which ought to be sufficient for creatures of 
 limited perceptions like ourselves. It has 
 seemed meet to the Author of our existence 
 so to construct our mental and bodily fune- 
 tions, that we shall derive pleasure from the 
 principle of beauty diffused throughout the 
 external world, and that we shall be lured 
 on by a perpetual thirst for enjoyment to 
 that which is our only true and lasting hap- 
 piness; as well as so to constitute our per- 
 ceptions and feelings that poetry shall be 
 one of our chief sources of intellectual grati- 
 fication, at the same time that it is intimate- 
 ly blended with the highest objects of our 
 
 | desire ; so that in the pursuit of ultimate and 
 
 eternal good, we have no need to resign the 
 society of this unwearying friend, whose 
 
 companionship is a constant refreshment and | 
 
 delight. 
 
 I would humbly refer both these subjects 
 to the unlimited goodness of a gracious God. 
 If the beauty and magnificence of tne visible 
 creation is not essential to practical utility, 
 let us look upon it as a free gift, liberally of- 
 fered for the promotion of our happiness ; 
 and if poetry does not appear to our finite 
 views to be in reality a part of religion, let 
 us consider how they are associated, and 
 gratefully acknowledge their connexion, ra- 
 ther than presumptuously attempt to sepa- 
 rate what the principles of ovr nature teach 
 us to unite. 
 
 We will first speak of the poetry of reli- 
 gion as it is exhibited to the world, in some 
 of the various modes of worship which mark 
 the civil and religious history of man. 
 
 Under the terrific rule of tyranny and 
 superstition, religion has ever been the first 
 to suffer and the last to yield; and whether 
 we contemplate the martyr at the stake, 
 singing his triumphant hymns amongst the 
 circling flames; or pursue the silent devo- 
 tee to the secret recesses of the mountain, 
 or the wilderness, where the bond of Chris- 
 tian brotherhood is strengthened and con- 
 firmed by the horrors of an impending fate 
 
 | 
 | 
 
THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 
 
 139 
 
 nents ostmnipennsnsbostscemgesa 
 
 ee . 
 which threatens to leave that bond alone 
 unbroken, of all that have sweetened and 
 supported life, we see and feel, that the 
 might of mortal suffering, gives even to the 
 most humble victims of cruelty and oppres- 
 sion, a dignity which entitles them to the 
 highest place in the scale of poetical inte- 
 rest.™ 
 
 So far as poetry is connected with the 
 | exercise of fortitude, resignation, and ardent 
 zeal, it is exhibited by the martyr in its holi- 
 est character. Suffering even to death, 
 and sucha death! yet suffering triumphantly, 
 that the glory of God may shine with addi- 
 tional brightness before the eyes of men, 
 and that unbelievers may behold the majesty 
 and the power of the faith for which he dies. 
 Nor has it been always the man of iron 
 mould, of unshaken. nerve, and inflexible 
 resolve, who has died triumphant at the 
 stake. Creatures of delicate and gentle 
 form have been led forth from the hall and 
 the bower, and they too have raised the cry 
 of exultation that they were deemed worthy 
 to set the seal of suffering to the cause they 
 ij loved. Eyes that have never dwelt save on 
 the fairest page of human life have gleamed 
 out from amidst the lurid flames, and looked 
 up in calmness and in confidence to the 
 mercy that lies hid beyond the skies; hands 
 whose gentle office had been the constant 
 ministration of tenderness and charity, have 
 been clasped in fervent prayer, until they 
 mingled with the ashes of the sinking pile ; 
 brows around which the cherub locks of 
 youth were woven, have borne the fatal 
 ordeal, and betrayed no sign of shrinking 
 from the fiery blast; and voices whose 
 sweet tones were once the natural min- 
 
 strelsy of happiness and love, have been | 
 
 * In justice to herself, the writer must here observe, 
 in speaking of the poetry of religion, how forcibly she is 
 struck with what some would call the pwerility of the 
 task she has undertaken; because this subject necessa- 
 rily brings under serious observation the all important 
 truths for which we ought to be willing either to live or 
 die as duty may require; and before which all intellec- 
 tual considerations, even that of poetry itself, vanish into 
 comparative nothingness. She would however hope 
 _|| that her task may be pursued without irreverence, and 
 ‘|| that she may point out the poetry of religion with a dis- 
 tinct feeling of its weightier and more essential attri- 
 butes, in the same way that a beholder may expatiate 
 upon the architecture of a cathedral, without reference 
 to the purpose for which the building was originally de- 
 signed and to which it is still appropriated. 
 
 heard above the crackling embers, and the 
 shouts cf brutal acclamation, hymning to 
 heaven the pure melodious strains of a 
 seraphic joy. Fresh from the fount of do- 
 mestic peace, young, innocent bosoms have 
 been torn to bleed and writhe in the centre 
 of the torturing fire, and trembling with the 
 last throbs of mortal agony, have borne 
 their unflinching testimony to the fervour 
 of their faith. The cry of an agonized pa- 
 rent bursting from the surrounding throng, 
 may have reached the sufferer in the flames, 
 the eye that was once the beacon of his 
 hopes may have glanced upon him through 
 the dense and thickening smoke, and 
 thoughts dear as the memory of early love, 
 may have rushed upon his soul even there, 
 
 bathing it in the tenderness of childhood, | 
 
 and melting down his high resolve, which, 
 
 but for that sustaining and unquenchable | 
 zeal, would yet have sent him forth a worth- || 
 less wreck upon the troubled ocean of life | 
 
 after the promised haven had been in sight, 
 the pilot near, and the anchor of eternal 
 hope ready to be cast for ever into the foun- 
 dation which no storms can shake. Yet 
 even here his faith remains immoveable, 
 and he shakes off the lingering weakness 
 of humanity, his joyful spirit already antici- 
 pating the unbounded fruition of its promised 
 felicity. 
 
 Let us contemplate the awful scene one 
 moment longer. The excitement has sub- 
 sided ; the cry of the merciless spectators is 
 heard no more; the smoking pile becomes 
 one universal ruin; and the living form so 
 lately quivering with the intensity of quick- 
 ened and agonized sensation, is mingled 
 with the silent dust. Are there not foot- 
 steps lingering near that fatal spot? Are 
 there not looks too wild for tears, still fixed 
 upon the white ashes with which the idle 
 breezes are at play? Are there not hearts 
 whose inmost depths are filled with bitter- 
 ness, and thoughts of vengeance, and dreams 
 of impious daring, and fierce, bold scrutiny 
 of the ways of Providence, and presump- 
 tuous questioning if these are the tender 
 mercies of the Most High? Yes; such 
 has ever been the effect of persecution upon 
 the human mind, and never is the infidel so 
 firmly fortified against conviction, as when 
 he contemplates the wrongs and the wretch- 
 
eee 
 
 140 
 
 edness which man, infuriated with a blind 
 and superstitious zeal inflicts upon his bro- 
 ther. 
 
 We turn from this scene of horrors to the 
 aspect presented by religion under a milder 
 form of persecution, or rather under one 
 whose influence is more remote, and we 
 follow a little company of faithful worship- 
 pers to their tabernacle in the mountains, 
 where their canopy is the starry sky, and 
 their altar the rude rocks of the wilderness. 
 Upon the summit of a beetling precipice, a 
 sentinel keeps watch, and while he looks to 
 the sombre woods, the hollow caves, or the 
 dim and distant heights, if haply he may 
 discern the movements of an insiduous en- 
 emy, hymns of praise and adoration are 
 heard from the congregation in the valley, 
 as, echoing from crag to crag, the deep full 
 anthem of devotion rises on the evening 
 breeze. Then the devout and’ heartfelt 
 prayer is offered up, that the true Shepherd 
 will vouchsafe to look down upon and visit 
 the scattered remnant of his flock, that his 
 voice may yet call them into safe pastures, 
 and that he will pour out the waters of eter- 
 nal life, for the support of the feeble, the 
 refreshment of the weary, and the consola- 
 tion of the “sore distressed.” 
 
 It is in such scenes and circumstances, 
 that the followers of a persecuted faith be- 
 come indeed brethren in the fellowship of 
 Christ. Suffering in a common cause, ap- 
 prehending the same danger, and led on by 
 one purpose, the vital bond of the society ex- 
 tends and lives through all its members. 
 Discord enterS not into their communion, 
 for the world is against them, and they can 
 stand under its cruelty and oppression by no 
 other compact than that of Christian love ; 
 jealousy pours not its rankling venom into 
 their hearts, for they are hoping to attain a 
 felicity in which all are blest; ambition 
 sows not the seeds of selfishness amongst 
 them, for their reward is one that admits of 
 no monopoly—of which all may partake, 
 without diminishing the portion of any: and 
 after this pure and simple worship, how sa- 
 cred, how fervent is the farewell of the 
 brethren on separating for their distant 
 home. Some have to trace the dubious 
 
 sands of the sea-beaten shore, some the 
 lonely sheep-track on the mountains, and 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 cath eins niente erase ls Nase soeseten aay 
 
 some the hollow bed of the wintry torrent, 
 whose thundering waters have worked out 
 for themselves a rugged pathway down the 
 hills; but all are accompanied by the same 
 deep sense of outward danger, and internal 
 peace—all have the same bright stars to 
 light them on their silent way, and the same 
 spiritual help to support their weary steps. 
 They know not but the homes they are 
 seeking may have become a heap of ruins ; 
 but they have Jearned to look for an ever- 
 lasting habitation where the spoiler may 
 not come. They know not but the sword 
 of persecution may have severed the chain 
 of their domestic happiness; but they feel 
 that every link of that chain can be reunited 
 ina world of peace. They know not but 
 the shadow of destruction may have fallen 
 upon all that beautified and cheered their 
 earthly path; but they are pilgrims to a 
 better land, and they have only to press on- 
 ward in the simplicity of humble Christians, 
 and the gates of the celestial city will soon 
 be won. 
 
 Religion, stigmatized with the world’s con- 
 tempt, and hunted from the earth by the 
 powerful emissaries of public authority, is 
 ever the religion of the heart and the affec- 
 tions. Were it otherwise it could not stand 
 its ground; but dignity and disgrace, tem- 
 poral enjoyment and temporal suffering, even 
 life and death, become as nothing in com- 
 parison with that righteous cause which men 
 feel themselves called upon faithfully to up- 
 hold before a disbelieving people, for the 
 glory of God and the benefit of their fellow 
 creatures. If it be a test of the love which 
 aman bears for his brother, that he will lay 
 down his life for him, the test of suffering 
 must also apply to his religion; and pure and 
 devoted must be the love of him, who holds 
 himself at all times in a state of readiness to 
 lay down the last and dearest sacrifice up- 
 on the altar of his faith. Yes; that must be 
 love indeed, which overweighs all earthly and 
 natural affections, which separates the mo- 
 ther from her weeping child, the husband 
 from his wife of yesterday, the friends who 
 had been wont to take sweet counsel togeth- 
 er, and last, but not least, which tears away 
 the fond endearing thoughts of promised 
 happiness from the heart around which they 
 cling when it beats with the fervour of youth- 
 
 omen 
 
tc et ne NOT TC I eC ER PA PT EL AR ete 
 
 THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 
 
 ful hope, and rejoices in the anticipated sun- 
 shine of bright days to come, in which the 
 lovely and the loved may dwell together in 
 peace and safety even upon earth. It is not 
 a light or common love that can thus sever 
 the strongest ties of human life, and fortify 
 the soul not only to endure all that our na- 
 ture shrinks from, but to resign all that our 
 nature teaches us to hold dear. 
 
 Irom the worship of the heart, we turn to 
 that of the sanctuary—from religion robbed 
 
 || of its external attributes, restrained, and per- 
 
 secuted, and driven inward to the centre of 
 volition, and sealed up in the fountains of 
 spiritual life ; to that which powerful nations 
 combine to support, before which suppliant 
 monarchs bow, and which, supreme above 
 the regal sceptre, sends forth its awful and 
 imperious mandates through distant regions 
 of the peopled world. 
 
 We enter the magnificent and stately edi- 
 fice consecrated to the worship of a God no 
 longer partially acknowledged, or reverenced 
 at the risk of life, and we mark the pomp 
 and the ceremonial designed to recommend 
 that worship to the general acceptance of 
 mankind. Through the richly variegated 
 windows, bright beams of golden splendor 
 are glancing on the marble floor, and light- 
 ing up the monumental tablets of departed 
 worth. Deeds of heroic virtue, long since 
 forgotten but for that faithful record, are 
 dimly shadowed out upon the tombs, and 
 the sculptured forms that bend in silent beau- 
 ty over the unbroken slumbers of the dead, 
 point with an awful warning to the inevitable 
 doom ofman. Above, around, and beneath 
 us, are the storied pages on which human 
 labour has inscribed the memorial of its 
 power—the barriers raised by art against 
 the encroachments of time—the landmarks 
 graven upon stone, which denote the intel- 
 lectual progress of pastages. We gaze up- 
 on the tessellated aisle, intersected with al- 
 ternate light and shadow, where the stately 
 
 ‘columns, terminating in the solemn arch, 
 
 rise like tall palm trees in the desert plain, 
 whose graceful branches meet in stately 
 grandeur above the head of the wayfaring 
 
 | traveller, while he pauses to bless their wel- 
 'come shade, and thinks how lovely are the 
 
 green spots of verdure in the wilderness— 
 the fertile islands that beautify a waste and 
 
 141 
 
 troubled sea. We listen, and the measured 
 tread of sober feet is the only sound that dis- 
 turbs the silence of that sacred place—we, 
 listen, till the beating of our own hearts be- 
 comes audible, and we almost fear that a 
 “stir—a breath” should break the slumbers 
 of the dead—we listen, and suddenly the 
 tremendous peal of the deep-toned organ 
 bursts upon our ear, and sweet young voices, 
 like a symphony of pure spirits, join the hea- 
 venly anthem as it rises in a louder strain of 
 harmony, and echoes though every arch of 
 the resounding pile. The anthem ceases, 
 and the sound of prayer ascends from a 
 thousand hearts, as variously formed as the 
 lips from whence that prayer proceeds, yet 
 all uniting in the worship of one God—all 
 reverentially acknowledging his right to 
 reign and rule with undisputed sway. 
 Perhaps it is the hour of evening worship, 
 and instead of the bright sunbeams glanc- 
 ing through the many-tinted windows, and 
 penetrating into the distant recesses of the 
 cathedral pile, artificial lights of inferior lus- 
 tre gleam out here and there, like stars in 
 the midnight sky, making the intervening 
 
 darkness more palpable and profound. It is |; 
 the hour when “every soft and solemn in- | 
 fluence” is poured most profusely upon the || 
 prostrate soul, when the sordid and merce- || 
 nary cares of the day are over, and religion, || 
 like an angel of peace, descends upon the |; 
 troubled spirit that knows no other resting |: 
 
 place than her sanctuary—no other shelter 
 than her brooding wing. It is the hour 
 when all our warmest, purest, and holiest 
 
 affections gush forth like rills of sweetness |! 
 
 and refreshment, watering the verdure of 
 the path of life, and producing fresh loveli- 
 ness, and renewed delight. 
 when prayer is the natural language of the 
 devoted soul, and here the humble penitent 
 is kneeling to implore the pardon promised 
 to the broken and contrite heart—there the 
 
 It is the hour || 
 
 parent devoutly asks a blessing upon his fa- || 
 
 mily, and his household, upon the wife of 
 his bosom, and the children of his love— 
 here the poor mendicant bares his pale 
 brow before the eye of heaven, and stands 
 without a blush in that presence to which 
 wealth is no passport, and from which po- 
 verty affords no plea for rejection—there the 
 rich arbitrer of magisteriallaw, humbly bends 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 re 
 
 | his knee, and acknowledges, that without 
 
 the sanction of divine authority the judg- 
 | ment of man must be vain, and his sentence 
 void—here the miserable outcast from soci- 
 |, ety, glides unnoticed along the silent aisle, 
 and bending beneath the shadow of a mar- 
 ble column, bathes her hollow cheek with 
 tears whose sincerity is unquestioned here— 
 there the gaily habited, admired, and che- 
 rished idol of the same society folds her 
 white hands upon her bosom, and feels the 
 deep aching void which religion alone is 
 sufficient to supply—here the rosy lips of 
 cherub infancy lisp the words of prayer, 
 more felt than comprehended amidst the aw- 
 ful grandeur of that solemn scene; and 
 there the wrinkled brow of age is illumi- 
 nated with the overpowing brightness of 
 anticipated joy, while feeble accents, broken 
 by the tremors of infirmity and pain, tell of 
 the gladness of renovated life. 
 
 It is this variety of sight and sound, min- 
 gled together into one scene, and united in 
 the same holy purpose, which constitutes a 
 harmony so true to the principles of human 
 nature, as well as to the character and attri- 
 butes of the Divine Being, and the relation 
 between him and his lowly and erring 
 creatures, that we cannot contemplate such 
 worship without aspiring to partake in its 
 reality—we cannot feel its reality without 
 being raised higher in the scale of spiritual 
 enjoyment. 
 
 If, retiring from this scene, we follow the 
 penitent to his secret cell, we behold him 
 lacerating his bleeding limbs, and torturing 
 out what he believes to be the demon of his 
 natural heart; or we watch him through the 
 tedious hours of solitary musing, when the 
 sun is shining upon the walls of his con- 
 vent, upon the green flowery valley where 
 it stands, and upon the glancing waters of a 
 river whose pure fresh streams glide on with 
 a perpetual melody, through woods, and 
 groves, the verdant beauty of whose mazy 
 labyrinths look like the chosen walks of 
 wandering angels. While the bright sun is 
 shining upon a scene, the pale monk sits 
 brooding over the transgressions of his 
 youth, and counting a never-varying circle 
 of dull beads; or, stooping his cold forehead 
 to the stony floor, he closes every avenue of 
 
 NN 
 
 DS ee ee! 
 2 aa ee 
 
 rational enjoyment, and believing this im- 
 molation of his nature is the sacrifice his God 
 requires, pledges himself to the same absti- 
 nence, the same penance, and the same 
 abasement through all the long years of his 
 after-life. : |! 
 
 It is not, most assuredly, to the nature of 
 such worship, that we would accord the 
 meed of poetical merit; but to the earnest- 
 ness, the sincerity, the total dedication of 
 heart, which its votaries display, and which 
 might sometimes bring a blush of shame 
 upon the less devoted followers of a more 
 enlightened faith. | 
 
 Nor is the simplicity of a less ostentatious 
 form of worship inferior in its accordance 
 with the true spirit of poetry. ‘There is not 
 much to fix the gaze of the beholder in the 
 quiet congregation of a village church, or 
 in the little band of lowly suppliants who 
 bend the knee within the walls of the con- 
 venticle, and listen to the impassioned elo- 
 quence, bursting in extemporaneous fervour, 
 from the lips of the humble labourer in the 
 vineyard, whose reward is not the gift of 
 sordid gain, but the soul-sustaining con- 
 sciousness of walking in the ways of truth, 
 and yielding the tribute of obedience where 
 simply to obey is to enjoy. There is not 
 much to interest the mere spectator in such 
 a scene; but there is much to cheer the 
 spirit of the philanthropist in the contempla- | 
 tion of the earnest zeal, the strict integrity, 
 and the devotional fervour which inspires 
 this staunch adherence to what conscience 
 points out asa better way than that estab- 
 lished by former ages, supported by national 
 authority, and persevered in by thousands 
 from a blind partiality for old customs and 
 familiar forms. 
 
 Far be it from the writer of these pages, 
 to draw invidious comparisons between one 
 creed and another, or to join the public voice 
 which makes destruction rather than edifi- 
 cation the object of its tumultuous outcry. 
 Whatever is the subject of popular belief, 
 or the common ground on which mankind 
 concentrate their energies and hopes, it 
 argues the proper exercise of moral feeling, | 
 when those who dissent from such belief | 
 have the courage and integrity to avow that || 
 dissent in the face of a disapproving world— | 
 
 \ 
 
 a a a ni ; 
 55a maeaneeeerataere game LE ESET ATES TOIT CI FE CRUEL LIA PE TE ARIS CE EP ISSIR EAE IIE RE IEE SG ee ae 
 
 ——— |] 
 
a 
 
 THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 
 
 143 
 
 when those who depart from such ground, 
 do so in Christian love, and charity, and 
 with full purpose of heart. 
 
 It is when entertaining these views of 
 moral rectitude, that we behold with pecu- 
 liar interest a congregation of schismatical 
 
 | worshippers, and even if we cannot join in 
 
 the peculiar form of their devotional duties, 
 
 | we can at least rejoice that there are inde- 
 
 pendent minds, ready to shake off the bond- 
 age of established opinion, and freely and 
 fully to acknowledge whatever they con- 
 scientiously believe to be the truth, making 
 the testimony of their own faith supreme 
 above the authorities of this world, and 
 preferring the service of God before the 
 gracious countenance of men. 
 
 There are cases too, when this system of 
 worship comes home to the affections of the 
 people unprovided for by the established 
 religion of the land. There are obscure and 
 isolated beings, dwelling in remote or thinly 
 peopled districts, by whom the sound of the 
 Sabbath bell is seldom heard, and to whom 
 the welcome visitation of a Christian min- 
 ister would scarcely be known, but for the 
 pilgrim preacher, who penetrates, not only 
 into the solitary cottage of the herdsman on 
 the mountain, but into the lowest haunts of 
 savage life, where, instead of the simplicity 
 of pastoral innocence, he finds the brutality 
 of rustic vice. Nor must we judge of the 
 announcement of a village prayer meeting, 
 or the appearance of an itinerant preacher, 
 by what we ourselves should feel, if com- 
 pelled to listen to his wild eloquence, stirring 
 up the unsophisticated mind to enthusiasm, 
 if not to pure devotion. We must picture 
 the poor and destitute old man, infirm and 
 helpless, racked with pain, and trembling 
 on the brink of the grave, weary of life, yet 
 dreading the darkness and the uncertainty of 
 death, his anguish never soothed by the 
 voice of kindness, nor his heart enlightened 
 by the words of comfort or instruction. We 
 must picture him day after day, and night 
 after night, the sleepless, restless victim of 
 Jassitude and disease, without a thought 
 
 | beyond the narrow bounds of his miserable 
 hovel, or a feeling separate from the pangs 
 that torture his emaciated frame. To such 
 an one, perhaps the wandering minister 
 imparts the sanguine hope that animates 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 his own soul, when suddenly the couch of 
 suffering is converted into one of triumph. 
 He who cannot read, can feel the words of 
 life; and joyfully he clasps his trembling 
 hands in full assurance of an immortality, 
 from whose inexhaustible happiness, the 
 poor, the despised, and the needy are not 
 shut out. 
 
 Or we turn to the cottage of the lonely 
 widow who has lost the sole prop of her de- 
 clining years, whose children are distant or 
 dead, who sit: from morn till night in the si- 
 lence of her desolate home, pursuing the 
 same monotonous range of limited and 
 painful thought—looking alternately from 
 her narrow lattice upon the wide bare sur- 
 face of the distant hills, or back again to the 
 white ashes that lie upon her silent hearth. 
 It is to such a being (and there are many 
 whose existence is a little more enlivened 
 by mental or spiritual excitement) that the 
 social prayer meeting becomes an object of 
 intense and incalculable enjoyment, the com- 
 munion of fellow Christians a living aud 
 lasting consolation, and the record of divine 
 truth the source of vital interest and de- 
 light. 
 
 There are in the darkest and most de- 
 graded walks of life, coarse, blind votaries 
 of mere animal gratification, outcasts from 
 the pale of intellectual as well as moral fel- 
 lowship, gross bodily creatures, who sink 
 the character of man beneath the level of 
 the brute—men whose haunts are the pol- 
 luted habitations of guilt and shame, whose 
 feelings are seared with the brand of public 
 infamy, and whose souls are blasted with 
 the contagion of lawless thoughts and des- 
 picable purposes, and passions uncontrolled. 
 By such men the paths that lead to the 
 house of prayer are more despised than the 
 gates of hell, and rather than seek the par- 
 don of an offended God, they impotently 
 defy his power. But at the same time that 
 they are boasting of their recklessness, and 
 making an open parade of the impious pros- 
 titution of their souls, the worm that dieth 
 not has begun its irresistible operation upon 
 their hearts, and the darkness and horror 
 which surrounded them in their solitary 
 hours assume a tenfold gloom. They hear 
 of religion, and they hate the name; but 
 with their hate is mingled a secret trust in 
 
 ee a n= te 
 
 | 
 
 2 Sa cca ie acannon Sip ee I PRS SEAS ET EE OPER LT EEE FO IS SS Ga ERR 
 
 en 
 
 Le a On Re tr eet ae eigen meen oe mas Seo Feceen ss norepomope eee 
 
 4 
 
144 
 
 its efficacy to remove the intolerable burden 
 under which they groan. They scorn to 
 join the congregation of openly professing 
 worshippers, though but to hear the nature 
 of religion explained; but without implicat- 
 ing themselves, they can go forth into the 
 open fields to listen to, and mock the less 
 authorized enthusiast, pouring his unpre- 
 meditated eloquence upon the wondering 
 ears of thousands, who would not have lis- 
 tened to his voice elsewhere. And such are 
 the means by which the hardened sinner is 
 not unfrequently awakened from his gross 
 and brutal sleep, the outcasts from the so- 
 ‘i ciety drawn back within the wholesome 
 !! limitations of a decent life, and the repro- 
 i| bate reclaimed from the dangerous error of 
 } his ways. 
 
 ‘| Nor let the more enlightened Christian 
 |i despise such humble means, whose chief 
 1 merit is their unbounded extent, added to 
 | their adaptation to extreme cases, and 
 |srer efficacy, proved by the observation 
 
 | 
 
 of every day, is a sufficient warrant for their 
 lawfulness. With the too frequent abuse of 
 these means, poetry holds no connection ; 
 | but it is their least recommendation to say, 
 || that poetry is intimately associated with 
 || their power to awaken the dormant energies 
 of the mind, to penetrate the heart, and 
 mingle with the affections, and to let in the 
 glorious light of immortality upon the be- 
 | 
 | 
 } 
 
 nighted soul. 
 
 Of all the public ordinances of our reli- 
 gion, that which appoints one day in seven 
 for a season of rest, is perhaps the most pro- 
 ductive of poetical association, and as such 
 has ever been a favourite theme with the 
 imaginative bard. In a world such as we 
 inhabit, and witha bodily and mental confor- 
 mation like ours, it is natural that rest 
 should become (especially in advanced 
 age) the object of our continual desire, and 
 
 ' that regarding it superficially, as it appears 
 '! to us in the midst of the cares and perplexi- 
 ‘ ties of ordinary life, we should learn to 
 speak of it as our chief good; although itis 
 probable that in a purer sphere, and endowed 
 with renovated powers of action and per- 
 ception, we should find that constant activity 
 was more productive of enjoyment. Even 
 here, the word rest is one of comparative 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 tunity of making the experiment become 
 more weary of continued repose than of 
 continued exertion. Still the pining of the 
 heart is ever after some portion of natural 
 and necessary rest, and the Sabbath, where 
 it is regarded with right feelings, affords a 
 beautiful and perfect exemplification of the 
 provision made by our Heavenly Father, to 
 meet the wants and the wishes of humanity. 
 
 Those pitiable beings whose mental exis- 
 tence is supported by a perpetual succession 
 of excitements, are wholly incapable of con- 
 ceiving what the Sabbath is to the me- 
 chanic, the labourer, or even to the man of 
 business, whose heart is with his family, 
 while his head and hands are occupied in 
 the daily traffic of mercantile affairs. To 
 such a man the Sabbath is indeed a day of 
 refreshment, as well as rest—a day in 
 which he can listen to the prattle of his 
 almost unknown children, and look into their 
 opening minds, and cultivate a short—alas, 
 too short acquaintance with the sources of 
 domestic happiness—it is a day on which he 
 can enter into the free unreserved compan- 
 ionship of his own fireside, and, feeling that 
 he has a possession in the esteem and the 
 approbation of those around him, in the 
 moral rights of man, in the institutions of 
 religion, and in the heritage of an immortal 
 creature, he aspires to a higher and more 
 intellectual state of being than that absorbed 
 in the continual pursuit of wealth. If then 
 he loves the Sabbath, it is not merely be- 
 cause it relieves him from the necessity of 
 laborious exertion, but because it makes him 
 a wiser and a better man. 
 
 The mechanic has the same reason, and 
 the same right to welcome this day. Indeed 
 it seems to be the peculiar privilege of those 
 who spend their intervening hours in toil 
 and trouble, to appreciate the enjoyment of 
 the Sabbath, so far as it affords them an in- 
 terval of cessation from irksome cares. 
 Rightly to enjoy, and fully to appreciate the 
 value of the Sabbath, requires the associa- 
 tion of a higher range of thought and feel- 
 ing, such as religion alone can supply. | 
 
 If, in. the busy town, and for those who | 
 
 NS pt ep See 
 TOE TN LITE IL, EEE ETT Fray’ 
 
 tread the beaten paths of life, there is much 
 to interest the heart in the recurrence of the 
 Sabbath—in the chiming of innumerable 
 bells at stated intervals of public worship, in 
 
the gathering of vast multitudes assembled 
 for one common purpose, and that the holiest 
 of which our mortal nature is capable, and 
 in the general aspect of sobriety, order, and 
 profound respect which pervades the thickly- 
 peopled city, how much more is to be felt 
 where man exists in a state of greater sim- 
 plicity, in the rude home of the peasant, 
 or in those little groups of humble dwellings 
 gemming the fertile plain, in the midst of 
 which the tall village spire rises and points 
 to heaven. It is not here as in the city, 
 that the loud peal of many bells announces 
 the hour of prayer, but the single bell tolling 
 at intervals, is converted into music by the 
 fresh pure morning air, and the many simple 
 and delightful associations connected with 
 that well-known sound. Perhaps a beloved 
 and revered minister is there to welcome 
 his people. once again within the fold of 
 Christian communion; families separated by 
 the occupations of the week, now meet to 
 offer up their fervent prayers together; the 
 the village pauper stands upon the same 
 foundation as the village lord, and looks 
 upward with the same calm countenance to 
 meet the light of heaven; the comely-habited 
 maiden closes the wicket of her father’s 
 garden, and hastens at the universal call; 
 while the feeble steps of infancy and age, 
 blending their weakness and their humble 
 confidence together, are heard slowly advan- 
 cing along the solemn aisle. No sooner is 
 the simple service ended, than a cordial re- 
 cognition takes place between the pastor 
 and his congregation, and often between 
 those who meet too seldom—the rich and the 
 poor—the exalted and the lowly: and kind 
 questions are asked of the suffering or the 
 absent, followed by visits of Christian love, 
 and words of consolation, to those who are 
 debarred the privilege of meeting their 
 brethren and their friends within the con- 
 secrated walls of the church. 
 
 It is on these days, that through the still- 
 | ness of the summer air, we often hear the 
 | mournful cadence of distant and harmoni- 
 ous voices, singing at intervals their low 
 sweet requiem over the bier of a departed 
 friend, as they bear him to his last long 
 home beneath the outstretched arms of the 
 sheltering elms, that skirt the precincts of 
 the dead, and cast their sombre shadows 
 
 a 
 
 10 
 
 THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 
 
 145 
 
 athwart the beams of the declining sun. 
 Perhaps it is a venerable parent who has 
 been quietly translated to his place of rest, 
 and the tears of the surrounding mourners 
 fall into the grave without bitterness, and 
 almost without regret; for the poor have 
 happier thoughts of the last call announcing 
 the termination of mortal suffering, than 
 those whose progress through this world 
 is less interrupted with hardship, toil, and 
 pain. 
 
 But it is quite as possible that the lifeless 
 form for which that bier is spread, should 
 have been the rustic beauty of the fair and 
 the festival, the pride of the village, the 
 belle who bore away the palm of admiration 
 from her less lovely sisters who now stand 
 weeping by her side, without one touch of 
 envy, or one wish, except to call her back to 
 trace again the flowery meadows, to sing 
 her songs of native melody, and to meet 
 them with her ever-beaming smile of youth 
 and joy. But it may not be. And she who 
 was so fondly cherished, so tenderly beloved, 
 so flattered and admired, is consigned to 
 the cold prison of the tomb, and left to the 
 unbroken silence of her solitary sleep. 
 
 With the Sabbath evening in the village, 
 are connected a thousand agreeable associ- 
 ations, which those who are not alive to the 
 true poetry of life, are unable to enjoy. Nor 
 is it the least portion of the satisfaction af- 
 forded by this day, to see the cattle that 
 have borne their share in the labour of the 
 week, without participating in its reward, 
 browsing in the cool pastures, or resting 
 their toil worn limbs upon the sunny slopes 
 of the verdant hills. The shady lanes 
 around the village afford shelter and _ re- 
 freshment to many a persecuted animal that 
 knows no other day of rest; and as we pass 
 along, we see groups of rosy children wan- 
 dering hand in hand in quest of wild flowers, 
 or the purple fruit of the bramble, which 
 seems to be the only unalienable property 
 of childhood; or we meet with families 
 going half-way home with a beloved son or 
 daughter, whose portion of servitude is now 
 cast in some distant hamlet, from whence 
 the occasional return is an event of long 
 promise, and widely participated joy. 
 Around the open door of the peasant are 
 other groups of more infantine beauty, and 
 
 sla] 
 
 eee enc eee ec ee ee eee 
 
 re ne TE | Seer cere aS og a a SS 
 
146 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 — ee On 
 
 as the father stands beside them, with the 
 Bible in his hand, the fond mother looks 
 alternately at him and them, as if the whole 
 wealth of her existence were centered in 
 these her household treasures; while retir- 
 ing into some quiet nook of the cottage or 
 the garden, the little patient pupil of Sab- 
 bath discipline carefully cons his lesson for 
 the coming week. Farther on within a 
 neatly trimmed enclosure, where the red 
 daisy, and the dark green box, mark out 
 the boundary lines surrounding the rose 
 tree, the sweet briar, and the climbing hon- 
 eysuckle, stands the quiet habitation of an 
 ancient dame, who diligently spells out the 
 meaning of the sacred page, in uninterrupted 
 loneliness and peace. In the distance we 
 hear the sound of many voices joining in 
 hymns of prayer and praise—the old and 
 the young—the feeble and the firm, raised 
 together in one delightful symphony of gra- 
 titude and love: and if scattered here and 
 there, we find little companies of the idle, 
 the thoughtless, or the gay, they are still 
 those whose outward decency—whose fresh 
 bright looks of health and happiness, evince 
 a respect for the Sabbath, and a participa- 
 tion in its universal calm. 
 
 It is after the contemplation of scenes like 
 these, that we return to our homes, more 
 happy in the thought, that the young have 
 their serious moments, the widely separated 
 their time of meeting, the ignorant their 
 seasons of instruction, the old their consola- 
 tion, and the weary ne day of rest. 
 
 It is not however to the public offices of 
 religion, that its poetical interest is confined. 
 If we look into the private walks of life, we 
 behold this powerful principle working the 
 most important revolutions in the moral 
 character of man—if into the midst of fami- 
 lies, we find it severing or uniting the firm- 
 est links of natural connexion—giving so- 
 lemnity to the sad parting—over the glad 
 meeting after long separation diffusing a 
 
 r holy joy—imparting reverence to the attri- 
 butes of age—purity and happiness to the 
 
 | 
 
 a a rR SN 
 ne i ET 
 
 with its sanctifying influence over all the 
 different offices of duty, and charity, and 
 love—or if we look into the human heart, it 
 kr here that religion is seen controlling the 
 
 cheerful smiles of childhood—and presiding | 
 
 ios he (rin tee tee - — = ¥ ; = 
 
 fiery passions of youth, subduing the stub- 
 born will, softening down the asperities of 
 nature, and mingling with the springs of 
 earthly feeling the pure, inexhaustible wa- 
 ters of eternal life. 
 
 How would the fond mother endure with 
 fortitude the sad farewell, that separates the 
 son of her hopes from the genial atmosphere 
 of domestic peace, if she did not in _her 
 heart consign him to the more judicious 
 care of his heavenly Father? or how would 
 she send him forth alone*to trace his distant 
 and dubious pathway through the wilder- 
 ness of life, but for her faith in the guiding 
 hand which she implores to direct him 
 through its manifold temptations, to lead 
 him safely through its dangers, and bring 
 him back to her yearning bosom unspotted 
 from the world. It is the internal support 
 derived from religion that nerves her for the 
 trial, and reconciles her to the after hours 
 of watchfulness and care, when she may 
 look in vain for tidings from the wanderer, 
 and calculate with fruitless anticipation upon 
 the hour of his return. 
 
 It is the same feeling of religion not un- 
 frequently excited to enthusiasm, that tears 
 away the youthful devotee from all the joys 
 of nature, and the endearments of domestic 
 love; clothing her fair forehead in the mourn- 
 ful vestments of monastic gloom, and sha- 
 dowing the young cheek from which the 
 last rose has faded, with the sable pall of a 
 premature and living death. 
 
 It is religion too that steals upon the soul 
 of the contemplative student, and lures him 
 him away from the haunts of convivial 
 mirth, from the excitement of the flowing 
 bowl, and from the ambition of the sordid or 
 the gay, to devote the highest powers and 
 energies of his mind to the edification of his 
 fellow creatures, and the spring time of his 
 existence to the service of his God. 
 
 It is this support which keeps alive the 
 hope of the heart-stricken wife, as she pur- 
 sues her reprobate husband through the 
 dark windings of his sinful course, wooing 
 him back with her unfailing gentleness to 
 the comforts of his home, watching over him 
 in his unguarded moments, with the balm 
 of Christian consolation ever ready for his 
 hour of need, and supplicating with incessant 
 
a: MOD) OC 
 5 lal 
 
 —_—— SS ae ee ee a eS 
 SS REE ETE EE 
 
 i At ee te 
 La STE ITE CT a eo Lira che a 
 
 | 
 
 4 
 i 
 
 oe i 
 
 prayers, that a stronger arm than hers may 
 be stretched out to arrest the progress of 
 his erring steps. 
 
 Without this active and living principle, 
 operating upon the various dispositions of 
 mankind, we should never witness those 
 instances of self denial in the cause of vir- 
 tue, which afford the strongest evidence of 
 the all-sustaining efficacy of religion. How, 
 for instance, would the compassionate mai- 
 den find strength to reject her worthless 
 lover, because the stain of guilt was upon 
 his brow, and because his spirit refused to 
 bow down and worship at the altar of her 
 God, if the claims of duty were not para- 
 mount to those of affection? And yet such 
 things have been; and warm, young hearts, 
 whose cords of happiness were rent asunder 
 by the fierce and fiery trial, have chosen for 
 themselves a solitary lot, separate and dis- 
 tinct from the sphere of their long cherished 
 enjoyments, and have dwelt in peace and 
 resignation under the guiding influence of 
 the one divine light, by which all others, 
 from whence they had ever derived hope or 
 gladness were extinguished. 
 
 Yes; and the man of strong affections, 
 whose downward tendency in the career of 
 worldly occupation, had reduced a tender 
 wife and helpless children to the last extreme 
 of poverty and wretchedness, has been 
 visited with powerful temptation in his hour 
 of weakness, when his perceptions of right 
 and wrong were so confused with bodily and 
 mental suffering, that the limitations of 
 moral good seemed to be yielding to the 
 encroachments of physical evil, when the 
 wants of his starving family were bursting 
 forth in audible and heart-rending appeals 
 for which he had no answer, when the sha- 
 dows of despair fell around him, and squalid 
 misery encircled his cold hearth. And he 
 too has stood his ground, strong in the con- 
 fidence that real good, or lasting happiness, 
 never yet was purchased by the sacrifice of 
 virtuous rectitude. 
 
 But if we measure the strength of the 
 principle by the weakness of the agent it 
 inspires, we would point out, above all other 
 
 instances of its operative power, that in 
 
 which a child looks boldly in the face of au- 
 thority, and daring the retributive judgment 
 
 THE POETRY OF RELIGION. 
 
 oo + peace —e 
 
 SS Se 
 
 147 
 
 which must inevitably follow, openly and 
 freely tells the truth. Sometimes a single 
 falsehood, or a mere evasion would save the 
 little culprit from the pain of public igno- 
 miny, from the fury of a tyrant master, and 
 from the punishment that, even in anticipa- 
 tion, checks the warm current of his youthful 
 blood, and sends a shivering thrill through 
 every nerve and fibre of his trembling frame. 
 But he has been instructed by parents whose 
 word he cannot doubt, to believe that there 
 is a good and gracious God looking down 
 upon the children of earth, caring for their 
 sufferings, listening to their prayers, teach- 
 ing them his holy law, and encouraging 
 them to regard the performance of it above 
 all the enjoyments afforded by the world; 
 and knowing that a strict adherence to the 
 truth is one of the essential points of that 
 law, the penitent child, even with the tears 
 of anguish on his cheek, pronounces the de- 
 cisive word of truth which seals his sen- 
 tence upon earth—the word which rejoicing 
 angels bear to the courts of heaven, as the 
 richest tribute humanity can lay before the 
 throne of its Creator. 
 
 These are but single instances, chosen 
 out from a mass of evidence, clearly proving 
 that religion in its influence upon the affec- 
 tions, in its intimate connexion with those 
 important scenes and circumstances of life, 
 from which we derive the greatest pain or 
 pleasure, in short, in its supreme dominion 
 over the human heart, is, above all other 
 subjects, that which possesses the highest 
 claim to the regard of ths poet; not only as 
 being most productive of -ntellectual grati- 
 fication, but most worthy of him who aspires 
 to the right exercise of the loftiest attributes 
 of mind. 
 
 A superficial view of religion may lead to 
 the popular and vulgar notion, that its prac- 
 tical duties are incompatible with true refine- 
 ment of feeling, and elevation of thought ; 
 but is not that the most genuine refinement 
 which penetrates into the distant relations of 
 things, and cements, by mental association, 
 the visible and material—the familiar or 
 the gross, with powerful impressions of mor- 
 al excellence, and beauty, and happiness? 
 Is not that the most elevated range of thought 
 which combines the practical and temporal 
 
| 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 affairs of men, with the eternal principles 
 upon which the world is established and 
 governed? » 
 
 We know of nothing that can so fully and 
 so beautifully adorn the ordinary path of life, 
 as religion; because it imparts a spiritual es- 
 sence to all our customary actions and pur- 
 suits, in which the slightest portion of good 
 and evil is involved. We can imagine no- 
 thing to exceed in tenderness the merciful 
 dealing of our heavenly Father with his er- 
 ring and rebellious creatures; and as there is 
 nothing to equal the perfection of the Divine 
 character, so there is no sublimity comparable 
 to that of his nature. Noris this all. We 
 have said that poetry must come home to 
 our own bosoms in order to be truly felt, and 
 religion teaches us that we have a portion 
 in everlasting life—an inheritance in eterni- 
 ty—that the hopes and the fears which stim- 
 ulate our actions, the powers and the ener- 
 gies with which we are endowed, are not 
 merely given us for the brief purposes of 
 temporal existence—to play their little part 
 upon this sublunary stage—to animate frail 
 creatures that must perish in the tomb, but 
 as links woven in with the great chain of 
 being to be unfolded in a sphere without 
 limitations, in a “ world without end.” 
 
 We would not depreciate the freeness, and 
 the fulness of the benefits of religion, by say- 
 ing that the poet has a participation in their 
 
 || delights, beyond that enjoyed by others; be- 
 
 | 
 
 i| hesitation in 
 
 H 
 
 cause we reverently believe the nature of 
 religion to be such as to adapt it to every 
 understanding, render it available in every 
 condition of humanity, and sustaining, and 
 consolatory to every heart. But we haveno 
 pronouncing it impossible for 
 the poet to reach the same intellectual height, 
 without the aid of religion, as when he soars 
 on angels’ wings up to the gates of heaven 
 —to touch the strings of human feeling so 
 powerfully, as when his hand is bathed in 
 the pure fountains of eternal truth. 
 
 How for instance would he expatiate up- 
 on 2eauty or excellence, if they had no arche- 
 types in heaven? How would he describe 
 
 the calamities which tear up the root of do- 
 
 mestic peace, and agonize the tortured bo- 
 som, if neither prayer nor appeal were wrung 
 
 out by such wretchedness, and directed to 
 | spriritual power by whom the calamity 
 
 might be averted? How would he solem- 
 nize the vow, or seal the blessing, or ratify 
 the curse, without the sanction of divine au- 
 thority ? or how might his soul aspire to the 
 sublime, without expanding its wings in the 
 regions of eternity ? 
 
 No; there is nothing which the poet need 
 reject in the religion of the Bible, or the 
 religion of the heart; but rather let him seek 
 its benignant and inspiring influence, as a 
 light to his genius, a stimulus to his imagin- 
 ation, a guide to his taste, a fire to his ar- 
 dour, an impetus to his power, and a world 
 thrown open to his enjoyment. 
 
 ee 
 
 4 
 
 IMPRESSION. 
 
 HiTHERTO we have bestowed our attention 
 upon what essentially belongs to poetry, as 
 a medium for receiving and imparting the 
 highest intellectual enjoyment. We now 
 come to the qualifications for composing 
 poetry—the fundamental characteristics of 
 the poet. All persons of cultivated under- 
 standing, endowed with an ordinary share 
 of sensibility, are more or less capable of 
 feeling what is poetical; but that all, even 
 amongst those who attempt it, are not equal 
 to writing poetry, is owing to their deficiency 
 in some or all of the following qualifica- 
 tions :—capacity of receiving deep impres- 
 sions — imagination — power — and taste. 
 These qualifications we shall now consider 
 separately, beginning with the first, which 
 for want of a better term, I have called 
 impression. 
 
 We have already seen how poetry derives 
 its existence from the association of ideas, 
 as well as howsuch associations must arise 
 out of impressions, and it follows as a natu- 
 ral consequence, that if this be necessary to 
 enable a man to feel poetry, it is still more 
 so to qualify him for writing it. Impressions 
 are, in fact, the secret fund from whence the 
 poet derives his most brilliant thoughts—the 
 material with which he works, the colouring 
 in which he dips his pencil when he paints 
 —the inexhaustible fountain to which he ap- 
 plies for the simplicity of nature, and the 
 force of truth. . 
 
 We have before observed, that it is im- 
 
i ee 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 possible to trace a great proportion of our 
 associations to their original source, because 
 we cannot recall the impressions made upon 
 our mind in infancy; but we know that in 
 that early stage of life. when we were most 
 alive to sensation, all the impressions which 
 we did receive, must have been connected 
 with pain or pleasure, and that hence arise 
 preference and antipathy, hope and fear, 
 love and hatred. We have the authority 
 of Dr. Johnson, as well as that of our own 
 observation for asserting, that children are 
 not naturally grateful, and from the history 
 of man in a barbarous state, we learn that 
 he is not naturally henest. The reason is, 
 that both the infant and the savage have 
 received pleasure from self-indulgence, but 
 not from the exercise of any moral duty; 
 and therefore it is evident that greater matu- 
 rity of mind is necessary for the formation 
 of those ideas which arise out of impressions 
 made by the social intercourse of mankind. 
 Yet in a very early state of existence we are 
 capable of deriving more simple ideas from 
 impressions whose strength and durability 
 constitute the riches of the poet. 
 
 Perhaps the first of this description is, the 
 
 Fe Se ch te ee cia ice” St estates ec A A ete la eR a 
 
 idea of power, naturally arising in the mind 
 of a child, from the bodily force by which its 
 most violent attempts at resistance are 
 easily overcome. But in order to be deeply 
 impressed with this idea, it is necessary that 
 we should have witnessed some manifesta- 
 tion of power beyond the reach of man’s ut- 
 most capabilities, and this we behold in the 
 tremendous violence of the winds, the rage 
 of the ocean, the cataract, or the volcano. 
 The idea of number multiplied to infinity 
 comes next, and this it is reasonable to sup- 
 pose may originate in the contemplation of 
 | the stars. We may not be able to recall to 
 our remembrance the time when our own 
 _minds were first awakened to a conception 
 of the splendour of the heavens; but we 
 have an opportunity of observing in others 
 the rapt and astonished gaze with which 
 they first regard the stars in reference to 
 their number, and how the opening mind 
 ‘expands as one after another of these 
 nightly suns rises, and dawns upon it—first 
 seen in separate points of light—tnen in 
 groups—then multitudes—then fields span- 
 gied all over with shining glory—then wider 
 
 | 
 
 i 
 
 IMPRESSION. 
 
 149 
 
 fields—and so on, until at last the idea of 
 number loses all limitation, and the child 
 conceives for the first time, that of infinity. 
 
 From the contemplation of a widely ex- 
 tended view, we have unqustionably de- 
 rived our notion of space. Why this idea, 
 arising out of an incalculable number of 
 objects, in themselves ordinary and familiar, 
 should obtain the character of sublime, it is 
 not easy to determine, unless it be that the 
 same expansion of mind is as necessary to 
 receive these two impressions, as to contem- 
 plate the nature of unlimited power, which 
 is universally accompanied w + sensations 
 of awe, and sometimes of terror. 
 
 Duration is generally the last which the 
 mind receives of these impressions, and 
 when extended to eternity, it is the most 
 important. This idea does not arise like 
 that of infinity, from objects of calculation, 
 nor like power, from any connexion with 
 impulse or sensation; but steals quietly up- 
 on the mind from deep and earnest medita- 
 tion, sometimes upon objects which have 
 existed from time immemorial, sometimes 
 upon those which will exist for ages yet to 
 come. We gaze upon the ivied walls of 
 the ruined edifice, whose very structure 
 bears evidence of the different manners, 
 customs and occupations of those who once 
 surrounded the now deserted hearth, We 
 walk into the spacious banqueting-room 
 whose walls once echoed to the songs of 
 festivity or triumph, and there the bat holds 
 nightly converse with the owl. We listen 
 to the rush of the evening breeze amongst 
 the deep dark foliage of the firmly-rooted 
 irees, which have arisen out of seeds scat- 
 tered by the wandering winds amongst the 
 desolation of fallen magnificence. EKventhen 
 the pile must have been a ruin, and we see 
 by the broken pillar whose base is buried in 
 the earth, what an accumulation of matter 
 time must have strewn around it, to raise 
 the level of the surrounding earth, trom its 
 foundation to its centre. We look through 
 the wide yawning aperture that seenis to 
 have been a richly-ornamented window, 
 and there, where the gallant knight once 
 laid his conquering sword at the feet of 
 smiling beauty, where the minstrel tuned his 
 lyre,and sung the praise of heroesnow forgot- 
 ten, where the snow white hand of the court- 
 
 ee PTET LIT DOPE IS LTA AT TO ATCT 
 ae 
 
6 
 
 Prot 4 ‘ = : s = 
 
 150 
 
 upon the sloping lawn, marking the long 
 shadows of the stately trees, of which nei- 
 ther root nor branch remain ; now the rade 
 nettle rears his head, the loose bramble 
 
 | ly dame was wont to rest as she looked forth 
 
 broken arch, birds of dark omen, inhabitants 
 of desolation, pass to and fro on dusky wing, 
 and the loathsome toad, and poisonous ad- 
 der creep in amongst the shattered fragments 
 of sculptured stone and mouldering marble, 
 to find themselves a hiding place and a home. 
 As we contemplate all this, the mind is natu- 
 rally carricd back to the time when these 
 emblems of deeay had their begianng. We 
 think that there were ruins then; that 
 ages still more remote had theirs ; and thus 
 as we travel through the dim obscurity of 
 pre-exisient time, our retrospective view at 
 length fades and is lost in the sublime idea 
 of uncreated power. 
 
 Or we look onward from the present time 
 —on—oa, to a mysierions futurity, when we 
 and ours shall be forgotten. We cannot 
 '| build up without refleeting that there is also 
 | a time to pull down, and in laying the foun- 
 || dation of an edifice, or in witnessing its erec- 
 tion, it is natural te ask, “ Where shall I be 
 | when of these stones not one remains upon 
 | another?” We plant the sapling oak, and 
 | watch it year by year, slowly extending in 
 | iis circumference and its height, and we 
 | think of the time when children now unborn 
 } 
 
 shall play beneath its shade, when we shall 
 | have been gathered to the only place of 
 earthly rest, and when the very soil in which 
 that tree is planted, shall have become the 
 || property of those who never heard our 
 names. It is by extending such reflections 
 as these ad infinitum, that imagination 
 passes from small to great, from infancy to 
 age, and from time to eternity ; and thus we 
 form all the idea that we are capable of 
 conceiving of that which has no beginning, 
 and can never end. 
 
 | There is one other mental conception— 
 | the idea of a God, intimately connected with 
 | those here specified, which mankind have 
 | 
 
 H 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 endeavoured by every means, natural and 
 artificial, reasonable and absurd, pleasing 
 and terrible, to introduce into the mind, be- 
 | fore the mind is prepared for receiving it; 
 
 and hence follow the unworthy notions, the | 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 | waves in the wind that whistles through the 
 
 by which the majesty of the Divine Being is 
 too frequently insulted. 
 
 If we might so speak without preeump- 
 tion, we should say, that God, jealous of his 
 own honour, had chosen in this instance, 
 sometimes to baffle the ingenuity of man, | 
 by first throwing open to the human mind, | 
 the contemplation of his attributes, and then 
 by his own appointed means, inscrutable to | 
 our perceptions, concentrating them all in 
 one sublime and ineffable thought, 3 
 
 | 
 | 
 
 irreverent language, and the low attributes, 
 
 fiashes through the brain like a quickening | 
 fire, and bursts upon the soul with the light 
 of life. 
 
 I would still be understood to speak poeti- 
 eally. I know that there are modes of rea- 
 soning by which men of sound understand- 
 ing must almost necessarily arrive at a be- 
 lief in the existence of a God. But rational 
 evidence, and the evidence of sensation, are 
 two different things. We often assent to 
 facts of which we do not feel the truth. | 
 And itis this feeling as it gives vitality to | 
 belief, that I would call the impression from 
 which we derive the most lasting and dis- 
 tinct idea of a God. Yet at the same time 
 that I speak of such impressions as evidence, 
 which the Divine Being vouehsafes to give 
 us of his own existence, I speak of them 
 only as corroborating evidence following 
 that of reason, and of no sort of value where 
 they directly contradict it. Separate from 
 the mental process by which the idea is first 
 conceived, this evidence refers rather to the 
 state of the mind as a recipient; and such 
 impressions as are here spoken of poetically,. | 
 may therefore, exist independent of rational 
 conviction. Without such conviction, how- 
 ever, they are liable to lead to the most egre- 
 gious and fatal errors, but with it they es- 
 tablish truth, and render it indelible. 
 
 It is of much less importance to the poet, 
 than to the philosopher, whether impres- 
 sions of this abstract nature, arise out of the 
 immediate operation of divine power, or 
 from a combination of conclusions previously 
 drawn, which the mind is often able to 
 make use of without being aware of their 
 existing in any rational or definite form, and 
 which we can never fully understand, unless 
 the study of the humar mind should be re- 
 duced to a practical science. The poet : 
 
IMPRESSION. 
 
 may often use expressions which accord with 
 the former notion, just as he would describe 
 the hand of Omnipotence covering the 
 mountains with eternal snow, but let us 
 hope that he is wise enough seriously to en- 
 tertain. the latter; and if sometimes. he 
 makes a sudden transition from effects to 
 causes, without regarding the intermediate 
 space, let us do him the justice to believe 
 that it is from the very sublimity of his own 
 genius, which stoops not to take cognizance 
 of means, but rather in searching out the 
 principles of sensation, thought, and action, 
 plunges at once into the fountain of life, and 
 refers immediately to the great first Cause. 
 Thus the full and entire conviction of the 
 being of a God, may come upon us pre- 
 cisely as God pleases, and force itself upon 
 our hearts in the way which he sees meet to 
 appoint. Galen is said to have received 
 this impression from unexpectedly meeting 
 in his solitary walks with a human skeleton ; 
 and just as easily may the infidel be re- 
 claimed from his ignorance by any other 
 
 means adapted io the peculiar tone and- 
 
 temper of his own mind—by the chanting 
 of a hymn, or the peal of rolling thunder— 
 by the prayer of an innocent child, or the 
 destruction of a powerful nation—by the 
 gathering of the plentcous harvest or the 
 desolation of the burning desert—by the 
 faded beauty of a falling leaf, or the splen- 
 dour of the starry heavens—by the secret 
 anguish of the broken spirit, or by accumu- 
 lated honours and unmerited enjoyment— 
 by the blessings of the poor, or the denun- 
 ciations of the powerful—by the visitations 
 of divine love, or by the terrors of eternal 
 jadgmeat—in short, by the natural sensa- 
 tions of pain or pleasure, arising from any 
 of the causes immediate or remote, by 
 which the attributes of Deity may be forced 
 upon the perceptions of the soul, and con- 
 centrated in the idea of one indivisible, and 
 omnipotent Being. 
 
 Subsequent to the idea of a God, arise 
 distinct perceptions of moral duty—of what 
 we owe to him as the creator and preserver 
 of the world, as well as the founder of the 
 laws by which our lives ought to be regu- 
 lated. We have before observed that, im- 
 mediate self-gratification is the earliest mo- 
 
 sensible that this motive must give place to 
 others of a more remote and abstract nature. 
 With the first impressions of pain and plea- 
 sure, we learned to separate evil from good. 
 We now learn that there is a deeper evil to 
 which pleasure is frequently the prelude, 
 and a higher good which can sometimes on- 
 ly be attained by passing through a medium 
 of pain. " 
 
 Our first strong impressions of a moral na- 
 ture are of beauty and excellence. “We 
 should call beauty merely physical, did it 
 not comprehend what belongs to fitness and 
 harmony, as well as to colour and form. 
 In ail that is exquisite in art we are etruck 
 with the idea of beauty in connexion with 
 others; as, with all that is magnificent in 
 
 nature we combine with the same idea, those 
 
 of motion or sound, form or colour, light or 
 shade, splendour or majesty, utility or pow- 
 
 ser; but we are perhaps never more im- 
 
 pressed with mere beauty than when con- 
 templating a flower—gorgeous in its colour 
 as the resplendent heavens—pure in its 
 whiteness as the winter’s snow. The eye 
 that can gaze without admiration upon a 
 flower, deserves to be prematurely dim; for 
 what is there on earth more intensely beau- 
 tiful! and yet how frail! so that scarcely 
 does the breath of praise pass over it, than 
 its delicate petals begin to droop, and Its 
 stem that once stood proudly in the field 
 or the garden, bends beneath the fading glory 
 which it bears. Yet the same flower, sup- 
 ported by the hand of nature, and sheltered 
 beneath her maternal wing, burst forth in 
 the wilderness, where we are too delicate 
 to tread, opened its gentle eye full under- 
 neath the sunbeams from which we turn 
 away, rested on the thorns which startle us 
 at every step, poured forth its odours up- 
 on the blast from which we shrink, drank in 
 the dews which chill our coarser natures, en- 
 dured the darkness of the solitary nignt from 
 which we fly with terror, and derived its 
 nourishment from the common earth, which 
 we spura, until we learn to value the latest 
 friend whose arms are open to receive us. 
 Excellence, like beauty, is of kinds so va- 
 rious, and degrees so numerous, that it is 
 only by a combination of impressions that 
 we arrive at the idea of excellence in its ab- 
 
 tive upon which we act, but we now become | stract nature; but when once formed, it con- 
 
re 
 
 ee 
 
 Seen en ene ee ne ee ee nea eecinnbibinntilitin Den ehIeDbic NORD inet nad 
 
 stitutes the point of reference, and the cli- 
 max of all that we admire and love; and 
 therefore it is of the utmost importance to 
 the poet, that his standard of excellence 
 
 | should not only be acknowledged as such by 
 ' the enlightened portion of mankind, but that 
 
 it should be as high as the human mind can 
 reach, and at the same time so deeply graven 
 upon his own heart, that neither ambition, 
 
 hope, nor fear, nor any other passion or af- 
 
 fection to which he is liable, can obliterate 
 the impression, or supplant it by another. 
 
 All our ideas of intellectual as well as 
 moral good are of a complex nature, arising 
 not so much out of impressions made by 
 things themselves, as by their relations, as- 
 sociations, and general fitness or unfitness 
 one to another; hence it follows that the 
 mind must be naturally qualified for receiv- 
 ing decided impressions of simple ideas, so 
 as afterwards to make use of them, in draw- 
 ing clear deductions, by comparing them 
 one with another, and combining them to- 
 gether. How, for instance, would the poet 
 describe the general influence of evening 
 twilight, if he had never really felt its tran- 
 quillizing power as it extends over the ex- 
 ternal world, and reaches even to the heart ? 
 or how would he be able to convey a clear 
 idea of the virtue of gratitude, if he had never 
 known the expansion of generous feeling, 
 the ardent hope of imparting happiness, and 
 the disappointment of finding that happiness 
 unappropriated, or received with contempt ? 
 
 That there are men of common percep- 
 tions, who “travel from Dan to Beersheba,” 
 saying that all is barren, and that there are 
 men of more than ordinary talent, who, de- 
 ficient neither in imagination, power, nor 
 taste, are yet unable to write poetry, is 
 evidently owing to their want of capability 
 for receiving lively impressions; for wherever 
 such impressions exist, with sufficient ima- 
 gination to arrange and combine them so as 
 to create fresh images, with power to em- 
 body them in forcible words, and taste to 
 render those words appropriate and pure, 
 either poetry itself, or highly poetical prose, 
 must be the natural language of such a 
 mind. 
 
 We should say that opportunity for re- 
 ceiving agreeable impressions, as well as 
 capacity for receiving them deeply, was 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 essential to the poet, were it possible that 
 any human bemg, even of moderately cul- 
 tivated understanding, commanding the use 
 of language, and acquainted with the prin- 
 ciples of taste, should have been so entirely 
 excluded from all contemplation of what is 
 admirable, both in the external world and in 
 human nature, as to have conceived no just 
 idea either of physical or moral beauty. It 
 is however of immense importance to the 
 poet that he should have formed an early 
 and intimate acquaintance with subjects 
 regarded as poetical by the unanimous 
 
 opinion of mankind—that he should have | 
 
 gazed ‘upon the sunset until his very soul 
 was rapt in the blaze of its golden glory— 
 that he should have lived in the quiet smile 
 of the placid moon, and looked up to the 
 stars of night, until he forgot his own iden- 
 tity, and became like a world of light 
 amongst the shining host—that he should 
 have watched the silvery flow of murmuring 
 water, until his anxious thoughts of present 
 things were lulled to rest, and the tide of 
 memory rolled on, pure, and clear, and bar- 
 monious, as the woodland stream—that he 
 should have listened to the glad voices of 
 the birds of spring, until his own was min- 
 gled with the universal melody of nature. 
 and strains of gratitude and joy burst forth 
 from his overflowing heart—that he should 
 have seen the woods in their summer vesture 
 of varied green, and felt how beautiful is 
 the garment of nature—that he should have 
 found the nest of the timid bird, and ob- 
 served how tender its maternal love, and 
 how wonderful is the instinct with which the 
 frailest creatures are endowed—that he 
 should have stood by the wave-beaten shore 
 when a galley with full sails swept along 
 the foaming tide, and impressed upon the 
 tablet of his heart a perfect picture of ma- 
 jesty and grace—that he should have wit- 
 nessed the tear of agony exchanged for the 
 smile of hope, and acknowledged—feelingly 
 acknowledged, how blessed are the tender 
 offices of merey—that he should have heard 
 the cry of the oppressed, and seen the 
 breaking of their chains, with the inmost 
 
 chords of his heart’s best feelings thrilling | 
 at the shout of liberty—that he should have | 
 
 trembled beneath the desolating storm, and 
 hailed the opening in the tempestuous clouds 
 
IMAGINATION. 
 
 t 
 
 153 
 
 | from which the mild radiance of returning has been possessed, in an eminent degree, 
 
 peace looked down—that he should have 
 bent over the slumbering infant, until his 
 imagination wandered from the innocence 
 of earth to the purity of heaven—that he 
 should have contemplated female beauty in 
 ils loveliest, holiest form, and then by a 
 slight transition, passed in amongst the an- 
 _ gelie choir, and tuned his harp to celebrate 
 ils praise, where beauty is the least of the 
 
 | attributes of excellence—in fine, that he 
 
 should have bathed in the fount of nature, 
 and tasted of the springs of feeling at their 
 different sources, choosing out the sweetest, 
 the purest, and the most invigorating, for 
 the delight of mankind, and the perpetual 
 refreshment of his own soul. 
 
 As in society itis impossible to know 
 whether any particular language has been 
 learned until we hear it spoken, so it would 
 be difficult to single out individual instances 
 of the existence or the absense of deep im- 
 
 | their faculty to light. 
 
 pressions; because a mind may be fully en- 
 dowed with this first principle of poetry, and 
 yet without the proper medium for making 
 it perceptible to others, we may consequently 
 never be aware of the presence of such a 
 capability even where it does exist. It will, 
 however, eminently qualify the possessor 
 for feeling and admiring poetry, and thus it 
 is but fair to suppose, that there are many 
 individuals undistinguished in the multitude, 
 who possess this faculty in the same degree 
 as the most celebrated poet, but who for 
 
 || want of some or all of the three remaining 
 
 requisites, have never been able to bring 
 Where, amongst the 
 four requisites for writing poetry, this 
 alone is wanting, however highly cultivated 
 the mind of the writer may be, and how- 
 ever mature his judgment, this single de- 
 
 || ficiency will have the effect of rendering 
 
 his poetry monotonous and unimpressive, 
 even where it is, critically speaking, free 
 from faults; because it is impossible that he 
 should be able to convey to others clear or 
 forcible ideas of what he has never felt 
 
 | clearly or forcibly himself. Dr. Johnson 
 
 was a poet of this description; and on the 
 other hand, instead of pointing out instances, 
 we have no hesitation in asserting that 
 every man who has written impressively, 
 
 “ ingeniously, powerfully, and with good taste, 
 
 —_— 
 
 of the faculty of receiving and remembering 
 impressions. : 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 IMAGINATION is the next qualification es- 
 sential in the poetic art. As a faculty, im- 
 agination is called creative, because it forms 
 new images out of materials with which 
 impression has stored the mind, and multi- 
 plies such images to an endless variety by 
 abstracting from them some of their quali- 
 ties, and adding others of a different nature ; 
 but that imagination does not actually create 
 original and simple ideas, is clear, from the 
 fact that no man by ihe utmost stretch of 
 his rational faculties, by intense thought, or 
 by indefatigable study, can imagine a new 
 sense, a new passion, or a new creature. 
 Imagination, therefore, holds the same rela- 
 tion to impression, as the finished picture 
 does to the separate colours with which the 
 artist works. Judiciously blended, these 
 colours produce all the different forms and 
 tints observable in the visible world; and 
 by arranging and combining ideas previously 
 impressed upon the mind, and shaping out 
 such combinations into distinct characters, || 
 imagination produces all the splendid ima- 
 gery by which the poet delights and aston- 
 ishes mankind. When he describes an ob- 
 ject new to his readers, itis seldom new to 
 himself, or if new as a whole, it is familiar 
 in its separate parts. If for instance he 
 sings the praises of maternal love, he refers 
 to the memory of his own mother, and the 
 strong impression left upon his mind, by her 
 solicitude and watchful care—if the song cf 
 the nightingale, he recails the long summer 
 nights, ere forgetfulness had become a bless- 
 ing, when to listen was more happy than to 
 sleep—if the northern wind, he hears again 
 the hollow roar amongst the leafless boughs, 
 that was wont to draw in the domestic circle 
 around his father’s hearth—if the woodland 
 music of the winding stream, he knows its 
 liquid voice by the rivulet in which he 
 bathed his infant feet—if the tender offices of 
 friendship, he has enjoyed them too feelingly 
 
 ee 
 
een erat I I eg ge 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 ———— 
 
 154 
 
 to forget their influence upon the soul—or 
 if the anguish of the broken heart, who has 
 not the transcript of sorrow written even on 
 the earliest page of life ? 
 
 These are instances in which the poet 
 draws immediately from experience, and 
 where his task is only to transmit to others 
 the impression made upon his own mind; 
 but there are other cases where the idea con- 
 veyed is derived from a combination of im- 
 pressions, and this is more exclusively the 
 work of imagination. 
 
 The poet who has never seen a lion may 
 use the image of one in his verses, with 
 almost as much precision as the poet who 
 has; because he knows that its attributes 
 are courage, ferocity, and power, and he 
 has been impressed with ideas of these 
 attributes in other objects. He knows that 
 its roar is loud, and deep, and terrific, and 
 he has distinct impressions of the meaning 
 of these words also. Its colour, form, and 
 general habits, he becomes acquainted with 
 by the same means; and thus he makes 
 bold to use the name and the character of 
 the lion to ornament his verse., In the same 
 manner he describes the sandy desert, and 
 with yet greater precision; because he has 
 only to add to the sands of the sea shore, 
 with which he is perfectly familiar, the 
 two qualities of extent and burning heat, 
 and he sees before him at once the wide 
 and sterile wastes of Arabian solitude. Or 
 if the human countenance be the subject of 
 his muse, and he endeavours to invent one 
 that shall be new to himself as well as to 
 his readers, it is by borrowing different fea- 
 tures from faces which have left their im- 
 press on his mind: and upon the same prin- 
 ciple he proceeds through all that mental 
 process, which is called creating images, 
 and which gives to the works of the highly 
 imaginative, the character of originality ; 
 because from the wide scope and variety of 
 their impressions, they are able to select 
 such diversified materials, that when com- 
 bined, we only see them as a whole, without 
 being aware of any previous acquaintance 
 with their particular parts. . 
 
 Where distinct impressions, power, and 
 taste are present in full force, and imagina- 
 tion alone, out of the four requisites, is 
 wanting, we speak of the poet as one who 
 
 borrows from the thoughts of others, or one 
 whose images are too ordinary and common 
 place to interest the reader; because, either 
 limited by the nature of his own mind to a 
 narrow range of ideas, or indolent in the 
 search of materials necessary for his work, 
 he has laid hold of such as fell most readily 
 within his grasp, and these being few and 
 familiar, and unskilfully arranged, we recog- 
 nise at once the gross elements of the com- 
 pound, and see from whence they have been 
 obtained. 
 
 Deficiency of imagination is the reason 
 why some, who would otherwise have been 
 our best poets, are mannerists. It is true 
 they may be so from partiality, almost 
 amounting to affection, for some peculiar 
 character or style of writing; but that they 
 are blindly addicted to this fault, is much 
 more frequently owing to their want of ca- 
 pability to conceive any other mode of con- 
 veying their ideas. - 
 
 Lord Byron was unquestionably a writer 
 of the former class. From the variety of 
 his style, the splendour of his imagery, and 
 the brilliant thoughts that burst upon us as 
 we read his charmed lines, it is impossible 
 to believe that his imagination was incapable 
 of any scope, of any height, or any depth, 
 to which it might be directed by inclination ; 
 but in the characters he portrayed he may 
 justly be called a mannerist, because he 
 evidently preferred the uniformly dark and 
 melancholy ; and chose out from the varied 
 impressions of his own life, that sombre hue, 
 so deeply harmonizing with majesty and 
 gloom, which he spread over every object 
 in nature, like the lowering thunder clouds 
 above the landscape; varying at times the 
 wide waste of brooding darkness, with short- 
 lived but brilliant flashes of sensibility, and 
 wit, and lively feeling, like the lurid streaks 
 that shoot athwart the tempestuous sky, 
 lighting up the world for one brief moment 
 with ineffable brightness, and then leaving 
 it to deeper—more impenetrable night. 
 
 As instances of mannerism arising from 
 the actual want of imagination, we might 
 bring forward a long list of minor poets, as 
 
 well as inferior writers of every description, 
 
 without however descending so low as to 
 those who have not consistency of mind 
 sufficient for maintaining any particular sys- 
 
 nr et en rR 
 eA EA ER RE RE 
 
 | 
 
 « 
 
| 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 i 
 
 | 
 
 EST Sa ee Senne 
 
 an en eee 
 eee ee 
 SS ee 
 
 Si i pee AS 4 
 
 | 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 tem of thought, or style of composition. 
 Yet of imagination, as well as impression, 
 we are unable to say decidedly that it does 
 not exist, because, like impression, it only 
 becomes perceptible to us through the me- 
 dium of words; and as all individuals are 
 not able to use this medium with force and 
 perspicuity, we necessarily lose many of the 
 brilliant conceptions of those around us. 
 We may however assert as an indisputable 
 fact, that poetry of the highest order was 
 never yet produccd without the powerful 
 exercise of the faculty of imagination. 
 
 ‘As a wonderful instance of the force and 
 efficacy of imagination, as well as of im- 
 pression, power, and taste, we might single 
 out Milton, were it not that power is more 
 essentially the characteristic of his works. 
 He has equals in the other requisites of a 
 poet, while in power he stands unrivalled. 
 
 But, supreme in the region of imagination 
 is our inimitable Shakespeare; and that he 
 is inimitable is-perhaps the greatest proof 
 of the perfection of his imaginative powers. 
 The heroes of Byron have been multiplied 
 through so many copies that we have grown 
 weary of the original; but who can imitate 
 the characters of Shakespeare? And yet 
 how perfectly human is every individual of 
 the multitude which he has placed before 
 us—so human as to be liked and disliked, 
 according to the peculiar cast of mind in the 
 persons who pronounce upon them; just in 
 the same manner as characters in ordinary 
 life attract or repel those with whom they 
 come in contact. Every one forms the same 
 opinion of the Corsair, because he has a few 
 distinctive qualities, by which he is known 
 and copied; while no two individuals agree 
 upon the character of Hamlet—a character 
 of all others perhaps least capable of imita- 
 tion. Yet let us ask, is Hamlet less natural 
 than Conrad? Quite the reverse. If ever 
 the poet’s mind conceived a perfectly origi- 
 nal man, it is Hamlet, in whose mysterious 
 nature is displayed the most astonishing 
 effort of imagination; and yet so true is the 
 dark picture to the principles of human 
 nature, that we perceive at once the repre- 
 sentation of a creature formed after the 
 similitude of ourselves. 
 
 The fact is, that though as a whole it 
 
 '| stands alone, even in the world of fiction, in 
 
 ———— 
 
 os TT I nN ee ee ee ee Fe ee 
 a 
 
 — 
 co 
 i) | 
 
 all its varied parts it consists of the ordinary 
 and familiar features of humanity; and in 
 thinking of this wayward and capricious be- 
 ing, whose accumulated wrongs and mise- 
 ries have almost stupified his energies, whose 
 melancholy, natural or induced, has con- 
 verted the “brave, o’erhanging firmament” 
 into “a pestilent congregation of vapours,” 
 we feel with him in all his weakness, as 
 with a man; and for him with all his faults, 
 as fora brother. In memory tco, how dis- 
 tinct is Hamlet from all the creations of infe- 
 rior minds! He seems to occupy a place in 
 history, rather than in fiction ; and in search- 
 ing out the principles of human feeling, we 
 refer to him as to one whose existence was 
 real, rather than ideal. ‘This may be said of 
 all Shakespeare’s characters, and so power- 
 ful is the evidence of truth impressed upon 
 them, that where he chooses to depart from 
 circumstantial fact, our credence clings to 
 him in preference to less imaginative histo- 
 rians. , 
 
 Perhaps the most remarkable fact in con- 
 nection with the genius of this wonderful 
 writer, is the immense variety of his charac- 
 ters. In almost all other fictitious writings, 
 we recognize the same hero, appearing in 
 different forms—sometimes seated on an east- 
 ern throne, and sometimes presiding over 
 the rude ceremonial of an Indian wigwam ; 
 while the same heroine figures in the “sable 
 stole” of a priestess, or in the borrowed or- 
 naments of a bandit’s bride. But the peo- 
 ple of Shakespeare amongst whom we seem 
 to live, are in no way beholden to situation 
 or costume, for appearing to be what they 
 really are. They have an actual identity 
 an individuality that would be distinctly per- 
 ceptible in any other circumstances, or un- 
 der any other disguise. 
 
 One of the favorite painters of our day, or 
 rather of yesterday, has but three heads, 
 which serve all his purposes—an old man 
 with white hair and flowing beard, a Grecian 
 female, and a semi-roman hero ; and in the 
 same way many of our writers make use of 
 three or more distinctions of character—a 
 hero and a heroine—a secondary hero to 
 thwart their loves—a secondary heroine to 
 assist either one party or the other—per- 
 haps to play at cross purposes with her mis- 
 tress or her friend: and a fool or buffoon, 
 
 ’ 
 
 —s 
 
 ee nee Solent prion petcanne anne en a a SS 
 
 i} 
 
 SF 
 
| 
 
 ! 
 
 | likely to be reduced to a dilemma. 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 
 155 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 (who varies least of all,) to rush upon the 
 stage when more important personages are 
 But in 
 Shakespeare even the fools are as motley as 
 the garb they wear; and the women, who 
 with other writers vary only from the ten- 
 der to the heroic, are of all ages, and of all 
 distinctions of character and feeling; while 
 amongst the immense number of men whom 
 he introduces to our acquaintance, there is no 
 single instance of greater resemblance than 
 we find in real life. Perhaps the nearest 
 approach to similarity is in the blundering 
 avsurdities of justices of the peace, or coun- 
 try magistrates, a class of people with whom 
 (“if ancient tales say true”) it is probable 
 the poet may have been brought into no very 
 pleasing kind of contact, and hence arises 
 the vein of satire which flows through every 
 description of their conduct and conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Bcyond this, there is another striking proof 
 of the wonderful extent of Shakespeare’s 
 imaginative powers. Throughout the whole 
 of his plays we never recognize the man 
 himself. In the works of almost every other 
 writer, the author appears before us, and we 
 become in some measure acquainted with his 
 peculiar tone of mind and individual cast of 
 character ; but Shakespeare is equally at 
 home with the gloomy or the gay, the licen- 
 tious or the devout, the sublime or the 
 familiar, the terrific or the lovely. Wenever 
 detect him identifying himself either with 
 the characters, or the sentiments of others ; 
 
 '| and though we wonder, and speculate upon 
 
 the mind that could thus play with all the 
 feelings of humanzity, Shakespeare himself 
 remains invisible and unknown, like a mas- 
 ter magician regulating the machinery which 
 at the same time conceals his own person, 
 and astonishes the world. 
 
 The Tempest is generaily considered the 
 most imaginative of Shakespeare’s plays, 
 
 || and certainly it contains little, in scenery, or 
 
 circumstance, that can be associated with 
 ordinary life. In the character of Prospero, 
 we are forcibly struck with the originality of 
 
 || the conception; because it combines what 
 
 is not to be found elsewhere—the art ofa 
 
 ' necromancer with the dignity of a man of 
 
 honour and integrity ; and when he lays 
 
 down his magic wand, “unites the spell,” 
 
 and dofls the mantle of enchantment, he 
 stands before us, not debased and powerless, 
 but full of the native majesty of a noble- 
 
 man and a prince. To his daughter, the 
 Ae and spiritual Miranda, one of our most 
 talented, yet most feminine writers,* has so 
 lately done, perhaps more than justice, that 
 nothing can be added to her own exqui- 
 sitely ‘poetical description of the island 
 nymph, who has “sprung up into beauty 
 beneath the eye of her father, the princely 
 magician; her companions the rocks and 
 woods, the many-shaped, many-tinted clouds 
 and the silent stars; her playmates the 
 ocean billows that stoop their foamy crests, 
 and run rippling to kiss her feet.” 
 
 Of Ariel, the “delicate Ariel,” that most 
 ethereal essence that ever aad the form 
 of beauty in the glowing visions of imagin- 
 ation, what can we say? so entirely and 
 punely spiritual is this aerial being, that we 
 know not whether to speak of him as call- 
 ing up “spirits from the vasty deep,” rolling 
 the thunder clouds along the stormy heav- 
 ens, whelming the helpless mariners in the 
 foaming surge, and dashing their “ goodly 
 bark” upon the echoing rocks or if spect 
 gentle, willing, and obedient, hastening on 
 ready service at a moment’s bidding, and ' 
 asking for the love, as well as the approba- || 
 tion, of the island lord. We know of no- 
 
 thing within the range of ordinary thought | 
 
 from which the character of Ariel can be 
 borrowed, and certainly it is the nearest in 
 approach to a perfectly original conception, 
 of any which in our literature adorns the 
 page of fiction. 
 
 Of Caliban, too monstrous for a man— 
 too fiendish for a beast, it may also be said 
 that he is entirely the creature of imagina- 
 tion; and indeed throughout the whole of 
 this astonishing drama, the mind of the au- 
 thor seems to have taken the widest possi- 
 ble range of which human genius is capa- 
 ble. The very existence of these beings upon 
 a solitary island, isolated and shut out from 
 human fellowship, involves, in difficulties as 
 strange as insurmountable to ordinary pow- 
 ers, the usual course of thought and action, 
 and renders it infinitely more reconcilable to 
 
 * Mrs. Jameson. 
 
| 
 
 our prejudices, that Prospero, in such a situa- 
 tion, 
 
 ; “ with the stars, 
 And the quick spirits of the universe” 
 
 should hold “ his dialogues.” | 
 
 How beautiful, amidst all the complicated 
 machinery of -her father’s magic, is the deli- 
 cate simplicity of Miranda! She wonders 
 not at the prodigies around her, because her 
 trust and her love are centered in her father, 
 and she believes him to have power to dis- 
 solve as well as to enforce the spell; ‘yet 
 why he should exercise this power for any 
 other than humane and gracious purposes, 
 she is at a loss to conceive, and therefore 
 she ventures to call his attention to the 
 wreck of a “brave vessel” which she has 
 first seen dashed amongst the rocks, and 
 then she adds— 
 
 “ Had I been any God of power, I would 
 Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e’er 
 It should the good ship so have swallow’d, and 
 The freighting souls within her.” 
 
 Finding the natural disposition to wonder 
 and inquire, just dawning in her mind, 
 Prospero thinks it time to explain the myste- 
 ry of their situation, and then follows that 
 touching and beautiful description of their 
 former life, their wrongs, and sufferings, 
 which, occasionally interrupted by the jeal- 
 ousy of the narrator, lest the attention of his 
 child should wander, and by her simple 
 ejaculations of wonder and concern, is un- 
 paralleled alike for its imaginative charm, 
 and for its accordance with the principles of 
 nature. For instance, when Miranda is 
 questioned by her father whether she can 
 remember a time before she came into that 
 cell, and whether she can recall such by 
 any other house, or person, or image, she 
 answers— 
 
 “MIRANDA. 
 Pris far off; 
 And rather like a dream than an assurance 
 That my remembrance warrants: Had I not 
 Four or five women once, that tended me? 
 
 PROSPERO. 
 Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it 
 That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else 
 In the dark back ward and abysm of time? 
 If thou remember’st aught ere thou cam’st here ; 
 How thou cam’st here thou may’st. 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 But that I do not. 
 
 See > 
 
 IMAGINATION. | 
 
 - PROSPERO. 
 Twelve years since, Miranda, twelve years since, 
 Thy father was the duke of Milan, and 
 A prince of power. 
 
 MIRANDA 
 
 rors of their situation afloat upon the sea, 
 how natural and feminine is her reply, 
 and his, how full of tender and yet noble 
 feeling ! 
 
 “ PROSPERO. 
 “In few, they hurried us on board a bark, 
 Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepar’d 
 A rotten carcass of a boat not rigg’d, 
 Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats 
 Instinctively had quit it. There they hoist us 
 To cry to the sea that roar’d to us; to sigh 
 To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 
 Did us but loving wrong. 
 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 Alack ! what trouble 
 Was I then to you! 
 
 PROSPERO. 
 
 O! acherubim 
 
 Thon wast, that did preserve me! Thou didst smile, 
 Infused with a fortitude from heaven, 
 
 When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt.” 
 
 Ariel’s description of the tempest raised 
 by the command of Prospero, is such as 
 none but the liveliest imagination could have 
 inspired. 
 
 “ ARIEL. 
 
 , All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come 
 To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly, 
 To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
 On the curl’d clouds; to thy strong bidding task 
 Ariel, and all his quality. 
 
 Sir, are not you my father ?”’ 
 Again, when Prospero describes the hor- 
 
 PROSPERO. 
 
 Hast thou, spirit, 
 Performed to point the tempest that I bade thee? 
 
 ARIEL. 
 To every article. a 
 I boarded the king’s ship: now on the beak, 
 Now on the waste, the deck, in every cabin, 
 I flam’d amazement. Sometimes I’d divide | 
 And burn in many places: on the top-mast, | 
 The yards, and bolt-sprit, would I flame distinctly, 
 Then meet, and join: Jove’s lightnings, the precursors ! 
 O’ the dreadful thunder clap, more momentary 
 And sight outrunning were not. The fire and cracks 
 Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune 
 Seem’d to besiege. and make his bold waves tremble, |! 
 Yea, his dread trident shake.” ‘ 
 
 After all this, the imperative magician re- 
 quires yet farther service, when Ariel, in 
 language true to a nature more human than 
 his own, meekly reminds his master of the 
 
158 
 
 promised freedom for which his spirit is ever 
 pining. 
 “ ARIEL. 
 
 ‘“T pray thee: 
 Remember, I have done thee worthy service, 
 Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv’d 
 Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise 
 To bate me a full year. 
 
 PROSPERO. 
 
 Dost thou forget i 
 From what a torment I did free thee? 
 
 ARIEL. 
 No. 
 PROSPERO. 
 
 Thou dost; and think’st it much to tread the ooze 
 Of the salt deep ; 
 
 To run upon the sharp wind of the north; 
 
 To do me business in the veins of the earth, 
 When it is bak’d with frost.” 
 
 There is certainly too much of harshness 
 and contempt to suit our feelings, in the lan- 
 guage which Prospero addresses to his 
 “tricksy spirit.” But yet sometimes, when 
 Ariel asks of the diligent execution of his 
 master’s mission, “ Was’t not well done?” 
 and receives a gracious answer full of ap- 
 probation; when the magician turns away 
 from coarser natures to welcome with smiles 
 his invincible messenger in the air; and 
 especially when at last he dismisses him, 
 with 
 
 “My Ariel, 
 
 This is thy charge; then to the elements 
 Be free, and fare thou well!” 
 | 
 
 Thus breaking his bondage with the gentle- 
 ness of affection; we have only to extend 
 our thoughts a little farther beyond the 
 sphere of common life, and we feel that a 
 spirit, gentle, and pure, and elastic, like that 
 of Ariel, would be more than soothed by a 
 single word or look of kindness—more than 
 rewarded with all it could desire, centred in 
 the glorious blessing of liberty. 
 
 Even the monster Caliban has also an 
 imagination amongst all his brutalities, or 
 how could he thus describe the influence of 
 the magic spell, by which his being was 
 surrounded ? 
 
 “ Be not afear’d, the isle is full of noises, 
 Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. 
 Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments 
 Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, 
 That if I then had wak’d after long sleep, 
 Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, 
 The clouds methought, would open and show riches, 
 Ready to drop upon me; that when I waked, 
 I cried to dream again.” 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 The following passage, well known te 
 every reader, can never become too familiar, 
 or lose its poetic and highly imaginative 
 charm by repetition: 
 
 ——_——“‘ these our actors, 
 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 
 Are melted into air, into thin air: 
 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 
 
 And, like this unsubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not arack behind. We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 
 Js rounded with a sleep.”— 
 
 How beautiful, and still imaginative is the 
 scene, in which the heart of the magician 
 begins to melt for the sufferings of those 
 he has been afflicting with retributive jus- 
 tice | 
 
 “ Say, my spirit, 
 How fares the king and his followers ? 
 
 ARIEL. 
 
 Confined together 
 In the same fashion as you gave in charge; 
 Just as you left them ; all prisoners, sir, 
 In the lime grove which weatherfends your cell ; 
 They cannot budge, till your release. The king, 
 His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted ; 
 And the remainder mourning over them, 
 Brim-full of sorrow and dismay ; but, chiefly, 
 Him that you term’d the good old lord, Gonzalo, 
 His tears run down his beard, like winter drops 
 From eaves of reeds: your charm so strongly works 
 
 ’7em, 
 That if you now beheld them, your affections 
 Would become tender. 
 
 PROSPERO. 
 Dost thou think so, spirit? 
 
 ARIEL. 
 
 And mine shall. 
 
 Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 
 
 Of their afflictions? and shall not myself, 
 
 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, 
 
 Passion’d as-they, be kindlier mov’d than thou art ? 
 
 Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the 
 quick, 
 
 Yet with my nobler reason, ’gainst my fury 
 
 Do I take part: the rarer action is 
 
 In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, 
 
 The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
 
 Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel! 
 
 My charms I’]] break, their senses I’]] restore, 
 
 And they shall be themselves. 
 
 & 
 
 ARIEL. 
 Vl fetch them, sir. 
 
 PROSPERO. — 
 Ye elves, of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves ; 
 And ye, that on the sands with printless foot 
 Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, 
 
 ! 
 
 Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 PROSPERO. 
 f 
 
A mt te we an te ne ee ee - 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 149 
 
 When he comes back; you demy-puppets, that 
 By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make, 
 Whiereot' the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime 
 Is it to make midnight mushrooms ; that rejoice 
 To hear the solemn curfew : by whose aid 
 
 (Weak masters though ye be.) I have bedimm’d 
 The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, 
 And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault 
 
 Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder 
 Have I given fire, and rifled Jove’s stout oak 
 
 With his own bolt; the strong-bas’d promontory 
 Have I made shake: and by the spurs pluck’d up 
 The pine and cedar: graves at my command, 
 Have wak’d their sleepers; op’d, and let them forth, 
 By my so potent artr But this rough magic 
 
 There abjure: and when I have requir’d 
 
 Some heavenly music, (which even now TI do,) 
 
 To work mine end upon their senses, that 
 
 This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, 
 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 
 
 And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 
 
 Pll drown my book.’ 
 
 It is easy to bring proofs of the existence 
 of imagination—more easy from the pen of 
 Shakespeare than from that of any other 
 writer; but what language shall describe its 
 power! what hand shall reach to the utmost 
 boundary of space and time—from the 
 
 | source of light to the centre of darkness— 
 | from the heights of heaven, to the depths of 
 | hell, to draw forth the attributes of imagina- 
 | tion, and embody them in a visible sign ? 
 | Countless as the varieties of human charac- 
 
 ter are those of the nature and office of this 
 active principle; and whatever is the ten- 
 dency of the mind—to happiness or misery 
 —to good or evil, imagination, faithful to the 
 impulse of the feelings, ranges through crea- 
 tion, collecting sweets or bitters—delicious 
 food, or deadly poison. 
 
 This faculty, more than any other, be- 
 speaks the progress, or the declension of the 
 immortal soul. Like the dove of peace, it 
 soars with the spirit in its upward flight— 
 like the ominous raven it goes before it in its 
 downward | fall. To those who seek for 
 beauty and happiness, imagination lifts the 
 veil of nature, and discloses all her charms, 
 unfolds the rosebud to the morning sun, 
 wakens the lark to sing his matins to the 
 purple dawn, or folds back the mantle of 
 musty clouds, and calls upon the day-beam 
 to arise; while those who close their eyes 
 upon the loveliness that smiles around them, 
 it darkens with a tenfold gloom, sharpening 
 the thorns that lie beneath their feet, stun- 
 ning the ear with the harsh tumult of dis- 
 cordant sounds, rousing the bellowing deep 
 
 with storm and tempest, pouring the waters 
 of bitternes upon the pleasant paths of earth, 
 and calling upon the troubled elements to 
 bring their tribute of despair. 
 
 What then is imagination to the good or 
 to the evil? An angel whose protecting 
 
 i 
 ! 
 
 wings are stretched out above the pathway | 
 
 to the gates of heaven—a demon whose 
 ghastly image beckons from precipice to 
 gulf—down, down into the fathomless abyss 
 of endless night: a gentle visitant, who 
 brings a tribute of sweet flowers—a fearful 
 harbinger of storms and darkness: a voice 
 of melody that sings before us as we jour- 
 ney on—a cry that tells of horrors yet to 
 come: a wreath of beauty shadowing our 
 upward gaze—a crown of thorns encircling 
 a bleeding brow: a wilderness of verdure 
 
 spread beneath our wandering steps—an | 
 
 adder in that verdure lurking to destroy: 
 a comforter whose smile diffuses light—an 
 enemy whose envenomed arrow rankles in 
 the heart: a joyful messenger going forth 
 upon an embassy of love—a hideous mon- 
 ster howling at the gates of hell. 
 
 True to the impulse of nature, imagi- 
 nation rushes forth with certain aim, and 
 never brings home sweets to the malevolent, 
 or poison to the pure heart; but penetrating 
 into paths unknown, gathers riches for the 
 supply of confidence and hope, or collecting 
 its evidence from “ trifles light as air,” shar- 
 pens the pangs of envy and mistrust. 
 
 There are who treat imagination as a 
 light to be extinguished—a power to be 
 overcome—a demon to be exorcised. Put 
 ask the child who sits with sullen brow he- 
 neath unnatural discipline, whether imagi- 
 nation is not pointing to flowery paths, and 
 stimulating his unbroken will to seek them 
 in despite of stripes and tears. Ask the 
 selfisolated misanthrope, when lonely and 
 unloved he broods over the dark future and 
 the joyiess past, whether imagination does 
 not call up images of social comfort, of 
 friendly intercourse, and “ homefelt delight,” 
 which his sad solitudé can never know. 
 Ask the pale monk whose daily penance 
 drags him to an early grave, whether im- 
 agination steals not with the moonbeams 
 into his silent cell, whispering of another 
 heaven than that of which he reads—a hea- 
 ven even upon earth, to which a broken vow, 
 
| 
 | 
 | 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 /; : 
 i 
 
 a church in arms, a name struck out from 
 
 the community of saints, are in comparison. 
 
 as nothing. Ask the criminal at the gallow’s 
 foot, when chains, and judges, and penitence 
 and priests, have done their utmost to fortify 
 his soul for its last mortal struggle, whether 
 imagination does not paint the picture of 
 his cottage in the wood, with her whose 
 prayers he has neglected, fondly watching 
 for his return, and whether the voices of his 
 children come not on the wandering gale, 
 as they lift their innocent hands to heaven, 
 and bless their father in their evening hymns. 
 
 Yes; and the stern moralist, who would 
 strike out imagination from the soul of man, 
 must first extinguish the principle of life. 
 What then remains? That those who have 
 the conduct of the infant mind, should seek to 
 stamp it with a living impress of the loveli- 
 ness of virtue, and the deformity of vice; 
 and that the passions and affections should 
 be so disciplined, that imagination, the busy 
 faculty which must, and will exist, and act, 
 either for happiness or misery, for good or 
 evil, may bring home to the hungry soul 
 food fit for the nourishment of an immortal 
 being, and dispense from out the fulness of 
 a grateful heart, the richest tribute man can 
 offer at the throne of God. 
 
 SEE 
 
 POWER. 
 
 Power, in connexion with the art of writ- 
 ing poetry, admits of two distinctions—as it 
 relates to language and to mind. The 
 former, however, is always dependent upon 
 and subservient to the latter; but the power 
 of mind may exist where there is little or no 
 facility in the use of appropriate “words. 
 Were it possible that powerful language 
 could proceed from an imbecile mind, the 
 effect would be, that of heaping together 
 ponderous words, and incongruous images, 
 so as to extend and magnify confusion, 
 without rendering any single thought im- 
 pressive. | 
 
 That the force of our ideas must depend 
 in great measure upon the strength of our 
 impressions, is as clear, as that the vividness 
 of a picture must depend upon the colours 
 in which it is painted; but in addition to 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 impression, there is a tide of feeling which 
 flows through the mind of man, in different 
 degrees of velocity and depth, awakening 
 his imagination, stimulating his energies, 
 and supporting him under every intellectual 
 effort. This tide of natural feeling obtains 
 the character of enthusiasm, or power, ac- 
 cording to the concomitants with which it 
 operates. Ifconnected with great sensibility, 
 and liveliness of imagination, without clear 
 perceptions, sound judgment, or habits of 
 deep reasoning, it is with strict propriety 
 called enthusiasm; and as such works won- 
 ders amongst mankind. Indeed we are in- 
 debted to enthusiasm for a great proportion 
 of what is new in theory, and experimental 
 in practice ; as well as for most of the aston- 
 ishing instances of valour, enterprize, and 
 zeal with which the page of history is enliv- 
 ened and adorned. But enthusiasm, while 
 it partakes of the nature of power in its first 
 impulse, is essentially different in its opera- 
 tion. Enthusiasm in action aims at one 
 point of ardent desire, and regards neither 
 time, nor space, nor difficulty, nor absurdity, 
 in attaining it; while true mental power, in 
 strict alliance with the highest faculties 
 of the mind, is the impetus which forces 
 them into action, so as to accomplish its 
 purpose by the concentrated strength of 
 human intellect directed to an attainable 
 object. 
 
 When this principle is diffused through 
 the medium of language, it imparts a portion 
 of its own nature, commanding conviction, 
 stimulating ardour, and rousing determined 
 action; or, bursting upon the poetic soul 
 like sunshine through the clouds of morning, 
 
 it opens the book of nature, and reveals a | 
 
 new world of light and loveliness, and glory. 
 It creates not only conviction and approval, 
 but actual sensation; and thrills through 
 the awakened feelings, like those tremendous 
 manifestations of physical force, which by 
 the combined agency of different elements 
 produce the most wonderful, and sometimes 
 the most calamitous results. 
 
 a A a i 
 a a a LT I EE a EE SE DLS SS TE LE 
 
 Were it possible that in any human mind, || 
 
 its faculties could have a complete and evi- 
 dent existence and yet lie dormant, we 
 should say of such a mind that power alone 
 was wanting ; but since there must be some 
 power to stimulate the slightest voluntary 
 
POWER. 
 
 161, 
 
 act, we must speak of this faculty as being 
 always present, and existing in a greater or 
 a less degree. Persons deficient in this fac- 
 ulty and no other, are always content to 
 imitate; and as a proof that they posstss 
 the other requisites for successful exertion, 
 they sometimes imitate with great ability 
 and exactness, while they shrink from the 
 very thought of attempting any thing with- 
 out a model, from an internal consciousness 
 of inability. That many venture to strike 
 out into new paths without attaining any 
 thing like excellence, is owing to the want 
 of some other mental quality ; and that some 
 continue to pursue such paths to their own 
 shame, and the annoyance of their fellow 
 creatures, arises from their enthusiasm, not 
 ‘from their power. Yet while many wander 
 on in this eccentric course, without ever 
 being aware of their inability to succeed, 
 we believe that no man ever yet voluntarily 
 commenced a deliberate undertaking, with- 
 out some internal evidence of power, where 
 it really did exist. A sudden effort is no test, 
 because time is not allowed for the mind to 
 examine its own resources; but the man 
 who has this evidence, will work out his 
 determined way, though all the world should 
 pronounce him incompetent, and exclaim at 
 his absurdity. 
 
 It may be asked, if this evidence always 
 accompanies the possession of power, how 
 is it that certain individuals have not been 
 aware of its existence until circumstances 
 have called forth their energies? I answer, 
 it is the test alone which brings this confi- 
 dence to light; but even these individuals, 
 for any thing which history tells us to the 
 contrary, may have had in their private 
 walk precisely the same sensations on com- 
 mencing any trifling undertaking, as after- 
 wards accompanied their more public and 
 splendid career. We are not told with what 
 energy or skill Cincinnatus cultivated his 
 farm, but we have no proof that he did not 
 feel the same consciousness of power in 
 conducting his agricultural pursuits, as in 
 regulating the affairs of the commonwealth 
 of Rome. Still it would be absurd to main- 
 tain that power always exists in the same 
 mind in an equal degree. There are physi- 
 cal as well as other causes why this should 
 
 a ee ee eee ee 
 
 | 
 
 not be the case. There must to every indi- 
 vidual, liable to human weakness and infir- 
 mity, be seasons when merely to think 
 definitely requires an effort—when desire 
 fails, and the grasshopper becomes a bur- 
 den ; but when the poet speaks of the bliss- 
 ful moment of inspiration, we suppose it to 
 be that in which all his highest faculties are 
 in agreeable exercise, at the same time that 
 the operations of mental power are un- 
 impeded. 
 
 Amongst our poets, those who display the 
 greatest power of mind, are Milton, Pope, 
 and Young. Had Young possessed the 
 requisite of taste, he would perhaps have 
 rivalled even Milton in power; but such is 
 his choice of images and words, that by the 
 frequent and sudden introduction of hetero- 
 geneous and inferior ideas, he nullifies what 
 would otherwise be sublime, and by break- 
 ing the chain of association, strikes out, as 
 it were, the key-stone of the arch. Nor is 
 this all. The ponderous magnitude of his 
 images, heaped together without room for 
 adjustment in the mind, resembles rather 
 the accumulation of loose masses of unce- 
 mented granite, than the majestic mountain, 
 of which each separate portion helps to 
 constitute a mighty whole. 
 
 Still we 4 
 acknowledge of this immortal poet, that his 
 
 a a ee ee oe TT 
 
 iEeer HET Eetete ah TEE | | 
 
 path was in the heavens, and that his soul |; 
 was suited to the celestial sphere in which 
 it seemed to live and expand as in its native 
 element. We can feel no doubt that his 
 own conceptions were magnificent as the 
 stars amongst which his spirit wandered, 
 and had his mode of conveying these con- 
 ceptions to the minds of others been equal 
 to their own original sublimity, he would | 
 have stood pre-eminent amongst our poets 
 in the region of power. 
 
 In order to prove that the poetry of Young 
 is too massive and complex in its imagery 
 to be within the compass of natural and 
 ordinary association, it is unnecessary to 
 quote many instances. Those who are most 
 familiar with his writings—even his greatest 
 admirers, must acknowledge, that in one 
 line of his works, they often meet with mat- 
 ter, which if diffused and poetically enlarged 
 upon, would fill pages, better calculated to 
 please, as well as to instruct. 
 
 asa 
 
162 
 
 “How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
 How complicate, how wonderful is man! 
 How passing wonder He who made him such! 
 Who centr’d in our make such strange extremes! 
 From different natures, marvellously mix’d, 
 Connexion exquisite of different worlds ! 
 Distinguish’d link in being’s endless chain ! 
 Midway from nothing to the Deity !” 
 
 Thus far the mind may keep pace with 
 the writer, and, especially by the last two 
 lines, must be impressed with ideas at once 
 clear, imaginative, and sublime. Those 
 which immediately follow are less happy. 
 
 ‘“ A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorb’d! 
 Though sullied and dishonour’d, still divine! 
 Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
 
 An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! 
 Helpless immortal! insect infinite ! 
 
 A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, 
 And in myself am lost.’??—— 
 
 One instance more, and we turn to pas- 
 sages of a different character. 
 
 *“ Lorenzo, blush af terror for a death 
 Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers, 
 Where nectars sparkle, angels minister, 
 And more than angels share, and raise, and crown, 
 And eternize, the birth, bloom, bursts of bliss.” 
 
 It is really a relief to pass on from this 
 laborious collection of disjointed ideas, to 
 instances of more perfect sublimity, which 
 also abound in the works of the same poet. 
 What can exceed in power and beauty his 
 first address to Night? 
 
 “ Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, 
 In rayless majesty now stretches forth 
 Her leaden sceptre o’er a slumb’ring world. 
 Silence how dread! and darkness how profound ! 
 Nor eye nor list’ning ear an object finds; 
 Creation sleeps. ’Tis as the general pulse 
 Of life stood still, and nature made a pause ; 
 An awful pause! prophetic of her end.’’ 
 
 Again, his appeal to the Divine Inspirer 
 of his solemn thoughts, is full of majesty and 
 power. 
 
 * Man’s Author, End, Restorer, Law, and Judge! 
 Thine, all; day thine, and thine this gloomy night, 
 With all her wealth, and all her radiant worlds. 
 What night eternal, but a frown from thee ? 
 
 What heaven’s meridian glory, but thy smile? 
 And shall not praise be thine, not human praise, 
 While heaven’s high host in hallelnjahs live! 
 O may I breathe no longer than I breathe 
 My soul in praise to Him who gave my soul, 
 And all her infinite of prospect fair, 
 Cut through the shades of hell, great Love, by thee, 
 O most adorable! most unadorn’d! 
 
 | Where shall that praise begin which ne’er should end ! 
 i Where’er I turn, what claim on all applause! 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 How is night’s sable mantle laboured o’ér, 
 
 How richly wrought with attributes divine! , 
 What wisdom shines! whatlove! This midnight pomp, 
 This gorgeous arch, with golden words inlaid ! 
 Built with divine ambition! nought to thee: 
 
 For others this profusion. Thou, apart, 
 
 Above, beyond, O tell me, mighty Mind! 
 
 Where art thou? shall I dive into the deep ? 
 
 Call to the sun, or ask the roaring winds, 
 
 For their Creator ? shall I question loud 
 
 The thunder, if in that the Almighty dwells ? 
 
 Or holds He furious storms in straiten’d reins, 
 
 And bids fierce whirlwinds wheel his rapid car ? 
 
 “The nameless He, whose nod is nature’s birth ; 
 And nature’s shield, the shadow of his hand ; 
 Her dissolution, his suspended smile ! 
 
 The great First—last! pavilion’d high he sits 
 In darkness, from excessive splendour, borne, 
 By gads unseen, unless through lustre lost. 
 His glory, to created glory bright 
 
 As that to central horrors: he looks down 
 On all that soars, and spans immensity.” 
 
 Young’s description of truth is also strong- 
 
 ly characterized by power. 
 
 ‘“¢See from her tombs as from an humble shrine, 
 Truth, radiant goddess, sallies on my soul, 
 And puts delusion’s dusky train to flight ; 
 Dispels the mist our sultry passions raise 
 From objects low, terrestrial, and obscene, 
 And shows the real estimate of things, 
 Which no man, unafilicted, ever saw, 
 Pulls off the veil from virtue’s rising charms ; 
 Detects temptation in a thousand lies. 
 Truth bids me look on men as autumn leaves, 
 And all they bleed for as the summer’s dust 
 Driven by the whirlwind : lighted by her beams, 
 I widen my horizon, gain new powers, 
 See things invisible, feel things remote, 
 Am present with futurities ; think nought 
 To man So foreign as the joys possess’d ; 
 Nought so much his, as those beyond the grave.” 
 
 After all, it is not so much in extended 
 passages, as in distinct thoughts, and single 
 expressions, that we feel and acknowledge 
 the power of this dignified and majestic 
 writer. “Silence and darkness! solemn 
 sisters!” is a striking illustration of how 
 great an extent of sublimity may be embo- 
 died in a few simple and well chosen words ; 
 and it is unquestionably to beauties of this 
 description that Young is indebted for his 
 high rank amongst our poets. 
 
 The same faculty of mind is exhibited 
 under a different character in the writings 
 of Pope. Power as an impulse is less ap- 
 parent here, but in its mode of operation: it 
 is more uniform and efficient. Pope is less 
 an enthusiast than Young, and therefore he 
 pays more regard to means; whilst the 
 agency by which these means are brought 
 
See 
 
 POWER. 
 
 163 
 
 to bear upon their object seems to be slum- 
 bering insilent pomp. The genius of Young 
 gives us the idea of continued, extraordinary, 
 and sometimes ineffectual effort—even in the 
 dead of night counting the stars, grappling 
 with darkness, and grasping at infinity ; 
 while we imagine that of Pope seated on a 
 throne of majesty, collecting, combining, and 
 controlling the elements of mind, by author- 
 ity, rather than by direct force. The power 
 of Young resembles that of a volcano, an 
 earthquake, or a storm of thunder—that of 
 Pope is like the flow ofa broad and potent 
 river—too copious to be interrupted in its 
 course—too deep to be impetuous. And as 
 it would be impossible to form any idea of 
 the general agency of such a river by ob- 
 serving any particular portion of its surface, 
 so it would be unjust to the character of 
 Pope, to attempt to convey an adequate idea 
 of his power as a poet, by any particular 
 selection from his writings. One instance, 
 almost too well known to need repetition, 
 will serve our purpose. 
 
 “ All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
 Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
 That, chang’d through all, and yet in all the same, 
 Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame, 
 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
 Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
 Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
 Spreads undivided, operates unspent, 
 Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
 As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
 As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
 As the rapt seraph that adores and burns; 
 To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
 He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.” 
 
 Asa proof that the exercise of power is 
 not dependent upon the magnitude or sub- 
 limity of the subject described, we will add 
 
 ‘another passage from the same writer—a 
 
 hibited in the description of a spider’s web ! 
 
 ‘‘ The spider’s touch, how exquisitely fine! 
 Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.” 
 
 Here we have distinct ideas of the most 
 delicate sensibility, the most acute percep- 
 tion, and the wonderful expansion and dura- 
 tion of the principle of life, in connection 
 with the frailest, and one of the least per- 
 ceptible objects in nature, without in any 
 way interfering with our distinct ideas of that 
 
 singular paradox—an example of power ex- | 
 
 worthy of the genius that unbound the lyre 
 of Homer, and awakened fresh music from 
 his immortal strains. 
 
 But it is in contemplating the nature of 
 Milton’s genius, in its connection with power, 
 that we behold at once the full force of a 
 stupendous impulse, associated with the 
 greatest possible facility in the use of the 
 best means of action. The difference to be 
 observed in the character of power, as exhi- 
 bited in the poetry of Pope and Milton, is, 
 that the former affects us rather as the writ- |! 
 ten transcript of well concocted thoughts ; 
 while the latter, bursting forth from the na- 
 tural, and immediate, and constantly operat- 
 ing force of an enlightened and vigorous mind, 
 opens for itself—for us—for the whole world 
 and for ages yet to come, the gates of a 
 paradise of thought, pours in an overwhelm- 
 ing flood of light, and diffuses through a re- || 
 gion of unexplored sublimity, the loveliness |{ 
 of nature and the harmony of truth. 
 
 In reading the poetry of Milton, we have 
 perpetual evidence of his inspiration—of the 
 fulness of the fountain of poetic feeing, whose 
 copious streams are rich in majesty, and 
 beauty, and spiritual life; and we are satis- 
 fied that the fountain could never have been 
 sealed save by a hand divine. One tribu- 
 tary and mighty spring was closed, but the 
 waters only became more pure and harmo- |. 
 nious, and derived from their divine original | 
 a more seraphic sweetness—a grandeur 
 more sublime. We feel that Milton could | 
 not but have written as he did. He was less |; 
 capable of subduing the impulse of his soul, 
 than of finding a language suited to its 
 highest aspirations: and it is this uncon- 
 trollable impulse operating in conjunction 
 with the noblest faculties of human nature, 
 which constitutes his power. 
 
 We cannot better illustrate the power of 
 Milton’s muse, than by selecting from his 
 works, passages descriptive of the two op- 
 posite principles of good and evil. On the 
 character of Satan the poet has bestowed so 
 much of the native energy of his genius, 
 that we scarcely feel as we ought to, that it 
 is the nature of evil to degrade and debase. 
 
 “Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool 
 His mighty stature; on each hand the flames, 
 Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and, 
 
 '| object; an evidence of mental power, well roll’d, | 
 
ee rama reere 
 | 
 
 164 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 In billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale. 
 Then with expanded wings he steers his flight 
 Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 
 
 That felt unusual weight ; till on dry land 
 
 He lights, if it were land that ever burned 
 With solid, as the Jake with liquid fire ; 
 
 And such appeared in hue, as when the force 
 Of subterranean wind transports a hill 
 
 Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side 
 
 Of thundering A&tna, whose combustible 
 
 And fueled entrails thence conceiving fire, 
 Sublimed with mineral fury, and the winds, 
 And leave a singed bottom all involved 
 
 With stench and smoke: such resting found the sole 
 Of unblessed feet.” 
 
 “he, above the rest 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 Stood like a tower; his form had yet not lost 
 All her original brightness, nor appeared 
 Less than archangel ruined, and the excess 
 Of glory obscured: as when the sun new risen 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air 
 Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon, 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 Perplexes monarchs.” 
 
 “‘ He spake: and to confirm his words, outflew 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
 Of mighty cherubim; the sudden blaze 
 Far round illumined hell: highly they raged 
 Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
 Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war, 
 Hurling defiance toward the vault of heaven.” 
 
 ————‘' The other shape, 
 If shape it might be called, that shape had none 
 
 ' Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; 
 Or substance might be called that shadow seemed, 
 For each seemed either ; black it stood as night, 
 Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, 
 And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed his head, 
 The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 
 Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
 The monster moving, onward came as fast 
 With horrid strides: hell trembled as he strode. 
 The undaunted fiend what this might be admired ; 
 Admired, not feared; God and his Son except, 
 Created thing nought valued he, nor shunned ; 
 And with disdainful look thus first began.” 
 
 ———“‘T fled, and cried out, Death! 
 Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed 
 From all her caves, and back resounded, Death!” 
 
 “ Horror and doubt distract 
 _ His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir 
 The hell within him; for within him hell 
 He brings, and round about him, nor from hell 
 One step, no more than from himself, can fly 
 By change of place; now conscience wakes despair, 
 That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory 
 Of what he was, what is, and what must be 
 
 Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue. 
 
 Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view 
 Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixed sad ; 
 Sometimes towards heaven, and the full blazing sun, 
 Which now sat high in his meridian tower. 
 
 Me miserable, which way shall I fly 
 
 Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? 
 
 Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; 
 
 the same genius can ascend from the lowest 
 depths of hell, to the highest regions of puri- 
 ty and bliss, tuning his harp to strains that 
 -harmonize with both.. 
 
 Still threatening to devour me opens wide 
 To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 
 Oh! then, at last relent: is there no place 
 Left for repentance, none for pardon left ? 
 None left but my submission; and that word 
 Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
 Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced 
 With other promises and other vaunts 
 
 Than to submit, boasting I could subdue 
 The Omnipotent! Ah me! they little know 
 How dearly I abide that boast so vain, 
 Under what torments inwardly I groan, 
 While they adore me on the throne of hell, 
 With diadem and sceptre high advanced, 
 The lower still I fall, only supreme 
 
 In misery: such joy ambition finds.” - 
 
 We now change the subject, and see how 
 
 “No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all 
 The multitude of angels, with a shout 
 Loud as from numbers without number, sweet 
 As from blessed voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung 
 With jubilee, and loud hosannas filled 
 The eternal regions.” 
 
 “Immortal amaranth, a flower which once 
 In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, 
 Began to bloom: but soon fur man’s offence 
 To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows, 
 And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life, 
 And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven 
 Rolls o’er Elysian flowers her amber stream : 
 With those that never fade, the spirits elect, 
 Bind their resplendent locks, inwreathed with beams ; 
 Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright 
 Pavement, that like a sea of jasper stone, 
 Impearled with celestial roses smiled. 
 Then crowned again, their golden harps they took, 
 Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side 
 Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet 
 Of charming symphony they introduce 
 Their sacred song, and waken raptures high; 
 No voice exempt, no voice but well could join 
 Melodious part, such concord is in heaven.” 
 
 “So spake the cherub; and his grave rebuke, 
 Severe in youthful beauty, added grace 
 Invincible: abashed the devil stood, 
 
 And felt how awful goodness is, and saw 
 Virtue in her shape how lovely: saw, and pined 
 His Joss.” 
 
 ‘¢ Hail, holy light, offspring of heaven first born, 
 
 Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam! 
 
 May I express thee unblamed? Since God is light, 
 And never but in unapproached light 
 
 Dwelt from eternity ; dwelt then in thee, 
 
 Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 
 
 Or hear’st thou rather pure ethereal stream, 
 
 Whose fonntain who shall tell? Before the sun 
 
 Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice | 
 Of God, as with a mantle didst invest 
 
 The rising world of waters dark and deep, 
 
 And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Won from the void and formless infinite.” 
 - — J 
 
POWER. 
 
 165 
 
 “ And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 
 Before all temples the upright heart and pure, 
 Instruct me, for thon know’st; thou from the first 
 Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread 
 Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast abyss, 
 And mad’st it pregnant ; what in me is dark, 
 Ilumine; what is low, raise and support ; 
 That to the height of this great argument, 
 I may assert eternal Providence, 
 And justify the ways of God to men.” 
 
 | “ Henceforth I learn, that to obey is best, 
 
 ;| And love with fear the only God; to walk 
 
 i As in his presence; ever to observe 
 
 | His providence; and on him sole depend, 
 
 i Merciful over all his works, with good 
 
 | Still overcoming evil, and by small 
 
 | Accomplished great things, by things deemed weak 
 Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise 
 
 | By simply meek; that suffering for truth’s sake 
 Is fortitude to highest victory, 
 
 | And to the faithful, death the gate of life ; 
 Taught this by his example, whom I now 
 
 | Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blessed.” 
 
 If power be the faculty which presents us 
 most clearly and forcibly with ideas that lie 
 beyond the scope of ordinary thought, there 
 is then a power in beauty, as well as in sub- 
 
 || limity—a power in the language of the af 
 fections to awaken their echo in the human 
 heart, and in pure and holy aspirations, to 
 call us back to all the good we have for- 
 saken, and to lead us forward to all that yet 
 may be attained. 
 
 That beautiful and majestic hymn in 
 which Milton describes our first parents, as 
 callng upon the creation—upon every 
 bright and glorious creature—to join in the 
 solemn praises of their universal Creator, 
 comprehends all that we can imagine, both 
 of the harmony of verse, and the force of 
 mental power. Widely as we may have 
 wandered from the purity and the innocence 
 of the first inhabitants of paradise, this morn- 
 ing hymn seems to burst upon us like the 
 dawn of a brighter day, when gratitude and 
 love shall ‘again become the natural jan- 
 guage of the re-illumined soul. We see 
 around us even now the same attributes of 
 divinity—the sun, the “eye of this great 
 world,” the moon that “meets the orient 
 sun,” and the “ fixed stars’—we feel “the 
 winds that from four quarters blow”—we 
 hear the warbling flow of the fountains— 
 
 “ The birds, 
 That singing up to Heaven’s gate ascend’’—- 
 
 we behold the world of animate ana mov- 
 ing life—creatures that “in waters glide,” 
 
 or “stately tread the earth,” or “lowly 
 creep,” and we acknowledge them to be the 
 work and the care of an Almighty hand; 
 but where is the fresh impulse of undeviating 
 will to worship that Almighty Father ? will 
 it return with the contemplatic n of his attri- 
 butes, and stimulate us toa more faithful 
 service, or inspire a holier love ? 
 
 We are not among those who would limit 
 the means appointed by Omnipotence for 
 winning back the wanderer from the fold, 
 and we have no hesitation in saying, that it 
 is impossible studiously to examine, and se- | 
 riously to consider the well d‘-ected aim of 
 Milton’s genius, without feeling a fresh con- 
 viction that such should be the high and 
 glorious purpose of all human intellect—to 
 dignify the immortal nature of man—to 
 throw open as far as human powers permit, 
 the great plan of Divine benevolence, and | 
 to teach the important lesson, that where 
 we cannot wholly understand, we may 
 humbly admire, and where we cannot pene- 
 trate, we should trust. 
 
 In connexion with mental power, there | 
 remains some distinction to be made in its 
 mode of operation. 'Theré is a power of in- | 
 tellect, and a power of feeling. The writ- | 
 ings of Pope bear the mosi striking evidence 
 of the former, those of Byron will serve as 
 an example of the latter. Pope addresses 
 himself to man’s reason, and wields convic- 
 tion like a thunderbolt. Byron appeals to 
 the soul through its strong sympathies and 
 passions, and spreads over it the shadow of 
 the mighty wings of a dark angel. But the 
 genius of Milton combining the powers of 
 both, and pausing in its flight from heaven 
 to hell, treads the verdant paths of Eden 
 with the footsteps of humanity, reposes in 
 the bowers-of earthly bliss, avd pours the 
 lamentation of a broken and 4 contrite spirit 
 over the first sad exile of the progenitors of 
 sin and death. 
 
 We cannot complete our tribute to the 
 power of Milton’s mind, without referring to 
 his prose, as well as to his poetical composi- 
 tions; and here we find that strong internal |, 
 evidence of his calling and capability to | 
 work out what mankind in future ages |’ 
 should wonder at and approve; accompa- 
 nied with a deeply reverential feeling, that 
 even with such capabilities, he was but an 
 
THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 humble instrument whose highest office was 
 to assist and promote the purposes of the 
 Most High. And when he levels the pow- 
 erful aim of his majestic mind against the 
 abuse, and the oppression of a suffering 
 church, it is with the full conviction that 
 such is the solemn duty laid upon his soul. 
 
 “For surely (he acknowledges) to every good and 
 peaceable man, it must in nature needs bea hateful thing 
 to be the displeaser and molester of thousands; much 
 better would it like him doubtless to be the messenger 
 of gladness and contentment, which is his chief intended 
 business to all mankind, but that they resist and oppose 
 their own true happiness. But when God commands to 
 take the trumpet, and blow a dolorous or jarring blast, 
 it lies not in man’s will what he shall say, or what he 
 shall conceal.” 
 
 Milton then describes, in language 
 scarcely less remarkable for its power than 
 for its poetical fervour, the sel{f-upbraidings 
 he should ever have felt in after life, had he 
 neglected this high and holy call to rescue 
 the church from degradation. 
 
 “ Timorous and ungrateful, the church of God is now 
 again at the foot of her insulting enemies, and thou 
 bewailest ; what matters it for thee, or thy bewailing ? 
 when time was, thou couldst not find a syllable of all 
 that thou hast read, or studied, to utter in her behalf. 
 Yet ease and leisure was given thee for thy retired 
 thoughts, out of the sweat of other men. Thou hast the 
 diligence, the parts, the language of a man, if a vain 
 subject were to be adorned or beautified; but when the 
 cause of God and his churcn was to ve pieadea, for 
 which purpose that tongue was given thee which thou 
 hast; God listened if he could hear thy voice among his 
 zealous servants, but thou wert dumb as a beast; from 
 henceforward be that which thine own brutish silence 
 hath made thee. Or else I should have heard in the 
 other ear; slothful and ever to be set light by, the church 
 hath now overcome her late distresses after the unwea- 
 ried labours of many of her true servants that stood up 
 in her defence; thou also wouldst take upon thee to 
 share amongst them of their joy: but wherefore thou ? 
 Where canst thou show any word or deed of thine 
 which might have hastened her peace? whatever thou 
 dost now talk, or write, or look, is the alms of other 
 men’s active prudence and zeal. Dare not now to say 
 or do any thing better than thy former sloth and infamy ; 
 or if thou darest, thou dost impudently to make a 
 thrifty purchase of valdness to thyself, out of the painful 
 merits of other men; what before was thy sin, is now 
 thy duty, to be abject and worthless. These, and such 
 like lessons as these, would have been my matins daily, 
 and my evening song. But now by this little diligence, 
 mark what a privilege I have gained with good men 
 and saints, toclaim my right of lamenting the tribulations 
 of the church, if she should suffer, when others, that 
 have ventured nothing for her sake, have not the honour 
 to be admitted mourners. Butif she liftup her drooping 
 head and prosper among those that have something 
 more than wished her welfare, I have my charter and 
 freehold of rejoicing to me and my heirs.’’ 
 
 ys 
 
 The manner in which Milton speaks of the 
 
 first stirrings of his youthful genius—the first 
 impulse of inspiration, is worthy of the effect 
 it has produced, and still continues to pro- 
 duce upon mankind. 
 
 “T began thus far to assent both to them and to divers 
 of my friends at home, and not less to an inward prompt- 
 ing which now grew daily upon me, that by labour and 
 intense study, (which I take to be my portion in this 
 life,) joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might 
 perhaps leave something so written to after times, as 
 they should not willingly let it die.” 
 
 The poet then describes the high and 
 mighty compass of the work which he con- 
 templated, speaking uniformly of the great 
 endowment of extraordinary intellect as a 
 gift to be exclusively devoted to the honour 
 and instruction of his country, and the glory 
 of his God. 
 
 ————*" To celebrate in glorious and Jofty hymns the 
 
 throne and equipage of God’s almightiness, and what he 
 works, and what he suffers to be wrought with high 
 providence in his church ; to sing victorious agonies of 
 martyrs and saints ; the deeds and triumphs of just and 
 pious nations, doing valiantly through faith against the 
 enemies of Christ; to deplore the general relapses of 
 kingdoms from justice and God’s true worship. Lastly, 
 whatsoever in religion is holy and sublime, in virtue 
 amiable or grave, whatsoever hath passion or admiration 
 in all the changes ef that which is called fortune from 
 without, or the wily subtleties or refluxes of man’s 
 thoughts from within; all these things with a solid 
 and treatable smoothness to point out and describe. 
 Teaching over the whole book of ‘sanctity and virtue 
 through all the instances of example, with such delight 
 to those especially of soft and delicious temper, who 
 will not so much as lock upon truth herself, unless they 
 see her elegantly dressed; that whereas the paths of 
 honesty and good life appear now rugged and difficult, 
 though they be indeed easy and pleasant, they will then 
 appear to all men easy and pleasant, though they were 
 rugged and difiicult indeed. 
 —*“A work not to be raised from the heat of 
 youth, or the vapours of wine; like that which flows at 
 waste from the pen of some vulgar amourist, or the 
 trencher fury of a rhyming parasite; nor to be obtained 
 by the invocation of dame Memory and her siren daugh- 
 ters, but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit, who 
 can enrich with all utterance and knowledge; and sends 
 out his seraphim, with the hallowed fire of his altar, to 
 touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases.” 
 
 This is indeed quoting at great length, but 
 the temptation is great also, to support with 
 the highest authority what has been asserted, 
 that true mental power is always accom- 
 panied with the consciousness’ of its exist- 
 ence, and that the noblest exercise of this 
 power is to promote the intellectual happi- 
 ness, as well as the moral good of the human 
 family, and to “justify the ways of God to 
 man.” 
 
 We know not that our language contains 
 
ae RN MRE ESO fate POR SY aD EEE TE “Ll = RS EE TE ES SEE PT BIE. TES 
 SS I ELLA TD 
 pn 
 
 POWER. 
 
 any thing comparable in poetic fervour, and | mental power, that we conclude only with 
 sublimity, and power, to the solemn appeal | the end of the chapter. Of those whom he 
 to the Divine Being with which Milton closes | has been denouncing, he says, 
 
 hig second book on the Reformation. After 
 summing up a list of evils present and to 
 come, he adds— 
 
 ——“T do now feel myself inwrapped on the sud- 
 den into those mazes and Jabarynths of hideous and 
 dreadful thoughts, that which way to get out, or which 
 way to end, I know not, unless I turn mine eyes, and 
 with your help lift up my hands to that eternal and pro- 
 pitious throne, where nothing is readier than grace and 
 refuge to the distresses of mortal suppliants. And it 
 
 “Let them take counsel together, and let it come to 
 nought; let them decree, and do thou cancel it; let them 
 gather themselves, and be scattered ; let them embattle 
 themselves, and be broken; let them embattle and be 
 broken, for thou art with us. 
 
 “Then, amidst the hymns and hallelujahs of saints, 
 some one may perhaps be heard offering at high strains 
 in new and lofty measures, to sing and celebrate thy 
 divine mercies aud marvellous judgments in this land 
 throughout all ages; whereby this great and warlike 
 nation, instructed and inured to the fervent and continual 
 
 were ashame to leave these serious thoughts less piously | practice of truth and righteousness, and casting far from 
 
 than the heathen were wont to conclude their graver 
 discourses. 
 
 ‘* Thou therefore that sittest in light and glory unap- 
 proachable, Parent of ange]s and men! next thee I im- 
 plore, omnipotent King, Redeemer of that lost remnant 
 whose nature thou didst assume, ineffable and everlast- 
 ing love! and thou, the third subsistence of divine infini- 
 tude, illuamining Spirit, the joy and solace of created 
 things! one Tripersonal godhead! look upon this thy 
 poor and almost spent and expiring church, leave her 
 not thus a prey to these importunate wolves, that wait 
 and think long till they devour thy tender flock ; these 
 wild boars that have broke into thy vineyard, and left 
 the print of their polluting hoofs on the souls of thy ser- 
 vants. Olet them not bring about their damned designs, 
 that stand now at the entrance of the bottomless pit, ex- 
 pecting the watchword to open and let out those dread- 
 ful locusts and scorpions, to reinvolve us in that pitchy 
 cloud of infernal darkness, where we shall never more 
 see the sun of thy truth again, never hope for the cheer- 
 ful dawn, never more hear the bird of morning sing. 
 Be moved with pity at the afflicted state of this our 
 shaken monarchy, that now lies iabouring under her 
 throes, and struggling against the grudges of more 
 dreadful calamities. 
 
 “© thou, that, after the impetuous rage of five bloody 
 inundations, and the succeeding sword of intestine war, 
 soaking the Jand in her own gove, didst pity the sad and 
 ceaseless revolution of our swift and thick coming sor- 
 rows; when we were quite breathless, out of thy free 
 grace didst motion peace, and terms of covenant with 
 us; and have first well nigh freed us from antichristian 
 thraldom, didst build up this Britannic empire to a glo- 
 rious and enyiable height, with all her daughter islands 
 about her; stay us in this felicity, let not the obstinacy 
 of our half obedience and will-worship bring forth that 
 viper of sedition, that for fourscore years hath been 
 breeding to eat through the entrails of our peace; but 
 let her cast her abortive spawn without the danger of 
 this travailing and throbbing kingdom: that we may still 
 remember in our solemn thanksgivings, how for us, the 
 Northern Ocean even to the frozen Thule was scattered 
 with the proud shipwrecks of the Spanish Armada, and 
 the very maw of hell ransacked, and made to give up 
 her concealed destruction, ere she could vent it in that 
 horrible and damned blast. 
 
 her the rags of her old vices, may press on hard to that 
 high and happy emulation to be found the soberest, 
 wisest, and most Christian people at that day, when 
 thou, the eternal and shortly expected King, shalt open 
 the clouds to judge the several kingdoms of the world, 
 and distributing national honours and rewards to religious 
 and just commonwealths, shall put an end to all earthly 
 tyrannies, proclaiming thy universal and mild monarchy 
 through heaven and earth; where they undoubtedly, 
 that by their labours, counsels and prayers, have been 
 earnest for the common good of religion and their coun- 
 try, shall receive above the inferior orders of the blessed, 
 the legal addition of principalities, legions, and thrones 
 into their glorious titles, and in supereminence of beatific 
 vision, progressing the dateless and irrevoluble circle 
 of eternity, shall clasp inseparable hands with joy and 
 bliss, in overmeasure for ever. 
 
 “ But they contrary, that by the impairing and diminu- 
 tion of the true faith, the distresses and servitude of 
 their country, aspire to high dignity, rule, and promotion 
 here, after a shameful end in this life, shall be thrown 
 down eternally into the darkest and deepest gulf of hell, 
 where under the despiteful coniro:, the trampie ana 
 spurn of all the other damned, that in the anguish of 
 their torture, shall have no other ease than to exercise 
 a raving and bestial tyranny over them as their slaves 
 and negroes, they shall remain in that plight for ever, 
 the basest, lowermost, the most dejected, most under- 
 foot, and down trodden vassals of perdition.” 
 
 TASTE. 
 
 Taste, the last mentioned of the four re- 
 quisites for writing poetry, is by no means 
 the least important, because its sphere of 
 operation belongs so much to the medium 
 through which poetical ideas are conveyed, 
 that even where impression, imagination, 
 and power exist, we may lose by the absence 
 of taste, all the sensible effect of their pres- 
 
 Milton then goes on with somewhat too | ence, as well as all the pleasure naturally 
 much of the rancour of a zealot to stigmatize | arising from their combined influence. 
 
 and condemn the enemies of the church, but 
 
 We speak of taste as belonging chiefly to 
 
 still his language is so perfectly illustrative | the medium of the poet’s ideas, because in the | 
 
 of what we have attempted to describe as | choice and arrangement of his subjects, Be | 
 | 
 = J 
 
SE SS 1 er tee SSA meen apne ep i ls i 
 
 the faculty of judgment yet wholly incapa- 
 —— ma aires 2 
 
 168 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 uses a higher faculty (or rather a higher and 
 more profound exercise of the same,)—the 
 faculty of judgment; in its nature so nearly 
 allied to taste, that we are inclined to de- 
 scribe taste as a superficial application of 
 judgment. Both are faculties whose office 
 it is to take note of the fitness of things gen- 
 erally, the one by casual observation of them, 
 the other by mature consideration of their 
 nature. ‘Taste applies chiefly to those qual- 
 ities which immediately strike our attention 
 without much exercise of thought, such as 
 beauty and harmony; while judgment ad- 
 mits within its compass the weightier con- 
 siderations of present utility, and ultimate 
 good. 
 
 If, for example, we say of a lady that she 
 dresses with taste; we mean with due re- 
 gard to beauty of form, harmony of colours, 
 and general suitableness to her appearance 
 —if with judgment, we mean with regard to 
 her pecuniary means, her character, and 
 station in life; but the operation of the mind 
 in the exercise of taste, and judgment is the 
 same, differing only in the subjects to which 
 it is applied. In both cases we .draw con- 
 clusions from the general nature of the sub- 
 jects considered, those of which taste takes 
 cognizance, being superficial and evident to 
 the senses, its conclusions are prompt, and 
 immediate; and thus it erroneously obtains 
 the character of an intuitive power, directing 
 the choice at once to what is most suitable, 
 or best. In the tasteful arrangement of a 
 group of flowers, we are apt to suppose it is 
 an instinctive impulse by which they are so 
 placed before us, as to display their beauties 
 to the greatest advantage, and produce the 
 most agreeable effect; but it is in fact upon 
 conclusions previously drawn from the prin- 
 ciples of pleasure, that the mind operates in 
 contrasting the colours so as to make one 
 heighten the brilliancy of another, and com- 
 bining the whole group so as to render not 
 only colour, but form, and character condu- 
 cive to the beauty of the whole. 
 
 If taste and judgment differ only in being 
 exercised upon diflerent subjects, it may be 
 asked, why then are not the individuals best 
 skilled in the arrangement of flowers, able 
 legislators, and profound logicians? It is 
 because there are many minds possessed of 
 
 ble of taking into consideration the nature, 
 relation, and application of the laws which 
 regulate public action, and private thought; 
 but if such individuals could be made to un- 
 derstand these laws, there is no reason why 
 they should not judge as correctly of their 
 effect as of that ofa group of flowers. ‘In or- 
 der to compose a tasteful bouquet it is only 
 necessary that we should have clear percep- 
 tions of form and colour; in order to invent 
 laws for the government of nations, or sys- 
 tematize the thoughts and “imaginations of 
 man’s heart,” we must have distinct ideas of 
 physical force, and moral good, of action, 
 and motive, of power, and integrity. 
 
 It is a familiar, but not the less important 
 and comprehensive fact, that every thing 
 has a proper place; and the faculty which 
 enables us to ascertain by instantandous 
 perception what is, or is not the proper place 
 of any object, is taste—that by which we 
 ascertain the same fact by conviction is 
 judgment. Weadmire, and derive pleasure 
 
 from the operation of the former; we rever- |j 
 
 ence, and derive benefit from that of the 
 latter. Our looks, words, movements, and 
 trifling pursuits come under the cogni- 
 zance of taste; nor let its superficial cha- 
 racter lessen the value of this universal test 
 of beauty and harmony, which are the two 
 grand sources of our enjoyment. It is not 
 the profound nature of the cases in which it 
 acts, but their frequent recurrence in the or- 
 dinary walks of life, as well as their im- 
 mense variety and number, which renders 
 the influence of taste so important to our 
 happiness. If from the causes upon which 
 it operates, we are liable to receive pain or 
 pleasure every moment of our lives, the cul- 
 tivation of this faculty must indeed be of no 
 inconsiderable weight in the aggregate of 
 human affairs; yet how to cultivate it so as 
 ultimately to produce the greatest good, is a 
 delicate and difficult question. Refined to 
 the most acute perception of all the degrees 
 which lie between the remote extremes of 
 beauty and deformity—of pleasure and pain, 
 
 taste is any thing but a blessing; unless | 
 
 where there is judgment to go deeper into 
 the essential qualities of things, and to dis- 
 cover a moral good beneath a physical evil; 
 because the outward aspect of our world, 
 even with all its loveliness, and the external 
 
 A ES SR SSS SASSER eimai 
 
| 
 
 | 
 
 ih ge 
 
 Dr > 
 TASTE. 
 
 169 
 
 NR 
 
 character of our circumstances, even with 
 all our enjoyments, are such as often to pre- 
 sent pictures repulsive and abhorrent to 
 perceptions more delicate than deep. But 
 the cultivation of taste when confined as it 
 ought to be to its proper place, and limited 
 to its proper degree, is eminently conducive 
 to our happiness, and eventually to our good. 
 Taste should even rule itself, and set bounds 
 to its own existence, for its lawsare as much 
 violated when we are too sublime for useful 
 
 || service, and too delicate for duty, as when 
 
 we descend to the use of vulgar epithets, 
 and ape the absurdities of our inferiors. 
 Asa proof of the immediate application 
 of taste, we seldom wholly approve of the 
 language and customs of past ages. That 
 the same astonishing productions of art 
 which adorned the most enlightened eras 
 of Grecian history, should remain to be mo- 
 dels of excellence at the present day, is be- 
 cause of their relation to the senses, whose 
 power in assisting the judgment is limited 
 to a degree of cultivation ; but language and 
 social customs having more immediate re- 
 lation to the intellectual and moral constitu- 
 tion of man are continually fluctuating, or 
 progressing, without any perceptible limita- 
 tion to their capability ofimprovement. We 
 cannot look back to the literature of the past 
 century, and pay our just tribute to its supe- 
 riority in force of expression, without at the 
 same time being struck with words and 
 phrases, which to say the least of them, 
 arrest our attention, and often impede, by 
 the difference of their associations, our per- 
 ception of their sense and application. In- 
 deed so wide is this difference, that many 
 minds endowed with fine taste and sensi- 
 bility, are now incapable of appreciating the 
 beauties of Shakespeare; though we own 
 there is some cause to suspect of such minds, 
 that they are deficient both in imagination 
 and power, or they would unquestionably 
 be lifted above what appear to us now the 
 absurdities of this extraordinary writer, by 
 the unrivalled splendour of his mighty ge- 
 nius. Insensible to the brilliance of a great 
 luminary, which reveals a world of glory, 
 these fastidious critics take the light of their 
 tiny perceptions into partial spots of shade, 
 and extracting from thence the rank nettle 
 
 || or the wandering weed, cry out that by their 
 
 own delicacy they have made this laudable 
 discovery. Better would it beseem an. ele- 
 vated soul to pass on, and leave such blem- 
 ishes unnoticed; or to prove its just and no- 
 ble admiration of true genius, rather than its 
 capability of discovering petty faults. 
 
 Where the poet is gifted with judgment, 
 and not with taste, he is compelled to pon- 
 der at every verse; and while he weighs 
 the merit of his subject, compares his ideas, 
 and new models his expressions, the warmth 
 of his poetic fervour is expended, and that 
 which ought to appear to us as if it flowed 
 from a natural and irrepressible impulse, be- 
 comes painful and laborious, both to himself, 
 and to his readers. But he who is gifted 
 with a high degree of taste, calls in the aid 
 of this important faculty, the lively exercise 
 of whose immediate power directs him to the 
 choice of expressions in which to clothe his 
 ideas, striking out what is defective, and se- 
 lecting what is appropriate, with the rapidi- 
 ty of an instantaneousimpulse. One kind of 
 metre admits of a pompous array of words, 
 another of expressions volatile and gay— 
 one of abrupt and broken, another of smooth 
 and flowing sentences. One subject requires 
 a correspondence of solemn or melancholy 
 sound, another of the rapid movements which 
 belong to lively joy. One scene calls forth 
 the glowing ornament of eastern magnifi- 
 cence, another, the cold majesty of the fro- 
 zen north. For the description of one pas- 
 sion the poet must adorn his muse with the 
 attributes of love and beauty, for another 
 he must place in her hand the lighted brand 
 of fury and destruction. All this is the work 
 of taste, and when no law, either intellectu- 
 al or moral has been violated; when the 
 customs and regulations of society have been 
 consulted, and no feeling or prejudice 
 offended; when propriety, and order, and 
 harmony, have ruled the poet’s theme, and 
 verse; and when supreme regard has been 
 paid to beauty, both in its physical and in- 
 tellectual character, we may confidently 
 pronounce the writer to have possesed a 
 more than common share of taste. 
 
 On this snbject we may go yet farther. 
 We may say of the faculty of taste, that it 
 makes the nearest approach to what we are 
 
 | 
 ' 
 i 
 ‘ 
 1 
 ' 
 
 in the habit of calling inspiration ; because |, 
 
 itis the direct rule of propriety in action: | 
 
170 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 a TT EEE me ee 
 
 and were the perceptions of man so quick 
 and clear as to carry the same principle along 
 with him through all the transactions of his 
 life, he would always act rightly. But, be- 
 yond the surface of things, man is unable to 
 judge atsight. Reflection requires time and 
 effort, often more of both than he is willing 
 to bestow, and even when he is willing, the 
 right period of action is lost before he has 
 decided upon the right means. 
 
 By contemplating the character and ope- 
 ration of taste, we arrive at a dim and dis- 
 tant perception of one of the attributes of 
 the Divine nature ; and even this imperfect 
 view reveals a world of wonder in which 
 imagination is bewildered, and understand- 
 ing lost. We know the rapidity of thought 
 with which we decide in a moment, even 
 during an instantaneous movement, which is 
 the most graceful, the most effective, or the 
 best mode of acting; and it may not perhaps 
 be derogating from the supreme majesty to 
 suppose that the same eflort of omnipotent 
 mind, created out of Chaos a universe of 
 worlds, not only designing their form and 
 regulating their movements, in the centre of 
 infinity ; but also designing and regulating 
 their internal constitution, down to the slight- 
 est impulse of an infant’s will, the meanest 
 weed that lurks within the forest glade, or 
 the minutest insect that skims along the sur- 
 face of the summer lake. The power of 
 judging when limited to a narrow sphere of 
 operation constitutes the superiority of man 
 above the brutes; the power of judging 
 universally, instantaneously and_ infallibly, 
 belongs to God alone. 
 
 We have said, and we repeat it with reve- 
 rence, that the faculty of taste in the single 
 consideration of its mode of operating, bears 
 an humble relation to what we conceive of 
 infallibility ; because its decisions are so 
 prompt as to apply to immediate action, and 
 so extended as to comprehend all relative 
 circumstances ; or else it does not exist: for 
 let a sound be harsh, where it should be 
 soft; or soft, where it should be harsh ; let 
 a movement be quick, or slow, as circum- 
 stances do not warrant; let a shadow, or a 
 gleam of light break in upon the sphere of 
 beauty; let a word be found misplaced, or a 
 thought ill-timed; in short, let any single 
 thread in general concord be broken, and 
 
 a r = eS Rk Sere 
 ene pe 
 
 taste is sacrificed: consequently, as sur 
 mental and material world is constituted, 
 the dominon of taste must extend over a 
 very limited and narrow sphere. 
 
 The difference of taste to be found 
 amongst mankind, and the want of a univer- 
 sal standard of reference, have excited 
 almost as many arguments in the sphere of 
 poetry and the arts, as the difference of 
 creeds in the religious world. This subject 
 seems to be most satisfactorily decided, by 
 attaching to the majority the same impor- 
 tance in taste as in politics. The exercise 
 of taste being to find the medium between 
 all objectionable extremes—the centre of 
 eccentricity—it follows of necessity, that 
 whatever is admired by the greatest number, 
 must possess the greatest share of intrinsic 
 excellence. But here, as in other cases, it 
 is highly important to make a distinction 
 between mere numbers, and numbers quali- 
 fied to judge; for how should that judg 
 
 { 
 ment be a test of merit, to which merit is 
 neither apparent nor intelligible? The 
 gallery audience ina theatre may be well 
 qualified to pronounce upon the height, the 
 breadth, the complexion, or the agility of a 
 favourite actor; but who would appeal to 
 them to know whether he had exhibited to 
 the ure the workings of deep-seated teeing, 
 or entered into the mental mysteries of an in- 
 tellectual character? When, therefore. we 
 speak of the majority of opinions being the 
 strongest proof of the presence of good taste, 
 we would confine those opinions, not merely 
 to a few learned men, the established crities 
 and censors of the day, but to the whole of 
 the enlightened public, who constitute a 
 community too numerous for long continued 
 prejudice, and too intelligent for egregious 
 error. 
 
 Why then, it may be asked, does a false 
 taste sometimes prevail, even amongst this || 
 community, as in the case of Byron,* whose || 
 poetry so powerfully affected men’s minds, 
 as to leave behind it a disrelish for all other ? 
 A false taste may exist amongst the few, 
 from partial impressions, and local preju- 
 
 * The inequalities of Byron’s style, naturally lead the 
 writer to speak of his poetry in a manner that may at 
 times appear paradoxical: this remark of course can 
 only apply to the extremes, unworthy of so great a mind, 
 to which his eccentric genius sometimes descended. 
 
 1 
 4 
 
TASTE. | i 
 
 dices; but a false taste can only exist | of harmony and grace. The presence of 
 amongst the many, from the universality of | taste being, however imperceptible, except 
 the same impressions false to the principles | by the absence of faults, it is difficult to 
 of nature, and the same prejudices opposed | bring forward instances in particular pas- 
 to the principles of good sense ; a phenome- | sages of the influence of this powerful but 
 non which it is not often our misfortune to | still indefinable charm. The following lines, 
 behold; and I should account for the ex- | familiar to every reader, or rather every 
 traordinary bias given to the public taste by | admirer of poetry, are remarkable for their 
 the works of Byron, as arising from the | adaptation of language, and harmony of 
 power of his genius rather than the pecu- | sound. 
 liarity of his style; and the generality of | |. oer 
 ees tie Primeval Hope, the Aonian muses say, 
 readers _ slying themselves trouble st When man and nature mourn’d their first decay ; 
 make the distinction, they are still thirsting | When every form of death, and every wo, 
 for the same style, in the vain hope of find- che a si ge be ait below que 
 ing it connected with the same genius, | {hen Murds bared her arm, and rampant Wat 
 Happy would it be for mankind, for public When Peace and Mercy, banish’d from the plain, 
 taste, and public morals, if the same mind, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ; 
 : é All, all forsook the friendless guilty mind, 
 purified from all alloy, could return again to But Hope, the charmer, linger’d still behind.” 
 earth, to prove to the world that the same 
 power may be directed to higher purposes 
 without losing its influence, and the same 
 beauty, and the same harmony, be touched 
 by a hand more true to the principles of 
 eternal happiness. 
 In looking for instances of the display of 
 taste in poetry, it is necessary to confine our 
 observation to the present times; for as we 
 | have before remarked, that which was in 
 | strict accordance with good taste a century 
 
 ago, 1s not so now; because the different 
 
 customs and manners of mankind have in- 
 '| troduced different associations ; and expres- 
 sions which formely conveyed none but 
 elevated and refined ideas, are now connect- 
 ed with those of a totally difierent nature. 
 We are inclined to think that the works 
 of Milton would have afforded the finest 
 example of taste, as well as power, in the 
 age in which he lived, because in cases 
 where the senses have dominion—the ac- 
 cordance of sense with sound, for instance— 
 he is inimitable. But the language of 
 Milton is sometimes too quaint for modern 
 ears, and in his pages we occasionally meet 
 with single words that startle us with asso- 
 ciations foreign to what is now considered as 
 poetical. 
 
 We cannot quote a more perfect example 
 of taste in modern language, than the writ-| 0. ine wild bliss of nature needs alloy, 
 ings of our poet Campbell, in which, espe- _— And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! 
 cially his Pleasures of Hope, it would be | And say, without our hopes, without our fears, 
 
 : : . Without the home that plighted love endears, 
 difficult to find an ill-chosen word, or anidea | \\i out the smile from partial beauty won, 
 
 | not in strict accordance with the principles | Oh! what were man?—a world without a sun.” 
 ~ - — _ - ~ = “ — 
 
 And in the description of the fate of the 
 “hardy Byron,” how perfectly does the 
 sound of each line correspond with its sense, 
 flowing on like a continued stream of melo- 
 dy, without interruption from any word or 
 idea not purely poetical. 
 
 “ And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore 
 The hardy Byron to his native shore— 
 In horrid climes, where Chiloe’s tempests sweep 
 Tumultuous murmurs o’er the troubled deep, 
 ’T was his to mourn misfortune’s rudest shock, 
 Sconrg’d by-the winds, and cradled on the rock, 
 To wake each joyless morn, and search again 
 The famish’d haunts of solitary men ; 
 Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, 
 Know not a trace of nature but the form; 
 Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, 
 Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued, 
 Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar, 
 The moon’s pale planet, and the northern star : 
 Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, 
 Hyznas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ; 
 Till, led by thee o’er many a cliff sublime, 
 He found a warmer world, a milder clime, 
 A home to rest, a shelter to defend, 
 Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend!” 
 
 ~The idea conveyed in the following lines, 
 is well worthy of a poetic mind. Others 
 seem to have felt the same, but none have 
 done more ample justice to the feeling, than 
 the elegant bard from whom we quote. 
 
 “ Who that would ask a heart to dullness wed, 
 The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? 
 
 a eo ri a li a a SS RRR RR ae SR 
 
oer ine ree SR a it eS 
 
 ——————EEE 
 
 172 
 
 Ana when the poet exclaims, 
 st Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, 
 
 But leave—Oh ! leave the light of Hope behind! 
 
 What though my winged hours of bliss have been, 
 
 Like angel visits, few and far between,’’— 
 we feel that to such a mind, hope would 
 come as a blessed messenger, whose tidings 
 would be of things sublime, and pure, and 
 elevated above the low wants and wishes 
 of a material existence. 
 
 We know of but one word in the whole 
 of this beautiful poem which is at variance 
 with good taste, and we quote the line, not 
 from the pleasure of pointing out a single 
 fault in the midst of a thousand merits, but 
 for the purpose of showing how forcibly an 
 error in taste strikes upon the attention and 
 the feelings of the reader. 
 
 “The living lumber of his kindred earth.” 
 
 We are ready to imagine from this line, 
 that the author has scarcely been aware of 
 the high degree of beauty and refinement 
 which pervades his work. 
 the poetical writings of Pope, might have 
 occurred without any breach of taste, be- 
 cause his concise and forcible style is more 
 characterised by power, than elegance ; and 
 lumber might, therefore, have been in keep- 
 ing with the general tone of his expressions. 
 But here, where all is music to the ear, and 
 barmony to the mind, this uncouth word is 
 decidedly out of place; and while longing 
 to exchange it for another, we can only 
 wonder that there should be but one small 
 blemish in so many fair and beautiful pages 
 of genuine poetry, adorned throughout 
 with the most tender, refined, and elevated 
 thoughts. 
 
 Gertrude of Wyoming is another poem 
 strikingly illustrative of the influence of 
 taste. In the death-song of the Indian 
 chief, we observe how skilfully the poet has 
 blendea the indignant spirit of an injured 
 man, with the strong affections, wild meta- 
 phors, and wilder visions, of that interesting 
 and dignified people. 
 
 “ And I could weep ;—th’ Oneyda chief 
 His descant wildly thus began ; 
 But that I may not stain with grief 
 The death-song of my father’s son! 
 Or bow this head in wo; 
 For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! 
 To-morrow Areouski’s breath, 
 (That fires yon heaven with storms and death,) 
 Shall light us to the foe: 
 
 “ Lumber,” in | 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And we shall share, my Christian boy! 
 The foeman’s blood, the avenger’s joy! 
 
 * . / * * 
 
 But hark, the trump—to-morrow thou 
 In glory’s fires shall dry thy tears: 
 Even from the land of shadows now 
 My father’s awful ghost appears, 
 Amidst the clouds that round us roll 
 He bids my soul for battle thirst— 
 He bids me dry the last—the first— 
 The only tears that ever burst 
 
 From Outalissi’s soul ; 
 
 Because I may not stain with grief 
 The death-song of an Indian chief.” 
 
 Campbell’s “lines on leaving a scene in 
 Bavaria,” full of the deep pathos of poetic 
 feeling, afford one of the most splendid in- 
 stances of the power of that faculty, which 
 can strike with the rapidity of thought the 
 chords of true harmony, and waken the 
 genuine music of the soul—the echo of its 
 deep, but secret passions. We cannot read 
 these lines without feeling that there is a 
 language for the wounded spirit—a voice 
 amidst the solitudes of that 
 
 “Unknown, unploughed, untredden shore,” 
 
 whose melancholy cadence is in unison with 
 
 the feelings which we may not, dare not, ut- | 
 
 ter; and we inwardly bless the mournful 
 minstrel for the wild sweet melody of his 
 most harmonious lyre. Were we to attempt 
 to quote passages from these lines, the 
 temptation would extend to the whole of this 
 inimitable poem, we can only recommend it 
 to the reader as one of the finest specimens 
 of poetic taste, as well as poetic feeling, 
 which our language affords. 
 
 After all that has been said on the sub- 
 ject, we feel that taste is something to be 
 felt, rather than defined, yet of such unpar- 
 alleled importance to the poet, that wanting 
 this requisite, he may sing for ever, and yet 
 sing in vain. As well might the musician 
 expect to charm his audience, by playing 
 what he assures them is the finest music, on 
 a broken or defective instrument, as the 
 poet hope to please without making him- 
 self thoroughly acquainted with the princi- 
 ples of taste—perhaps we should rather 
 say, with what is, or is not in accordance 
 with its rules, for as a principle, taste has 
 not yet arrived ata definite state of exist- 
 ence; and if the young poet should read 
 “'The pleasures of Hope” with reference to 
 this subject, and not feel in his very soul the 
 
é 
 
 presence and the power of taste, he might 
 bid adieu to the worship of the muses, and 
 devote his genius to objects less elevated 
 and sublime. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 We have now examined the four requi- 
 sites for writing poetry, to none of which it 
 would be wise to assign a station of pre- 
 eminence, because they are equally neces- 
 sary to the success of the poet’s art—impres- 
 sion to furnish lasting ideas, imagination to 
 create images from such ideas, power to 
 strike them out with emphasis and_ truth, 
 and taste to recommend such as are worthy 
 of approbation, and to dismiss such as 
 are not.. We have also been daring 
 enough to maintain that poetry, as a princi- 
 ple, pervades all nature, and if the fact be 
 acknowledged that poetry is neither writ- 
 ten with that ardour, nor read with that de- 
 light, which characterised an earlier era in 
 our history, it becomes an important and in- 
 teresting inquiry, What ts the cause ? 
 
 That imagination should be exhausted, is 
 a moral impossibility ; because the creation 
 of a thousand images in no way disquali- 
 fies for the creation of a thousand more ; 
 any one quality extracted from a former 
 image, and added to the whole or a part of 
 another, being sufficient for the creation of 
 one, that shall appear to the world entirely 
 original or new. That power should be ex- 
 pended, is no less an absurdity in thought ; 
 because that being the vital principle by 
 which thoughts are generated, man can 
 only cease to think when he ceases to feel, 
 and only cease to feel when he ceases to 
 exist.. And that taste should have lost its 
 influence over the human mind, is equally 
 at variance with common sense ; because 
 with increased facility in collecting and 
 comparing evidence for the establishment of 
 true excellence, taste must unavoidably be- 
 come more definite in its nature, and more 
 determinate in its operations. Beyond this, 
 we may ask, is there any thing in the cus- 
 toms, occupations, or mode of education pe- 
 culiar to the present day, which hinders the 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 joyment. 
 
 say, that its sphere of action is widened to 
 an incalculable extent. Is there any thing | 
 that weakens the mind, or destroys its na- 
 tive power? No. The habits of the pre- 
 sent race of men are distinguished by inde- 
 fatigable industry, and general application, | 
 and regulated by those laws of strict and | 
 unremitting discipline, which are univer- 
 sally acknowledged to strengthen the un- 
 
 culties. Is there any thing to warp the pub- 
 lic taste, and establish a false standard of 
 merit? Never since the world began, were 
 mankind more penetrating, and at the same 
 time more extensive in their observations, 
 
 uniformly prevailing prejudice, than now. 
 Itis clear then, that the deficiency in our 
 poetical enjoyments arises from a want of 
 
 the due proportion of clear and deep im-! 
 
 pressions. We have not stored up the ne- 
 cessary materials for imagination, power, 
 and taste to work with, and therefore the 
 machinery of the mind, so far as relates to 
 poetry, remains inactive. We possess not 
 the key to its secret harmonies, and there- 
 fore the language of poetry is unintelligible 
 to our ears. 
 The silence of our ablest poets, and the 
 want of any leading or distinguished poem 
 to fill up the present vacuum in our litera- 
 ture, sufficiently prove the fact to which we 
 allude. The last popular work of this kind 
 that issued from our press, was “ The Course 
 of Time ;” but its popularity rather resem- 
 bled an instantaneous flash, than a steady 
 and lasting light. It forced its way in the 
 flush of the moment to every respectable 
 library in the kingdom—was read with won- 
 der—closed with satisfaction—and, what 
 is very remarkable, affords no quotations. 
 Since this time we have had none to awaken 
 a general interest. We see many noticed 
 by the reviewers—kindly and encouragingly 
 noticed, and we doubt not their title to such 
 approbation; but we do not deny ourselves 
 one ordinary indulgence that we may buy 
 them, or when they are bought, look upon 
 them as a solid mass of substantial happiness 
 set apart for our private and insatiable en- 
 
 173 
 
 exercise of imagination? * We should rather 
 \ 
 } 
 
 derstanding, and invigorate the mental fa- 
 
 RE ST. ek 2 SES ST A IT ITT 
 
 We do not reverence the authors | 
 
174 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 of our felicity, as if they were beings of a 
 
 | 
 1 gifted order, endowed with a superhuman 
 capacity of penetrating into the souls of men. 
 
 = 
 
 We do not listen when they tell us of our 
 own secret passions, as if we heard the mu- 
 sic of an inspired minstrel, nor when they 
 sing of the revolutions of time, as if a potent 
 and oracular voice dealt out the destiny of 
 mankind. Either we have grown indifferent, 
 and heedless, and almost deaf to the lan- 
 guage of poetry, or the spirit of the art has 
 ceased to operate in producing those harmo- 
 nious numbers that were wont to charm the 
 world. 
 
 Yet when the facilities for acquiring know-: 
 ledge are multiplying every day, when it has 
 become almost as difficult to remain un- 
 learned, as to learn, when the infant mind is 
 trained up to the continual application of its 
 faculties in all the different branches of art 
 and science, when the memory is stored with 
 a fund of information which at one time 
 would have been deemed incredible, when 
 not only the ordinary and beaten track of 
 learning is thrown open to the multitude, but 
 flowery and meandering paths are devised 
 to entice, and woo, and charm into the bow- 
 ers of academic lore, is it possible there can 
 be any defect or disadvantage in the general 
 system upon which youth is trained ? 
 
 If it be the ultimate aim of mankind to 
 ascertain of what materials the world is 
 made, and out of these materials to construct 
 new facilities for bodily enjoyment, that we 
 may eat more luxuriously, move more rapid- 
 ly, repose more softly, clothe more sumptu- 
 ously, and in short, live more exempt from 
 mental, as well as bodily exertion, I should 
 answer, that the present system of education, 
 and the general tone of thought and conver- 
 sation, was the best that could possibly be 
 devised. But in looking at the means, we 
 are too apt to disregard the end. In devot- 
 ing our endeavours to the attainment of 
 knowledge, to forget the attainment of wis- 
 dom ; and take credit to ourselves for having 
 gpent an active life, when it has been wholly 
 unproductive of any increase in the means of 
 happiness, except what mere activity affords. 
 
 We know that nature is no less capable of 
 producing poetical ideas, than it was when 
 gifted mer were inspired by the cool shade, 
 
 the glowing sunshine, or the radiance of the 
 
 moon. We have attempted to prove, that 
 the same beauty, and the same connexion 
 with refined and elevated thought may still 
 be found in the external world, and that the 
 soul of man is still animated by the same 
 passions and affections, as when genius 
 kindled the fire of poetry, and, lighting up 
 the charms and the wonders of creation, 
 stimulated the enthusiasm of him who 
 deems himself “creation’s heir.” It follows 
 then as a necessary consequence, that the 
 connexion between man and nature, is not 
 the same; that he holds no longer the spirit- 
 ual converse with all things sweet and lovely, 
 solemn and sublime, in the external world, 
 that was wont to fill his soul with admiration 
 and love, and to instruct his heart in the 
 feeling of the presence of an invisible intelli- 
 gence, connected with his own being by the 
 indissoluble bond of sympathy, real or im- 
 aginary. Mannow studies nature asa map, 
 rather than a picture—with reference to lo- 
 cality, rather than beauty. He sees the 
 whole, but he studies only the separate 
 parts, and to his systematic mind, the vege- 
 table, animal, and mineral kingdoms, are 
 distinct subjects of consideration, scarcely 
 to be thought of inthe same day. He looks 
 around him with microscopic eye, and if his 
 attention fixes upon the rich and varied 
 foliage of the ancient forest, it is to single 
 out particular specimens of trees and plants, 
 and to class them according to Linneus; 
 while from the musical inhabitants of these 
 woods, he selects his victims, and applies the 
 same minute examination to the organs from 
 whence the sweetest melody of nature flows. 
 The idle butterfly, fluttering above his wood- 
 land path, or resting upon the unsullied pe- 
 tals of the delicate wild rose, has neither 
 charm nor beauty in his eye, unless he 
 counts the spots upon its wing. The moun- 
 tain rises in the distance, and he hastens to 
 examine the strata of which it is composed. 
 The vapours roll beneath him, and he pon- 
 ders upon the means of their production. 
 The stars are shining above in all the ma- 
 jesty of cloudless night, and he counts the 
 number, and calculates the distance of the 
 worlds of light. 
 
 All these we freely grant are right and 
 fitting occupations for a rational and intel- 
 lectual being; but when pursuits of this 
 
EE a a oe SE ape ee eee a SSIES ESP RL I BE SR ia ROTELLA DI SAID EEE ARE ATE ATE REA NRE, ORR eeer 
 
 AD LEE IAT EPS AL TELCO ALLIED IAD ALTE LEICA 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 175 
 
 kind, instead of the end to which they lead, 
 are made the sole business of man’s life, the 
 natural consequence must be, to render him 
 familiar indeed with nature, but familiar on 
 such terms that he is in danger of forfeiting 
 his reverence for the creator, and losing 
 sight of the connexion between the material 
 and the moral world. 
 
 We are not so blindly wedded to the va- 
 garies of imagination as to speak of this 
 thirst for definite knowledge, as an evil. 
 Far from it. But when the unenlightened, 
 or the imbecile mind becomes infected with 
 this fever of acquisition; when the juvenile 
 philosopher is merely talking about what he 
 ought to feel; when the puny artist no 
 sooner beholds a tree, than he thinks it ne- 
 cessary to sketch it; when the student of 
 nature tears in pieces every bird and insect 
 that falls within his grasp; when books 
 without number are eagerly inquired for, 
 looked into, laid aside, and never under- 
 stood; when the finished and fully-educated 
 young lady displays her knowledge of the 
 phraseology of foreign languages, and her 
 ignorance of the spirit of her own; when 
 the youthful metaphysiciah discourses elo- 
 quently upon the nature and laws of mind 
 and matter, and hears with total vacuity of 
 understanding that there is a moral law; 
 we cannot help feeling tnat something is 
 wanting of the ultimate end of education, 
 and that the mind may be stored with 
 knowledge, and yet be too ignorant of the 
 right means of applying that knowledge to 
 render its possessor wise. 
 
 The man of comprehensive mind, capable 
 of appreciating all things according to their 
 real value, will cultivate this knowledge of 
 material things for the sake of the truths 
 which it establishes, and the consequences 
 to which it leads; and will no more content 
 himself with this examination of external 
 nature, than the sculptor will rest satisfied 
 with having discovered the block of marble, 
 out of which his figure is to be formed. 
 
 If the question might be asked without 
 implying an ignorant and stupid want of 
 reverence for knowledge in general, we 
 should propose for the consideration of those 
 who regret the absence of poetry from the 
 world of letters, whether the defect so obvi- 
 ous in the literature of the present day, may 
 
 not arise, in the first place from the competi- 
 tion, and the consequent labour that is now 
 actually necessary to secure the means of 
 subsistence ; and in the second, from the pub- 
 lic mind being too fully occupied with the ac- 
 quisition of mere knowledge, to allow time 
 for receiving deep impressions, without 
 which it is impossible either to write, or to 
 feel poetically. If, for instance, in the cases 
 already specified, the attention be wholly 
 occupied in ascertaining the precise form of 
 a leaf, where will be the impression of the 
 majestic beauty of the forest? if in dissect- 
 ing the organs of sense, what general idea 
 can be formed of the melody of sound? if 
 in examining the wing of the butterfly, what 
 observation can be made upon its airy and 
 fantastic flight? if in discovering the com- 
 ponent parts of a cloud, how should the 
 graceful involutions of the cloud be seen? 
 if in chiseling out minute fragments from 
 the side of the mountain, how should a deep 
 sense of its grandeur pervade the soul? or 
 if in merely counting the stars as separate 
 spots of light, where will be the lasting im- 
 press of their glory ? 
 
 The modern observer having had little 
 time, and less inclination for the relative 
 ideas which the contemplation of such objects 
 affords to the poetic mind, they pass away 
 from his thoughts as soon as his practical pur- 
 pose has been fulfilled, and never afterwards 
 are recalled as links in the chain of associa- 
 tion connecting the material with the ideal 
 world. When the wild winds of autumn 
 sweep the many tinted leaves from the for- 
 est; like the ruder blasts of a less physical 
 calamity, despoiling the fair pictures of 
 spiritual beauty; the summer garniture of 
 green and golden foliage lives no longer in 
 remembrance. The woodland songster 
 breathes no more ; and the living voice that 
 answered the universal language of nature 
 from the fields, the groves, and the silvery 
 waterfalls, is forgotten. The butterfly that 
 Jately fluttered round him like a winged 
 flower escaped from Flora’s coronet, a spot- 
 ted specimen of a particular tribe—classed 
 according to its name, lies before him faded, 
 and lifeless, and dismantled of its beauty— 
 the memory of its aerial rambles extinguish- 
 ed with its transient and joyous life. The 
 cloud has passed, and all its graceful and 
 
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 176 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 fantastic wreaths of mingled mist and light, 
 floating upon the pure ocean of celestial 
 blue, like a spirit half earthly half divine, 
 wandering on its upward journey to the 
 realms of bliss, have vanished with the sun- 
 beams that gave a short-lived glory to its 
 ephemeral existence. The lofty and majes- 
 tic mountain no longer rises on the view; 
 and his towering summit pointing to the 
 sky, the deep ravines that cross and inter- 
 sect his rugged sides like the foot prints of 
 the retiring deluge—the light upon his 
 golden brow, and the dark shadows that 
 lie beneath like the frown of a mighty mon- 
 arch whose will is life or death—all these 
 have passed away from thought and memory, 
 and a tiny particle of stone—a grain of gran- 
 ite remaius in the hand of the modern philoso- 
 pher, as his sole memorial of a mountain. 
 Or when he grasps the telescope, and strains 
 his eye to count the stars ; before his labours 
 cease, a dim line of light begins to mark out 
 the eastern horizon, and one after another 
 ; the stars retire before the brighter radiance 
 of ascending day, like guardian angels who 
 have watched the wanderer through his 
 dark, and dubious, and earthly way, relin- 
 quishing their faithful trust before the un- 
 folding gatesof Heaven. But the mere man 
 | of science retires into his closet, and pricks 
 | out the constellations in separate spots, bet- 
 ter satisfied to have ascertained the percep- 
 tible number of stars in any given section of 
 the hemisphere, than to have felt their light, 
 their glory, and their magnificence, reign- 
 ing and ruling over the midnight world. 
 
 We repeat, that no mind can be poetical 
 whose exercise is confined to mere physical 
 observation, and whose sphere of action ex- 
 cludes all those modes of receiving and re- 
 taining impressions which are either imme- 
 diately or remotely connected with the feel- 
 ings, the passions, and the affections. 
 
 The nature of our being admits of two 
 important distinctions—physical and moral. 
 And it is the great merit of poetry, that it 
 constitutes an indissoluble bond of union be- 
 tween the two. We could not have been 
 sensible of the different nature of good and 
 evil, but for our capacity of receiving plea- 
 sure and pain. It is-thus we learn to love 
 whatever is conducive to our happiness—to 
 hate or avoid whatever is productive of 
 
 EN ens Seater ee eee ye | ONT 
 
 pain; and it is this love, or this hatred, ex- 
 tending though an illimitable number of de- 
 grees and modifications, which constitutes 
 the very essence of poetry and which, were 
 poetry struck out from the world would disap- 
 pear along with it, and leave us nothing buta 
 mere corporeal existence, unconnected with 
 the attributes of an imperishable and eter- 
 nal life. 
 
 It may be a subject of something more 
 than curiosity, to ask what the world would 
 be without poetry. In the first place we 
 must strike out beauty from the visible crea- 
 tion, and love from the soul of man. We 
 must annihilate all that has been devised 
 for ornament or delight, without a bodily 
 and material use. We should no longer 
 need a centre of light and glory to illu- 
 minate the world, but the same principle 
 of light uniformly diffused, without reflee- 
 tion, and without shadow, would supply the 
 practical purposes of man. The moon 
 might hide her radiance, and the stars 
 might vanish, or remain only as spots of 
 black upon a dusky sky, to guide the nightly 
 traveller, and lead the adventurous bark 
 across the sea.’ Half the feathered song- 
 sters of the woods might plume their wings 
 for an eternal flight, and the rest might 
 cease from their vocal music, and let the 
 woods be still. Rivers and running streams 
 might glide on without a ripple or a mur- 
 mur—reflecting no sunshine—adding no- 
 thing to the harmony of nature; and the 
 ocean might lie beneath a heaven with- 
 out clouds or colour, stretched out in the 
 wayeless repose of never-ending sleep. 
 The trees might rear their massive trunks 
 without their leafy mantle of varied green, 
 the flowers might bow their heads and die ; 
 and the wild weeds of the wilderness that 
 weave themselves into a carpet of rich and 
 varied beauty, might perish from the earth 
 and leave its surface barren and unclothed. 
 Of animal life, the beasts of burden, and 
 the fleshly victims of man’s appetite, would 
 alone remain ; while in man himself, we 
 must extinguish his affections; and render 
 void his capacity to admire; and having 
 moulded the creation to a uniform corres- 
 pondence with his earthly and coporeal na- 
 ture, we must leave him to the exercise of 
 his faculties—first, to see, without beholding 
 
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 CONCLUSION. 
 
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 177 
 
 beauty—to hear, without distinguishing 
 harmony from discord, or to distinguish 
 without preference—to esteem the efluvium 
 of the stagnant pool as delicate an odour as 
 the perfume of the rose—to taste without 
 regard to flavour—and to feel with equal 
 indifference the downy pillow, or the rude 
 couch where the hardy peasant seeks re- 
 pose. Then in the higher regions of his 
 mental faculties, to obserye, without any 
 sense of sublimity—to calculate without ar- 
 riving at an idea of infinity—to measure, 
 without reference to illimitable space—to re- 
 sist, without forming a conception of abso- 
 lute power—to build without reflecting upon 
 duration—to pull down, without looking for- 
 ward to annihilation. And in the vacant 
 sphere of passion and affection, to receive 
 benefits, and remain insensible to favour— 
 to stand on the brink of destruction, without 
 terror—to await the result of experiment, 
 without hope—to meet without pleasure—to 
 part without grief—and to live on with the 
 same uniformity of existence, without emo- 
 tion—not idle, for that would imply a sense 
 of the pain of labour, and the pleasure of 
 repose ; but perpetually active, yet active 
 without desire. Such would be the world, 
 and such the condition of man, were all that 
 appertains to the nature of poetry extinct. 
 Were it possible to concentrate the dark 
 features of this gloomy picture into a small 
 compass, it would be in the simple idea of 
 the exclusion of beauty from nature, or of 
 the perception of beauty from the soul of 
 man. Beauty is not necessary to our bodily 
 existence. Nature would afford the same 
 corporeal support, did we look upon her va- 
 ried character with a total absence of all 
 sense of admiration. Why then is this inef- 
 fable charm diffused through all creation, 
 its essence so mingled with man’s nature, 
 that where he finds food for admiration, he 
 finds intellectual enjoyment; and where he 
 finds it not, he thirsts for it as for a fountain 
 of excellence, until he works his way 
 
 through difficulty and dangers to partici- 
 pate, even in the smallest measure, of its in- 
 exhaustible supply of pure and natural re- 
 freshment. 
 
 That this insatiable desire for beauty forms 
 a part of the constitution of man, is suffi- 
 ciently proved by his still following the same 
 
 principle in art, after he ceased to recognise 
 itin nature. As the facilities for bodily en- 
 joyment are multiplied, improved, and re- 
 fined, man becomes luxurious and artificial 
 in his habits. He withdraws from all fami- 
 liar acquaintance with natural things, and 
 surrounds himself with all that is curious in 
 human invention, and exquisite in the work 
 of human hands. But still the principles of 
 beauty, derived from external nature, pursue 
 the slave of art, and he studies how to imi- 
 tate the variety, the splendour, and the mag- 
 nificence, which the meanest peasant may 
 enjoy in greater perfection, without inven- 
 tion, and without price. 
 
 Garcee ian of beauty is one of the most 
 decided characteristics, by which man is 
 distinguished from the brute. We discover 
 no symptoms of admiration in animals of a 
 lower grade than ourselves. The peacock 
 excites no deference from the splendour of 
 his plumage, nor the swan from her snow 
 white feathers, and the verdant fields in 
 their summer bloom, attract no more, than 
 as their flowery sweets allure the insect 
 tribe, who in their turn are followed by their 
 foes. 'To man alone belongs the preroga- 
 tive of appreciating beauty because admira- 
 tion is graciously designed as the means of 
 leading him.on to moral excellence. 
 
 There are philosophers who argue against 
 the existence of positive enjoyment. I am 
 ignorant, and I feel no anxiety to learn what 
 they can say to prove that admiration,— 
 true admiration, untainted by the remotest 
 touch of envy, is not positive enjoyment— 
 that, when the soul expands with a concep- 
 tion of excellence, unseen, unknown, unfelt 
 
 before—of excellence, not merely as it ‘ot | 
 | 
 
 lates to fitness for phicient purposes; but of 
 that which combines the principles of intel- || 
 lectual beauty, with the attributes of our 
 moral nature—excellence which leads us 
 into a new world of thought to expatiate in 
 fields of glory, and to drink of the waters of 
 immortality, it knows no positive enjoyment. 
 For never was the enlightened mind excited 
 to the highest sense of admiration, without 
 
 feeling an extension of being beyond the | 
 
 narrow limits of mortal life; and this ex- 
 
 pansion naturally conducts us into a sphere | 
 Hence arise the dif- | 
 
 of illimitable felicity. 
 ferent heavens which mankind have con- 
 
178 
 
 structed for themselves out of the materials 
 of earthly enjoyment, and hence our inter- 
 nal evidence of the belief, that the true hea- 
 ven promised to the faithful, will comprehend 
 all that we pine for of happiness, all that we 
 admire of beauty, and more than all that we 
 can conceive of excellence. 
 
 This intense perception of beauty—this 
 tribute of the heart to excellence—this ad- 
 miration of physical and thence of moral 
 good, which dignifies the mind with the 
 noblest aims, is so nearly allied to poetic 
 feeling, that we question whether one could 
 exist without the other; and if the diminu- 
 tion of poetic fervour be symptomatic of a 
 decreased capacity of admiration, we have 
 to look, not only to the depreciated character 
 of our literature, but of our taste, and our 
 morals. Nor is this view of the subject too 
 widely extended to be supported by reason, 
 since the first step to improvement is to ad- 
 mire what is better—the nearest approach 
 to perfection, to admire all things worthy, 
 in their true proportion—and to admire that 
 most which is supremely good. 
 
 Is it then a thing of small importance that 
 we should cease to admire ? that we should 
 lose, not only the most brilliant portion of 
 our literature, but the happiest moments of 
 our existence? We have observed what a 
 void would be left in the natural world by 
 the extinction of poetic feeling, we have 
 now to consider what a void would be left 
 in the world of letters by the absence of 
 poetry as an art. We must not only seal 
 up the fountain from whence flows the me- 
 lody that has softened down the asperities 
 of our own passions; but turning to the 
 page of history, and tracing back the con- 
 nexion of civilization with poetry, we must 
 strike out from the world the influence of 
 the mighty genius of Homer, in refining the 
 manners of a barbarous people, in trans- 
 mitting to posterity a faithful record of their 
 national and social character, and in kind- 
 ling in other minds the sparks of embryo 
 genius, from that ancient period down to the 
 present time. And if the influence of this 
 single poet be insufficient to establish the 
 general importance of poetry, we have that 
 of other poets, inferior perhaps in their indi- 
 vidual power, but deriving importance from 
 
 ee. 
 ane ee we ene a a ee nen oo mentnneee 
 
 - 
 EE 1 LSP 
 
 4 
 
 nS 
 q 
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 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 their number, and the greater facility with 
 which their influence has been diffused. — 
 
 It may be answered, that we have still 
 the works of these poets to refer to for 
 amusement and instruction. And are we 
 to rest in this low and languid satisfaction, 
 which extends to nothing but our poetry ? 
 We have the same conveniences of life 
 which belonged to our forefathers; are we 
 satisfied with them? The same use of ma- 
 chinery ; are we satisfied with that? We 
 have the same knowledge of the surface of 
 the globe—we can count the same number 
 of stars—and class the same kinds of ani- 
 mals and plants; and are we satisfied? We 
 have the same knowledge of chemistry, 
 electricity, hydrostatics, optics, and gravita- 
 tion; and yet we are not satisfied. No:— 
 the principle of improvement—the desire of 
 progress, extends through every manual 
 occupation, through every branch of science, 
 and through every variety of art, and leaves 
 the region of poetry a void, for future ages 
 to wonder at, and despise. It is our ambi- 
 tion to impress upon the page of history the 
 advance that has been made in every other 
 field of ‘intellectual operation ; but we are 
 satisfied that history should record a time 
 when the genius of the English nation cast 
 off the wreath of poesy, and trampled her 
 brightest glories in the dust—when the harp 
 of these once melodious isles was silent— 
 and when the march of Britain’s mind was 
 unaccompanied by the music of her aftec- 
 tions. £3 
 Next in importance to the impressions 
 derived immediately from nature, are those 
 derived from books, which if less obvious to 
 the senses, and consequently less distinct, 
 instruct the mind with greater facility and 
 precision ; and we behold another cause of 
 the absence of deep impressions, in the ex- 
 cessive reading which characterises the 
 present times. It is not certainly the most 
 gracious mode of pointing out the evil, for 
 those who multiply books to complain of 
 their being read; but by excessive reading 
 we desire to be understood to refer to that 
 voracious appetite for books which exceeds 
 the power of digestion. 
 
 Time was when a well-written book had 
 an identity in the hearts of its readers—a 
 
 . 
 ‘ 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 place in memory, and almost in affection— 
 its choice passages referred to for illustra- 
 tion on every momentous occasion, and its 
 pointed aphorisms quoted as indisputable 
 evidence of truth. Through the sentiments 
 of the author, we became acquainted with 
 his personal character, and took him with 
 us into solitude as a companion who would 
 never weary; and into society as the sup- 
 
 porter of our arguments, and the prompter 
 _of our most brilliant thoughts. 
 
 Such were the times when Goldsmith, 
 Addison, and Johnson, accompanied us in 
 the circle of daily communion with our fel- 
 low creatures, and we looked around us, and 
 discovered the same principles of thought 
 and action which their minds had suggested, 
 operating through all the links of human 
 fellowship, through all the changes of world- 
 ly vicissitude, and through all the varieties 
 of station and circumstance in which man— 
 the same being, is to be found. Such were 
 the times, when by every mountain side, or 
 “wimpling burn,’ we found the versatile 
 spirit of Burns, animated by the fresh invig- 
 orating breeze of morning; or, leaning in 
 musing attitude over the arch of the rustic 
 bridge, and listening to the melodious flow 
 of the rippling stream as it worked its 
 way through rocks and reeds, scorning to 
 linger in its woodland course, even beneath 
 the fascination of a poet’s gaze—we saw his 
 keen eye mark the flight of the “ whirring 
 partridge,” and then look wistfully upon its 
 fall, as if he rued the deed; orhe has turned 
 upon us with the lively sallies of his play- 
 ful wit, half pathos, half satire, but ever the 
 genuine language of a noble heart, and a 
 poetic soul. Such were the times, when we 
 shaped out our own ideas, and traced them 
 to their origin, according to the principles of 
 Locke, whose very soul was mingled with 
 the atmosphere of our private studies, watch- 
 ing over the eccentric flights of imagination, 
 and calling back the mind to its proper ex- 
 ercise upon sensible or definite things. Such 
 were the times, when every flower, and 
 every tree, was associated with the fairer 
 flowers and loftier trees of Milton’s Paradise ; 
 when our conceptions of peace, and purity, 
 and happiness, were immediately derived 
 from his descriptions of the short-lived inno- 
 cence of our first parents; and when our 
 
 179 
 
 visions of celestial and infernal beings were 
 arrayed in the glory of his own genius, or 
 shadowed out by the mighty power of his 
 majestic mind. 
 
 It is not thus in the present day. Books 
 are now spoken of as certain quantities of 
 printed paper ; and authors, a class of men 
 too numerous to be distinguished, mix with 
 the multitude, creating less emotion by their 
 bodily presence, than the bare idea of an 
 author created formerly. "This general dif- 
 fusion of knowledge—this removal of the 
 barriers by which literature has hitherto 
 been restricted to an enlightened few, is un- 
 questionably a national, and public good; 
 but it calls for a greater effort of intellectual 
 power to render the influence of mind as po- 
 tent as it is extensive. Unless this effort is 
 made, the effect of the present system will 
 be, to generalize the principle of intelligence 
 so as to neutralize the two extremes, which 
 have separated the highly-gifted from the 
 wholly-unenlightened ; and while the lower 
 class of minds are better taught, and better 
 cultivated, the average of talent will be the 
 same, because we shall want the light of 
 those brilliant geniuses that rose like suns 
 amid a world of stars. 
 
 It is necessary, therefore, not that we 
 
 should read fewer books, but that we should 
 
 read them more studiously ; and as know-. 
 ledge is advancing with rapid strides, that 
 we should endeavor to keep pace with it, by 
 a more definite application of solid thought 
 to the subjects laid before us in such num- 
 ber and variety. It is the mode of reading, 
 not the number of books read, that forms the 
 sum of the evil here alluded to; and we ap- 
 peal to any one conversant with the society 
 of the present day, whether it is not weari- 
 some to the ear, to listen to the catalogue of 
 names of books, and names of authors, which 
 form the substance of general conversation, 
 (except where politics take precedence of 
 literature, and the names of public men are 
 substituted for the nature of public measures, ) 
 instead of the facts those books record, the 
 arguments they maintain, the truth they 
 establish, or the genius which adorns their 
 pages; and still less do we hear of the man- 
 ner in which they develope the nature and 
 principles of the mind of the writer. 
 
 When we behold the piles of heteroge- 
 
cy 
 
 ee 
 
 ‘| with voyages. and travels to every section 
 || of the earth’s surface ;—when we consider all | of our nature, and it is a subject of no small | 
 
 | it possible for them to read, mark, and pro- 
 
 180 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 neous literature, which not only fill the libra- | a level with the author, leaving behind it, 
 ries of the learned, but load the tables of the | when the book is closed, a freshness, a vigour, 
 man of business—not books which have de- | and acapacity of production, like that which 
 scended from his forefathers, and will remain | follows the retiring waters of a rich and fer- 
 an heir-loom in his family for ages yet to | tilizing stream. 
 
 come, to be read some twenty years hence | When the best mode of remedying an 
 when he shall have retired to the quiet of the | evil is beyond our reach, we naturally and 
 suburbs, and the comfort of a gouty chair; | wisely adopt the next best. Thus, instead 
 but books beyond count, voluminous and | of allowing our ideas to be diluted, diffused, 
 large, poured in as the circulating medium 
 of a literary society, to be read in five days, | ing tide of literature, if we cannot gain more 
 and then forwarded under the penalty of a | time for reading, nor quicken our under- 
 fine, to the next happy member of the club ; | standings by a fresh impetus, we should do 
 when we know too that the gentleman comes well to read some books attentively, thought- 
 
 home from his office at six in the evening, | fully, and feelingly: and what if we do go 
 and returns to it at nine the next day, his | into society wholly ignorant even of the 
 intervals of leisure including the necessary | names of others, we may perform the use- 
 occupations of dining and sleeping; and when | ful part of listeners, and shall no more sacri- 
 we know that his wife (a reader also) has se- | fice our claim to intellectual merit by such 
 ven children, a sick governess, and two idle | ignorance, than we shall forfeit our title to 
 servants, and that half her days are spent in 
 
 imparting or receiving the felicity of morning« 
 calls; when we add to this the subscription of 
 
 the same individuals to three or four libraries 
 
 gem. 
 Every stage of civilization, as well as 
 
 for the benefit of their children, as well as | every condition of civilized society, is marked || 
 
 of themselves, and the necessity of glancing | by some strong characteristics which indi- 
 through all the books that fall into the hands | cate the prevailing and national tone of 
 of their boys and girls; bu‘ above all, when ; manners and morals, as well as what are 
 we turn over the pile of books, look at their | the chief objects of intellectual pursuit. By 
 titles, and see—A treatise on the character- | conversation we obtain the most immediate, 
 istics of mind—-A key to paper currency— 
 The lives of all the heroes—General obser- 
 vations on the visible creation—System of 
 banking detailed—Antediluvian remains— 
 Interior of the earth explained—London, 
 and its inhabitants--Refutation of the Ma- 
 homedan creed—The world at one view— 
 
 what they denote. We should say in fa- 
 miliar language, that utility was the order 
 of the present day; and such unquestiona- 
 bly should be the aim of every well directed 
 mind; but there is a physical, and moral 
 utility connected with the two distinctions 
 
 importance to inquire, which of these dis- 
 tinct portions of our being is most produc- 
 tive of happiness, and consequently most 
 worthy of cultivation. 
 
 The utility to which we now generally 
 appeal in computing the value of our own 
 
 this, we can only wonder at the prodigious 
 compass of the minds of those who imagine 
 
 perly digest the contents of these books 
 within the stated period allowed for their 
 perusal ; and still more-we wonder at hear- 
 ing it fearlessly asserted that they have been 
 read. 
 
 It is not necessary to ask; what definite 
 Impressions we receive from this style of 
 reading, which is indeed a mockery of that 
 vital participation in the elements of another, 
 and a more enlightened mind, whose influ- 
 ence is to raise that of the reader almost to 
 
 and operates by material agency. The 
 utility which ought to be the ultimate aim 
 of every enlightened being, comprehends 
 all that ennobles and exalts the mind. In the 
 facilities now invented for the acquisition of 
 knowledge of every kind; in the increased 
 
 and rendered indefinite by this overwhelm- | 
 
 the admiration awarded to personal embel- |) 
 lishment, by not wearing a specimen of every || 
 
 and by literature the most profound know- || 
 ledge of what these characteristics are, and |, 
 
 endeavours, or those of the rest of mankind, || 
 is chiefly confined to physical advantages, | 
 
 SSS SS =a 
 
cultivation and dissemination of letters; in 
 the assistance afforded to individual re- 
 search, by public institutions and societies 
 of every description for the concentration 
 and diffusion of talent, we see the means by 
 which the nature and condition of man is to 
 be improved ; but if we limit our views to 
 these means, and rest satisfied with the oc- 
 cupation, and activity necessarily accom- 
 panying the attainment of knowledge, we 
 shall never behold the desirable end—the 
 attainment of wisdom—which we under- 
 stand to mean, the application of knowledge 
 so as to produce the greatest sum of moral 
 good. 
 
 That knowledge is not happiness, we are 
 taught by the experience of our own hearts, 
 by the observation of every day, and by the 
 undying record of the king of Israel, who 
 knew and felt, perhaps more deeply than 
 any other man, the harassing and destruc- 
 tive conflict of high intellectual powers at 
 war with ungoverned passions, and an ill- 
 regulated will. 
 
 The cultivation of the intellectual facul- 
 ties can only lead us to a knowledge of the 
 nature of things generally. It cannot in- 
 spire us with an ardent desire to appropriate 
 some, and to avoid others. Unless as some 
 philosophers maintain, we only need to know 
 what is best, and our preference for it will 
 follow, asa necessary consequence. It may 
 be a weak, and certainly it is a womanly 
 mode of reasoning, to argue that we must 
 be taught, not only to know, but to love 
 what is best, because desire arises entirely 
 out of a moral, as knowledge arises out of 
 an intellectual process. It arises in fact out 
 of our early impressions of pleasure and 
 pain, and is so distinct from a knowledge of 
 the quality of the thing desired, as not un- 
 frequently to be at variance with our judg- 
 ment, and to lead us in pursuit of what we 
 know to be unproductive of ultimate good. 
 Hence arise all the wilful errors committed 
 by mankind, errors so evident and so nume- 
 rous, that we can only envy the philoso- 
 pher who looked upon the conduct of his 
 | fellow creatures, and upon his own heart, 
 | yet saw and felt no desire except for what 
 he believed to be morally excellent. 
 
 We are told that the errors which are 
 
 (ee 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 181 
 
 nature of good and evil, and that these 
 views are acted upon, because the good we 
 perceive is present and obvious, while that 
 with which it ought to be compared is re- 
 mote. But when a man whose sole subsis- 
 tence depends upon the produce of his gar- 
 den, preferring ease and indolence to ac- 
 tivity and labour, suffers that garden to run 
 to waste, it is not because he is ignorant of 
 the consequences that must ensue, but be- 
 cause he has learned to love the gratifica- 
 
 tion of corporeal inclination more than any | 
 
 other thing, and therefore he determines to 
 obtain it at any risk. The fact is, that in 
 such cases, our mental calculations are ge- 
 nerally more numerous, and more correct, 
 than we are willing to acknowledge to the 
 world, and while we act from the immediate 
 impulse of desire, we disown all conviction 
 that we could have acted better, in order to 
 lessen our culpability in the eyes of others. 
 
 The first stirrings of desire arise out of 
 sensation, long before we are capable of es- 
 timating good and evil. We feel the im- 
 pressions of pleasure and pain, consequently 
 we desire to repeat the one, and to avoid the 
 other ; and as we are long in understanding 
 the pleasure remotely derived from virtue, 
 so itis long before we see the necessity of 
 cultivating our moral nature in such a man- 
 ner as to enable us willingly to sacrifice the 
 lesser good for the greater, and to love most 
 what is intrinsically best. In the mean 
 
 time the mind is gaining new impressions of 
 
 a less and less corporeal nature, and as they 
 are invariably accompanied with some de- 
 gree of pleasure or pain, the desire natu- 
 rally belonging to the sensation of pleasure 
 gains additional strength, and fresh impulse, 
 until it gradually assumes the warmth and 
 vitality of affection, which prompts us _ to 
 seek certain things in preference to others, 
 perhaps more worthy of our regard, and 
 sometimes to obtain them at any cost, and 
 at the risk of any consequence. 
 
 As it is of infinitely more importance 
 what we are, than what we know; and as 
 our moral conduct is more influenced by 
 what we love, than by what we understand, 
 because we naturally pursue that which we 
 love best, rather than that which we know 
 to be so; so in order that our desires, and 
 
 | committed arise from mistaken views of the | consequently our affections, may be properly | 
 
 ae a See wear nn a Sinpewecil gases em aaa eins Seeing mami allen mabe ecaeieae ee 
 
|| 182 
 
 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 /TInTTTTnTTnnTETTEEEE nn nnn ne ee EIEnInnInEInEE EEE 
 
 directed, it is necessary that all our impres- 
 sions ebnnected with the nature of good 
 and evil should be distinct and durable, and 
 founded upon truth: and the science which 
 leads to the proper selection and arrange- 
 ment of early impressions—the origin of 
 desire—the direction of the affections, and 
 consequently the formation of the moral 
 eharacter, is that which we would earnestly 
 recommend to the attention of the busy 
 public, as conducive to the highest and most 
 lasting utility. 
 
 It is with this view of the subject of utility, 
 that the writer of these pages has dwelt so 
 long upon the nature and importance of 
 | poetry, and laboured (it may be fruitlessly 
 to others, but certainly not without enjoy- 
 ment to herself,) to enforce the desirableness 
 of cultivating poetry as an art, and of cher- 
 ishing poetic feeling as a source of intellec- 
 tual enjoyment. 
 
 Upon the principle of our desires arising 
 out of our impressions of pleasure and pain, 
 there is an importance—a wisdom in poetry, 
 | beyond what a superficial observation would 
 ‘lead us to suppose. It is because poetry 
 addresses itself immediately to our feelings, 
 and appeals to the evidence of our individual 
 impressions to attest its truth, that it becomes 
 a powerful engine of instruction, enforcing 
 while it inculcates, and stimulating while it 
 teaches. If while we learn an important 
 truth, we have the testimony of our feelings 
 to confirm it, how much stronger is the im- 
 pression? The orator whose object is to 
 rouse the public mind to indignation and 
 violence, and active force against a tyrant, 
 | or a usurper, does not merely argue upon 
 the natural rights of man, and the principles 
 of law and justice; but he calls the atten- 
 tion of the people to their ruined homes, to 
 their desolate hearths, and draws pictures 
 of the hunger, and want, and squalid misery 
 with which they are too feelingly acquainted. 
 
 We have a striking instance of the dif- 
 ference between addressing the judgment, 
 and addressing the feelings, in the two ora- 
 tions on the death of Julius Cesar, delivered 
 by Brutus and Mark Antony. Brutus, 
 whose noble mind disdains all artifice, ap- 
 peals at once to the “ wisdom” of the people, 
 and justifies the fatal deed he has just com- 
 ines by dwelling upon one single stain in 
 
 aces eae nena ett ees it eT 
 
 i 
 
 Ceesar’s character—his ambition. But who 
 in that motley crowd regarded Cesar’s am- 
 bition, unless it touched himself? The soul 
 of Brutus was capable of apprehending in 
 the ambition of one man, an enemy to the 
 many—a destroyer of the rights and the 
 
 liberties of the Roman people; but it was |) 
 an evil too remote for the multitude to be | 
 
 impressed with, and though they offered a 
 
 prompt, and at the moment a sincere ac- 
 knowledgement, that what Brutus had said |: 
 
 was just and true, we see how soon they 
 
 could turn, and listen, and grow furious, || 
 
 under the influence of that master-piece of 
 eloquence, by which Mark Antony gradually 
 led their attention away from Cesar’s am- 
 bition, and the remote idea they might have 
 formed of its consequences, to the bloody 
 spectacle of his bleeding body, the gaping 
 wounds still testifying that it was the hand 
 of a friend—a loved and trusted friend, that 
 had shed the proudest blood in Rome. 
 
 “ But yesterday. the word of Cesar might 
 
 Dave stood against the world ; now lies he there, 
 
 And none so poor to do him reverence.”’ 
 
 Lest the people should not be sufficiently 
 excited by this spectacle—by what they 
 could all immediately understand—the direct 
 infliction of cruelty, the artful orator makes 
 another appeal to their feelings, which im- 
 mediately strikes home. He tells them of 
 Cesar’s will, from which they were indi- 
 vidually and personally to derive benefit, 
 and then the fire he had so studiously en- 
 deavoured to kindle burst forth, and weep- 
 ing for Cesar as for a public benefactor—a 
 patriot—a god, they direct the fury of 
 their indignation against the conspirators, 
 and threaten the direst vengeance upon the 
 head of Brutus. 
 
 This appeal is in strict accordance with 
 the spirit of poetry, which convinces not so 
 much by the evidence of what we know, as 
 what we feel. It required time for the Ro- 
 mans to reflect upon the nature of ambition, 
 and even then they could not bring home its 
 remote consequences to the conviction. of 
 their bosoms; but they were instantaneous- 
 ly impressed with horror on beholding the 
 lacerated body of Cesar, they all felt that 
 the friends in whom he had trusted should 
 have been the very last to do the bloody 
 deed, and they felt also that the man, who 
 
 aaa 
 
) 
 
 a eee, 
 
 — 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 while he lived had formed those generous 
 plans for their benefit which his will attested, 
 ought in his death to be lamented and 
 
 | avenged. 
 
 If sufficient had not already been said to 
 establish the fact, that the influence of poetry 
 arises from its connexion with our feelings, 
 we might refer to the history of all nations, 
 in whose early stages of civilization, poetry 
 has helda prominent part. And why? Be- 
 cause in describing what is beautiful, or re- 
 fined, or conducive to happiness, it has been 
 supported by principles inherent in the 
 human mind—principles upon which are 
 founded our impressions of pleasure and 
 pain. Knowledge ii its prosaic form, as it 
 is usually conveyed into the mind, can culy 
 instruct; but poetry charms while it in- 
 structs. Knowledge requires the evidence 
 of facts, and the aid of reflection, and reasen- 
 ing to establish its truth. Poetry teaches by 
 a different process. Telling of others what 
 we experience in ourselves, it engages in the 
 cause of truth, all that we fear of evil, and 
 all that we desire of good; and sometimes 
 
 in the fabulous history of imaginary beings, 
 
 imparts the profoundest knowledge of the 
 principles of thought and action. 
 
 It remains only to add a few remarks on 
 the subject of happiness, as connected with 
 our condition in the present world. There 
 are rigid disciplinarians who regard enjoy- 
 ment as a dangerous appendage to that con- 
 dition—who, shrinking from the idea of en- 
 joyment as an end in itself worthy of attain- 
 ment, look upon it rather as a snare to lure 
 us into hidden mischief. If enjoyment is of 
 no importance to our being, (we might say 
 to our well being,) why then is beauty dif- 
 fused throughout creation, or why is the 
 principle of happiness derived from beauty 
 implanted in the soul of man? What, in 
 short, is the value of anything without en- 
 joyment, either immediate orremote? For, 
 when we speak of ennobling or exalting the 
 
 human mind, it is but in other words to 
 
 speak of increasing its capability of enjoying 
 that which is supremely excellent. Our na- 
 tural desire of enjoyment, is the principle 
 upon which we teach all moral truths. We 
 speak of particular things as conducive to 
 the happiness of ourselves or others, and 
 even the infant mind is convinced that they 
 
 td 
 
 are desirable from its own vivid impressions 
 of the sensations of pleasure. When we 
 teach a moral lesson of. practical difficulty 
 and pain, it is still in the same way, by com- 
 paring present suffering with the greater 
 and more lasting happiness that will ensue ; 
 and when one individual is to benefit by the 
 suffering of another, we point out the internal 
 satisfaction attending all benevolent actions, 
 and the general happiness of a life of duty. 
 
 Without enjoyment, we should be without 
 desire, and without desire, we should be 
 without action—we should also be without 
 love—without every good and virtuous im- 
 pulse, and above all, we should be without 
 gratitude ; for those who endeavour to teach 
 the duty of gratitude, while they withhold 
 the means of innocent enjoyment, are guilty 
 of an insult to common sense, and a pre- 
 sumptuous violence of the benign plan of 
 Providence. 
 
 How different is the dealing of the Crea- 
 tor with his creatures! How much has he 
 spread before them of beauty and sublimity ! 
 How prodigally has he blessed their exis- 
 tence with sweetness and harmony, for which 
 we can imagine no other purpose than that 
 of promoting the happiness of his dependent 
 children, and of leading them by their expe- 
 rience of temporal enjoyment, to desire that 
 which is eternal. For how should we form 
 a conception of happiness, having had no 
 impression of pleasure; or how should we 
 desire it, having had no foretaste of enjoy- 
 ment ? 
 
 It follows then, that there is utility in be- 
 ing innocently happy—utility of the most ex- 
 tensive compass, and the highest character, 
 which poetry is of all our intellectual pur- 
 suits most capable of promoting. Let us 
 then no longer reject this heaven-born mes- 
 senger of a more refined and spiritual exis- 
 tence; but let us call with united voice up- 
 on our silent minstrels, and bid them tune 
 once more the melodious harps to which in 
 early life our souls have thrilled; let us enter 
 again into the field of nature, not only with 
 eyes to examine, but with hearts to feel; let 
 us woo back imagination to come and bear 
 us up on her elastic wings, above the givss 
 elements of mere corporeal life—not to sep- 
 arate us by the idle vapours of distempered 
 fancy from the duties of rational and immor- 
 
 ' 
 ee ee ee ee eS OE eee SS 
 SRE 5 SS SR SE SP Te RL IS POE ES ELE IE LITE | LAR 
 
 SS 
 —— er 
 
 eee 
 
oo 
 
 | = = | auunnNE REESE EEEceneeenneneemeneeneeeeneeEne 
 | 184 THE POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 | tal beings but to sweeten those duties with a 
 
 eee See eee , 
 ———— eS 
 
 more ethereal essence, and to dignify them 
 with a character more sublime. Above all, 
 let us accept the additional source of enjoy- 
 ment which poetry affords, not with the ex- 
 citement of a transient indulgence, as an idle 
 {oy for pleasant pastime in our vacant hours, 
 
 but with gratitude and humble reverence 
 towards the Giver of every good and perfect 
 gift, as a rich and gracious blessing, whose 
 high purpose is to promote the intellectual 
 happiness of man, and the glory of his Crea- 
 
 tor. _ 
 
 THE END. 
 
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