^§^ 
 
WOMAN 
 
 NINETEENTH CENTURY, 
 
 KINDRED PAPERS 
 
 RELATING TO THE 
 
 Sjkn, ei;Dniiti0it, ani §uim of Mmm, 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET FULLER OSSOLL 
 
 // 
 
 AUTHOR OF "art, LITERATURE, AND THE DRAMA," "AT HOME AND 
 ABROAD," "LIFE AVITHOUT AND LIFE WITHIN," ETC. 
 
 EDITED BY HER BROTHER, 
 
 ARTHUR B. FULLER. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HORACE GREELEY. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 BROWN, TAGGARD AND CHASE. 
 
 NEW YORK: SHELDON & CO. PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, SON & CO. 
 
 urtwjwn^'^ <^r 
 

 Ui 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
 
 A. B. FULLER, 
 
 In tlie Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 RIVEBSIOE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 PBINTSD BT H. 0. HOCQHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
^ 
 
 It has been thought desirable that such papers of Margaret 
 Fuller Ossoli as pertained to the condition, sphere and duties of 
 Woman, should be collected and published together. The present 
 volume contains not only her " Woman in the Nineteenth Cen- 
 tury," — which has been before published, but for some years out 
 of print, and inaccessible to readers who have sought it, — but 
 also several other papers, which have appeared at various times 
 in the Tribune and elsewhere, and yet more which have never till 
 now been published. 
 
 My free access to her private manuscripts has given to me 
 many papers, relating to Woman, never intended for publication, 
 which yet seem needful to this volume, in order to present a com- 
 plete and harmonious view of her thoughts on this important 
 theme. I have preferred to publish them without alteration, as 
 most just to her views and to the reader ; though, doubtless, she 
 would have varied their expression and form before giving them 
 to the press. 
 
 It seems right here to remark, in order to avoid any misappre- 
 hension, that Margaret Ossoli's thoughts were not directed so 
 exclusively to the subject of the present volume as have been 
 -'the minds of some others. j(A.s to the movement for the emanci- 
 pation of Woman from tYSQ unjust burdens and disabilities to 
 which she has been subject even in our own land, my sister could 
 neither remain indifferent nor silent ; yet she preferred, as in 
 respect to every other reform, to act independently and to speak 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 independently from her own stand-point, and never to merge her 
 individuality in any existing organization. This she did, not as 
 condemning such organizations, nor yet as judging them wholly 
 unwise or uncalled for, but because she believed she could herself 
 accomplish more for their true and high objects, unfettered by 
 such organizations, than if a member of them. The opinions 
 avowed throughout this volume, and wherever expressed, will, 
 then, be found, whether consonant with the reader's or no, 
 in all cases honestly and heartily her own, — the result of her 
 own thought and faith. Slie never speaks, never did speak, for 
 any clique or sect, but as her individual judgment, her reason and 
 conscience, her observation and experience, taught her to speak. 
 
 I could have wished that some one other than a brother shouL 
 have spoken a few fitting words of Margaret Fuller, as a woman, 
 to form a brief but proper accompaniment to this volume, 
 which may reach some who have never read her " Memoirs," 
 recently published, or have never known her in personal life. 
 This seemed the more desirable, because the strictest verity in 
 speaking of her must seem, to such as knew her not, to be eulogy. 
 But, after several disappointments as to the .editorship of the 
 volume, the duty, at last, has seemed to devolve upon me ; and 
 I have no reason to shrink from it but a sense of inadequacy . 
 
 It is often supposed that literary women, and those who are 
 active and earnest in promoting great intellectual, philanthropic, 
 or religious movements, must of necessity neglect the domestic 
 concerns of life. It may be that this is sometimes so, nor can 
 such neglect be too severely reprehended ; yet this is by no means 
 a necessary result. Some of the most devoted mothers the world 
 has ever known, and whose homes were the abode of every domestic 
 virtue, themselves the embodiment of all these, have been women 
 whose minds were highly cultured, who loved and devoted both 
 thought and time to literature, and were active in philanthropic 
 and diffusive efforts for the welfare of the race. 
 
 The letter to M., which is published on page 345, is inserted 
 chiefly as showing the integrity and wisdom with which Margaret 
 advised her friends ; the frankness with which she pointed out to 
 every young woman who asked counsel any deficiencies of char- 
 acter, and the»duties of life ; and that among these latter she gave 
 
 / 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 due place to the humblest which serve to make home attractive 
 and happy. It is but simple justice for me to bear, in conjunction 
 with many others, my tribute to her domestic virtues and fidelity 
 to all home duties. That her mind found chief delight in the 
 lowest forms of these duties may not be true, and it would be 
 sad if it were ; but it is strictly true that none, however humble, 
 were either slighted or shunned. 
 
 In comnon with a younger sister and brother, I shared her 
 care in my early instruction, and found ever one of the truest 
 counsellors in a sister who scorned not the youngest mind nor the 
 simplest intellectual wants in her love for communion, through 
 converse or the silent page, with the minds of the greatest and 
 most gifted. 
 
 During a lingering illness, in childhood, well do I remember her 
 as the angel of the sick-chamber, reading much to me from books 
 useful and appropriate, and telling many a narrative not only 
 fitted to wile away the pain of disease and the weariness of long 
 confinement, but to elevate the mind and heart, and to direct 
 them to all things noble and holy ; ever ready to watch while I 
 Blept, and to perform every gentle and kindly office. But her 
 care of the sick — that she did not neglect, but was eminent in that 
 sphere of womanly duty, even when no tie of kindred claimed this 
 of her, Mr. Cass's letter abundantly shows ; and also that this 
 gentleness was united to a heroism which most call manly, but 
 which, I believe, may as justly be called truly womanly. Mr. 
 Cass's letter is inserted because it arrived too late to find a place 
 in her " Memoirs," and yet more because it bears much on Mar- 
 garet Ossoli's characteristics as a woman. 
 
 A few also of her private letters and papers, not bearing, save, 
 indirectly, on the subject of this volume, are yet inserted in it, as 
 further illustrative of her thought, feeling and action, in life's 
 various relations. It is believed that nothing which exhibits a 
 true woman, especially in her relations to others as friend, sister, 
 daughter, wife, or mother, can fail to interest and be of value to 
 her sex, indeed to all who are interested in human welfare and 
 advancement, since these latter so much depend on the fidelity of 
 Woman. Nor will anything pertaining to the education and 
 A=* 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 care of children be deemed irrelevant, especially by mothers, upon 
 whom these duties must always largely devolve. 
 
 Of the intellectual gifts and wide culture of Margaret Fuller 
 there is no need that I should speak, nor is it wise that one stand- 
 ing in my relation to her should. Those who knew her personally 
 feel that no words ever flowed from her pen equalling the eloquent 
 utterances of her lips ; yet her works, though not always a clear 
 expression of her thoughts, are the evidences to which the world 
 will look as proof of her mental greatness. 
 
 On one point, however, I do wish to bear testimony — not needed 
 with those who knew her well, but interesting, perhaps, to some 
 readers into whose hands this volume may fall. It is on a subject 
 which one who knew her from his childhood up — at home^ where 
 best the heart and soul can be known, — in the unrestrained 
 hours of domestic life, — in various scenes, and not for a few 
 days, nor under any peculiar circumstances — can speak with 
 confidence, because he speaks what he " doth know, and testi- 
 fieth what he hath seen." It relates to her Christian faith and 
 hope. " With all her intellectual gifts, with all her high, moral, 
 and noble characteristics," there are some who will ask, " was 
 her intellectual power sanctified by Christian faith as its basis ? 
 Were her moral qualities, her beneficent life, the results of a 
 renewed heart?" I feel no hesitation here, nor would think it 
 worth while to answer such questions at all, were her life to be 
 read and known by all who read this volume, and were I not 
 influenced also, in some degree, by the tone which has character- 
 ized a few sectarian reviews of her works, chiefly in foreign 
 periodicals. Surely, if the Saviour's test, " By their fruits ye 
 shall know them," be the true one, Margaret Ossoli was pre- 
 eminently a Christian. If a life of constant self-sacrifice, — if 
 devotion to the welfare of kindred and the race, — if conformity 
 to what she believed God's law, so that her life seemed ever tne 
 truest form of prayer, active obedience to the Deity, — in fine, if 
 carrying Christianity into all the departments of action, so far as 
 human infirmity allows, — if these be the proofs of a Christian, 
 then whoever has read her " Memoirs " thoughtfully, and with- 
 out sectarian prejudice or the use of sectarian standards of judg- 
 ment, must feel her to have been a Christian. But not alone in 
 
PREFACE. VII 
 
 outward life, in mind and heart, too, was she a Christian. The 
 being brought into frequent and intimate contact with religious 
 persons has been one of the chief privileges of my vocation, but 
 never y?t have I met with any person whose reverence for holy 
 things was deeper than hers. Abhorring, as all honest minds 
 must, every species of cant, she respected true religious thought 
 and feeling, by whomsoever cherished. God seemed nearer to her 
 than to any person I have ever known. In the influences of 
 His Holy Spirit upon the heart she fully believed, and in experi- 
 ence realized them. Jesus, the friend of man, can never have 
 been more truly loved and honored than she loved and honored 
 him. I am aware that this is strong language, but strength of 
 language cannot equal the strength of my conviction on a point 
 where I have had the best opportunities of judgment. Rich as is 
 the religion of Jesus in its list of holy confessors, yet it can spare 
 and would exclude none who in heart, mind and life, confessed 
 and reverenced him as did she. Among my earliest recollections, 
 is her devoting much time to a thorough examination of the 
 evidences of Christianity, and ultimately declaring that to her, 
 better than all arguments or usual processes of proof, was the 
 soul's want of a divine religion, and the voice within that soul 
 which declared the teachings of Christ to be true and from God ; 
 and one of my most cherished possessions is that Bible which she 
 so diligently and thoughtfully read, and which bears, in her own 
 handwriting, so many proofs of discriminating and prayerful 
 perusal. As in regard to reformatory movements so here, she 
 joined no organized body of believers, sympathizing with all of 
 them whose views were noble and Christian ; deploring and bear- 
 ing faithful testimony against anything she deemed narrowness or 
 perversion in theology or life. 
 
 This volume from her hand is now before the reader. The fact 
 that a large share of it was never written or revised by its 
 authoress for publication will be kept in view^ as explaining any 
 inaccuracy of expression or repetition of thought, should such 
 occur in its pages. Nor will it be deemed surprising, if, in papers 
 written by so progressive a person, at so various periods of life, 
 and under widely-varied circumstances, there should not always 
 be found perfect unison as to every expressed opinion. 
 
VIII PREFACE. 
 
 It is probable that this will soon be followed by another 
 volume, containing a republication of " Summer on the Lakes," 
 and also the " Letters from Europe," by the same hand. 
 
 In the preparation of this volume much valuable assistance has 
 been afforded by Mr. Greeley, of the New York Tribune, who has 
 been earnest in his desire and efforts for the diffusion of what 
 Margaret has written. 
 
 A. B. F. 
 
 Boston, May lOth, 1855. 
 
 i 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The problem of Woman's position, or " sphere," — of her du- 
 ties, responsibilities, rights and immunities ars Woman, — fitly 
 attracts a large and still-increasing measure of attention from the 
 thinkers and agitators of our time. The legislators, so called, — 
 those who ultimately enact into statutes what the really govern- 
 ing class (to wit, the thinkers) have originated, matured and 
 gradually commended to the popular comprehension and accept- 
 ance, — are not as yet much occupied with this problem, only fit- 
 fully worried and more or less consciously puzzled by it. More 
 commonly they merely echo the mob's shallow retort to the pe- 
 tition of any strong-minded daughter or sister, who demands 
 that she be allowed a voice in disposing of the money wrenched 
 from her hard earnings by inexorable taxation, or in shaping the 
 laws by which she is ruled, judged, and is liable to be sentenced 
 to prison or to death, " It is a woman's business to obey her hus- 
 band, keep his home tidy, and nourish and train his children." 
 But when she rejoins to this, " Very true ; but suppose I choose 
 not to have a husband, or am not chosen for a wife — what then ? 
 I am still subject to your laws. jWhy am I not entitled, as a 
 jrational human being, to a voice in shaping them ?j I have phys- 
 aical needs, and must somehow earn a living. Why should I not 
 me at liberty to earn it in any honest and useful calling ? " — the 
 knob's flout is hushed, and the legislator is struck dumb also. 
 They were already at the end of their scanty resources of logic, and 
 it would be cruel for woman to agk further : " Suppose me a wife, 
 and my husband a drunken prodigal — what am I to do then ? 
 May I not earn food for my babes without being exposed to have 
 it snatched from their mouths to replenish the rumseller's till, and 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 aggravate my husband's madness ? If some sympathizing relative 
 sees fit to leave me a bequest wherewith to keep my little ones 
 together, why may I not be legally enabled to secure this to their 
 use and benefit ? In short, why am I not regarded by the law as 
 a soul, responsible for my acts~to God and humanity, and not as a 
 mere body, devoted to the unreasoning service of my husband ? " 
 The state gives no answer, and the champions of her policy evince 
 vrisdom in imitating her silence. 
 
 The writer of the following pages was one of the earliest as well 
 as ablest among American women, to demand for her sex equality 
 before the law with her titular lord and master. Her writings on 
 this subject have the force which springs from the ripening of pro- 
 found reflection into assured conviction. She wrote as one who had 
 observed, and who deeply felt what she deliberately uttered. Oth- 
 ers have since spoken more fluently, more variously, with a greater 
 affluence of illustration ; but none, it is believed, more earnestly 
 or more forcibly. It is due to her memory, as well as to the great 
 and living cause of which she was so eminent and so fearless an 
 advocate, that what she thought and said with regard to the posi- 
 tion of her sex and its limitations, should be fully and fairly placed 
 before the public. For several years past her principal essay on 
 " Woman," here given, has not been purchasable at any price, 
 and has only with great difficulty been accessible to the general 
 reader. To place it within the reach of those who need and re- 
 quire it, is the main impulse to the publication of this volume ; 
 but the accompanying essays and papers will be found equally 
 worthy of thoughtful consideration. 
 
 H. Greeley. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, . 15 
 
 PART II. 
 
 MISCELLANIES, . . ^ 183 
 
 Aglauron and Latjrie. 183 
 
 Wrongs and Duties of American Women, . . . 217 
 
 George Sand, 228 
 
 The same Subject, 231 
 
 consuelo, 237 
 
 Jenny Lind, the " Consuelo" of George Sand, . . 241 
 
 Caroline, 250 
 
 Ever-growing Li yes, . . . . . . 256 
 
 Household Nobleness, 261 
 
 " Glumdalclitches," 266 
 
 " Ellen ; or, Forgiye and Forget," . . . 269 
 
 *' Courrier des Etats Unis," 276 
 
 The same Subject, . . . . . . . 280 
 
XII CONTENTS. 
 
 Books of Trayel, -. . 286 
 
 Review of Mrs. Jameson's Essays, . . . 288 
 
 Woman's Influence over the Insane, . . . 295 
 The Deaf and the Dumb, ...... 298 
 
 Christmas, 301 
 
 Children's Books, « » . . , . . 311 
 
 Woman in Poverty, . 315 
 
 The Irish Character, 321 
 
 The same Subject, 326 
 
 Educate Men and Women as Souls, . . 336 
 
 PART III. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM JOURNALS AND LETTERS, . 341 
 
 APPENDIX, 397 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 The following essay is a reproduction, modified and expanded, 
 of an article published in " The Dial, Boston, July, 1843," under 
 the title of " The Great Lawsuit. — Man versus Men ; Woman 
 versus Women." 
 
 This article excited a good deal of sympathy, and still more 
 interest. It is in compliance with wishes expressed from many 
 quarters that it is prepared for publication in its present form. 
 
 Objections having been made to the former title, as not suffi- 
 ciently easy to be understood, the present has been substituted as 
 expressive of the main purpose of the essay ; though, by myself, 
 the other is preferred, partly for the reason others do not 
 like it, — that is, that it requires some thought to see what it 
 means, and might thus prepare the reader to meet me on my own 
 ground. Besides, it offers a larger scope, and is, in that way, 
 more just to my desire. I meant by that title to intimate the 
 fact that, while it is the destiny of Man, in the course of the ages, 
 to ascertain and fulfil the law of his being, so that his life shall 
 be seen, as a whole, to be that of an angel or messenger, the 
 action of prejudices and passions which attend, in the day, the 
 growth of the individual, is continually obstructing the holy work 
 that is to make the earth a part of heaven. By Man I mean 
 both man and woman ; these are the two halves of one thought. 
 I lay no especial stress on the welfare of either. I believe that 
 the development of the one cannot be effected without that of the 
 other. My highest wish is that this truth should be distinctly 
 and rationally apprehended, and the conditions of life and free- 
 
 2 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 dom recognized as the same for the daughters and the sons of 
 time ; twin exponents of a divine thought. 
 
 I solicit a sincere and patient attention from those who open 
 the following pages at all. I solicit of women that they will lay 
 it to heart to ascertain what is for them the liberty of law. It ia 
 for this, and not for any, the largest, extension of partial privi- 
 leges that I seek. I ask them, if interested by these suggestions, 
 to search their own experience and intuitions for better, and fill 
 up with fit materials the trenches that hedge them in. From men 
 I ask a noble and earnest attention to-a,nything that can be 
 ofiered on this great and still obscure subject, such as I have met 
 from many with whom I stand in private relations. 
 
 And may truth, unpolluted by prejudice, vanity oi selfishness, 
 be granted daily more and more as the due of inhei Jtance, and 
 only valuable conquest for us all ! 
 
 November J 1844. 
 
FOitl 
 
 WOMAN 
 
 IN THE 
 
 NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 ** Frailty, thy name is Woman." 
 " The Earth waits for her Queen." 
 
 The connection between these quotations may not be 
 
 obvious, but it is strict. Yet would any contradict us, 
 
 if we made them applicable to the other side, and began 
 
 also, 
 
 Frailty, thy name is Man. 
 The Earth waits for its King ? 
 
 Yet Man, if not yet fully installed in his powers, has 
 given much earnest of his claims. Frail he is indeed, — 
 how frail ! how impure ! Yet often has the vein of gold 
 displayed itself amid the baser ores, and Man has ap- 
 peared before us in princely promise worthy of his future. 
 If, oftentimes, we see the prodigal son feeding on the 
 husks in the fair field no more his own, anon we raise 
 the eyelids, heavy from bitter tears, to behold in him the 
 radiant apparition of genius and love, demanding not 
 less than the all of goodness, power and beauty. We 
 see that in him the largest claim finds a due foundation. 
 
16 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 That claim is for no partial sway, no exclusive posses- 
 sion. He cannot be satisfied with any one gift of life, 
 any one department of knowledge or telescopic peep at 
 the heavens. He feels himself called to understand and 
 aid Nature, that she may, through his intelligence, be 
 raised and interpreted ; to be a student of, and servant 
 to. the universe-spirit ; and king of his planet, that, as an 
 angelic minister, he may bring it into conscious harmony 
 with the law of that spirit. 
 
 In clear, triumphant moments, many times, has rung 
 through the spheres the prophecy of his jubilee ; and 
 those moments, though past in time, have been translated 
 into eternity by thought ; the bright signs they left hang 
 in the heavens, as single stars or constellations, and, 
 already, a thickly sown radiance consoles the wanderer 
 in the darkest night. Other heroes since Hercules have 
 fulfilled the zodiac of beneficent labors, and then given 
 up their mortal part to the fire without a murmur; 
 while no God dared deny that they should have their 
 reward, 
 
 Siquis tamen, Hercule, siquis 
 Forte Deo doliturus erit, data prsemia nollet, 
 Sed meruise dari sciet, invitus que probabit, 
 
 Assensere Dei. 
 
 Sages and lawgivers have bent their whole nature to 
 the search for truth, and thought themselves happy if 
 they could buy, with the sacrifice of all temporal ease 
 and pleasure, one seed for the future Eden. Poets and 
 priests have strung the lyre with the heart-strings, poured 
 out their best blood upon the altar, which, reared anew 
 
 W 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 17 
 
 from age to age, shall at last sustain the flame pure 
 enough to rise to highest heaven. Shall we not name 
 with as deep a benediction those who, if not so imme- 
 diately, or so consciously, in connection with the eternal 
 truth, yet, led and fashioned by a divine instinct, serve 
 no less to develop and interpret the open secret of love 
 passing into life, energy creating for the purpose of hap- 
 piness; the artist whose hand, drawn by a preexistent 
 harmony to a certain medium, moulds it to forms of life 
 more highly and completely organized than are seen else- 
 where, and, by carrying out the intention of nature, 
 reveals her meaning to those who are not yet wise enough 
 to divine it; the philosopher who listens steadily for 
 laws and causes, and from those obvious infers those yet 
 unknown; the historian who, in faith that all events 
 must have their reason and their aim, records them, and 
 thus fills archives from which the youth of prophets may 
 be fed; the man of science dissecting the statements, 
 testing the facts and demonstrating order, even where he 
 cannot its purpose ? 
 
 Lives, too, which bear none of these names, have 
 yielded tones of no less significance. The candlestick 
 set in a low place has given light as faithfully, where it 
 was needed, as that upon the hill. In close alleys, in 
 dismal nooks, the Word has been read as distinctly, as 
 when shown by angels to holy men in the dark prison. 
 Those who till a spot of earth scarcely larger than is 
 wanted for a grave, have deserved that the sun should 
 shine upon its sod till violets answer. 
 
 So great has been, from time to time, the promise, 
 2* 
 
18 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 thatj in all ages, men have said the gods themselves came 
 down to dwell with them ; that the All- Creating wan- 
 dered on the earth to taste, in a limited nature, the 
 sweetness of virtue ; that the All- Sustaining incarnated 
 himself to guard, in space and time, the destinies of this 
 world ; that heavenly genius dwelt among the shepherds, 
 to sing to them and teach them how to sing. Indeed, 
 
 *' Der stets den Hirten gnadig sich bewies." 
 
 ''He has constantly shown himself favorable to shep- 
 herds." 
 
 And the dwellers in green pastures and natural stu- 
 dents of the stars were selected to hail, first among men, 
 the holy child, whose life and death were to present the 
 type of excellence, which has sustained the heart of so 
 large a portion of mankind in these later generations. 
 
 Such marks have been made by the footsteps of man 
 (still, alas! to be spoken of as the ideal man), wherever 
 he has passed through the wilderness of me^^, and when- 
 ever the pigmies stepped in one of those, they felt dilate 
 within the breast somewhat that promised nobler stature 
 and purer blood. They were impelled to forsake their 
 evil ways of decrepit scepticism and covetousness of cor- 
 ruptible possessions. Convictions flowed in upon them. 
 They, too, raised the cry: God is living, now, to-day; 
 and all beings are brothers, for they are his children. 
 Simple words enough, yet which only angelic natures can 
 use or hear in their full, free sense. 
 
 These were the triumphant moments ; but soon the 
 lower nature took its turn, and the era of a truly human 
 life was postponed. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 19 
 
 Thus is man still a stranger to his inheritance, still a 
 pleader, still a pilgrim. Yet his happiness is secure in 
 the end. And now, no more a glimmering conscious- 
 ness, but assurance begins to be felt and spoken, that the 
 highest ideal Man can form of his own powers is that 
 which he is destined to attain. Whatever the soul knows 
 how to seek, it cannot fail to- obtain. This is the Law 
 and the Prophets. Knock and it shall be opened ; seek 
 and ye shall find. It is demonstrated ; it is a maxim. 
 Man no longer paints his proper nature in some form, and 
 says, " Prometheus had it ; it is God-like ; " but " Man 
 must have it; it is human." However disputed by 
 many, however ignorantly used, or falsified by those who 
 do receive it, the fact of an universal, unceasing revela- 
 tion has been too clearly stated in words to be lost sight 
 of in thought ; and sermons preached from the text, 
 "Be ye perfect," are the only sermons of a pervasive 
 and deep-searching influence. 
 
 But, among those who meditate upon this text, there 
 is a great difference of view as to the way in which per- 
 fection shall be sought. 
 
 " Through the intellect," say some. " Gather from 
 every growth of life its seed of thought ; look behind 
 every symbol for its law ; if thou canst see clearly, the 
 rest will follow." 
 
 "Through the life," say others. " Do the best thou 
 knowest to-day. Shrink not from frequent error in this 
 gradual, fragmentary state. Follow thy light for as 
 much as it will show thee ; be faithful as far as thou canst, 
 in hope that fa ':h presently will lead to sight. Help 
 
20 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 Others, without blaming their need of thj help. Love 
 much, and be forgiven." 
 
 •' It needs not intellect, needs not experience," says a 
 third. " If you took the true way, your destiny would 
 be accomplished in a purer and more natural order. You 
 would not learn through facts of thought or action, but 
 express through them the certainties of wisdom. In 
 quietness yield thy soul to the causal soul. Do not dis- 
 turb thy apprenticeship by premature effort; neither 
 check the tide of instruction by methods of thy own. Be 
 still ; seek not, but wait in obedience. Thy commission 
 will be given." 
 
 Could we indeed say what we want, could we give a 
 description of the child that is lost, he would be found. 
 As soon as the soul can affirm clearly that a certain dem- 
 onstration is wanted, it is at hand. When the Jewish 
 prophet described the Lamb, as the expression of what 
 was required by the coming era, the time drew nigh. 
 But we say not, see not as yet, clearly, what we would. 
 Those who call for a more triumphant expression of love, 
 a love that cannot be crucified, show not a perfect sense 
 of what has already been given. Love has already been 
 expressed, that made all things new, that gave the worm 
 its place and ministry as well as the eagle ; a love to 
 which it was alike to descend into the depths of hell, or 
 to sit at the right hand of the Father. 
 
 Yet, no doubt, a new manifestation is at hand, a new 
 hour in the day of Man. We cannot expect to see any 
 one sample of completed being, when the mass of men 
 still lie engaged in the sod, or use the freedom of their 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 21 
 
 limbs only with wolfish energy. I The tree cannot come\ 
 to flower till its root be free from the cankering worm,/ 
 and its whole growth open to air and lighy While any/ 
 one is base, none can be entirely free and noble. Yet 
 something new shall presently be shown of the life of 
 man, for hearts crave, if minds do not know how to ask it. 
 
 Among the strains of prophecy, the following, by an 
 earnest mind of a foreign land, written some thirty years 
 ago, is not yet outgrown ; and it has the merit of being 
 a positive appeal from the heart, instead of a critical 
 declaration what Man should not do. 
 
 " The ministry of Man implies that he must be filled 
 from the divine fountains which are being engendered 
 through all eternity, so that, at the mere name of his 
 master, he may be able to cast all his enemies into the 
 abyss ; that he may dehver all parts of nature from the 
 barriers that imprison them ; that he may purge the ter- 
 restrial atmosphere from the poisons that infect it ; that 
 he may preserve the bodies of men from the corrupt influ- 
 ences that surround, and the maladies that afflict them ; 
 still more, that he may keep their souls pure from the 
 malignant insinuations which pollute, and the gloomy 
 images that obscure them ; that he may restore its 
 serenity to the Word, which false words of men fill with 
 mourning and sadness ; that he may satisfy the desires 
 of the angels, who await from him the development of 
 the marvels of nature ; that, in fine, his world may be 
 filled with God, as eternity is."* 
 
 Another attempt we will give, by an obscure observer 
 
 * St. Martin. 
 
22 ^ WOMAN IN THE 
 
 of our own day and country, to draw some lines of the 
 desired image. It was suggested by seeing the design of 
 Crawford's Orpheus, and connecting with the circum- 
 stance of the American, in his garret at Rome, making 
 choice of this subject, that of Americans here at home 
 showing such ambition to represent the character, by call- 
 ing their prose and verse "Orphic sayings" — " Or- 
 phics." We wish we could add that they have shown 
 that musical apprehension of the progress of Nature 
 through her ascending gradations which entitled them so 
 to do, but their attempts are frigid, though sometimes 
 grand ; in their strain we are not warmed by the fire 
 which fertilized the soil of Greece. 
 
 Orpheus was a lawgiver by theocratic commission. 
 He understood nature, and made her forms move to his 
 music. He told her secrets in the form of hymns, Nature 
 as seen in the mind of God. His soul went forth to- 
 ward all beings, yet could remain sternly faithful to a 
 chosen type of excellence. Seeking what he loved, he 
 feared not death nor hell ; neither could any shape of 
 dread daunt his faith in the power of the celestial har- 
 mony that filled his soul. 
 
 It seemed significant of the state of things in this 
 country, that the sculptor should have represented the 
 seer at the moment when he was obliged with his hand to 
 shade his eyes. 
 
 Each Orpheus must to the depths descend ; 
 
 For only thus the Poet can be wise ; 
 Must make the sad Persephone his friend. 
 
 And buried love to second life arise ; 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 23 
 
 Again his love must lose through too much love. 
 
 Must lose his life by living life too true, 
 For what he sought below is passed above. 
 
 Already done is all that he would do ; 
 Must tune all being with his single lyre, 
 
 Must melt all rocks free from their primal pain. 
 Must search all nature with his one soul's fire. 
 
 Must bind anew all forms in heavenly chain. 
 If he already sees what he must do, 
 Well may he shade his eyes from the far-shining view 
 
 A better comment could not be made on what is re- 
 quired to perfect Man, and place him in that superior 
 position for which he was designed, than bj the interpre- 
 tation of Bacon upon the legends of the Syren coast. 
 "When the wise Ulysses passed," says he, " he caused 
 his mariners to stop their ears with wax, knowing there 
 was in them no power to resist the lure of that voluptuous 
 song. But he, the much experienced man, who wished 
 to be experienced in all, and use all to the service of 
 wisdom, desired to hear the song that he might under- 
 stand its meaning. Yet, distrusting his own power to be 
 firm in his better purpose, he caused himself to be bound 
 to the mast, that he might be kept secure against his 
 own weakness. But Orpheus passed unfettered, so ab- 
 sorbed in singing hymns to the gods that he cculd not 
 even hear those sounds of degrading enchantmert." 
 
 Meanwhile, not a few believe, and men themselves 
 have expressed the opinion, that the time is come when 
 Eurydice is to call for an Orpheus, rather than Orpheus 
 for Eurydice ; that the idea of Man, however imperfectly 
 brought out, has been far more so than that of Woman ; 
 
24 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 that she, the other half of the same thought, the other 
 chamher of the heart of life, needs now take her turn 
 in the full pulsation, and that improvement in the daugh- 
 ters will best aid in the reformation of the sons of this 
 age. 
 
 It should be remarked that,|ai the principle of liberty 
 is better understood, and more nobly interpreted, a 
 broader protest is made in behalf of Woman. As men 
 become aware that few men have had a fair chance, they 
 are inclined to say that no women have had a fair chanc^ 
 
 f The French Revolution, that strangely disguised angel, 
 bore witness in favor of Woman, but interpreted her 
 
 (^claims no less ignorantly than those of Man. Its idea of 
 happiness did not rise beyond outward enjoyment, unob- 
 structed by the tyranny of others. The title it gave was 
 ^'citoyen," "citoyenne; " and it is not unimportant to 
 Woman that even this species of equality was awarded her. 
 
 j^Before, she could be condemned to perish on the scaffold 
 for treason, not^as a citizen, but as a subjects i The right 
 with which this title then invested a human being was 
 that of bloodshed and license. The Goddess of Liberty 
 was impure. As we read the poem addressed to her, not 
 long since, by Beranger, we can scarcely refrain from 
 tears as painful as the tears of blood that flowed when 
 " such crimes were committed in her name." Yes ! 
 Man, born to purify and animate the unintelligent and 
 the cold, can, in his madness, degrade and pollute no 
 less the fair and the chaste. Yet truth was prophesied 
 in the ravings of that hideous fever, caused by long igno- 
 rance and abuse. Europe is conning a valued lesson 
 
NINETEENTH CENTUET. 25 
 
 from the blood-stained page. The same tendencies, fur- 
 ther unfolded, will bear good fruit in this country. 
 
 Yet, by men in this country, as by the Jews, when 
 Moses was leading them to the promised land, every- 
 thing has been done that inherited depravity could do, 
 to hinder the promise of Heaven from its fulfilment. The 
 crosg, heie as elsewhere, has been planted only to be blas- 
 Dhemed by cruelty and fraud. The name of the Prince 
 Df Peace has been profaned by all kinds of injustice to- 
 ward the Gentile whom he said he came to save. But I 
 need not speak of what has been done towards the Red 
 Man, the Black Man. Those deeds are the scoff of the 
 world ; and they have been accompanied by such pious 
 words that the gentlest would not dare to intercede with 
 '' Father, forgive them, for they know not what they 
 do." 
 
 Here, as elsewhere, the gain of creation consists al- 
 ways in the growth of individual minds, which live and 
 aspire, as flowers bloom and birds sing, in the midst of 
 morasses; and in the continual development of that 
 thought, the thought of human destiny, which is given 
 to eternity adequately to express, and which ages of 
 failure only seemingly impede. Only seemingly ; and 
 whatever seems to the contrary, this country is as surely 
 destined to elucidate a great moral law, as Europe was 
 to promote the mental culture of Man. 
 
 Though the national independence be blurred by the 
 
 servility of individuals ; though freedom and equality 
 
 have been proclaimed only to leave room for a monstrous 
 
 display of slave-dealing and slave-keeping ; though the 
 
 3 
 
26 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 free American so often feels himself free, like tfje Ro- 
 man, onlj to pamper his appetites and his indoknct; 
 through the misery of his fellow-beings ; still it is not in 
 vain that the verbal statement has been made, '' All men 
 are born free and equal." There it stands, a golden cer- 
 tainty wherewith to encourage the good, to shame the 
 bad. The New World may be called clearly to perceive 
 that it incurs the utmost penalty if it reject or oppress 
 the sorrowful brother. And, if men are deaf, the angels 
 hear. But men cannot be deaf It is inevitable that an 
 external freedom, an independence of the encroachments 
 of other men, such as has been achieved for the nation, 
 should be so also for every member of it. That which 
 has once been clearly conceived in the intelligence can- 
 not fail, sooner or later, to be acted out. It has become 
 a law as irrevocable as that of the Medes in their ancient 
 dominion ; men will privately sin against it, but the law, 
 as expressed by a leading mind of the age, 
 
 ** Tutti fatti a sembianza d'un Solo, 
 Figli tutti d'un solo riscatto, 
 In qual'ora, in qual parte del suolo 
 Trascorriamo quest' aura vital, 
 Siam fratelli, siam stretti ad un patto : 
 Maladetto colui che lo infrange, 
 Che s'innalza sul fiacco che piange 
 Che contrista uno spirto immortal." * 
 
 •* All made in the likeness of the One, 
 All children of one ransom. 
 In whatever hour, in whatever part of the soil, 
 We draw this vital air, 
 
 * Manzoni. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 27 
 
 We are brothers ; we must be bound by one compact ; 
 
 Accursed he who infringes it, 
 Who raises himself upon the weak who weep, 
 
 Who saddens an immortal spirit." 
 
 This law cannot fail of universal recognition. Ac- 
 cursed be he who willingly saddens an immortal spirit — 
 doomed to infamy in later, wiser ages, doomed in future 
 stages of his own being to deadly penance, only short of 
 death. Accursed be he who sins in ignorance, if that 
 ignorance be caused by sloth. 
 
 We sicken no less at the pomp than the strife of 
 words. We feel that never were lungs so puffed with 
 the wind of declamation, on moral and religious sub- 
 jects, as now. We are tempted to implore these 
 "word-heroes," these word-Catos, word-Christs, to be- 
 ware of cant* above all things ; to remember that hypoc- 
 risy is the most hopeless as well as the meanest of 
 crimes, and that those must surely be polluted by it, who 
 dp not reserve a part of their morality and religion for 
 private use. Landor says that he cannot have a great 
 deal of mind who cannot afford to let the larger part of 
 it lie fallow ; and what is true of genius is not less so of 
 virtue. The tongue is a valuable member, but should 
 appropriate but a small part of the vital juices that are 
 needful all over the body. We feel that the mind may 
 
 * Dr. Johnson's one piece of advice should be written on every 
 door : '* Clear your mind of cant." But Byron, to whom it was so 
 acceptable, in clearing away the noxious vine, shook down the build 
 ing. Sterling's emendation is worthy of honor : 
 " Realize your cant, not cast it oflf." 
 
28 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 " grow black and rancid in the smoke " even " of altars. '* 
 We start up from the harangue to go into our closet and 
 shut the door. There inquires the spirit, " Is this rhet- 
 oric the bloom of healthy blood, or a false pigment art- 
 fully laid on? " And jet again we know where is so 
 much smoke, must be some fire ; with so much talk about 
 virtue and freedom, must be mingled some desire for 
 them ; that it cannot be in vain that such have become 
 the common topics of conversation among men, rather than 
 schemes for tyranny and plunder, that the very news- 
 papers see it best to proclaim themselves " Pilgrims," 
 "Puritans," "Heralds of Holiness." The king that 
 maintains so costly a retinue cannot be a mere boast, or 
 Carabbas fiction. We have waited here long in the dust ; 
 we are tired and hungry ; but the triumphal procession 
 must appear at last. 
 
 Of all its banners, none has been more steadily up- 
 held, and under none have more valor and willingness for 
 real sacrifices been shown, than that of the champions 
 of the enslaved African. And this band it is, which, 
 partly from a natural following out of principles, partly 
 because many women have been prominent in that cause, 
 makes, just now, the warmest appeal in behalf of Woman. 
 
 Though there has been a growing liberality on this 
 subject, yet society at large is not so prepared for the 
 demands of this party, but that its members are, and will 
 be for some time, coldly regarded as the Jacobins of their 
 day. 
 
 '^^^9 it not enough," cries the irritated trader, " that 
 you have done all you could to break up the national 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 29 
 
 union, and thus destroy the prosperity of our country, 
 but now you must be trying to break up family union, 
 to tak:) my wife away from the cradle and the kitchen- 
 hearth to vote at polls, and preach from a pulpit ? Of 
 course, if she does such things, she cannot attend to 
 those of her own sphere. She is happy enough as she 
 is. She has more leisure than I have, — every means 
 of improvement, every indulgence. ^',> 
 
 " Have you asked her whether she was satisfied with 
 these indulgences ? " 
 
 •' No, but I know she is. She is too amiable to desire 
 what would make me unhappy, and too judicious to wish 
 to step beyond the sphere of her sex, I will never consent 
 to have our peace disturbed by any such discussions." 
 
 " ' Consent — you?' it is not consent from you that is 
 in question — it is assent from your wife." 
 
 " Am not I the head of my house ? " 
 
 " You are not the head of your wife. God has given 
 kjr a mind of her own." 
 
 " I am the head, and she the heart." 
 
 " God grant you play true to one another, then ! I 
 suppose I am to be grateful that you did not say she was 
 only the hand. If the head represses no natural pulse 
 of the heart, there can be no question as to your giving 
 your consent. Both will be of one accord, and there 
 needs but to present any question to get a full and true 
 answer. There is no need of precaution, of indulgence, 
 nor consent. But our doubt is whether the heart does 
 consent with the head, or only obeys its decrees with a 
 passiveness that precludes the exercise of its natural 
 3* 
 
30 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 powers, or a repugnance that turns sweet qualities to 
 bitter, or a doubt that lays waste the fair occasions of 
 I life. It is to ascertain the truth that we propose some 
 ( liberiting measures." 
 
 Thus vaguely are these questions proposed and dis- 
 cussed at present. But their being proposed at all im- 
 plies much thought, and suggests more. Many women 
 are considering within themselves what they need that 
 they have not, and what they can have if they find they 
 s need it. Many men are considering whether women are 
 ' capable of being and having more than they are and 
 have, and whether, if so, it will be best to consent to 
 \ improvement in their condition. 
 
 This morning, I open the Boston '' Daily Mail," and 
 find in its " poet's corner " a translation of Schiller's 
 " Dignity of Woman." In the advertisement of a book 
 on America, I see in the table of contents this sequence, 
 '' Republican Institutions. American Slavery. Amer- 
 ican Ladies." 
 
 I open the " Deutsche Schnellpsst^''^ published in 
 New York, and find at the head of a column, Judenund 
 Frauen-emaiicipation in TJngarn — " Emancipation 
 of Jews and Women in Hungary." 
 
 The past year has seen action in the Rhode Island 
 legislature, to secure married women rights over their 
 own property, where men showed that a very little ex- 
 amination of the subject could teach them much ; an 
 article in the Democratic Review on the same subject 
 more largely considered, written by a woman, impelled, 
 it is said, by glaring wrong to a distinguished friend, hav- 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 31 
 
 ing shown the defects in the existing laws, and the state 
 of opinion from which thej spring ; and an answer from 
 the revered old man, J. Q. Adams, in some respects the 
 Phocion of his time, to an address made him by some 
 ladies. To this last I shall again advert in another place. 
 
 These symptoms of the times have come under my 
 view quite accidentally : one who seeks, may, each 
 month or week, collect more. 
 
 The numerous party, whose opinions are already 
 labeled and adjusted too much to their mind to admit 
 of any new light, strive, by lectures on some model- 
 woman of bride-like beauty and gentleness, by writing 
 and lending little treatises, intended to mark out with 
 precision the limits of Woman's sphere, and Woman's 
 mission, to prevent other than the rightful shepherd from 
 climbing the wall, or the flock from using any chance to 
 go astray. 
 
 Without enrolling ourselves at once on either side, let 
 us look upon the subject from the best point of view 
 which to-day offers ; no better, it is to be feared, than 
 a high house-top. A high hill-top, or at least a cathedral- 
 spire, would be desirable. 
 
 It niay well be an Anti- Slavery party that pleads for 
 Woman, if we consider merely that she does not hold 
 property on equal terms with men ; so that, if a husband 
 dies without making a will, the wife, instead of taking 
 at once his place as head of the family, inherits enly a 
 part of his fortune, often brought him by herself,' as if 
 she were a child, or ward only,^ not an equal partner^ 
 
 We will not speak of the innumerable instances in 
 
82 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 which profligate and idle men live upon the earnings of 
 industrious wives ; or if the wives leave them, and take 
 with them the children, to perform the double duty of 
 mother and father, follow from place to place, and threaten 
 to rob them of the children, if deprived of the rights of 
 a husband, as they call them, planting themselves in 
 their poor lodgings, frightening them into paying tribute 
 by taking from them the children, running into debt at 
 the expense of these otherwise so overtasked helots. 
 Such instances count up by scores within my own 
 memory. I have seen the husband who had stained him- 
 self by a long course of low vice, till his wife was wea- 
 ried from her heroic forgiveness, by finding that his 
 treachery made it useless, and that if she would provide 
 bread for herself and her children, she must be separate 
 from his ill fame — I have known this man come to in- 
 stall himself in the chamber of a woman who loathed 
 him, and say she should never take food without his com- 
 pany. I have known these men steal their children, 
 whom they knew they had no means to maintain, take 
 them into dissolute company, expose them to bodily 
 danger, to frighten the poor woman, to whom, it seems, 
 the fact that she alone had borne the pangs of their 
 birth, and nourished their infancy, does not give an equal 
 right to them. I do believe that this mode of kidnap- 
 ping — and it is frequent enough in all classes of society 
 — will be by the next age viewed as it is by Heaven now, 
 and that the man who avails himself of the shelter of 
 men's laws to steal from a mother her own children, or 
 arrogate any superior right in them, save that of superior 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 66 
 
 virtue, will bear the stigma he deserves, in common with 
 him who steals grown men from their mother-land, their 
 hopes, and their homes. 
 
 I said, we will not speak of this now ; yet 1 have spo- 
 ken, for the subject makes me feel too much. I could 
 mve instances that would startle the most vulo;ar and 
 callous ; but I will not, for the public opinion of their 
 own sex is already against such men, and where cases of 
 extreme^ tyranny are made known, there is private actictfi 
 in the wife's favor. But she ought not to need this, nor, 
 I think, can she long. Men must soon see that as, on 
 their own ground, Woman is the weaker party, she ought 
 to have legal protection, which would make such oppres- 
 sion impossible. But I would not deal with "atrocious 
 instances," except in the way of illustration, neither 
 demand from men a partial redress in some one matter, 
 but go to the root of the whole. If principles could be 
 established, particulars would adjust themselves aright. 
 Ascertain the true destiny of Woman ; give her legiti- 
 mate hopes, and a standard within herself; marriage and 
 all other relations would by degrees be harmonized with 
 these. 
 
 But to return to the historical progress of this matter. 
 Knowing that t here exists in the minds of men a ton e 
 of feeling toward women a s toward slaves, such as is 
 expressed in~tEe common phrase, " Tell that to women 
 and children ; " that the uifinite soul can only work 
 through them in already ascertained Jimite;_tta ^ft 
 of r eason , Man's highest prerogativeijs allotted to thfiip 
 in much lower degree ; that they n^ust be kept from mis- 
 
34 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 chief and melancholy bj being constantly engaged iii 
 active labor, which is to be furnished and directed by 
 those better able to think, &c., &c., — we need not multi- 
 ply instances, for who can review the experience of last 
 week without recalling words which imply, whether in 
 jest or earnest, these views, or views like these, — know- 
 ing this, can we wonder that many reformers think that 
 measures are not likely to be taken in behalf of women, 
 unless their wishes could be publicly represented by 
 >vomen ? 
 
 ''That can never be necessary," cry the other side. 
 " All men are privately influenced by women ; each has 
 his wife, sister, or female friends, and is too much biased 
 by these relations to fail of representing their interests ; 
 and, if this is not enough, let them propose and enforce 
 their wishes with the pen. j^The beauty of home would 
 be destroyed, the delicacy of the sex be violated, the 
 dignity of halls of legislation degraded, by an attempt to 
 introduce them there. ' , Such duties are inconsistent with 
 those of a mother ; " and then we have ludicrous pictures 
 of ladies in hysterics at the polls, and senate-chambers 
 filled with cradles. 
 
 But if, in reply, we admit as truth that Woman seems 
 destined by nature rather for the inner circle, we must 
 add that the arrangements of civilized life have not been, 
 as yet, such as to secure it to her. Her circle, if the 
 duller, is not the quieter. If kept from ''excitement," 
 she is not from drudgery. Not only the Indian squaw 
 carries the burdens of the camp, but the favorites of 
 Louis XIV. accompany him in his journeys, and the 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 35 
 
 washerwoman stands at her tub, and carries home her 
 work at all seasons, and in all states of health. Those 
 who think the physical circumstances of Woman would 
 make a part in the affairs of national government unsuit- 
 able, are hj no means those who think it impossible for 
 negresses to endure field-work, even during pregnancy, j 
 or for sempstresses to go through their killing labors. 
 X^As to the use of the pen, there was quite as much 
 opposition to Woman's possessing herself of that help to 
 free agency as there is now to her seizing on the rostrum 
 or the desk ; and she is likely to draw, from a permission 
 to plead her cause that way, opposite inferences to what 
 might be wished by those who now grant it. 
 
 As to the possibility of her filling with grace and 
 dignity any such position, we should think those who had 
 seen the great actresses, and heard the Quaker preachers 
 of modern times, would not doubt that Woman can 
 express publicly the fulness of thought and creation, 
 without losing any of the peculiar beauty of her sex. 
 What can pollute and tarnish is to act thus from any 
 motive except that something needs to be said or done. 
 Woman could take part in the processions, the songs, the 
 dances of old religion ; no one fancied her delicacy was 
 impaired by appearing in public for such a cause. 
 
 As to her home, she is not likely to leave it more than 
 she now does for balls, theatres, meetings for promoting 
 missions, revival meetings, and others to which she flies, 
 in hope of an animation for her existence commensurate 
 with what she sees enjoyed by men. Governors of 
 ladies' -fairs are no less engrossed by such a charge, than 
 
36 WOMAN IN THE 
 
 the governor of a state by his ; presidents of Washing- 
 tonian societies no less away from home than presidents 
 of conventions. If men look straitly to it, they will 
 find that, unless their lives are domestic, those ot the 
 women will not be. A house is no home unless it con- 
 tain food and fire for the mind as well as for the body. 
 The female Greek, of our day, is as much in the street 
 as the male to cry, ''What news?" We doubt not it 
 was the same in Athens of old. The women, shut out 
 from the market-place, made up for it at the religious 
 festivals. \For human beings are not so constituted that 
 they can live without expansion. If they do not get it 
 in one way, they must in another, or perish. \jf 
 
 As to men's representing women fairl/^at present, 
 while we hear from men who owe to their wives not only 
 all that is comfortable or graceful, but all that is wise, 
 in the arrangement of their lives, the frequent remark, 
 "You cannot reason with a woman," — when from those 
 of delicacy, nobleness, and poetic culture, falls the con- 
 temptuous phrase " women and children," and that in no 
 light sally of the hour, but in works intended to give a 
 permanent statement of the best experiences, — when not 
 one man, in the million, shall I say ? no, not in the hun- 
 dred million, can rise above the belief that Woman was 
 made for Man. — when such traits as these are daily 
 forced upon the attention, can we feel that Man will 
 always do justice to the interests of Woman ? Can we 
 think that he takes a sufficiently discerning and religious 
 view of her office and destiny ever to do her justice, 
 except when prompted by sentiment, — accidentally or 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. 87 
 
 transiently, that is, for the sentiment will vary according 
 to the relations in which he is placed? The lover, the 
 poet, the artist, are likely to view her nobly. The father 
 and the philosopher have some chance of liberahty ; the 
 mar of the world, the legislator for expediency, none. 
 
 Under these circumstances, without attaching impor- 
 tance, in themselves, to the changes demanded by the 
 champions of Woman, we hail them as signs of the 
 times. We would have every arbitrary barrier thrown 
 down. We would have every path laid open to Woman 
 as freely as to Man. Were this done, and a slight tem- 
 porary fermentation allowed to subside, we should see 
 crystallizations more pure and of more various beauty. 
 We believe the divine energy would pervade nature to a 
 degree unknown in the history of former ages, and that 
 no discordant collision, but a ravishing harmony of the 
 spheres, would ensue. 
 
 Yet, then and only then will mankind be ripe for this, 
 when inward and outward freedom for Woman as much 
 as for Man shall be acknowledged as a right^ not yielded 
 as a concession. As the friend of the negro assumes 
 that one man cannot by right hold another in bondage, 
 so should^. the fi'iend of Woman assume that Man cannot \ 
 by right lay even well-meant restrictions on Woman. / 
 If the negi'O be a soul, if the woman be a soul, apparelled \ 
 in flesh, to one Master only are they accountable. There / 
 is but one law for souls, and, if there is to be an inter- 
 preter of it, he must come not as man, or son of man, 
 but as son of God. 
 
 Were thought and feeling once so far elevated that 
 4 
 
88 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 Man should esteem himself the brother and friend, but 
 nowise the lord and tutor, of Woman, — were he really 
 bound with her in equal worship, — arrangements as to 
 function and employment would be of no consequence. 
 ' What Woman needs is not as a woman to act or rule, 
 but as a nature to grow, as an intellect to discern, as a 
 soul to live freely and unimpeded, to unfold such powers 
 as were given her when we left our common home. If 
 ^ewer talents were given her, yet if allowed the free and 
 full employment of these, so that she may render back to 
 the giver his own with usury, she will not complain ; 
 nay, I dare to say she will bless and rejoice in her 
 earthly birth-place, her earthly lot. Let us consider 
 what obstructions impede this good era, and what signs 
 give reason to liope that it draws near. 
 
 I was talking on this subject with Miranda, a woman, 
 who, if any in the world could, might speak without heat 
 and bitterness of the position of her sex. Her father 
 was a man who cherished no sentimental reverence for 
 Woman, but a j&rm belief in the equality of the sexes. 
 She was his eldest child, and came to him at an age when 
 he needed a companion. From the time she could speak 
 and go alone, he addressed her not as a plaything, but as 
 a living mind. Among the few verses he ever wrote was 
 a copy addressed to this child, when the first locks were 
 cut from her head ; and the reverence expressed on this 
 occasion for that cherished head, he never belied. It was 
 to him the temple of immortal intellect. He respected 
 his child, however, too much to be an indulgent parent. 
 He called on her for clear judgment, for courage, for 
 
MIRANDA. 89 
 
 honor and fidelity ; in short, for such virtues as he knew. 
 In so far as he possessed the keys to the -wonders of this 
 universe, he allowed free use of them to her, and, by the 
 incentive of a high expectation, he forbade, so far as 
 possible, that she should let the privilege lie idle. 
 
 Thus this child was early led to feel herself a child of 
 the spirit. She took her place easily, not only in the 
 world of organized being, but in the world of mind. A 
 dignified sense of self-dependence was given as all her 
 portion, and she found it a sure anchor. Herself securely 
 anchored, her relations with others were established with 
 equal security. She was fortunate in a total absence of 
 those charms which might have drawn to her bewildering 
 flatteries, and in a strong electric nature, which repelled 
 those who did not belong to her, and attracted those who 
 did. With men and women her relations were noble, — 
 affectionate without passion, intellectual without coldness. 
 The world was free to her, and she lived freely in it. 
 Outward adversity came, and inward conflict ; but that 
 faith and self-respect had early been awakened which 
 must always lead, at last, to an outward serenity and an 
 inward peace. 
 
 Of Miranda I had always thought as an example, that 
 the restraints upon the sex were insuperable only to 
 those who think them so, or who noisily strive to break 
 them. She had taken a course of her own, and no man 
 stood in her way. Many of her acts had been unusual, 
 but excited no uproar. Few helped, but none checked 
 her ; and the many men who knew her mind and her 
 life, showed to her confidence as to a brother, gentleness 
 
iO WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 as to a sister. And not only refined, but very coarse men 
 approved and aided one in whom they saw resolution and 
 clearness of design. Her mind was often the leading 
 one, always effective. 
 
 When I talked with her upon these matters, and had 
 said very much what I have written, she smilingly 
 replied: ''And yet wc must admit that I have been 
 fortunate, and this should not be. My good father's 
 early trust gave the first bias, and the rest followed, of 
 course. It is true that I have had less outward aid, in 
 after years, than most women; but that is of little conse- 
 quence. Religion was early awakened in my soul, — 
 a sense that what the soul is capable to ask it must 
 attain, and that, though I might be aided and instructed 
 by others, I must depend on myself as the only constant 
 friend. This self-dependence, which was honored in me, 
 is deprecated as a fault in most women. They are 
 taught to learn their rule from without, not to unfold it 
 from within. 
 
 '' This is the fault of Man, who is still vain, and 
 wishes to be more important to Woman than, by right, 
 he should be." 
 
 '' Men have not shown this disposition toward you," I 
 said. 
 
 "No; because the position I early was enabled to 
 take was one of self-reliance. And were all women as 
 sure of their wants as I was, the result would be the 
 same. But they are so overloaded with precepts by 
 guardians, who think that nothing is so much to be 
 dreaded for a woman as originality of thought or char- 
 
MIRANDA. 41 
 
 acter, that their minds are impeded by doubts till they 
 lose their chance of fair, free proportions. The diflficulty 
 is to get them to the point from which they shall natu- 
 rally develop self-respect, and learn self-help. 
 
 " Once I thought that men would help to forward this 
 state of things more than I do now. 1 saw so many of 
 them wretched in the connections they had formed in 
 weakness and vanity. They seemed so glad to esteem 
 women whenever they could. 
 
 "'The soft arms of affection,' said one of the most 
 discerning spirits, ' will not suflfice for me, unless on 
 them I see the steel bracelets of strength.' 
 
 " But early I perceived that men never, in any ex- 
 trerafi- of despair, wished to be women. On the contrary, 
 they were ever ready to taunt one another, at any sign 
 of weakness, with, 
 
 *' * Art thou not like the women, who,' — 
 
 The passage ends various ways, according to the occa- 
 sion and rhetoric of the speaker. When they admired 
 any woman, they were inclined to speak of her as ' above 
 her sex.' Silently I observed this, and feared it argued 
 a rooted scepticism, which for ages had been fastening on 
 the heart, and which only an age of miracles could eradi- 
 cate. Ever I have been treated with great sincerity; 
 and I look upon it as a signal instance of this, that an 
 intimate friend of the other sex said, in a fervent mo- 
 ment, that I ' deserved in some star to be a man.' He 
 was much surprised when I disclosed my view of my 
 position and hopes, when I declared my faith that the 
 4* 
 
42 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 feminine side, the side of love, of beauty, of holiness, 
 was now to have its full chance, and that, if either were 
 better, it was better now to be a woman ; for even the 
 slightest achievement of good was furthering an especial 
 work of our time. He smiled incredulously. ' She 
 makes the best she can of it,' thought he. ' Let Jews 
 believe the pride of Jewry, but I am of the better sort, 
 and know better.' 
 
 '' Another used as highest praise, in speaking of a 
 character in literature, the words ' a manly woman.' 
 
 '' So in the noble passage of Ben Jonson : 
 
 * I meant the day-star should not brighter ride, 
 
 Nor shed like influence from its lucent seat ; 
 I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, 
 
 Free from that solemn vice of greatness, pride ; 
 I meant each softest virtue there should meet. 
 
 Fit in that softer bosom to abide, 
 Only a learned and a manly soul 
 
 I purposed her, that should with even powers 
 The rock, the spindle, and the shears control 
 
 Of destiny, and spin her own free hours.' '* 
 
 ''Methinks," said I, '^you are too fastidious in object- 
 ing to this. Jonson, in using the word 'manly,' only 
 meant to heighten the picture of this, the true, the intel- 
 ligent fate, with one of the deeper colors." 
 
 "And yet," said she, "so invariable is the use of 
 this word where a heroic quality is to be described, and 
 I feel so sure that persistence and courage are the most 
 womanly no less than the most manly qualities, that I 
 would exchange these words for others of a larger sense, 
 at the risk of marring the fine tissue of the verse. 
 
MIRANDA. 43 
 
 Read, ' A heaven-rard and instructed soul,' and I should 
 be satisfied. Let it not be said, wherever there is energy 
 She has a masculine mind.' " 
 
 This by no means argues a willing want of generosity 
 toward Woman. Man is as generous towards her as he 
 knows how to be. 
 
 Wherever she has herself arisen in national or private 
 history, and nobly shone forth in any form of excellence, 
 men have received her, not only willingly, but with tri- 
 umph. Their encomiums, indeed, are always, in some 
 sense, mortifying ; they show too much surprise. '' Can 
 this be you?" he cries to the transfigured Cinderella ; 
 " well, I should never have thought it, but I am very 
 glad. We will tell every one that you have ' surpassed 
 your sex.^ " 
 
 In every-day life, the feelings of the many are stained 
 with vanity. Each wishes to be lord in a little world, to 
 be superior at least over one ; and he does not feel strong 
 enough to retain a life-long ascendency over a strong 
 nature. Only a Theseus could conquer before he Aved 
 the Amazonian queen. Hercules wished rather to rest 
 with Dejanira, and received the poisoned robe as a fit 
 guerdon. The tale should be interpreted to all those 
 who seek repose with the weak. 
 
 But not only is Man vain and fond of power, but the 
 same want of development, which thus affects him mor- 
 ally, prevents his intellectually discerning the destiny of 
 Woman. The boy wants no woman, but only a girl to 
 play ball with him, and mark his pocket handkerchief. 
 
44 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 Thus, in Schiller's Dignity of Woman, beautiful as 
 the poem is, there is no "grave and perfect man," but 
 only a great boy to be softened and restrained by the 
 influence of girls. Poets — the elder brothers of their 
 race — have usually seen further ; but what can you 
 expect of every-day men, if Schiller was not more 
 prophetic as to what women must be ? Even with Rich- 
 ter, one foremost thought about a wife was that she 
 would "cook him something good." But as this is a 
 delicate subject, and we are in constant danger of being 
 accused of slighting what are called "the functions," let 
 me say, in behalf of Miranda and myself, that we have 
 high respect for those 'who "cook something good," who 
 create and preserve fair order in houses, and prepare 
 therein the shining raiment for worthy inmates, worthy 
 guests. Only these " functions " must not be a drudg- 
 )ery, or enforced necessity, but a part of life. Let 
 I Ulysses drive the beeves home, while Penelope there 
 /piles up the fragrant loaves; they are both well em- 
 ployed if these be done in thought and love, willingly. 
 But Penelope is no more meant for a baker or weaver 
 solely, than Ulysses for a cattle-herd. 
 ^ The sexes should not only correspond to and appre- 
 ciate, but prophesy to one another. In individual 
 instances this happens. Two persons love in one 
 another the future good which they aid one another to 
 unfold. This is imperfectly or rarely done in the gen- 
 eral life, j Man has gone but little way ; now he is wait- 
 ing to see whether Woman can keep step with hiin^ but, 
 instead of callmg out, like a good brother, "You can do 
 
PLATER. 45 
 
 itj if you only think so," or impersonally, ''Any one 
 can do what he tries to do; " he often discourages with 
 school-boy brag: " Girls can't do that; girls can't play 
 ball." But let any one defy their taunts, break through 
 and be brave and secure, they rend the air with shouts. 
 
 This fluctuation was obvious in a narrative I have 
 lately seen, the story of the life of Countess Emily 
 Plater, the heroine of the last revolution in Poland. 
 The dignity, the purity, the concentrated resolve, the 
 calm, deep enthusiasm, which yet could, when occasion 
 called, sparkle up a holy, an indignant fire, make of this 
 young maiden the figure I want for my frontispiece. 
 Her portrait is to be seen in the book, a gentle shadow 
 of her soul. Short was the career. Like the Maid of 
 Orleans, she only did enough to verify her credentials, 
 and then passed from a scene on which she was, proba- 
 bly, a premature apparition. 
 
 When the young girl joined the army, where the report 
 of her exploits had preceded her, she was received in a 
 manner that marks the usual state of feeling. Some of 
 the officers were disappointed at her quiet manners ; that 
 she had not the air and tone of a stage-heroine. They 
 thought she could not have acted heroically unless in 
 buskins ; had no idea that such deeds only showed the 
 habit of her mind. Others talked of the delicacy of her 
 sex, advised her to withdraw from perils and dangers, 
 and had no comprehension of the feelings within her 
 breast that made this impossible. The gentle irony of 
 her reply to these self-constituted tutors (not one of 
 whom showed himself her equal in conduct or reason), is 
 
46 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 as good as her indignant reproof at a later period to the 
 general, whose perfidy ruined all. 
 
 But though, to the mass of these men, she was an 
 embarrassment and a puzzle, the nobler sort viewed her 
 with a tender enthusiasm worthy of her. " Her name," 
 said her biographer, " is known throughout Europe. I 
 paint her character that she may be as widely loved." 
 
 With pride, he show^s her freedom from all personal 
 affections ; that, though tender and gentle in an uncom- 
 mon degree, there was no room for a private love in her 
 consecrated life. She inspired those who knew her with 
 a simple energy of feeling like her own. " We have 
 seen," they felt, " a woman worthy the name, capable of 
 all sweet affections, capable of stern virtue." 
 
 It is a fact worthy of remark, that all these revolu- 
 tions in favor of liberty have produced female champions 
 that share the same traits, but Emily alone has found a 
 biographer. Only a near friend could have performed 
 for her this task, for the flower was reared in feminine 
 seclusion, and the few and simple traits of her history 
 before her appearance in the field could only have been 
 known to the domestic circle. Her biographer has gath- 
 ered them up with a brotherly devotion. 
 
 No ! Man is not willingly ungenerous. He wants 
 faith and love, because he is not yet himself an elevated 
 being. He cries, with sneering scepticism, " Give us a 
 sign." But if the sign appears, his eyes glisten, and he 
 offers not merely approval, but homage. 
 
 The severe nation which taught that the happiness of 
 the race was forfeited through the fault of a Woman, and 
 
BVB AND MARY. 47 
 
 Bhowed its thought of what sort of regard Man owed her, 
 by making him accuse her on the first question to his 
 God, — who gave her to the patriarch as a handmaid, 
 and, by the Mosaical law, bound her to allegiance like a 
 serf, — even they greeted, with solemn rapture, all 
 great and holy women as heroines, prophetesses, judges 
 in Israel ; and, if they made Eve listen to the serpent, 
 gave Mary as a bride to the Holy Spirit. In other 
 nations it has been the same down to our day. To 
 the Woman w^ho could conquer a triumph was awarded. 
 And not only those whose strength was recommended to 
 the heart by association with goodness and beauty, but 
 those who were bad, if they were steadfast and strong, 
 had their claims allowed. In any age a Semiramis, an 
 Elizabeth of England, a Catharine of Russia, makes her 
 place good, whether in a large or small circle. How 
 has a little wit, a little genius, been celebrated in a 
 Woman ! What an intellectual triumph was that of the 
 lonely Aspasia, and how heartily acknowledged ! She, 
 indeed, met a Pericles. But what annalist, the rudest 
 of men, the most plebeian of husbands, will spare from 
 his page one of the few anecdotes of Roman women — 
 Sappho ! Eloisa ! The names are of threadbare celeb- 
 rity. Indeed, they were not more suitably met in their 
 own time than the Countess Colonel Plater on her first 
 joining the army. They had much to mourn, and their 
 great impulses did not find due scope. But with time 
 enough, space enough, their kindred appear on the 
 scene. Across the ages, forms lean, trying to touch the 
 hem of their retreating robes. The youth here by my 
 
48 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 side cannot be weary of the fragments from the life of 
 Sappho. He will not believe they are not addressed to 
 himself, or that he to whom they were addressed could 
 be ungrateful. A recluse of high powers devotes him- 
 self to understand and explain the thought of Eloisa ; 
 he asserts her vast superiority in soul and genius to her 
 master ; he curses the fate that casts his lot in another 
 age than hers. He could have understood her ; he would 
 have been to her a friend, such as Abelard never could. 
 And this one Woman he could have loved and reverenced, 
 and she, alas ! lay cold in her grave hundreds of years 
 ago. His sorrow is truly pathetic. These responses, 
 that come too late to give joy, are as tragic as anything 
 we know, and yet the tears of later ages glitter as they 
 fall on Tasso's prison bars. And we know how elevating 
 to the captive is the security that somewhere an intel- 
 ligence must answer to his. 
 
 The Man habitually most narrow towards Woman will 
 be flushed, as by the worst assault on Christianity, if you 
 say it has made no improvement in her condition. In- 
 deed, those most opposed to new acts in her fa\^or, are 
 jealous of the reputation of those which have been 
 done. 
 
 We will not speak of the enthusiasm excited by act- 
 resses, improvisatrici, female singers, — for here mingles 
 the charm of beauty and grace, — but female authors, even 
 learned women, if not insufferably ugly and slovenly, 
 from the Italian professor's daughter who taught behind 
 the curtain, down to Mrs. Carter and Madame Dacier, 
 are sure of an admiring audience, and, what is far bet- 
 
LET ALL THE PLANTS GROW! 49 ' 
 
 ter^ chance to use what thej have learned, and to learn 
 more, if they can once get a platform on which to stand. 
 
 But how to get this platform, or how to make it of 
 reasonably easy access, is the difficulty. Plants of great 
 vigor will almost always struggle into blossom, despite 
 impediments. But there should be encouragement, and 
 a free genial atmosphere for those of more timid sort, 
 fair play for each in its own kind. Some are like the 
 little, delicate flowers which love to hide in the dripping 
 mosses, by the sides of mountain torrents, or in the shade 
 of tall trees. But others require an open field, a rich 
 and loosened soil, or they never show their proper 
 hues. 
 
 It may be said that Man does not have his fair play 
 either; his energies are repressed and distorted by the 
 interposition of artificial obstacles. Ay, but he himself 
 has put them there ; they have grown out of his own 
 imperfections. If there is a misfortune in Woman's lot, 
 it is in obstacles being interposed by men, which do 7iot 
 mark her state ; and, if they express her past ignorance, 
 do not her present needs. As every Man is of Woman 
 born, she has slow but sure means of redress ; yet the 
 sooner a general justness of thought makes smooth the 
 path, the better. 
 
 Man is of Woman born, and her face bends over himj 
 in infancy with an expression he can never quite forget. * 
 Eminent men have delighted to pay tribute to this image, 
 and it is an hackneyed observation, that most men of 
 genius boast some remarkable development in the mother. 
 The rudest tar brushes off a tear with his coat-sleeve at 
 5 
 
50 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 the hallowed name. The other day, I met a decrepit old 
 man of seventy, on a journey, who challenged the stage 
 company to guess where he was going. They guessed 
 aright, "To see your mother." "Yes," said he, "she 
 is ninety-two, but has good eyesight still, they say. I 
 have not seen her these forty years, and I thought I could 
 not die in peace without." I should have liked his picture 
 painted as a companion-piece to that of a boisterous 
 little boy, whom I saw attempt to declaim at a school ex- 
 hibition — 
 
 ** that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last." 
 
 He got but very little way before sudden tears shamed 
 him from the stage. 
 . Some gleams of the same expression which shone 
 ■ down upon his infancy, angelically pure and benign, visit 
 Man again with hopes of pure love, of a holy marriage. 
 Or, if not before, in the eyes of the mother of his child 
 they again are seen, and dim fancies pass before his mind, 
 that Woman may not have been born for him alone, but 
 have come from heaven, a commissioned soul, a messen- 
 ger of truth and love ; that she can only make for him a 
 home in which he may lawfully repose, in so far as she is 
 
 *' True to the kindred points of Heaven and home." 
 
 In gleams, in dim fancies, this thought visits the mind 
 of common men. It is soon obscured by the mists of 
 sensuality, the dust of routine, and he thinks it was only 
 some meteor or ignis fatuus that shone. But, as a 
 
ISIS. 51 
 
 Rosicrucian lamp, it bums unwearied, though condemned 
 to the solitude of tombs ; and to its permanent life, as to 
 every truth, each age has in some form borne witness. 
 For the truths, which visit the minds of careless men 
 only in fitful gleams, shine with radiant clearness into 
 those of the poet, the priest, and the artist. 
 
 Whatever may have been the domestic manners of the 
 ancients, the idea of Woman was nobly manifested in 
 their mythologies and poems, where she appears as Sita 
 in the Ramayana, a form of tender purity ; as the Egyp- 
 tian Isis,=^ of divine wisdom never yet surpassed. In 
 Egypt, too, the Sphynx, walking the earth with lion 
 tread, looked out upon its marvels in the calm, inscrut- 
 able beauty of a virgin's face, and the Greek could only 
 add wings to the great emblem. In Greece. Ceres and 
 Proserpine, significantly termed '" the great goddesses," 
 were seen seated side by side. They needed not to rise 
 for any worshipper or any change ; they were prepared 
 for all things, as those initiated to their mysteries knew. 
 More obvious is the meaning of these three forms, the 
 Diana, Minerva, and Yesta. Unlike in the expression 
 of their beauty, but alike in this, — that each was self- 
 sufficing. Other forms were only accessories and illus- 
 trations, none the complement to one like these. Another 
 might, indeed, be the companion, and the Apollo and 
 Diana set ofi" one another's beauty. Of the Vesta, it is 
 to be observed, that not only deep-eyed, deep-discerning 
 Greece, but ruder Rome, who represents the only form 
 of good man (the always busy warrior) that could be 
 
 * For an adequate description of the Isis, see Appendix A. 
 
52 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 indifferent to "Woman, confided the permanence of its glory- 
 to a tutelary goddess, and her wisest legislator spoke of 
 meditation as a nymph. 
 
 Perhaps in Rome the neglect of Woman was a reaction 
 on the manners of Etruria, where the priestess Queen^ 
 warrior Queen, would seem to have been so usual a char- 
 acter. 
 
 An instance of the noble Roman marriage, where the 
 stern and calm nobleness of the nation was common to 
 both, we see in the historic page through the little that 
 is told us of Brutus and Portia. Shakspeare has 
 seized on the relation in its native lineaments, harmoniz- 
 ing the particular with the universal ; and, while it is 
 conjugal love, and no other, making it unlike the same 
 relation as seen in Cymbeline, or Othello, even as one 
 star differeth from another in glory. 
 
 " By that great vow 
 Which did incorporate and make us one. 
 Unfold to me, yourself, your other half. 
 Why you are heavy. * * * 
 
 Dwell I but in the suburbs 
 Of your good pleasure ? If it be no more, 
 Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife." 
 
 Mark the sad majesty of his tone in answer. Who 
 
 would not have lent a life-long credence to that voice of 
 
 honor ? 
 
 *' You are my true and honorable wife ; 
 As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 
 That visit this sad heart." 
 
 It is the same voice that tells the moral of his life in 
 the last words — 
 
PORTIA. 68 
 
 " Countrymen, 
 My heart doth joy, that, yet in all my life, 
 I found no man but he was true to me.'* 
 
 It was not wonderful that it should be so. 
 
 Shakspeare, however, was not content to let Portia 
 rest her plea for confidence on the essential nature of the 
 marriage bond : 
 
 ** I grant I am a woman ; but withal, 
 A woman that lord Brutus took to wife. 
 I grant I am a woman : but withal, 
 A woman well reputed — Cato's daughter. 
 Think you I am no stronger than my sex. 
 Being so fathered and so husbanded ? " 
 
 And afterward in the very scene where Brutus is suf- 
 fering under that " insupportable and touching loss," the 
 death of his wife, Cassius pleads — 
 
 " Have you not love enough to bear with me. 
 When that rash humor which my mother gave me 
 Makes me forgetful ? 
 Brutus. — Yes, Cassius, and henceforth, 
 
 "When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
 He'll think your mother chides, and leaves you so." 
 
 As indeed it was a frequent belief among the ancients, 
 as with our Indians, that the body was inherited from 
 the mother, the soul from the father. As in that noble 
 passage of Ovid, already quoted, where Jupiter, as his 
 divine synod are looking down on the funeral pyre of 
 Hercules, thus triumphs — 
 
 *• Nee nisi maternd Vulcanum parte potentem, 
 Sentiet. Aeternum est, a me quod traxit, et expers 
 
 5* 
 
54 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURT. 
 
 Atque immune necis, nullaque domabile flamma 
 Idque ego defunctum terra coelestibus oris 
 Accipiam, cunctisque meum laetabile factum 
 Dis fore confido. 
 
 *' The part alone of gross maternal frame 
 Fire shall devour ; while that from me he drew 
 Shall live immortal and its force renew ; 
 That, when he 's dead, I '11 raise to realms above ; 
 Let all the powers the righteous act approve." 
 
 It is indeed a god speaking of his union with an 
 earthly Woman, but it expresses the common Roman 
 thought as to marriage, — the same which permitted a 
 man to lend his wife to a friend, as if she were a chattel. 
 
 *' She dwelt but in the suburbs of his good pleasure.'* 
 
 Yet the same city, as I have said, leaned on the worship 
 of- Yesta, the Preserver, and in later times was devoted 
 to that of Isis. In Sparta, thought, in this respect as in 
 all others, was expressed in the characters of real life, 
 and the women of Sparta were as much Spartans as the 
 men. The " citoyen, citoyenne " of France was here 
 actualized. Was not the calm equality they enjoyed as 
 honorable as the devotion of chivalry ? They intel- 
 ligently shared the ideal life of their nation. 
 Like the men they felt 
 
 *' Honor gone, all 's gone : 
 Better never have been born." ,^^^ 
 
 They were the true friends of men. The Spartan, 
 surely, would not think that he received only his body 
 from his mother. The sage, had he lived in that com- 
 munity, could not have thought the souls of " vain and 
 
WOMAN IN GREECE. 55 
 
 foppish men will be degraded after death to the forms of 
 women ; and, if they do not then make great efforts to 
 retrieve themselves, will become birds." 
 
 (By the way, it is very expressive of the hard intel- 
 lectuality of the merely mannish mind, to speak thus of 
 birds, chosen always by the femiiiine poet as the sym- 
 bols of his fairest thoughts.) 
 
 We are told of the Greek nations in general, that 
 Woman occupied there an infinitely lower place than 
 Man. It is difficult to believe this, when we see such 
 range and dignity of thought on the subject in the 
 mythologies, and find the poets producing such ideals as 
 (^assandra, Iphigenia, Antigone, Macaria; where Sibyl- 
 line priestesses told the oracle of the highest god, and he 
 could not be content to reign with a court of fewer than 
 nine muses. Even Victory wore a female form. 
 
 But, whatever were the facts of daily life, I cannot 
 complain of the age and nation which represents its 
 thought by such a symbol as I see before me at this 
 moment. It is a zodiac of the busts of gods and god- 
 desses, arranged in pairs. The circle breathes the music 
 of a heavenly order. Male and female heads are distinct 
 in expression, but equal in beauty, strength and calm- 
 ness. Each male head is that of a brother and a king, 
 — each female of a sister and a queen. Could the 
 thought thus expressed be lived out, there would be 
 nothing more to be desired. There would be unison in 
 variety, congeniaity in difference. 
 
 Coming nearer our own time, we find religion and 
 poetry no less true in their revelations. The rude man, 
 
56 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 just disengaged from the sod, the Adam, accuses Woman 
 to his God, and records her disgrace to their posterity. 
 He is not ashamed to write that he could be drawn from 
 heaven by one beneath him, — one made, he says, from 
 but a small part of himself. But in the same nation, 
 educated by time, instructed by a succession of prophets, 
 we find Woman in as high a position as she has ever oc- 
 cupied. No figure that has ever arisen to greet our eyes 
 has been received with more fervent reverence than that 
 of the Madonna. Heine calls her the Dame du Comp- 
 toir of the Catholic church, and this jeer well expresses 
 a serious truth. 
 
 And not only this holy and significant image was wor- 
 shipped by the pilgrim, and the favorite subject of the 
 artist, but it exercised an immediate influence on the 
 destiny of the sex. The empresses who embraced the 
 cross converted sons and husbands. Whole calendars 
 of female saints, heroic dames of chivalry, binding the 
 emblem of faith on the heart of the best-beloved, and 
 wasting the bloom of youth in separation and loneliness, 
 for the sake of duties they thought it religion to assume, 
 with innumerable forms of poesy, trace their lineage to 
 this one. Nor, however imperfect may be the action, 
 in our day, of the faith thus expressed, and though we 
 can scarcely think it nearer this ideal than that of India 
 or Greece was near their ideal, is it in vain that the truth 
 has been recognized, that Woman is not only a part of 
 Man, bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh, born that 
 men might not be lonely — but that women are in them- 
 selves possessors of and possessed by immortal souls. 
 
WOMAN m SPAIN. 57 
 
 Tliis truth undoubtedly received a greater outward sta- 
 bility from the belief of the church that the earthly 
 parent of the Saviour of souls was a woman. 
 
 The Assumption of the Virgin, as painted by sublime 
 artists, as also Petrarch's Hymn to the Madonna,* can- 
 not have spoken to the world wholly without result, yet 
 oftentimes those who had ears heard not. 
 
 See upon the nations the influence of this powerful 
 example. In Spain look only at the ballads. Woman 
 in these is "very Woman;" she is the betrothed, the 
 bride, the spouse of Man ; there is on her no hue of the 
 philosopher, the heroine, the savante, but she looks great 
 and noble. Why ? Because she is also, through her deep 
 devotion, the betrothed of Heaven. Her upturned eyes 
 have drawn down the light that casts a radiance round 
 her. See only such a ballad as that of " Lady Teresa's 
 Bridal," where the Infanta, given to the Moorish bride- 
 groom, calls down the vengeance of Heaven on his un- 
 hallowed passion, and thinks it not too much to expiate 
 by a life in the cloister the involuntary stain upon her 
 princely youth.f It was this constant sense of claims 
 above those of earthly love or happiness that made the 
 Spanish lady who shared this spirit a guerdon to be won 
 by toils and blood and constant purity, rather than a chat- 
 tel to be bought for pleasure and service. 
 
 Germany did not need to learn a high view of Woman ; 
 it was inborn in that race. Woman was to the Teuton 
 warrior his priestess, his friend, his sister. — in truth, a 
 vife. And the Christian statues of noble pairs, as they 
 
 * Appendix B f Appendix C. 
 
68 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 lie abov3 their graves in stone, expressing the meaning 
 of all the by-gone pilgrimage by hands folded in mutual 
 prayer, yield not a nobler sense of the place and powers 
 of Woman than belonged to the altvater day. The holy 
 love of Christ which summoned them, also, to choose 
 " the better part — that which could not be taken from, 
 them," refined and hallowed in this nation a native faith ; 
 thus showing that it was not the warlike spirit alone that 
 left the Latins so barbarous in this respect. 
 
 But the Germans, taking so kindly to this thought, 
 did it the more justice. The idea of Woman in their 
 literature is expressed both to a greater height and depth 
 than elsewhere. 
 
 I will give as instances the themes of three ballads : 
 
 One is upon a knight who had always the name of the 
 Virgin on his lips. This protected him all his life 
 through, in various and beautiful modes, both from sin 
 and other dangers; and, when he died, a plant sprang 
 from his grave, which so gently whispered the Ave 
 Maria that none could pass it by with an unpurified heart. 
 
 Another is one of the legends of the famous Dra- 
 chenfels. A maiden, one of the earliest converts to 
 Christianity, was carried by the enraged populace to this 
 dread haunt of " the dragon's fabled brood," to be 
 their prey. She was left alone, but undismayed, for she 
 knew in whom she trusted. So, when the dragons 
 came rushing towards her, she showed them a crucifix 
 and they crouched reverently at her feet. Next day the 
 people came, and, seeing these wonders, were all turned to 
 the faith which exalts the lowly. 
 
RHINE LEGEND. 59 
 
 The third I have in mind is another of the Rhine 
 legends. A youth is sitting with the maid he loves on 
 the shore of an isle, her fairy kingdom, then perfumed 
 by the blossoming grape-vines which draped its bowers. 
 They are happy ; all blossoms with them, and life prom- 
 ises its richest wine. A boat approaches on the tide ; 
 it pauses at their feet. It brings, perhaps, some joyous 
 message, fresh dew for their flowers, fresh light on the 
 wave. No ! it is the usual check on such great happi- 
 ness. The father of the count departs for the crusade ; 
 will his son join him, or remain to rule their domain, 
 and wed her he loves ? Neither of the afiianced pair 
 hesitates a moment. "I must go with my father," — 
 *' Thou must go with thy father." It was one thought, 
 one word. " I will be here again," he said, f when 
 these blossoms have turned to purple grapes." " I hope 
 so," she sighed, while the prophetic sense said "no." 
 
 And there she waited, and the grapes ripened, and 
 were gathered into the vintage, and he came not. Year 
 after year passed thus, and no tidings ; yet still she 
 waited. 
 
 He, meanwhile, was in a Moslem prison. Long he 
 languished there without hope, till, at last, his patron 
 saint appeared in vision and announced his release, but 
 only on condition of his joining the monastic order for 
 the service of the saint. 
 
 And so his release was effected, and a safe voyage 
 home given. And once more he sets sail upon the 
 Rhine. The maiden, still watching beneath the vines, 
 sees at last the object of all this patient love approach — 
 
60 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 approach, but not to touch the strand to which she, with 
 outstretched arms, has rushed. He dares not trust him- 
 self to land, but in low, heart-broken tones, tells her of 
 Heaven's will ; and that he, in obedience to his vow, is 
 now on his way to a convent on the river-bank, there to 
 pass the rest of his earthly life in the service of the 
 shrine. And then he turns his boat, and floats away from 
 her and hope of any happiness in this world, but urged, 
 as he believes, by the breath of Heaven. 
 
 The maiden stands appalled, but she dares not mur- 
 mur, and cannot hesitate long. She also bids them pre- 
 pare her boat. She follows her lost love to the convent 
 gate, requests an interview with the abbot, and devotes 
 her Elysian isle, where vines had ripened their ruby 
 fruit in vain for her, to the service of the monastery 
 where her love was to serve. Then, passing over to the 
 nunnery opposite, she takes the veil, and meets her 
 betrothed at the altar ; and for a life-long union, if not 
 the one they had hoped in earlier years. 
 
 Is not this sorrowful story of a lofty beauty ? Does 
 it not show a sufficiently high view of Woman, of Mar- 
 riage? This is commonly the chivalric, still more the 
 German view. 
 
 Yet, wherever there was a balance in the mind of Man, 
 of sentiment with intellect, such a result was sure. The 
 Greek Xenophon has not only painted us a sweet picture 
 of the domestic Woman, in his Economics, but in the 
 Cyropedia has given, in the picture of Panthea, a view 
 of Woman which no German picture can surpass, whether 
 lonely and quiet with veiled lids, the temple of a vestal 
 
WOMAN HAD ALWAYS HER SHARE OF POWER. 61 
 
 loveliness, or with eyes flashing, and hair flowing to the 
 free wind, cheering on the hero to fight for his God, his 
 country, or whatever name his duty might bear at the 
 time. This picture I shall copy by and by. Yet Xen- 
 ophon grew up in the same age with him who makes 
 Iphigenia say to Achilles, 
 
 " Better a thousand women should perish than one man cease to 
 see the light." 
 
 This was the vulgar Greek sentiment. Xenophon, aim- 
 ing at the ideal Man, caught glimpses of the ideal 
 Woman also. From the figure of a Cyrus the Pantheas 
 stand not afar. They do not in thought ; they would 
 not in life. 
 
 I could swell the catalogue of instances far beyond the 
 reader's patience. But enough have been brought for- 
 ward to show that, though there has been great disparity 
 betwixt the nations as between individuals in their cul- 
 ture on this point, yet the idea of Woman has always cast 
 some rays and often been forcibly represented. 
 
 Far less has Woman to complain that sha, has Jiot had 
 her share of power. This, in all ranks of society, except 
 the lowest, has been hers to the extent that vanity 
 would crave, far beyond what wisdom would accept. In 
 the very lowest, where Man, pressed by poverty, sees in 
 Woman only the partner of toils and cares, and cannot 
 hope, scarcely has an idea of, a comfortable home, he 
 often maltreats her, and is less influenced by her. 
 In all ranks, those who are gentle and uncomplaining, 
 too candid to intrigue, too delicate to encroach, sufier 
 6 
 
62 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 much. They suffer long, and are kind; verily, they 
 have their reward. But wherever Man is sufficiently 
 raised above extreme poverty, or brutal stupidity, 
 to care for the comforts of the fireside, or the bloom 
 and ornament of life, Woman has always power enough, 
 if she choose to exert it, and is usually disposed to do 
 so, in proportion to her ignorance and childish van- 
 ity. Unacquainted with the importance of life and its 
 purposes, trained to a selfish coquetry and love of 
 petty power, she does not look beyond the pleasure of 
 making herself felt at the moment, and governments are 
 shaken and commerce broken up to gratify the pique of 
 a female favorite. The English shopkeeper's wife does 
 not vote, but it is for her interest that the politician can- 
 vasses by the coarsest flattery. France suffers no woman 
 on her throne, but her proud nobles kiss the dust at the 
 feet of Pompadour and Dubarry ; for such flare in the 
 lighted foreground where a Roland would modestly aid in 
 the closet. Spain (that same Spain which sang of Ximena 
 and the Lady Teresa) shuts up her women in the care of 
 duennas, and allows them no book but the breviary ; but 
 the ruin follows only the more surely from the worthless 
 favorite of a worthless queen. Relying on mean precau- 
 tions, men indeed cry peace, peace, where there is no peace. 
 It is not the transient breath of poetic incense that 
 women want ; each can receive that from a lover. It is 
 not life-long sway ; it needs but to become a coquette, a 
 shrew, or a good cook, to be sure of that. It is not 
 money, nor notoriety, nor the badges of authority which 
 men have appropriated to themselves. If demands, made 
 
GIVE THE LIBERTY OF THE LAW. 63 
 
 in their behalf, lay stress on any of these particulars, 
 those who make them have not searched deeply into the 
 need. The want is for that which at once includes these 
 and precludes them ; which would not be forbidden power, 
 lest there be temptation to steal and misuse it ; which 
 would not have the mind perverted by flattery from a 
 worthiness of esteem ; it is for that which is the birthright 
 of every being capable of receiving it, — the freedom, the 
 religious, the intelligent freedom of the universe to use 
 its means, to learn its secret, as far as Nature has enabled 
 them, with God alone for their guide and their judge. 
 
 Ye cannot believe it, men ; but the only reason why^ 
 women ever assume what is more appropriate to you, is / 
 because you prevent them from finding put what is fit for > 
 t hemselves. Were they free, were they wise fuUy to 
 develop the strength aiul beauty of Woman ; they would 
 never wish to be men. or man-like. The well-instructed 
 moon flies not from her orbit to seize on the glories of 
 her partner. No ; for she knows that one law rules, one 
 heaven contains, one universe replies to them alike. It 
 is with w;omen as with the slave : 
 
 •' Vor dem Sklaven, wenn er die Kette bricht, 
 Vor dem freien Menschen erzittert nicht." 
 
 Tremble not before the free man, but before the slave 
 who has chains to break. 
 
 In slavery, acknowledged slavery, women are on a par 
 with men. Each is a work-tool, an article of property, 
 no more ! In perfect freedom, such as is painted in 
 Olympus, in Swedenborg's angelic state, in the heaven 
 
64 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 where there is no marrying nor giving in marriage, each 
 is a purified intelligence, an enfranchised soul, — no less. 
 
 ** Jene himmlische Gestalten 
 Sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Weib, 
 
 Und keine kleider, keine Falten 
 Umgeben den verklarten Leib." 
 
 The child who sang this was a prophetic form, expres- 
 sive of the longing for a state of perfect freedom, pure 
 love. She could not remain here, but was' translated 
 to another air. And it may be that the air of this earth 
 will never be so tempered that such can bear it long. 
 But, while they stay, they must bear testimony to the 
 truth they are constituted to demand. 
 
 That an era approaches which shall approximate 
 nearer to such a temper than any has yet done, there are 
 many tokens ; indeed, so many that only a few of the 
 most prominent can here be enumerated. 
 
 The reigns of Elizabeth of England and Isabella of 
 Castile foreboded this era. They expressed the beginning 
 of the new state, while they forwarded its progress. 
 These were strong characters, and in harmony with the 
 wants of their time. One showed that this strength did 
 not unfit a woman for the duties of a wife and a mother ; 
 the other, that it could enable her to live and die alone, 
 a wide energetic life, a courageous death. Elizabeth is 
 certainly no pleasing example. In rising above the 
 weakness, she did not lay aside the foibles ascribed to 
 her sex ; but her strength must be respected now, as it 
 was in her own time. 
 
 Mary Stuart and Elizabeth seem types, moulded by 
 
65 
 
 the spirit of the time, and placed upon an elevated plat- 
 form, to show to the coming ages Woman such as the 
 conduct and wishes of Man in general is likely to make 
 her. The first shows Woman lovely even to allure- 
 ment; quick in apprehension and weak in judgment; 
 with grace and dignity of sentiment, but no principle ; 
 credulous and indiscreet, yet artful ; capable of sudden 
 greatness or of crime, but not of a steadfast wis- 
 dom, nor self-restraining virtue. The second reveals 
 Woman half-emancipated and jealous of her freedom, 
 such as she has figured before or since in many a com- 
 bative attitude, mannish, not equally manly ; strong and 
 prudent more than great or wise ; able to control vanity, 
 and the wish to rule through coquetry and passion, but 
 not to resign these dear deceits from the very founda- 
 tion, as unworthy a being capable of truth and noble- 
 ness. Elizabeth, taught by adversity, put on her vir- 
 tues as armor, more than produced them in a natural 
 order from her soul. The time and her position called 
 on her to act the wise sovereign, and she was proud that 
 she could do so, but her tastes and inclinations would 
 have led her to act the weak woman. She was without 
 magnanimity of any kind. 
 
 We may accept as an omen for ourselves that it was^, 
 Isabella who furnished Columbus with the means of \ 
 coming hither. This land must pay back its debt to 
 Woman, without whose aid it would not have been /^ 
 brought into alliance with the civilized world. 
 
 A graceful and meaning figure is that introduced to us 
 by Mr. Prescott, in the Conquest of Mexico, in the 
 6* 
 
66 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 Indian girl Marina, who accompanied Cortez, and was 
 his interpreter in all the various difficulties of his career. 
 She stood at his side, on the walls of the besieged palace, 
 to plead with her enraged countrymen. By her name 
 he was known in New Spain, and, after the conquest, her 
 gentle intercession was often of avail to the conquered. 
 The poem of the Future may be read in some features of 
 the story of " Malinche." 
 
 The influence of Elizabeth on literature was real, 
 though, by sympathy with its finer productions, she was 
 no more entitled to give name to an era than Queen 
 Anne. It was simply that the fact of having a female 
 sovereign on the throne affected the course of a writer's 
 thoughts. In this sense, the presence of a woman on the 
 throne always makes its mark. Life is lived before the 
 eyes of men, by which their imaginations are stimulated 
 as to the possibilities of Woman. '' We will die for our 
 king, Maria Theresa," cry the wild warriors, clashing 
 their swords ; and the sounds vibrate through the poems 
 of that generation. The range of female character in 
 Spenser alone might content us for one period. Brito- 
 mart and Belphoebe have as much room on the canvas as 
 Florimel; and, where this is the case, the haughtiest 
 Amazon will not murmur that Una should be felt to be 
 the fairest type. 
 
 Unlike as was the English queen to a fairy queen, we 
 may yet conceive that it was the image of a queen before 
 the poet's mind that called up this splendid court of 
 women. Shakspeare's range is also great ; but he has 
 left out the heroic characters, such as the Macaria of 
 
ENGLISH IDEALS. 67 
 
 Greece, the Britomart of Spenser. Ford and Massinger 
 have, in this respect, soared to a higher flight of feeling 
 than he. It was the holy and heroic Woman they 
 most loved, and if they could not paint an Imogen, a 
 Desdemona, a Rosalind, yet, in those of a stronger mould, 
 they showed a higher ideal, though with so much less 
 poetic power to embody it, than we see in Portia or Isa- 
 bella. The simple truth of Cordelia, indeed, is of this 
 sort. The beauty of Cordelia is neither male nor female ; 
 it is the beauty of virtue. 
 
 The ideal of love and marriage rose high in the mind 
 of all the Christian nations who were capable of grave 
 and deep feeling. We may take as examples of its Eng- 
 lish aspect the lines, 
 
 *• I could not love thee, dear, so much. 
 Loved I not honor more." 
 
 Or the address of the Commonwealth's man to his wife, 
 as she looked out from the Tower window to see him, for 
 the last time, on his way to the scaffold. He stood up in 
 the cart, waved his hat, and cried, '' To Heaven, my 
 love, to Heaven, and leave you in the storm ! " 
 
 Such was the love of faith and honor, — a love which 
 stopped, like Colonel Hutchinson's, "on this side idol- 
 atry," because it was religious. The meeting of two 
 such souls Donne describes as giving birth to an '• abler 
 soul." 
 
 Lord Herbert wrote to his love, 
 
 *' Were not our souls immortal made, 
 Our equal loves can make them such." 
 
 -^. \ 
 
DO WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 In the "Broken Heart," of Ford, Penthea, a charac- 
 ter which engages my admiration even more deeply than 
 the famous one of Calanthe, is made to present to the 
 mind the most beautiful picture of what these relations 
 should be m their purity. Her life cannot sustain the 
 violation of what she so clearly feels. 
 
 Shakspeare, too, saw that, in true love, as in fire, the 
 utmost ardor is coincident with the utmost purity. It 
 is a true lover that exclaims in the agony of Othello, 
 
 " If thou art false, then Heaven mocks itself ! '* 
 
 The son, framed, like Hamlet, to appreciate truth in all 
 the beauty of relations, sinks into deep melancholy 
 when he finds his natural expectations disappointed. He 
 has no other. She to whom he gave the name, disgraces 
 from his heart's shrine all the sex. 
 
 " Frailty, thy name is Woman." 
 
 It is because a Hamlet could find cause to say so, that 
 I have put the line, whose stigma has^ never been 
 removed, at the head of my work. But, as a lover, 
 surely Hamlet would not have so far mistaken, as to have 
 finished with such a conviction. He would have felt the 
 faith of Othello, and that faith could not, in his more 
 dispassionate mind, have been disturbed by calumny. 
 
 In Spain, this thought is arrayed in a sublimity which 
 belongs to the sombre and passionate genius of the 
 nation. Calderon's Justina resists all the temptation of 
 the Demon, and raises her lover, with her, above the 
 sweet lures of mere temporal happiness. Their mar- 
 
 / 
 
LORD HERBERT. 69 
 
 riage is vowed at the stake ; their souls are liberated 
 together by the martyr flame into "a purer state of sen- 
 sation and existence." 
 
 In Italy, the great poets wove into their lives an ideal 
 love which answered to the highest wants. It included 
 those of the intellect and the affections, for it was a love 
 of spirit for spirit. It was not ascetic, or superhuman, 
 but, interpreting all things, gave their proper beauty to 
 details of the common life, the common day. The poet 
 spoke of his love, not as a flower to place in his bosom, 
 or hold carelessly in his hand, but as a light toward 
 which he must find wings to fly, or " a stair to heaven." 
 He delighted to speak of her, not only as the bride of 
 his heart, but the mother of his soul ; for he saw that, in 
 cases where the right direction had been taken, the 
 greater delicacy of her frame and stillness of her life 
 left her more open than is Man to spiritual influx. So 
 he did not look upon her as betwixt him and earth, to 
 serve his temporal needs, but, rather, betwixt him and 
 heaven, to purify his affections and lead him to wisdom 
 through love. He sought, in her, not so much the Eve 
 as the Madonna. 
 
 In these minds the thought, which gleams through all 
 the legends of chivalry, shines in broad intellectual efiul- 
 gence, not to be misinterpreted ; and their thought is rev- 
 erenced by the world, though it lies far from the practice 
 of the world as yet, — so far that it seems as though a 
 gulf of death yawned between. 
 
 Even with such men the practice was, often, widely 
 different from the mental faith. I say mental ; for if the 
 
70 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 heart were thoroughly alive with it, the practice could 
 not be dissonant. Lord Herbert's was a marriage of con- 
 vention, made for him at fifteen ; he was not discontented 
 with it, but looked only to the advantages it brought of 
 perpetuating his family on the basis of a great fortune. 
 He paid, in act, what he considered a dutiful attention to 
 the bond; his thoughts travelled elsewhere; and while 
 forming a high ideal of the companionship of minds in 
 marriage, he seems never to have doubted that its realiz- 
 ation must be postponed to some other state of being. 
 Dante, almost immediately after the death of Beatrice, 
 married a lady chosen for him by his friends, and Boc- 
 caccio, in describing the miseries that attended, in this 
 case, • 
 
 •' The form of an union where union is none," 
 
 speaks as if these were inevitable to the connection, and 
 as if the scholar and poet, especially, could expect noth- 
 ing but misery and obstruction in a domestic partnership 
 with Woman. 
 
 Centuries have passed since, but civilized Europe is 
 still in a transition state about marriage ; not only in 
 practice but in thought. It is idle to speak with con- 
 tempt of the nations where polygamy is an institution, or 
 seraglios a custom, while practices far more debasing 
 haunt, well-nigh fill, every city and every town, and so 
 far as union of one with one is believed to be the only 
 pure form of marriage, a great majority of societies and 
 individuals are still doubtful whether the earthly bond 
 must be a meeting of souls, or only supposes a contract 
 of convenience and utility. Were Woman established in 
 
WOMAN CAPABLE OF FRIENDSHIP. 71 
 
 the rights of an immortal being, this could not be. She 
 ■would not, in some countries, be given away by her 
 father, with scarcely more respect for her feelings than is 
 shown by the Indian chief, who sells his daughter for a 
 horse, and beats her if she runs away from her new 
 home. Nor, in societies where her choice is left free, 
 would she be perverted, by the current of opinion that 
 seizes her, into the belief that she must many, if it be 
 only to find a protector, and a home of her own. 
 Neither would Man, if he thought the connection of 
 permanent importance, form it so lightly. He would not 
 deem it a trifle, that he was to enter into the closest 
 relations with another soul, which, if not eternal in 
 thems^ves, must eternally affect his growth. Neither, 
 did he believe Woman capable of friendship,* would 
 he, by rash haste, lose the chance of finding a friend 
 in the person who might, probably, live half a cen- 
 tury by his side. Did love, to his mind, stretch forth 
 into infinity, he would not miss his chance of its revela- 
 tions, that he might the sooner rest from his weariness 
 by a bright fireside, and secure a sweet and graceful 
 attendant " devoted to him alone." Were he a step 
 higher, he would not carelessly enter into a relation 
 where he might not be able to do the duty of a friend, 
 as well as a protector from external ill, to the other 
 party, and have a being in his power pining for sym- 
 pathy, intelligence and aid, that he could not give. 
 
 What deep communion, what real intercourse is im- 
 
 * See Appendix D, Spinoza's view. 
 
72 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 plied in sharing the joys and cares of parentage, when 
 any degree of equality is admitted between the par- 
 ties ! It is true that, in a majority of instances, the man 
 looks upon his wife as an adopted child, and places her 
 to the other children in the relation of nurse or govern- 
 ess, rather than that of parent. Her influence with them 
 is sure ; but she misses the education which should 
 enlighten that influence, by being thus treated. It is 
 the order of nature that children should complete the 
 education, moral and mental, of parents, by making them 
 think what is needed for the best culture of human 
 beings, and conquer all faults and impulses that inter- 
 fere with their giving this to these dear objects, who rep- 
 resent the world to them. Father and mother should 
 assist one another to learn what is required for this sub- 
 lime priesthood of Nature.* But, for this, a religious 
 recognition of equality is required. 
 
 Where this thought of equality begins to diff'use itself, 
 it is shown in four ways. 
 
 First ; — The household partnership. In our coun- 
 try, the woman looks for a " smart but kind " husband; 
 the man for a " capable, sweet-tempered " wife. The 
 man furnishes the house; the woman regulates it. 
 Their relation is one of mutual esteem, mutual depend- 
 ence. Their talk is of business; their afiection shows 
 itself by practical kindness. They know that life goes 
 more smoothly and cheerfully to each for the other's aid ; 
 they are grateful and content. The wife praises her hus- 
 band as a " good provider ; " the husband, in return, com- 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 7S 
 
 pliments her as a " capital housekeeper." This relation 
 is good so far as it goes. 
 
 Next comes a closer tie, which takes the form either of 
 mutual idolatry or of i ntellect ual companionship. The 
 first, we suppose, is to no one a pleasing subject of con- 
 templation. The parties weaken and narrow one another ; 
 they lock the gate against all the glories of the universe, 
 that thej may live in a cell together. To themselves 
 they seem the only wise ; to all others, steeped in infatu- 
 ation ; the gods smile as they look forward to the crisis 
 of cure ; to men, the woman seems an unlovely syren ; to 
 women, the man an effeminate boy. 
 
 The other form, of intellectual companionship,- has 
 become more and more frequent. Men engaged in pub- 
 lic life, literary men, and artists, have often found in 
 their wives companions and confidants in thought no less 
 than in feeling. And, as the intellectual development of 
 Woman has spread wider and risen higher, they have, 
 not unfrequently^ shared the . same employment ; as in 
 the case of Roland and his wife, who were friends in the 
 household and ^n the nation's councils, read, regulated 
 home affairs, or prepared public documents together, 
 indifferently. It is very pleasant, in letters begun by 
 Roland and finished by his wife, to see the harmony of 
 mind, and the difference of nature ; one thought, but 
 various ways of treating it. 
 
 This is one of the best instances of a marriage of 
 
 friendship. It was only friendship^ whose basis was 
 
 esteem ; probably neither party knew love, except by 
 
 name. Roland was a good man, worthy to esteem, and be 
 
 7 
 
74 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 esteemed ; his wife as deserving of adiLiration as able to 
 do without it. 
 
 Madame Roland is the fairest specimen we yet have of 
 her class ; as clear to discern her aim, as valiant to pur- 
 sue it, as Spenser's Britomart ; austerely set apart from 
 all that did not belong to her, whether as Woman or as 
 mind. She is an antetype of a class to which the coming 
 time will afford a field — the Spartan matron, brought by 
 the culture of the age of books to intellectual consciousness 
 and expansion. Self-sufficingness, strength, and clear- 
 sightedness were, in her, combined with a power of deep 
 and calm affection. She, too, would have given a son or 
 husband the device for his shield, " Return with it or upon 
 it ; " and this, not because she loved little, but much. 
 The page of her life is one of unsullied dignity. Her 
 appeal to posterity is one against the injustice of those 
 who committed such crimes in the name of Liberty. 
 She makes it in behalf of herself and her husband. I 
 would put beside it, on the shelf, a little volume, contain- 
 ing a similar appeal from the verdict of contemporaries to 
 that of mankind, made by Godwin in behalf of his wife, 
 the celebrated, the by most men detested, Mary Wol- 
 stonecraft. In his view, it was an appeal from the injus- 
 tice of those who did such wrong in the name of virtue. 
 Were this little book interesting for no other cause, it 
 would be so for the generous affection evinced under the 
 peculiar circumstances. This man had courage to love 
 and honor this woman in the face of the world's sentence, 
 and of all that was repulsive in her own past history. 
 He believed he saw of what soul she was, and that the 
 
GEORGE SAND. 75 
 
 impulses she had struggled to act out were noble, though 
 the opinions to which they had led might not be thor- 
 oughly weighed. He loved her, and he defended her for 
 the meaning and tendency of her inner life. It was a 
 good fact. 
 
 Mary Wolstonecraft, like Madame Dudevant (com- 
 monly known as George Sand) in our day, was a woman 
 whose existence better proved the need of some new 
 interpretation of Woman's Rights than anything *she 
 wrote. Such beings as these, rich in genius, of most 
 tender sympathies, capable of high virtue and a chastened 
 harmony, ought not to find themselves, by birth, in a 
 place so narrow, that, in breaking bonds, they become 
 outlaws. Were there as much room in the world for 
 such, as in Spenser's poem for Britomart, they would not 
 run their heads so wildly against the walls, but prize 
 their shelter rather. They find their way, at last, to 
 light and air, but the world will not take off the brand it 
 has set upon them. The champion of the Rights of 
 Woman found, in Godwin, one who would plead that 
 cause like a brother. He who delineated with such pur- 
 ity of traits the form of Woman in the Marguerite, of 
 whom the weak St. Leon could never learn to be worthy, 
 — a pearl indeed whose price was above rubies, — was not 
 false in life to the faith by which he had hallowed his 
 romance. He acted, as he wrote, like a brother. This form 
 of appeal rarely fails to touch the basest man : — '• Are 
 you acting toward other women in the way you would have 
 men act towards your sister? " George Sand smokes, wears 
 male attire, wishes to be addressed as " Mon frere ; " — 
 
76 . WOMAN m THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 perhaps, if she found those who were as brothers indeed, 
 she would not care whether she were brother or sister. =* 
 We rejoice to see that she, who expresses such a pain- 
 ful CDntempt for men in most of her works, as shows she 
 must have known great wrong from them, depicts, in "La 
 Roche Mauprat," a man raised by the workings of love 
 from the depths of savage sensualism to a moral and in- 
 tellectual life. It was love for a pure object, for a stead- 
 fast woman, one of those who, the Italian said, could 
 make the " stair to heaven." 
 
 This author, beginning like the many in assault upon 
 bad institutions, and external ills, yet deepening the 
 experience through comparative freedom, sees at last 
 that the only efficient remedy must come from individual 
 character. These bad institutions, indeed, it may always 
 be replied, prevent individuals from forming good char- 
 acter, therefore we must remove them. Agreed; yet 
 keep steadily the higher aim in view. Could you clear 
 away all the bad forms of society, it is vain, unless the 
 individual begin to be ready for better. There must be 
 a parallel movement in these two branches of life. And 
 all the rules left by Moses availed less to further the best 
 life than the living example of one Messiah. 
 
 Still the mind of the age struggles confusedly with 
 these problems, better discerning as yet the ill it can 
 no longer bear, than the good by which it may super- 
 
 * A note appended by my sister in this place, in the first edition , is 
 here omitted, because it is incorporated in another article in this \ol- 
 ume, treating of fleorge Sand more at length. — [Ed.] 
 
GEORGE SAND. 77 
 
 sede it. But women like Sand will speak now and can- 
 not be silenced; their characters and their eloquence 
 alike foretell an era when such as they shall easier learn 
 to lead true lives. But though such forebode, not such 
 shall be parents of it.* Those who would reform the 
 world must show that they do not speak in the heat of 
 wild impulse ; their lives must be unstained by pas- 
 sionate error ; they must be severe lawgivers to them- 
 selves. They must be religious students of the divine 
 purpose with regard to man, if they would not confound 
 the fancies of a day with the requisitions of eternal good. 
 Their liberty must be the liberty of law and knowledge. 
 But as to the transgressions aorainst custom which have 
 caused such outcry against those of noble intention, it 
 may be observed that the resolve of Eloisa to be only the 
 mistress of Abelard, was that of one who saw in practice 
 around her the contract of marriage made the seal of 
 degradation. Shelley feared not to be fettered, unless so 
 to be was ■ to be false. Wherever abuses are seen, the 
 timid will suffer ; the bold will protest. But society has 
 a right to outlaw them till she has revised her law ; and 
 this she must be taught to do, by one who speaks with 
 authority, not in anger or haste. 
 
 If Godwin's choice of the calumniated authoress of the 
 " Rights of Woman," for his honored wife, be a sign of 
 a new era, no less so is an article to which I have alluded 
 some pages back, published five or six years ago in one 
 of the English Reviews, where the writer, in doing full 
 justice to Eloisa, shows his bitter regret that she lives not 
 
 ♦Appendix E. 
 
 7* 
 
78 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTUBT. 
 
 now to love him, who might have known better how to 
 prize her love than did the egotistical Abelard. 
 
 These marriages, these characters, with all their im- 
 perfections, express an onward tendency. They speak 
 of aspiration of soul, of energy of mind, seeking clear- 
 ness and freedom. Of a like promise are the tracts lately 
 published by Goodwyn Barmby (the European Pariah, 
 as he calls himself) and his wife Catharine. Whatever 
 we may think of their measures, we see in them wed- 
 lock ; the two minds are wed by the only contract that 
 can permanently avail, that of a common faith and a 
 common purpose. 
 
 We might mention instances, nearer home, of minds, 
 partners in work and in life, sharing together, on equal 
 terms, public and private interests, and which wear not, 
 on any side, the aspect of offence shown by those last- 
 named : persons who steer straight onward, yet, in our 
 comparatively free life, have not been obliged to run their 
 heads against any wall. But the principles which guide 
 them might, under petrified and oppressive institutions, 
 have made them warlike, paradoxical, and, in some sense, 
 Pariahs. The phenomena are different, the law is the 
 same, in all these cases. Men and women have been 
 obliged to build up their house anew from the very foun- 
 dation. If they found stone ready in the quarry, they 
 took it peaceably ; otherwise they alarmed the country 
 by pulling down old towers to get materials, 
 p-— 'These are all instances of marriage as intellectual 
 companionship. The parties meet mind to mind, and a 
 mutual trust is produced, which can buckler them against 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 79 
 
 a million. They work together for a common purpose, 
 and, in all these instances, with the same implement, — 
 the pen. The pen and the writing-desk furnish forth as 
 naturally the retirement of Woman as of Man. 
 
 A pleasing expression, in this kind, is afforded by the 
 union in the names of the Howitts. William and Mary 
 Howitt we heard named together for years, supposing 
 them to be brother and sister ; the equality of labors and 
 reputation, even so, was auspicious ; more so, now we find 
 them man and wife. In his late work on Germany, 
 Howitt mentions his wife, with pride, as one among the 
 constellation of distinguished English-women, and in a 
 graceful, simple manner. And still we contemplate with 
 pleasure the partnership in literature and affection be- 
 tween the Howitts, — the congenial pursuits and produc- 
 tions — the pedestrian tours wherein the married pair 
 showed that marriage, on a wide enough basis, does not 
 destroy the "inexhaustible" entertainment which lovers 
 find in one another's company. 
 
 In naming these instances, I do not mean to imply 
 that community of employment is essential to the union 
 of husband and wife, more than to the union of friends. 
 Harmony exists in difference, no less than in likeness, if 
 only the same key-note govern both parts. Woman the 
 poem, Man the poet ! Woman the heart, Man the head ! 
 Such .divisions are only important when they are never 
 to be transcended. If nature is never bound down, nor 
 the voice of inspiration stifled, that is enough. We are 
 pleased that women should write and speak, if they feel 
 need of it, from having something to tell ; but silence for 
 
80 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 ages would be no misfortune, if that silence be from 
 divine command, and not from Man's tradition. 
 
 While Goetz Von Berlichingen rides to battle, his wife 
 is busy in the kitchen ; but difference of occupation does 
 not prevent that community of inward life, that perfect 
 esteem, with which he says, 
 
 " Whom God loves, to him gives he such a wife.'* 
 
 Manzoni thus dedicates his '' Adelchi." 
 
 ^' To his beloved and venerated wife, Enrichetta Luigia 
 Blondel, who, with conjugal affection and maternal wis- 
 dom, has preserved a virgin mind, the author dedicates 
 this ' Adelchi,' grieving that he could not, by a more 
 splendid and more durable monument, honor the dear 
 name, and the memory of so many virtues." 
 
 The relation could not be fairer, nor more equal, if she, 
 too, had written poems. Yet the position of the parties 
 might have been the reverse as well ; the Woman might 
 have sung the deeds, given voice to the life of the Man, 
 and beauty would have been the result ; as we see, in pic- 
 tures of Arcadia, the nymph singing to the shepherds, or 
 the shepherd, with his pipe, alluring the nymphs ; either 
 makes a good picture. The sounding lyre requires not 
 muscular strength, but energy of soul to animate the 
 hand which would control it. Nature seems to delight 
 in varying the arrangements, as if to show that she will 
 be fettered by no rule ; and we must admit the same varie- 
 ties that she admits. 
 
 The fourth and highest grade of marriage union is the 
 religious, which may be expressed as pilgrimage toward 
 
HIGHEST GRADE OF UNIOIT. 81 
 
 a con mon shrine. This includes the others : home sym- 
 pathies and household wisdom, for these pilgrims must 
 know how to assist each other along the dusty way ; 
 intellectual communion, for how sad it would be on such 
 a journey to have a companion to whom you could not 
 communicate your thoughts and aspirations as they 
 sprang to life ; who would have no feeling for the pros- 
 pects that open, more and more glorious as we advance ; 
 who would never see the flowers that may be gathered by 
 the most industrious traveller ! It must include all these. 
 
 Such a fellow-pilgrim Count Zinzendorf seems to have 
 found in his countess, of whom he thus writes : 
 
 ''Twenty-five years' experience has shown me that 
 just the help-meet whom I have is the only one that could 
 suit my vocation. Who else could have so carried 
 through my family afiairs? Who lived so spotlessly 
 before the world ? Who so wisely aided me in my rejec- 
 tion of a dry morality? Who so clearly set aside the 
 Pharisaism which, as years passed, threatened to creep 
 in among us ? Who so deeply discerned as to the spirits 
 of delusion which sought to bewilder us ? Who would 
 have governed my whole economy so wisely, richly and 
 hospitably, when circumstances commanded ? Who have 
 taken indifferently the part of servant or mistress, with- 
 out, on the one side, affecting an especial spirituality ; on 
 the other, being sullied by any worldly pride ? Who, in 
 a community where all ranks are eager to be on a level, 
 would, from wise and real causes, have known how 
 to mail tain inward and outward distinctions? Who, 
 without a murmur, have seen her husband encounter 
 
82 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 such dangers by land and sea? Who undertaken with 
 him, and sustained^ such astonishing pilgrimages? 
 Who, amid such difficulties, would have always held up 
 her head and supported me? Who found such vast 
 sums of money, and acquitted them on her own credit ? 
 And, finally, who, of all human beings, could so well 
 understand and interpret to others my inner and outer 
 being as this one, of such nobleness in her way of think- 
 ing, such great intellectual capacity, and so free from the 
 theological perplexities that enveloped me ! " 
 
 Let any one peruse, with all intentness, the linea- 
 ments of this portrait, and see if the husband had not 
 reason, with this air of solemn rapture and conviction, to 
 challenge comparison ? We are reminded of the majestic 
 cadence of the line whose feet step in the just proportion 
 of Humanity, 
 
 *' Daughter of God and Man, accomplished Eve ! " 
 
 An observer* adds this testimony : 
 
 " We may, in many marriages, regard it as the best 
 arrangement, if the man has so much advantage over his 
 wife, that she can, without much thought of her own, be 
 led and directed by him as by a father. But it was not 
 so with the count and his consort. She was not made to 
 be a copy ; she was an original ; and, while she loved and 
 honored him, she thought for herself, on all subjects, 
 with so much intelligence, that he could and did look on 
 her as a sister and friend also." 
 
 Compare with this refined specimen of a religiously 
 
 * Spangenberg. 
 
THE FLYING PIGEON. 83 
 
 civilized life the following imperfect sketch of a North 
 American Indian, and we shall see that the same causes 
 will always produce the same results. The Flying 
 Pigeon (Ratchewaine) was the wife of a barbarous chief, 
 who had six others ; but she was his only true wife, 
 because the only one of a strong and pure character, and, 
 having this, inspired a veneration, as like as the mind of 
 the man permitted to that inspired by the Countess Zin- 
 zendorf She died when her son was only four years 
 old, yet left on his mind a feeling of reverent love worthy 
 the thought of Christian chivalry. Grown to manhood, 
 he shed tears on seeing her portrait. 
 
 THE FLYING PIGEON. 
 
 " Ratchewaine was chaste, mild, gentle in her disposi- 
 tion, kind, generous, and devoted to her husband. A 
 harsh word was never known to proceed from her mouth ; 
 nor was she ever known to be in a passion. Mahaskah 
 used to say of her, after her death, that her hand was 
 shut when those who did not want came into her pres- 
 ence ; but when the really poor came in, it was like a 
 strainer full of holes, letting all she held in it pass 
 through. In the exercise of generous feeling she was 
 uniform. It was not indebted for its exercise to whim, 
 nor caprice, nor partiality. No matter of what nation 
 the applicant for her bounty was, or whether at war ^r 
 peace with her nation ; if he w^ere hungry, she fed him ; 
 if naked, she clothed him; and, if houseless, she gave 
 him shelter. The continued exercise of this generous 
 feeling kept her poor. And she has been known to give 
 
SI WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 awaj her last blanket — all the honey that was in the 
 lodge, the last bladder of bear's oil, and the last piece of 
 di'ied meat. 
 
 •' She was scrupulously exact in the observance of all 
 the religious rites which her faith imposed upon her. 
 Her conscience is represented to have been extremely 
 tender. She often feared that her acts were displeasing 
 to the Great Spirit, when she would blacken her face, 
 and retire to some lone place, and fast and pray." 
 
 To these traits should be added, but for want of room, 
 anecdotes which show the quick decision and vivacity of 
 her mind. Her face was in harmony with this combina- 
 tion. Her brow is as ideal and the eyes and lids as 
 devout and modest as the Italian picture of the Madonna, 
 while the lower part of the face has the simplicity and 
 childish strength of the Indian race. Her picture presents 
 the finest specimen of Indian beauty we have ever seen. 
 Such a Woman is the sister and friend of all beincrs, as 
 the worthy Man is their brother and helper. 
 
 With like pleasure we survey the pairs wedded on the 
 eve of missionary efibrt. They, indeed, are fellow-pil- 
 grims on the well-made road, and whether or no they 
 accomplish all they hope for the sad Hindoo, or the 
 nearer savage, we feel that in the burning waste their 
 love is like to be a healing dew, in the forlorn jungle a 
 tent of solace to one another. They meet, as children 
 of one Father, to read together one book of instruction. 
 
 We must insert in this connection the most beautiful 
 picture presented by ancient literature of wedded love 
 under this noble form. 
 
PANTHBA. 85 
 
 It is from the romance in which Xenophon, the chival- 
 rous Greek, presents his ideal of what human nature 
 should be. 
 
 The generals of Cjrus had taken captive a princess, a 
 woman of unequalled beaut j, and hastened to present her 
 to the prince as that part of the spoil he would think 
 most worthy of his acceptance. Cyrus visits the lady, 
 and is filled with immediate admiration by the modesty 
 and majesty with which she receives him. He finds 
 her name is Panthea, and that she is the wife of Abra- 
 datus, a young king whom she entkely loves. He protects 
 her as a sister, in his camp, till he can restore her to her 
 husband. 
 
 After the first transports of joy at this reunion, the 
 heart of Panthea is bent on showing her love and grati- 
 tude to her magnanimous and delicate protector. And 
 as she has nothing so precious to give as the aid of Ab- 
 radatus, that is what she most wishes to ofier. Her hus- 
 band is of one soul with her in this, as in all things. 
 
 The description of her grief and self-destruction, after 
 the death which ensued upon this devotion, I have seen 
 quoted, but never that of their parting when she sends 
 him forth to battle. I shall copy both. K they have 
 been read by any of my readers, they may be so again 
 with profit in this connection, for never were the heroism 
 of a true Woman, and the purity of love in a true mar- 
 riage, painted in colors more delicate and more lively. 
 
 " The chariot of Abradatus, that had four perches and 
 eight horses, was completely adorned for him ; and when 
 he was going to put on his linen corslet, which was a sort 
 8 
 
86 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 of armor used by those of his country, Panthea brought 
 him a golden helmet, and arm-pieces, broad bracelets for 
 his wrists, a purple habit that reached down to his feet, 
 and hung in folds at the bottom, and a crest dyed of a 
 violet color. These things she had made, unknown to 
 her husband, and by taking the measure of his armor. 
 He wondered when he saw them, and inquired thus of 
 Panthea : ' And have you made me these arms, woman, 
 by destroying your own ornaments ? ' ' No, by Jove ! ' 
 said tanthea., ' not what is the most valuable of them ; 
 for it is you, if you appear to others to be what I think 
 you, that will be my greatest ornament.' And, saying, 
 that, she put on him the armor, and, though she endeav- 
 ored to conceal it, the tears poured down her cheeks. 
 When Abradatus, who was before a man of fine appear- 
 ance, was set out in those arms, he appeared the most 
 beautiful and noble of all, especially being likewise so by 
 nature. Then, taking the reins from the driver, he was 
 just preparing to mount the chariot, when Panthea, after 
 she had desired all that were there to retire, thus said : 
 
 '^ ' Abradatus ! if ever there was a woman who had a 
 gi-eater regard to her husband than to her own soul, I 
 believe you know that I am such an one ; what need I 
 therefore speak of things in particular ? for I reckon that 
 my actions have convinced you more than any words I 
 can now use. And yet, though I stand thus affected 
 toward you, as you know I do, I swear, by this friendship 
 of mine and yours, that I certainly would rather choose 
 to be put under ground jointly with you, approving your- 
 self a brave man, than to live with you in disgrace and 
 
PANTHEA. 87 
 
 shame ; so much do I think you and myself worthy of 
 the noblest things. Then I think that we both lie under 
 great obligations to Cyrus, that, when I was a captive, 
 and chosen out for himself, he thought fit to treat me 
 neither as a slave, nor, indeed, as a woman of mean 
 account, but he took and kept me for you, as if I were 
 his brother's wife. Besides, when Araspes, who was my 
 guard, went away from him, I promised him, that, if he 
 would allow me to send for you, you would come to him, 
 and approve yourself a much better and more faithful 
 friend than Araspes.' 
 
 " Thus she spoke ; and Abradatus, being struck with 
 admiration at her discourse, laying his hand gently on 
 her head, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, made this 
 prayer : ' Do thou, greatest Jove ! grant me to appear 
 a husband worthy of Panthea, and a friend worthy of 
 Cyrus, who has done us so much honor ! ' 
 
 '•Having said this, he mounted the chariot by the door 
 of the driver's seat : and, after he had got up, when the 
 driver shut the door, Panthea, who had now no other 
 way to salute him, kissed the seat of the chariot. The 
 chariot tben moved, and she, unknown to him, followed, 
 till Abradatus turning about, and seeing her, said : ' Take 
 courage, Panthea ! Fare you happily and well, and now 
 go your ways.' On this her women and servants carried 
 her to her conveyance, and, laying her down, concealed 
 her by throAving the covering of a tent over her. The 
 people, though Abradatus and his chariot made a noble 
 spectacle, were not able to look at him till Panthea was 
 gone." 
 
88 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 After the battle — 
 
 " Cjrus calling to some of his servants, ' Tell me, said 
 he, ' has any one seen Abradatus ? for I admire that he 
 now does not appear.' One replied, ' My sovereign, it is 
 because he is not living, but died in the battle as he broke 
 in with his chariot on the Egyptians. All the rest, ex- 
 cept his particular companions, they say, turned off when 
 they saw the Egyptians' compact body. His wife is now 
 said to have taken up his dead body, to have placed it 
 in the carriage that she herself was conveyed in, and to 
 have brought it hither to some place on the river Pactolus, 
 and her servants are digging a grave on a certain eleva- 
 tion. They say that his wife, after setting him out with 
 all the ornaments she has, is sitting on the ground with 
 his head on her knees.' Cyrus, hearing this, gave him- 
 self a blow on the thigh, mounted his horse at a leap, and, 
 taking with him a thousand horse, rode away to this scene 
 of affliction ; but gave orders to Gadatas and Gobryas to 
 take with them all the rich ornaments proper for a friend 
 and an excellent man deceased, and to follow after him ; 
 and whoever had herds of cattle with him, he ordered 
 them to take both oxen, and horses, and sheep in good 
 number, and to bring them away to the place where, by 
 inquiry, they should find him to be, that he might sacri- 
 fice these to Abradatus. 
 
 '' As soon as he saw the woman sitting on the ground, 
 and the dead body there lying, he shed tears at the 
 afflictinor siojht, and said : ' Alas ! thou brave and faithful 
 80ul, hast thou left us, and art thou gone ? ' At the 
 same time he took him by the right hand, and the hand 
 
PANTHEA. 89 
 
 of the deceased came away, for it had been cut off with a 
 sword by the Egyptians. He, at the sight of this, became 
 yet much more concerned than before. The woman 
 shrieked out in a lamentable manner, and, taking the 
 hand from Cyrus, kissed it, fitted it to its proper place 
 again, as well as she could, and said : ' The rest, Cyrus, 
 is in the same condition, but what need you see it? 
 And I know that I was not one of the least concerned in 
 these his sufferings, and, perhaps, you were not less so ; 
 for I, fool that I was ! frequently exhorted him to behave 
 in such a manner as to appear a friend to you, worthy of 
 notice ; and I know he never thought of what he himself 
 should suffer, but of what he should do to please you. 
 He is dead, therefore,' said she, ' without reproach, and I, 
 who urged him on, sit here alive.' Cyrus, shedding tears 
 for some time in silence, then spoke : — ' He has died, 
 woman, the noblest death ; for he has died victorious ! 
 Do you adorn him with these things that I furnish you 
 with.' (Gobryas and Gadatas were then come up, and 
 had brought rich ornaments in great abundance with 
 them.) ' Then,' said he, ' be assured that he shall not 
 want respect and honor in all other things ; but, over 
 and above, multitudes shall concur in raising him a 
 monument that shall be worthy of us, and all the sacri- 
 fices shall be made him that are proper to be made in 
 honor of a brave man. You shall not be left destitute, 
 but, for the sake of your modesty and every other virtue, 
 I will pay you all other honors, as well as place those 
 about you who will conduct you wherever you please. 
 Do you but make it known to me where it is that you 
 8* 
 
90 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 desire to be conveyed to.' And Pantliea replied : ' Be 
 confident^ Cyrus, I will not conceal from you to whom 
 it is that I desire to go.' 
 
 " He, having said this, went away with great pity for 
 her that she should have lost such a husband, and for 
 the man that he should have left such a wife behind him, 
 never to see her more. Panthea then gave orders for her 
 servants to retire, ' till such time,' said she, ' as I shall 
 have lamented my husband as I please.' Her nurse she 
 bid to stay, and gave orders that, when she was dead, 
 she would wrap her and her husband up in one mantle 
 together. The nurse, after having repeatedly begged her 
 not to do this, and meeting with no success, but observing 
 her to grow angry, sat herself down, breaking out into 
 tears. She, being beforehand provided with a sword, 
 killed herself, and, laying her head down on her hus- 
 band's breast, she died. The nurse set up a lamentable 
 cry, and covered them both, as Panthea had directed. 
 
 " Cyrus, as soon as he was informed of what the woman 
 had done, being struck with it, went to help her if he 
 could. The servants, three in number, seeing what had 
 been done, drew their swords and killed themselves, as 
 they stood at the place where she had ordered them. 
 And the monument is now said to have been raised by 
 continuing the mound on to the servants ; and on a pillar 
 above, they say, the names of the man and woman were 
 written in Syriac letters. 
 
 " Below were three pillars, and they were inscribed 
 thus, ' Of the servants.' Cyrus, when he came to this 
 melancholy scene, was struck with admiration of the 
 
PANTHEA. 91 
 
 woman, and, having lamented over her, went awaj. He 
 took care, as was proper, that all the funeral rites should 
 be paid them in the noblest manner, and the monument, 
 thej say, was raised up to a very great size." 
 
 These be the ancients, who, so many assert, had no 
 idea of the dignity of Woman, or of marriage. Such love 
 Xenophon could paint as subsisting between those who 
 after death '' would see one another never more." Thou- 
 sands of years have passed since, and with the reception 
 of the Cross, the nations assume the belief that those who 
 part thus may meet again and forever, if spiritually fitted 
 to one another, as Abradatus and Panthea were, and yet 
 do we see such marriages among them ? If at all, how 
 often? 
 
 I must quote two more short passages from Xenophon, 
 for he is a writer who pleases me well. 
 
 Cyrus, receiving the Armenians whom he had con- 
 quered — 
 
 " ' Tigranes,' said he, ' at what rate would you pur- 
 chase the regaining of your wife ? ' Now Tigranes 
 happened to be but lately married, and had a very great 
 love for his wife." (That clause perhaps sounds moder?i.) 
 
 " ' Cyrus,' said he, ' I would ransom her at the ex- 
 pense of my life.' 
 
 '' ' Take then your own to yourself,' said he. * * * 
 
 " When they came home, one talked of Cyrus' wisdom, 
 another of his patience and resolution, another of his 
 mildness. One spoke of his beauty and smallness of his 
 person, and, on that, Tigranes asked his wife, 'And 
 
92 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 do you, Armenian dame, think Cjrus handsome?' 
 'Truly,' said she, 'I did not look at him.' 'At 
 whom, then, did you look?' said Tigranes. 'At him 
 who said that, to save me from servitude, he would ran- 
 som me at the expense of his own life.' " 
 
 From the Banquet. — 
 
 "Socrates, who observed her with pleasure, said, 'This 
 young girl has confirmed me in the opinion I have had, 
 for a long time, that the female sex are nothing inferior 
 to ours, excepting only in strength of body, or, perhaps, 
 in steadiness of judgment' " 
 
 In the Economics, the manner in which the husband 
 gives counsel to his young wife presents the model of 
 politeness and refinement. Xenophon is thoroughly the 
 gentleman ; gentle in breeding and in soul. All the men 
 he describes are so, while the shades of manner are dis- 
 tinctly marked. There is the serene dignity of Socrates, 
 with gleams of playfulness thrown across its cool, religious 
 shades, the princely mildness of Cyrus, and the more 
 domestic elegance of the husband in the Economics. 
 
 There is no way that men sin more against refinement, 
 as well as discretion, than in their conduct toward their 
 wives. Let them look at the men of Xenophon. Such 
 would know how to give counsel, for they would know how 
 to receive it. They would feel that the most intimate 
 relations claimed most, not least, of refined courtesy. 
 They would not suppose that confidence justified careless- 
 ness, nor the reality of affection want of delicacy in the 
 expression of it. 
 
THE WIFE INEVITABLY INFLUENCES THE HUSBAND. 93 
 
 Such men would be too wise to hide their affairs from 
 the wife, and then expect her to act as if she knew them. 
 Thej would know that, if she is expected to face calam- 
 ity with courage, she must be instructed and trusted 
 in prosperity, or, if they had failed in wise confidence, 
 such as the husband shows in the Economics, they would 
 be ashamed of anger or querulous surprise at the results 
 that naturally follow. 
 
 Such men would not be exposed to the bad influence 
 of bad wives ; for all wives , ba d or good, loved or 
 unloved, inevitably influence their husbands, from the 
 power_their position not merely gives, but necessitates, 
 of coloring evidence and infusing feelings in hours when 
 the — -jpatient, shall I call him ? — is off his guard. 
 Those who understand the wife's mind, and think it worth 
 while to respect her springs of action, know better where 
 they are. But to the bad or thoughtless man, who lives 
 carelessly and irreverently so near another mind, the 
 wrong he does daily back upon himself recoils. A Cyrus, 
 an Abradatus, knows where he stands. 
 
 But to return to the thread of my subject. 
 
 Another sign of the times is furnished by the triumphs 
 
 of Female Authorship. These have been great, and are 
 
 constantly increasing. Women have taken possession of so 
 
 many provinces for which men had pronounced them unfit, 
 
 that, though these still declare there are some inaccessible 
 
 to them, it is difficult to say just where they must stop. 
 
 ^ ^he shining names of famous women have cast light 
 
 ' upon the path of the sex, and many obstructions have 
 
94 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 been removed. When a Montague could learn better 
 than her brother, and use her lore afterwards to such 
 purpose as an observer, it seemed amiss to hinder 
 women from preparing themselves to see, or from see- 
 ing all they could, when prepared. Since Somerville 
 has achieved so much, will any young girl be prevented 
 from seeking a knowledge of the physical sciences, if she 
 wishes it ? De Stael's name was not so clear of oiFence ; 
 she could not forget the Woman in the thought ; while she 
 was instructing you as a mind, she wished to be admired 
 as a Woman ; sentimental tears often dimmed the eagle 
 glance. Her intellect, too, with all its splendor, trained 
 in a drawing-room, fed on flattery, was tainted and 
 flawed ; yet its beams make the obscurest school-house in 
 New England warmer and lighter to the little rugged 
 girls who are gathered together on its wooden bench. 
 They may never through life hear her name, but she is 
 not the less their benefactress. 
 
 The influence has been such, that the aim certainly is, 
 now, in arranging school instruction for girls, to give 
 them as fair a field as boys. As yet, indeed, these 
 arrangements are made with little judgment or reflection ; 
 just as the tutors of Lady Jane Grey, and other distin- 
 guished women of her time, taught them Latin and 
 Greek, because they knew nothing else themselves , so 
 now the improvement in the education of girls is to be 
 made by giving them young_ men as teachers, whoj^fily 
 teach what has been taught themselves at college, while 
 methods and topics need revision for these new subjects, 
 which could better be made by those who had experienced 
 
SCHOOL INSTRUCTION. 95 
 
 the same wants. Women are, often, at the head of these 
 institutions ; but they have, as yet, seldom been thinking 
 women, capable of organizing a new whole for the wants 
 of the time, and choosing persons to officiate in the depart- 
 ments. And when some portion of instruction of a good 
 sort is got from the school, the far greater proportion 
 which is infused from the general atmosphere of society- 
 contradicts its purport. Yet books and a little element- 
 ary instruction are not furnished in vain. Women are 
 better aware how great and rich the universe is, not so 
 easily blinded by narrowness or partial views of a home 
 circle. " Her mother did so before her " is no longer a 
 sufficient excuse. Indeed, it was never received as an 
 excuse" to mitigate the severity of censure, but was 
 adduced as a reason, rather, why there should be no effort 
 made for reformation. 
 
 Whether much or little has been done, or will be done, 
 
 — whether women will add to the talent of narration the 
 power of systematizing, — whether they will carve 
 marble, as well as draw and paint, — is not important. 
 But that jt should be acknowledged that they have intel- 
 lect which needs developing — that they should not be 
 considered complete, if beings of affection and habit alone 
 
 — is important. 
 
 Yet even this acknowledgment, rather conquered by 
 Woman than proffered by Man, has been sullied by the 
 usual selfishness. Too much is said of women being better 
 educated, that they may become better companions and 
 mothers for m&n. They should be fit for such compan- 
 ionship, and we have mentioned, with satisfaction, in- 
 
96 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 stances where it has been established. Earth knows no 
 fairer, holier relation than that of a mother. It is one 
 which, rightly understood, must both promote and 
 require the highest attainments. But a being of infinite 
 scope must not be treated with an exclusive view to any 
 one relation. Give the soul free course, let the organiza- 
 ition, both of body and mind, be freely developed, and 
 I the being will be fit for any and every relation to which 
 lit may be called. The intellect, no more than the sense 
 ■of hearing, is to be cultivated merely that Woman may be 
 a more valuable companion to Man, but because the Power 
 who gave a power, by its mere existence signifies that it 
 must be brought out toward perfection. 
 
 In this regard of self-dependence, and a greater sim- 
 plicity and fulness of being, we must hail as a prelimi- 
 nary the increase of the class contemptuously designated 
 as ''old maids." 
 
 We cannot wonder at the aversion with which old 
 bachelors and old maids have been regarded. Marriage 
 is the natural means of forming a sphere, of taking root 
 in the earth ; it requires more strength to do this without 
 such an opening ; very many have failed, and their im- 
 perfections have been in every one's way. They have 
 been more partial, more harsh, more officious and imper- 
 tinent, than those compelled by severer friction to render 
 themselves endurable. Those who have a more full expe- 
 rience of the instincts have a distrust as to whether the 
 unmarried can be thoroughly human and humane, such as 
 is hinted in the saying, " Old maids' and bachelors' chil- 
 
(^^ AND UNciij 97 
 
 dren are well cared for," which derides at once their 
 ignorance and their presumption. 
 
 -Yet the business of society has become so complex, 
 that it could now scarcely be carried on without the pres- 
 ence of these despised auxiliaries ; and detachments from 
 the army of aunts and uncles are wanted to stop gaps in 
 every hedge. They rove about, mental and moral Ish- 
 maelites, pitching their tents amid the fixed and orna- 
 mented homes of men. 
 
 In a striking variety of forms, genius of late, both at 
 home and abroad, has paid its tribute to the character of 
 the Aunt and the Uncle, recognizing in these personages 
 the spiritual parents, who have supplied defects in the 
 treatment of the busy or careless actual parents. 
 
 They also gain a wider, if not so deep experience. 
 Those who are not intimately and permanently linked 
 with others, are thrown upon themselves ; and, if they 
 do not there find peace and incessant life, there is none 
 to flatter them that they are not very poor, and very 
 mean. 
 
 A position which so constantly admonishes, may be of 
 inestimable benefit. The person may gain, undistracted 
 by other relationships, a closer communion with the one. 
 S-Uch a use is made of it by saints and sibyls. Or she 
 may be one of the lay sisters of charity, a canoness, 
 bound by an inward vow, — or the useful drudge of all 
 men, the Martha, much sought, little prized, — or the 
 intellectual interpreter of the varied life she sees ; the 
 Urania of a half-formed world's twilight. 
 
 Or she may combine all these. Not " needing to 
 9 
 
98 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTUKl 
 
 care that she may please a husband," a frail and JmiteJ 
 being, her thoughts may turn to the centre, and she may, 
 by steadfast contemplation entering into the secret of 
 truth and love, use it for the good of all men, instead of a 
 chosen few, and interpret through it all the forms of life. 
 It is possible, perhaps, to be at once a priestly servant 
 and a loving muse. 
 
 ' Saints and geniuses have often chosen a lonely position, 
 in the faith that if, undisturbed by the pressure of near 
 ties, they would give themselves up to the inspiring spirit, 
 it would enable them to understand and reproduce life 
 better than actual experience could. 
 
 How many "old maids "take this high stand we cannot 
 say : it is an unhappy fact that too many who have come 
 before the eye are gossips rather, and not always good- 
 natured gossips. But if these abuse, and none make the 
 best of their vocation, yet it has not failed to produce 
 some good results. It has been seen by others, if not by 
 themselves, that beings, likely to be left alone, need to 
 be fortified and furnished within themselves ; and educa- 
 tion and thought have tended more and more to regard 
 these beings as related to absolute Being, as well as to 
 others. It has been seen that, as the breaking of no 
 bond ought to destroy a man, so ought the missing of 
 none to hinder him from growing. And thus a circum- 
 stance of the time, which springs rather from its luxury 
 than, its purity, has helped to place women on the true 
 platform. 
 
 y Perhaps the next generation, looking deeper into this 
 matter, will find that contempt is put upon old maids, or 
 
WHY GROW OLD? 99 
 
 old women, at all, merely because they do not use the 
 elixir which would keep them always young. Under its 
 influence, a gem brightens yearly which is only seen to 
 more advantaore throuo;h the fissures Time makes in the 
 casket.* No one thinks of Michael Angelo's Persican 
 Sibyl, or St. Theresa, or Tasso's Leonora, or the Greek 
 Electra, as an old maid, more than of Michael Angelo or 
 Canova as old bachelors, though all had reached the 
 period in life's course appointed to take that degree. 
 
 See a common woman at forty ; scarcely has she the 
 remains of beauty, of any soft poetic grace which gave 
 her attra<jtion as Woman, which kindled the hearts of 
 those who looked on her to sparkling thoughts, or diffused 
 round her a roseate air of gentle love. See her, who was, 
 indeed, a lovely girl, in the coarse, full-blown dahlia 
 flower of what is commonly matron-beauty, ''fat, fair, 
 and forty," showily dressed, and with manners as broad 
 and full as her frill or satin cloak. People observe, 
 "How well she is preserved! " " She is a fine woman 
 still," they say. This woman, whether as a duchess in 
 diamonds, or one of our city dames in mosaics, charms 
 the poet's heart no more, and would look much out 
 of place kneeling before the Madonna. She " does 
 well the honors of her house," — " leads society," — is, 
 in short, always spoken and thought of upholstery-wise. 
 
 Or see that care-worn face, from which every soft line 
 is blotted, — those faded eyes, from which lonely tears 
 have driven the flashes of fancy, the mild white beam of 
 
 ♦Appendix F. 
 
100 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 a tender enthusiasm. This woman is not so ornamental 
 to a tea-party ; yet she would please better, in picture. 
 Yet surely she, no more than the other, looks as a human 
 being should at the end of forty years. Forty years ! 
 have they bound those brows with no garland ? shed in 
 ihe lamp no drop of ambrosial oil ? 
 
 Not so looked the Iphigenia in Aulis. Her forty 
 years had seen her in anguish, in sacrifice, in utter lone- 
 liness. But those pains were borne for her father and 
 her country ; the sacrifice she had made pure for herself 
 and those around her. Wandering alone at night in the 
 vestal solitude of her imprisoning grove, she has looked 
 up through its " living summits " to the stars, which shed 
 down into her aspect their own lofty melody. At forty 
 she would not misbecome the marble. 
 
 Not so looks the Persica. She is withered : she is 
 faded ; the drapery that enfolds her has in its dignity an 
 angularity, too, that tells of age, of sorrow, of a stern 
 resignation to the must. But her eye, that torch of the 
 soul, is untamed, and, in the intensity of her reading, we 
 see a soul invincibly young in faith and hope. Her age 
 is her charm, for it is the night of the past that gives 
 this beacon-fire leave to shine. Wither more and more, 
 black Chrysalid ! thou dost but give the winged beauty 
 time to mature its splendors ! 
 
 Not so looked Victoria Colonna^ after her life of a 
 great hope, and of true conjugal fidelity. She had been, 
 not merely a bride, but a wife, and each hour had helped 
 tc plume the noble bird. A coronet of pearls will not 
 
THE BETROTHED OF THE SUN. 101 
 
 shame her brow ; it is white and ample, a worthy altar 
 for love and thought. 
 
 Even among the North American Indians, a race of 
 men as completely engaged in mere instinctive life as 
 almost any in the world, and where each chief, keeping 
 many wives as useful servants, of course looks with no 
 kind eye on celibacy in Woman, it was excused in the fol- 
 lowing instance mentioned by Mrs. Jameson. A woman 
 dreamt in youth that she was betrothed to the Sun. She 
 built her a wigwam apart, filled it with emblems of her 
 alliance, and means of an independent life. There she 
 passed her days, sustained by her own exertions, and true 
 to her supposed engagement. 
 
 In any tribe, we believe, a woman, who lived as if she 
 was betrothed to the Sun, would be tolerated, and the 
 rays which made her youth blossom sweetly, would crown 
 her with a halo in age. 
 
 There is, on this subject, a nobler view than hereto- 
 fore, if not the noblest, and improvement here must coin- 
 
 cide with that in the view taken of marriage. "We must 
 have units before we can have union," says one of the ripe 
 thinkers of the times. 
 
 If larger intellectual resources begin to be deemed 
 needful to Woman, still more is a spiritual dignity in her, 
 or even the mere assumption of it, looked upon with 
 respect. Joanna Southcote and Mother Anne Lee are 
 3ure of a band of disciples ; Ecstatica, Dolorosa, of en- 
 raptured believers who will visit them in their lowly huts, 
 and wait for days to revere them in their trances. The 
 foreign noble traverses land and sea to hear a few words 
 9=^ 
 
102 WOMAN IN XHE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 from the lips of the lowlj peasant girl, whom he believes 
 especially visited by the Most High. Very beautiful, in 
 this way, was the influence of the invalid of St. Peters- 
 burg, as described by De Maistre. 
 
 Mysticism, which may be defined as the brooding soul 
 of the world, cannot fail of its oracular promise as to 
 Woman. " The mothers," " The mother of all 
 things," are expressions of thought which lead the mind 
 towards this side of universal growth. Whenever a mys- 
 tical whisper was heard, from Behmen down to St. 
 Simon, sprang up the thought, that, if it be true, as the 
 legend says, that Humanity withers through a fault com- 
 mitted by and a curse laid upon Wpman, through her 
 pure child, or influence, shall the new Adam, the redemp- 
 tion, arise. Innocence is to be replaced by virtue, depend- 
 ence by a willing submission, in the heart of the Yirgin- 
 Mother of the new race. 
 
 The spiritual tendency is toward the elevation of Wo- 
 man, but the intellectual by itself is not so. Plato 
 sometimes seems penetrated by that high idea of love, 
 which considers Man and Woman as the two-fold expres- 
 sion of one thought. This the angel of Swedenborg, the 
 angel of the coming age, cannot surpass, but only explain 
 more fully. Eut then again Plato, the man of intellect, 
 treats Woman in the Kepublic as property, and, in the 
 Timseus, says that Man, if he misuse the privileges of 
 one life, shall be degraded into the form of Woman ; and 
 then, if he do not redeem himself, into that of a bird. 
 This, as I said above, expresses most happily how anti- 
 poetical is this state of mind. For the poet, contemplat- 
 
TUNE THE LYRE. 103 
 
 ing the world of things, selects various birds as the sym- 
 bols of his most gracious and ethereal thoughts, just as 
 he calls upon his genius as muse rather than as God. 
 But the intellect, cold, is ever more masculine than 
 feminine ; warmed by emotion, it rushes toward mother- 
 earth, and puts on the forms of beauty. 
 
 The electrical, the magnetic element in Woman has 
 not been fairly brought out at any period. Everything 
 night be expected from it ; she has far more of it than 
 Man. This is commonly expressed by saying that her 
 intuitions are more rapid and more correct. You will 
 often see men of high intellect absolutely stupid in regard 
 to the atmospheric changes, the fine invisible links which 
 connect the forms of life around them, while common 
 women, if pure and modest, so that a vulgar self do not 
 overshadow the mental eye, will seize and delineate these 
 with unerring discrimination. 
 
 Women who combine this organization with creative 
 genius are very commonly unhappy at present. They 
 see too much to act in conformity with those around them, 
 and their quick impulses seem folly to those who do not 
 discern the motives. This is an usual efiect of the ap- 
 parition of genius, whether in Man or Woman, but is more 
 frequent with regard to the latter, because a harmony, 
 an obvious order and self-restraining decorum, is most 
 expected from her. 
 
 Then women of genius, even more than men, are likely 
 to be enslaved by an impassioned sensibility. The world 
 repels them r.:ore rudely, and they are of weaker bodily 
 frame. 
 
104 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTUKY. 
 
 Those who seem overladen with electricity frighten 
 those around them. " When she merely enters the room, 
 I am what the French call herisse,^^ said a man of 
 petty feelings and worldly character of such a woman, 
 whose depth of eye and powerful motion announced the 
 conductor of the mysterious fluid. 
 
 Woe to such a woman who finds herself linked to such 
 a man in bonds too close ! It is the crudest of errors. 
 He will detest her with all the bitterness of wounded 
 self-love. He will take the whole prejudice of manhood 
 upon himself, and, to the utmost of his power, imprison 
 and torture her by its imperious rigors. 
 
 Yet, allow room enough, and the electric fluid will be 
 found to invigorate and embellish, not destroy life. Such 
 women are the great actresses, the songsters. Such traits 
 we read in a late searching, though too French, analysis 
 of the character of Mademoiselle Rachel, by a moder» 
 La Rochefoucault. The Greeks thus represent the 
 muses ; they have not the golden serenity of Apollo ; 
 they are overflowed with thought; there is something 
 tragic in their air. Such are the Sibyls of Guercino ; 
 the eye is overfull of expression, dilated and lustrous; 
 it seems to have drawn the whole being into it. 
 
 Sickness is the frequent result of this overcharged 
 existence. To this region, however misunderstood, or 
 interpreted with presumptuous carelessness, belong the 
 phenomena of magnetism, or mesmerism, as it is now 
 often called, where the trance of the Ecstatica purports 
 to be produced by the agency of one human being on 
 another, instead of, as in her case, direct from the spirit. 
 
CASSANDRA. 105 
 
 The worldling has his sneer at this as at the services 
 of religion. " The churches can always be filled with 
 women" — "Show me a man in one of your magnetic 
 states, and I will believe." 
 
 Women are, indeed, the easy victims both of priest- 
 craft and self-delusion ; but this would not be, if the 
 intellect was developed in proportion to the other powers. 
 They would then have a regulator, and be more in equi- 
 poise, yet must retain the same .nervous susceptibility 
 while their physical structure is such as it is. 
 
 It is with just that hope that we welcome everything 
 that tends to strengthen the fibre and develop the nature 
 on more sides. When the intellect and affections are in 
 harmony; when intellectual consciousness is calm and 
 deep ; inspiration will not be confounded with fancy. 
 
 Then, " she who advances 
 
 With rapturous, lyrical glances, 
 
 Singing the song of the earth, singing 
 Its hyinn to the Gods," 
 
 "will not be pitied as a mad- woman, nor shrunk from as 
 unnatural. 
 
 The Greeks, who saw everything in forms, which we 
 are trying to ascertain as law, and classify as cause, em- 
 bodied all this in the form of Cassandra. Cassandra was 
 only unfortunate in receiving her gift too soon. The 
 remarks, however, that the world still makes in such 
 cases, are well expressed by the Greek dramatist. 
 
 In the Trojan dames there are fine touches of nature 
 with regard to Cassandra. Hecuba shows that mixture 
 of shame and reverence that prosaic kindred always do 
 
106 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURI". 
 
 toward the inspired child, the poet, the elected sufferer for 
 the rac 3. 
 
 When the herald announces that Cassandra is chosen 
 to be tiie mistress of Agamemnon, Hecuba answers, with 
 indignation, betraying the pride and faith she involun- 
 tarily felt in this daughter. 
 
 *^Hec. The maiden of Phoebus, to whom the golden-haired 
 
 Gave as a privilege a virgin life ! 
 Tal. Love of the inspired maiden hath pierced him. 
 Hec. Then cast away, my child, the sacred keys, and from thy person 
 
 The consecrated garlands which thou wearest. ' ' 
 
 Yet, when, a moment after, Cassandra appears, sing- 
 ing, wildly, her inspired song, Hecuba calls her, "My 
 frantic child." 
 
 Yet how graceful she is in her tragic raptus^ the 
 chorus shows. 
 
 ^^ Chorus. How sweetly at thy house's ills thou smil'st, 
 
 Chanting what, haply, thou wilt not show true.'* 
 
 If Hecuba dares not trust her highest instinct about 
 her daughter, still less can the vulgar mind of the herald 
 Talthybius, a man not without feeling, but with no 
 princely, no poetic blood, abide the wild, prophetic mood 
 which insults all his prejudices. 
 
 *' Tal. The venerable, and that accounted wise. 
 Is nothing better than that of no repute ; 
 For the greatest king of all the Greeks, 
 The dear son of Atreus, is possessed with the love 
 Of this mad-woman. I, indeed, am poor ; 
 Yet I would not receive her to my bed." 
 
 The royal Agamemnon could see the beauty of Cas- 
 sandra ; he was not afraid of her prophetic gifts. 
 
SEERESS OF PREVORST. 107 
 
 The best topic for a chapter on this subject, in the 
 present day, would be the history of the Seeress of Pre- 
 vorst, the best observed subject of magnetism in our pres- 
 ent times, and who, like her ancestresses of Delphos, was, 
 roused to ecstasy or phrensy by the touch of the laurel. 
 
 I observe in her case, and in one known to me here, 
 that what might have been a gradual and gentle disclos- 
 ure of remarkable powers was broken and jarred into 
 disease by an unsuitable marriage. Both these persons 
 w^ere unfortunate in not understanding what was involved 
 in this relation, but acted ignorantly, as their friends 
 desired. They thought that this was the inevitable des- 
 tiny of Woman. But when engaged in the false posi- 
 tion, it was impossible for them to endure its dissonances, 
 as those of less delicate perceptions can ; and the fine 
 flow of life was checked and sullied. They grew sick ; 
 but, even so, learned and disclosed more than those in 
 health are wont to do. 
 
 In such cases, worldlings sneer; but reverent men 
 learn wondrous news, either from the person observed, or 
 by thoughts caused in themselves by the observation. 
 Fenelon learns from Guyon, Kerner from his Seeress, 
 what we fain would know. But to appreciate such dis- 
 closures one must be a child; and here the phrase. 
 " women and children," may, perhaps, be interpreted 
 aright, that only little children shall enter into the king- 
 dom of heaven. 
 
 All these motions of the tim^e, tides that betoken a 
 waxing moon, overflow upon our land. The world at 
 large is readier to let Woman learn and manifest tJie 
 
108 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CL'NTURY. 
 
 capacities of her nature than it ever was before, and here 
 is a less encumbered field and freer air than anywhere 
 else. And it ought to be so ; we ought to pay for Isa- 
 J)ella's jewels. 
 
 The names of nations are feminine — Religion, Virtue 
 and Victory are feminine. To those who have a super- 
 stition, as to outward reigns, it is not without significance 
 Ihat the name of the queen of our mother-land should at 
 this crisis be Victoria, — Victoria the First. Perhaps to 
 us it may be given to disclose the era thus outwardly 
 presaged. 
 
 Another Isabella too at this time ascends the throne. 
 Might she open a new world to her sex ! But, probably, 
 these poor little women are, least of any, educated to 
 serve as examples or inspirers for the rest. The Spanish 
 queen is younger ; we know of her that she sprained her 
 foot the other day, dancing in her private apartments ; of 
 Victoria, that she reaxis aloud, in a distinct voice and 
 agreeable manner, her addresses to Parliament on certain 
 solemn days, and, yearly, that she presents to the nation 
 some new prop of royalty. These ladies have, very likely, 
 been trained more completely to the puppet life than any 
 other. The queens, who have been queens indeed, were 
 trained by adverse circumstances to know the world 
 around them and their own powers. 
 
 It is moving, while amusing, to read of the Scottish 
 peasant measuring the print .left by the queen's foot as 
 she walks, and priding himself on its beauty. It is so 
 natural to wish to find what is fair and precious in high 
 
THE BRIBE IS NOT THE PRIZE. 109 
 
 places, — so astonishing to find the Bourbon a glutton, 
 or the Guelph a dullard or gossip. 
 
 In our own country, women are, in many respects, 
 better situated than men. Good books are allowed, with 
 more time to read them. They are not so early forced 
 into the bustle of life, nor so weighed down by demands 
 for outward success. The perpetual changes, incident 
 to our society, make the blood circulate freely through 
 the body politic, and, if not favorable at present to the 
 grace and bloom of lite, they are so to activity, resource, 
 and would be to reflection, but for a low materialist ten- 
 dency, from which the women are generally exempt in 
 themselves, though its existence, among the men, has a 
 tendency to repress their impulses and make them doubt 
 their instincts, thus often paralyzing their action during 
 the best years. 
 
 But they have time to think, and no traditions chain 
 them, and few conventionalities, compared with what 
 must be met in other nations. There is no reason why 
 they should not discover that the secrets of nature are 
 open, the revelations of the spirit waiting, for whoever 
 will seek them. When the mind is once awakened to 
 this consciousness, it will not be restrained by the habits 
 of the past, but fly to seek the seeds of a heavenly 
 future. 
 ^ Their employments are more favorable to meditation 
 than those of men. 
 
 Woman is not addressed religiously here more than 
 
 elsewhere. She is told that she should be worthy to be 
 
 the mother of a Washington, or the companion of some 
 10 
 
110 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENIH CENTURY. 
 
 good man. But in many, many instances, she has 
 already learned that all bribes have the same flaw ; that 
 truth and good are to be sought solely for their own 
 sakes. And, already, an ideal sweetness floats over 
 many forms, shines in many eyes. 
 
 Already deep questions are put by young girls on the 
 great theme : What shall I do to enter upon the eternal 
 life? 
 
 Men are very courteous to them. They praise them 
 often, check them seldom. There is chivalry in the feel- 
 ing towai;d " the ladies," which gives them the best seats 
 in the stage-coach, frequent admission, not only to lec- 
 tures of all sorts, but to courts of justice, halls of legisla- 
 ture, reform conventions. The newspaper editor " would 
 be better pleased that the Lady's Book should be filled 
 up exclusively by ladies. It would then, indeed, be a 
 true gem, worthy to be presented by young men to the 
 mistress of their afiections." Can gallantry go further? 
 
 In this country is venerated, wherever seen, the char- 
 acter which Goethe spoke of as an Ideal, which he saw 
 actualized in his friend and patroness, the Grand Duch- 
 ess Amelia : " The excellent woman is she, who, if the 
 husband dies, can be a father to the children." And this, 
 if read aright, tells a great deal. 
 
 Women who speak in public, if they have a moral 
 power, such as has been felt from Angelina Grimke and 
 Abby Kelly, — that is, if they speak for conscience' sake, 
 to serve a cause which they hold sacred, — invariably 
 subdue the prejudices of their hearers, and excite an 
 
THE BRIBE IS NOT THE PRIZE. Ill 
 
 interest proportionate to the aversion with which it had 
 been the purpose to regard them. 
 
 A passage in a private letter so happily illustrates this, 
 that it must be inserted here. 
 
 Abb J Kelly in the Town-House of . 
 
 "The scene was not unheroic — to see that woman, 
 true to humanity and her own nature, a centre of rude 
 eyes and tongues, even gentlemen feeling licensed to make 
 part of a species of mob around a female out of her 
 sphere. As she took her seat in the desk amid the great 
 noise, and in the throng, full, like a wave, of something 
 to ensue, I saw her humanity in a gentleness and unpre- 
 tension, tenderly open to the sphere around her, and, had 
 she not been supported by the power of the will of genu- 
 ineness and principle, she would have failed. It led her 
 to prayer, which, in Woman especially, is childlike ; sen- 
 sibility and will going to the side of God and looking up 
 to him ; and humanity was poured out in aspiration. 
 
 '' She acted like a gentle hero, with her mild decision 
 and womanly calmness. All heroism is mild, and quiet, 
 and gentle, for it is life and possession ; and combativeness 
 and firmness show a want of actualness. She 'is as ear- 
 nest, fresh and simple, as when she first entered the 
 crusade. I think she did much good, more than the men 
 in her place could do, for Woman feels more as being and 
 reproducing — this brings the subject more into home 
 relations. Men speak through, and mostly from intellect, 
 and this addresses itself to that in others which is com- 
 bative." 
 ~ Not easily shall we find elsewhere, or before this time, 
 
112 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 any -written observations on the same subject, so delicate 
 and profound. 
 
 The late Dr. Channing, whose enlarged and tender and 
 religious nature shared every onward impulse of his time, 
 though his thoughts followed his wishes with a delibera- 
 tive caution which belonged to his habits and tempera- 
 ment, was greatly interested in these expectations for 
 women. His own treatment of them was absolutely and 
 thoroughly religious. He regarded them as souls, each 
 of which had a destiny of its own, incalculable to other 
 minds, and whose leading it must follow, guided by the 
 light of a private conscience. He had sentiment, delicacy, 
 kindness, taste ; but they were all pervaded and ruled by 
 this one thought, that all beings had souls, and must 
 vindicate their own inheritance. Thus all beings were 
 treated by him with an equal, and sweet, though solemn, 
 courtesy. The young and unknown, the woman and the 
 child, all felt themselves regarded with an infinite expec- 
 tation, from which there was no reaction to vulgar 
 prejudice. He demanded of all he met, to use his favor- 
 ite phrase, " great truths." 
 
 His memory, every way dear and reverend, is, by 
 many, especially cherished for this intercourse of unbroken 
 respect. 
 
 At one time, when the progress of Harriet Martineau 
 through this country, Angelina Grimke's appearance in 
 public, and the visit of Mrs. Jameson, had turned his 
 thoughts to this subject, he expressed high hopes as to 
 what the coming era would bring to Woman. He had 
 been much pleased with the dignified courage of Mrs. 
 
DR. CHANNING. 113 
 
 Jameson in taking up the defence of her sex in a way 
 from which women usually shrink, because, if they ex- 
 press themselves on such subjects with sufficient force 
 and clearness to do any good, they are exposed to as- 
 saults whose vulgarity makes them painful. In inter- 
 course with such a woman, he had shared her indignation 
 at the base injustice, in many respects, and in many 
 regions, done to the sex ; and been led to think of it far 
 more than ever before. He seemed to think that he 
 might some time write upon the subject. That his aid is 
 withdrawn from the cause is a subject of gi'eat regret ; 
 for, on this question as on others, he would have known 
 how to sum up the evidence, and take, in the noblest 
 spirit, middle ground. He always furnished a platform 
 on which opposing parties could stand and look at one 
 another under the influence of his mildness and enlight- 
 ened candor. 
 
 Two younger thinkers, men both, have uttered noble 
 prophecies, auspicious for Woman. Eanmont, all whose 
 thoughts tended towards the establishment of the reign 
 of love and peace, thought that the inevitable means of 
 this would be an increased predominance given to the 
 idea of Woman. Had he lived longer, to see the growth 
 of the Peace Party, the reforms in life and medical prac- 
 tice which seek to substitute water for wine and drugs, 
 pulse for animal food, he would have been confirmed in 
 his view of the way in which the desired changes are to 
 be effected. 
 
 In this connection I must mention Shelley, who, like 
 all men of genius, shared the feminine development, and, 
 10* 
 
114 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTUKT. 
 
 unlike many, knew it. His life was one of the first 
 pulse-beats in the present reform-growth. He, too, ab- 
 horred blood and heat, and, bj his system and his song, 
 tended to reinstate a plant-like gentleness in the devel- 
 opment of energy. In harmony with this, his ideas of 
 marriage were lofty, and, of course, no less so of Woman, 
 her nature, and destiny. 
 
 For Woman, if, by a sympathy as to outward condition, 
 she is led to aid the enfranchisement of the slave, must 
 be no less so, by inward tendency, to favor measures 
 which promise to bring the world more thoroughly and 
 deeply into harmony with her nature. When the lamb 
 takes place of the lion as the emblem of nations, both 
 women and men will be as children of one spirit, perpet- 
 ual learners of the word and doers thereof, not hearers 
 only. 
 
 A writer in the New York Pathfinder, in two articles 
 headed "Femality," has uttered a still more pregnant 
 word than any we have named. He views Woman truly 
 from the soul, and not from society, and the depth and 
 leading of his thoughts are proportionably remarkable. 
 He views the feminine nature as a harmonizer of the 
 vehement elements, and this has often been hinted else- 
 where ; but what he expresses most forcibly is the lyrical, 
 the inspii'ing and inspired apprehensiveness of her 
 being. 
 
 This view^ being identical with what I have before 
 attempted to indicate, as to her superior susceptibility to 
 magnetic or electric influence, I will now try to express 
 myself more fully. 
 
MUSE AND MINERVA. 115 
 
 There are tw3 aspects of Woman's nature, represented 
 by the ancients aa Muse and Minerva. It is the former 
 to which the writer in the Pathfinder looks. It is the 
 latter which Wordsworth has in mind, when he says, 
 
 " With a placid brow, 
 Which woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow." 
 
 The especial genius of Woman I believe to be electri- 
 cal in movement, intuitive in function, spiritual in 
 tendency. She excels not so easily in classification, or 
 "recreation, as in an instinctive seizure of causes, and a 
 simple breathing out of what she receives, that has the 
 singleness of life, rather than the selecting and energizing 
 of art. 
 . More native is it to her to be the livinor model of the 
 
 o 
 
 artist than to set apart from herself any one form in ob- 
 jective reality; more native to inspire and receive the 
 poem, than to create it. In so far as soul is in her com- 
 pletely developed, all soul is the same ; but in so far as it 
 is modified in her as Woman, it flows, it breathes, it sings, 
 rather than deposits soil, or finishes work ; and that which 
 is especially feminine flushes, in blossom, the face of 
 earth, and pervades, like air and water, all this seeming 
 solid globe, daily renewing and purifying its life. Such 
 may be the especially feminine element spoken of as 
 Femality. But it is no more the order of nature that it 
 should be incarnated pure in any form, than that the 
 masculine energy should exist unmingled with it in any 
 form. 
 
 Male and female represent the two sides of the great 
 
116 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 radical dualism. But, in fact, they are perpetually pass- 
 ing into one another. Fluid hardens to solid, solid rushes 
 to fluid. There is no wholly masculine man, no purely 
 feminine woman. 
 
 History jeers at the attempts of physiologists to bind 
 great original laws by the forms which flow from them. 
 They make a rule ; they say from observation what can 
 and cannot be. In vain ! Nature provides exceptions 
 to every rule. She sends women to battle, and sets 
 Hercules spinning ; she enables women to bear immense 
 burdens, cold, and frost ; she enables the man, who feels 
 maternal love, to nourish his infant like a mother. Of 
 late she plays still gayer pranks. Not only she de- 
 prives organizations, but organs, of a necessary end. She 
 enables people to read with the top of the head, and see 
 with the pit of the stomach. Presently she will make a 
 female Newton, and a male Syren. 
 
 Man partakes of the feminine in the Apollo, Woman 
 of the masculine as Minerva. 
 
 What I mean by the Muse is that unimpeded clearness 
 of the intuitive powers, which a perfectly truthful ad- 
 herence to every admonition of the higher instincts would 
 bring to a finely organized human being. It may appear 
 as prophecy or as poesy. It enabled Cassandra to fore- 
 see the results of actions passing round her ; the Seeress 
 to behold the true character of the person through the 
 mask of his customary life. (Sometimes she saw a femi- 
 nine form behind the man, sometimes the reverse.) It 
 enabled the daughter of Linnaeus to see the soul of the 
 
EXCEPTIONS TO EVERY RULE. 117 
 
 flower exhaling from the flower.* It gave a man, but a 
 poet-man, the power of which he thus speaks : '' Often 
 in mj contemplation of nature, radiant intimations, and 
 as it were sheaves of light, appear before me as to the 
 facts of cosmogony, in which my mind has, perhaps, 
 taken especial part." He wisely adds, '' but it is neces- 
 sary with earnestness to verify the knowledge we gain by 
 these flashes of light." And none should forget this. 
 Sight must be verified by light before it can deserve the 
 honors of piety and genius. Yet sight comes first, and 
 of this sight of the world of causes, this approximation to 
 the region of primitive motions, women I hold to be espe- 
 cially capable. Even without equal freedom with the 
 other sex, they have abeady shown themselves so ; and 
 should these faculties have free play, I believe they will 
 open new, deeper and purer sources of joyous inspiration 
 than have as yet refreshed the earth. 
 
 Let us be wise, and not impede the soul. Let her work 
 as she will. Let us have one creative energy, one inces- 
 sant revelation. Let it take what form it wall, and let 
 us not bind it by the past to man or woman, black or 
 white. Jove sprang from Rhea, Pallas from Jove. So 
 let it be. 
 
 If it has been the tendency of these remarks to call 
 Woman rather to the Mmerva side, — if I, unlike the 
 
 * The daughter of Linnaeus states, that, while looking steadfastly at 
 the red lily, she saw its spirit hovering above it, as a red flame. It is 
 true, this, like many fair spirit-stories, may be explained away as an 
 optical illusion, but its poetic beauty and meaning would, even then, 
 make it valuable, as an illustration of the spiritual fe,ct. 
 
118 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 more generous writer, have spoken from society no less 
 than the soul, — let it be pardoned ! It is love that has 
 caused this, — love for many incarcerated souls, that 
 might be freed, could the idea of religious self-depend- 
 ence be established in them, could the weakening habit 
 of dependence on others be broken up. 
 
 Proclus teaches that every life has. in its sphere, a 
 totality or wholeness of the animating powers of the other 
 spheres ; having only, as its own characteristic, a pre- 
 dominance of some one power. Thus Jupiter comprises, 
 within himself, the other twelve powers, which stand 
 thus : The first triad is demiurgic or fabricative^ that is, 
 Jupiter, Neptune, Vulcan ; the second, defensive^ Vesta, 
 Minerva, Mars; the third, vivific, Ceres, Juno, Diana; 
 and the fourth. Mercury, Venus, Apollo, elevating and 
 haimonic. In the sphere of Jupiter, energy is predomi- 
 nant — with Venus, beauty ; but each comprehends and 
 apprehends all the others. 
 
 "When the same community of life and consciousness of 
 mind begin among men, humanity will have, positively 
 and finally, subjugated its brute elements and Titanic 
 childhood ; criticism will have perished ; arbitrary limits 
 and ignorant censure be impossible ; all will have entered 
 upon the liberty of law, and the harmony of common 
 growth. 
 
 Then Apollo will sing to his lyre what Vulcan forges 
 on the anvil, and the Muse weave anew the tapestries of 
 Minerva. 
 
 It is, therefore, only in the present crisis that the pref- 
 erence is giver to Minerva. The power of continence 
 
LIVING IN RELATIONS. 119 
 
 must establish the legitimacy of freedom, the power of self- 
 poise the perfection of motion. 
 
 Every relation, every gradation of nature is incalcu- 
 lably precious, but only to the soul which is poised upon 
 itself, and to whom no loss, no change, can bring dull 
 discord, for it is in harmony with the central soul. 
 
 If any individual live too much in relations, so that he 
 becomes a stranger to the resources of his ow^n nature, he 
 falls, after a while, into a distraction, or imbecility, from 
 which he can only be cured by a time of isolation, which 
 gives the renovating fountains time to rise up. With a 
 society it is the same. Many minds, deprived of the 
 traditionary or instinctive means of passing a cheerful 
 existence, must find help in self-impulse, or perish. It 
 is therefore that, while any elevation, in the view of 
 union, is to be hailed with joy, we shall not decline celi- 
 bacy as the great fact of the time. It is one from which 
 no vow, no arrangement, can at present save a thinking 
 mind. For now the rowers are pausing on their oars ; 
 they wait a change before they can pull together. All 
 tends to illustrate the thought of a wise cotemporary. 
 Union is only possible to those who are units. To be fit 
 for relations in time, souls, whether of Man or Woman, 
 must be able to do without them in the spirit. 
 : It is therefore that I would have Woman lay aside all 
 thought, such as she habitually cherishes, of being taught 
 and led by men. I would have her, like the Indian girl, 
 dedicate herself to the Sun, the Sun of Truth, and go no- 
 where if his beams did not make clear the path. I would 
 have her free from compromise, from complaisance, from 
 
120 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 helplessness, because I would have her good enough and 
 strong enough to love one and all beings, from the ful- 
 ness, not the poverty of being. 
 
 Men, as at present instructed, will not help this work, 
 because they also are under the slavery of habit. I have 
 seen with delight their poetic impulses. A sister is the 
 fairest ideal, and how nobly Wordsworth, and even Byron, 
 have written of a sister ! 
 
 There is no sweeter sight than to see a father with his 
 little daughter. Yery vulgar men become refined to the 
 eye when leading a little girl by the hand. At that 
 moment, the right relation between the sexes seems estab- 
 lished, and you feel as if the man would aid in the noblest 
 purpose, if you ask him in behalf of his little daughter. 
 Once, two fine figures stood before me, thus. The father 
 of very intellectual aspect, his falcon eye softened by 
 affection as he looked down on his fair child ; she the 
 image of himself, only more graceful and brilliant in ex- 
 pression. I w^as reminded of Southey's Kehama ; when, 
 lo, the dream was rudely broken ! They were talking of 
 education, and he said, 
 
 " I shall not have Maria brought too forward. If she 
 knows too much, she will never find a husband ; superior 
 women hardly ever can." 
 
 "Surely," said his wife, with a blush, "you wish 
 Maria to be as good and wise as she can, whether it will 
 help her to marriage or not." 
 
 "No," he persisted, "I want her to have a sphere 
 and a home, and some one to protect her when I am 
 gone." 
 
SYMPTOMS OF A CRISIS. 121 
 
 It was a trifling incidentj but made a deep impression. 
 I felt that the holiest relations fail to instruct the unpre- 
 pared and perverted mind. If this man, indeed, could 
 have looked at it on the other side, he was the last that 
 wouli have been willing to have been taken himself for 
 the home and protection he could give, but would have 
 been much more likely to repeat the tale of Alcibiades 
 with his phials. 
 
 But men do not look at both sides, and women must 
 leave off asking them and being influenced by them, but 
 retire within themselves, and explore the ground- work of 
 life till they find their peculiar secret. Then, when they 
 come forth again, renovated and baptized, they will know 
 how to turn all dross to gold, and will be rich and free / 
 though they live in a hut, tranquil if in a crowd. Then 
 their sweet singing shall not be from passionate impulse, 
 but the lyrical overflow of a divine rapture, and a new 
 music shall be evolved from this many-chorded world. 
 
 Grant her, then, for a while, the armor and the javelin. 
 Let her put from her the press of other minds, and medi- 
 tate in virgin loneliness. The same idea shall reappear 
 in due time as Muse, or Ceres, the all-kindly, patient 
 Earth-Spirit. 
 
 Among the throng of symptoms which denote the pres- 
 ent tendency to a crisis in the life of Woman, — which 
 resembles the change from girlhood, with its beautiful 
 instincts, but unharmonized thoughts, its blind pupilage 
 and restless seeking, to self-possessed, wise and graceful 
 womanhood, — I have attempted to select a few. 
 11 
 
122 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 One of prominent interest is the unison upon the sub- 
 ject of three male minds, which, for width of culture, 
 power of self-concentration and dignity of aim, take rank 
 as the prophets of the coming age, while their histories 
 and labors are rooted in the past. 
 
 Swedfinborg came, he tells us, to interpret the past reve- 
 lation and unfold a new. He announces the New Church 
 that is to prepare the way for the New Jerusalem, a city 
 built of precious stones, hardened and purified by secret 
 processes in the veins of earth through the ages. 
 
 SAvedenborg approximated to that harmony between 
 the scientific and poetic lives of mind, which we hope 
 from the perfected man. The links that bind together 
 the realms of nature, the mysteries that accompany her 
 births and growths, were unusually plain to him. He 
 seems a man to whom insight was given at a period when 
 the mental frame was sufficiently matured to retain and 
 express its gifts.' 
 
 His views of Woman are, in the main, satisfactory. 
 In some details we may object to them, as, in all his 
 system, there are still remains of what is arbitrary and 
 seemingly groundless — fancies that show the marks of 
 old habits, and a nature as yet not thoroughly leavened 
 with the spiritual leaven. At least, so it seems to me 
 now. I speak reverently, for I find such reason to ven- 
 erate Swedenborg, from an imperfect knowledge of his 
 mind, that I feel one more perfect might explain to me 
 much that does not now secure my sympathy. 
 
 His idea of Woman is sufficiently large and noble to 
 interpose no obstacle to her progress. His idea of mar- 
 
123 
 
 riage is consequently sufficient. Man and Woman share 
 an angelic ministry ; the union is of one with one, per- 
 manent and pure. 
 
 As the New Church extends its ranks, the needs of 
 Woman must be more considered. 
 
 Quakerism also establishes Woman on a sufficient ? 
 equality with Man. But, though the original thought 
 of Quakerism is pure, its scope is too narrow, and its in- 
 fluence, having established a certain amount of good and 
 made clear some truth, must, by degrees, be merged in 
 one of wider range.* The mind of Swedenborg appeals 
 to the various nature of Man, and allows room for aesthetic 
 culture and the free expression of energy. 
 
 As apostle of the new order, of the social fabric that 
 is to rise from love, and supersede the old that was based 
 on strife, Charles Fourier comes next, expressing, in an 
 outward order, many facts of which Swedenborg saw the 
 secret springs. The mind of Fourier, though grand and 
 clear, was, in some respects, superficial. He was a 
 stranger to the highest experiences. His eye was fixed 
 on the outward more than the inward needs of Man. Yet 
 he, too, was a seer of the divine order, in its musical 
 expression, if not in its poetic soul. He has filled one 
 department of instruction for the new era, and the har- 
 mony in action, and freedom for individual growth, he 
 hopes shall exist ; and, if the methods he proposes should 
 not prove the true ones, yet his fair propositions shall 
 
 * In worship at stated periods, in daily expression, whether by 
 word or deed, the Quakers have placed Woman on the same platform 
 with Man. Can any one assert that they have reason to repent this ? 
 
124 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 give many hints, and make room for the inspiration 
 needed for such. 
 
 He, too, places Woman on an entire equality with 
 Man, and wishes to give to one as to the other that in- 
 dependence which must result from intellectual and prac- 
 tical development. |. 
 
 Those who will consult him for no other reason, might 
 do so to see how the energies of Woman may be made 
 available in the pecuniary way. The object of Fourier 
 was to give her the needed means of self-help, that she 
 might dignify and unfold her life for her own happiness, 
 and that of society. The many, now, who see their daugh- 
 ters liable to destitution, or vice to escape from it, may 
 be interested to examine the means, if they have not yet 
 soul enough to appreciate the ends he proposes. 
 
 On the opposite side of the advancing army leads the 
 great apostle of individual culture, Goetiie, Swedenborg 
 makes organization and union the necessary results of 
 solitary thought. Fourier, whose nature was, above all, 
 constructive, looked to them too exclusively. Better in- 
 stitutions, he thought, will make better men. Goethe 
 expressed, in every way, the other side. If one man 
 could present better forms, the rest could not use them 
 till ripe for them. 
 
 Fourier says. As the institutions, so the men ! All 
 follies are excusable and natural under bad institutions. 
 
 Goethe thinks, As the man, so the institutions ! There 
 is no excuse for ignorance and folly. A man can grow 
 in any place, if he will. 
 
 Ay ! but, Goethe, bad institutions are prison-walls and 
 
DAUGHTERS OF GOETHE. 125 
 
 impure air, that make him stupid, so that he does not 
 wiU. 
 
 And thou, Fourier, do not expect to change mankind 
 at once, or even "in three generations," by arrange- 
 ment of groups and series, or flourish of trumpets for 
 pttractive industry. If these attempts are made by un- 
 ready men, they will fail. 
 
 Yet we prize the theory of Fourier no less than the 
 profound suggestion of Goethe. Both are educating the 
 age to a clearer consciousness of what Man needs, what 
 Man can be ; and better life must ensue. 
 
 Goethe, proceeding on his own track, elevating the 
 human being, in the most imperfect states of society, by 
 continual eiforts at self-culture, takes as good care of 
 women as of men. His mother, the bold, gay Frau Aja, 
 with such playful freedom of nature ; the wise and gentle 
 maiden, known in his youth, over whose sickly solitude 
 " the Holy Ghost brooded as a dove ; " his sister, the in- 
 tellectual woman par excellence ; the Duchess Amelia ; 
 Lili, who combined the character of the woman of the 
 world with the lyrical sweetness of the shepherdess, on 
 whose chaste and noble breast flowers and gems were 
 equally at home ; all these had supplied abundant sugges- 
 tions to his mind, as to the wants and the possible excel- 
 lences of Woman. And from his poetic soul grew up 
 forms new and more admirable than life has yet pro- 
 duced, for whom his clear eye marked out paths in the 
 future. 
 
 In Faust Margaret represents the redeeming power, 
 which, at present, upholds Woman, while waiting for a 
 11* 
 
126 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 better day. The lovely little girl, pure in instinct, 
 ignorant in mind, is misled and profaned by man abusing 
 her confidence.* To the Mater Dolorosa she appeals for 
 aid. It is given to the soul, if not against outward sor- 
 row ; and the maiden, enlightened by her sufferings, 
 refusing to receive temporal salvation by the aid of an 
 evil power, obtains the eternal in its stead. 
 
 In the second part, the intellectual man, after all his 
 manifold strivings, owes to the interposition of her whom 
 he had betrayed his salvation. She intercedes, this time, 
 herself a glorified spirit, with the Mater Gloriosa. 
 
 Leonora, too, is Woman, as we see her now, pure, 
 thoughtful, refined by much acquaintance with grief. 
 
 Iphigenia he speaks of in his journals as his " daugh- 
 ter," and she is the daughter f whom a man will wish, 
 even if he has chosen his wife from very mean motives. 
 She is the virgin, steadfast soul, to whom falsehood is 
 more dreadful than any other death. 
 
 But it is to Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and 
 
 * As Faust says, her only fault was a " kindly delusion," — " ein 
 guter wahn." 
 
 t Goethe was as false to his ideas, in practice, as Lord Herbert. And 
 'Ms punishment was the just and usual one of connections formed be- 
 neath the standard of right, from the impulses of the baser self. Iphi- 
 genia was the worthy daughter of his mind ; but the son, child of hia 
 degrading connection in actual life, corresponded with that connection. 
 This son, on whom Goethe vainly lavished so much thought and care, 
 was like his mother, and like Goethe's attachment for his mother. 
 " This young man," says a late well-informed writer (M. Henri 
 Blaze), *' Wieland, with good reason, called the son of the servant, der 
 Sohn der Magd. He inherited from his father only his name and his 
 physique.** 
 
WILHELM MEISTER. 127 
 
 Wandering Years that I would especially refer, as these 
 volumes contain the sum of the Sage's observations during 
 a long life, as to what Man should do, under present cir- 
 cumstances, to obtain mastery over outward, through an 
 initiation into inward life, and severe discipline of faculty. 
 
 As Wilhelm advances into the upward path, he becomes 
 acquainted with better forms of Woman, by knowing how 
 to seek, and how to prize them when found. For the 
 weak and immature man will, often, admire a superior 
 woman, but he will not be able to abide by a feeling 
 which is too severe a tax on his habitual existence. But, 
 with Wilhelm, the gradation is natural, and expresses 
 ascent in the scale of being. At first, he finds charm in 
 Mariana and Philina, very common forms of feminine 
 character, not without redeeming traits, no less than 
 charms, but without wisdom or purity. Soon he is at- 
 tended by Mignon, the finest expression ever yet given 
 to what I have called the lyrical element in Woman. 
 She is a child, but too full-grown for this man ; he loves, 
 but cannot follow her ; yet is the association not without 
 an enduring influence. Poesy has been domesticated in 
 his life ; and, though he strives to bind down her heaven- 
 ward impulse, as art or apothegm, these are only the 
 tents, beneath which he may sojourn for a while, but 
 which may be easily struck, and carried on limitless 
 wanderings. 
 
 Advancing into the region of thought, he encounters 
 a wise philanthropy in Natalia (instructed, let us ob- 
 serve, by an uticle) ; practical judgment and the outward 
 
128 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. , 
 
 economy of life in Theresa : pure devotion in the Fair 
 Saint. 
 
 Further, and last, he comes to the house of Macaria, 
 the soul of a star ; that is, a pure and perfected intelli- 
 gence embodied in feminine form, and the centre of a 
 world whose members revolve harmoniously around her. 
 She instructs him in the archives of a rich human history, 
 and introduces him to the contemplation of the heavens. 
 
 From the hours passed by the side of Mariana to these 
 with Macaria, is a wide distance for human feet to trav- 
 erse. Nor has Wilhelm travelled so far, seen and suffered 
 so much, in vain. He now begins to study how he may 
 aid the next generation ; he sees objects in harmonious 
 arrangement, and from his observations deduces precepts 
 by which to guide his course as a teacher and a master, 
 "help-full, comfort-full." 
 
 In all these expressions of Woman, the aim of Goethe 
 is satisfactory to me. He aims at a pure self-subsistence, 
 and a free development of any powers with which they 
 may be gifted by nature as much for them as for men. 
 They are units, addressed as souls. Accordingly, the 
 meeting between Man and Woman, as represented by 
 him, is equal and noble ; and, if he does not depict mar- 
 riage, he makes it possible. 
 
 In the Macaria, bound with the heavenly bodies in 
 fixed revolutions, the centre of all relations, herself un- 
 related, he expresses the Minerva side of feminine na- 
 ture. It was not by chance that Goethe gave her this 
 name. Macaria, the daughter of Hercules, who offered 
 herself as a victim for the good of her country, was canon- 
 
THE TRUE FELICITY. 129 
 
 ized by the Greeks, and worshipped as the Goddess of true 
 Feh3ity. Goethe has embodied this Felicity as the 
 Serenity that arises from Wisdom, a Wisdom such as the 
 Jewish wise man venerated, alike instructed in the designs 
 of heaven, and the methods necessary to caiTy them into 
 eflfect upon earth. 
 
 Mignon is the electrical, inspired, lyrical nature. And 
 wherever it appears we echo in our aspirations that of the 
 child, 
 
 ** So let me seem until I be : — 
 
 Take not the white robe away.'* 
 ***** 
 " Though I lived without care and toil. 
 
 Yet felt I sharp pain enough : 
 
 Make me again forever young." 
 
 All these women, though we see them in relations, we 
 can think of as unrelated. They all are very individual, 
 yet seem nowhere restrained. They satisfy for the present, 
 yet arouse an infinite expectation. 
 
 The economist Theresa, the benevolent Natalia, the 
 fair Saint, have chosen a path, but their thoughts are not 
 narrowed to it. The functions of life to them are not 
 ends, but suggestions. 
 
 Thus, to them, all things are important, because none 
 is necessary. Their different characters have fair play, 
 and each is beautiful in its minute indications, for nothing 
 is enforced or conventional ; but everything, however 
 slight, grows from the essential life of the being. 
 
 Mignon and Theresa wear male attire when they like, 
 and it is graceful for them to do so, while Macaria is 
 
130 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 confined to her arm-chair behind the green curtain, and 
 the Fair Saint could not bear a speck of dust on her robe. 
 
 All things are in their places in this little world, be- 
 cause all is natural and free, just as " there is room for 
 everything out of doors." Yet all is rounded in by 
 natural harmony, which will always arise where Truth 
 and Love are sought in the light of Freedom. 
 
 Goethe's book bodes an era of freedom like its own of 
 '' extraordinary, generous seeking," and new revelations. 
 New individualities shall be developed in the actual 
 world, which shall advance upon it as gently as the 
 figures come out upon his canvas. 
 
 I have indicated on this point the coincidence between 
 his hopes and those of Fourier, though his are directed 
 by an infinitely higher and deeper knowledge of human 
 nature. But, for our present purpose, it is sufiicient to 
 show how surely these difierent paths have conducted to 
 the same end two earnest thinkers. In some other place 
 I wish to point out similar coincidences between Goethe's 
 model school and the plans of Fourier, which may cast 
 light upon the page of prophecy. 
 
 Many women have observed that the time drew nigh 
 for a better care of the sex, and have thrown out hints 
 that may be useful. Among these may be mentioned — 
 
 Miss Edgeworth, who, although restrained by the 
 habits of her age and country, and belonging more to the 
 eighteenth than the nineteenth century, has done excel- 
 lently as far as she goes. She had a horror of sentiment- 
 alism. and of the love of notoriety, and saw how likely 
 
MRS. JAMESON. 131 
 
 women, in the early stages of culture, were to aim at 
 these. Therefore she bent her efforts to recommending 
 domestic life. But the methods she recommends are such 
 as will fit a character for any position to which it may he 
 called. She taught a contempt of falsehood, no less in 
 its most graceful, than in its meanest apparitions ; the 
 cultivation of a clear, independent judgment, and adher- 
 ence to its dictates ; habits of various and liberal study 
 and employment, and a capacity for friendship. Her 
 standard of character is the same for both sexes, — Truth, 
 honor, enlightened benevolence, and aspiration after 
 knowledge. Of poetry, she knows nothing, and her 
 religion consists in honor and loyalty to obligations once 
 assumed — in short, in "the great idea of duty which 
 holds us upright." Her whole tendency is practical. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson is a sentimentalist, and, therefore, suits 
 us ill in some respects, but she is full of talent, has a 
 just and refined perception of the beautiful, and a genu- 
 ine courage when she finds it necessary. She does not 
 appear to have thought out, thoroughly, the subject on 
 which we are engaged, and her opinions, expressed as 
 opinions, are sometimes inconsistent with one another. 
 But from the refined perception of character, admirable 
 suggestions are given in her " Women of Shakspeare." 
 and '' Loves of the Poets." 
 
 But that for which I most respect her is the decision 
 with which she speaks on a subject which refined women 
 are usually afraid to approach, for fear of the insult and 
 scurrile jest they may encounter ; but on which she 
 neither can nor will restrain the indignation of a full 
 
132 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 heart. I refer to the degradation of a large portion of 
 women into the sold and polluted slaves of men, and the 
 daring with which the legislator and man of the world 
 lifts his head beneath the heavens, and says, " This must 
 be ; it cannot be helped ; it is a necessary accompaniment 
 of civilization.^^ 
 
 So speaks the citizen. Man born of Woman, the 
 father of daughters, declares that he will and must buy 
 the comforts and commercial advantages of his London, 
 Vienna, Paris, New York, by conniving at the moral 
 death, the damnation, so far as the action of society can 
 insure it, of thousands of women for each splendid me- 
 tropolis. 
 
 men ! I speak not to you. It is true that your 
 wickedness (for you must not deny that at least nine 
 thousand out of the ten fall through the vanity you 
 have systematically flattered, or the promises you have 
 treacherously broken) ; yes, it is true that your wicked 
 ness is its own punishment. Your forms degraded and 
 your eyes clouded by secret sin ; natural harmony broken 
 and fineness of perception destroyed in your mental and 
 bodily organization ; God and love shut out from your 
 hearts by the foul visitants you have permitted there; 
 incapable of pure marriage ; incapable of pure parentage ; 
 incapable of worship ; wretched men, your sin is its 
 own punishment ! You have lost the world in losing 
 yourselves. Who ruins another has admitted the worm 
 to the root of his own tree, and the fuller ye fill the cup 
 of evil, the deeper must be your own bitter draught. But 
 I speak not to you — you need to teach and warn one 
 
WOMEN NOT ADDRESSED IN VAIN. 133 
 
 another. And more than one voice rises in earnestness. 
 And all that women, say to the heart that has once cho- 
 sen the evil path is considered prudery, or ignorance, or 
 perhaps a feebleness of nature which exempts from simi- 
 lar temptations. 
 
 But to you, women, American women, a few words 
 may not be addressed in vain. One here and there may 
 listen. 
 
 You know how it was in the Oriental clime. One 
 man, if wealth permitted, had several wives and many 
 handmaidens. The chastity and equality of genuine 
 marriage, with "the thousand decencies that flow" from 
 its communion, the precious virtues that gradually may 
 be matured within its enclosure, were unknown. 
 
 But this man did not wrong according to his light. 
 What he did, he might publish to God and Man ; it was 
 not a wicked secret that hid in vile lurking-places and 
 dens, like the banquets of beasts of prey. Those women 
 were not lost, not polluted in their own eyes, nor those 
 of others. If they were not in a state of knowledge and 
 virtue, they were at least in one of comparative innocence. 
 
 You know how it was with the natives of this con- 
 tinent. A chief had many wives, whom he maintained 
 and who did his household work ; those women were but 
 servants, still they enjoyed the respect of others and 
 their own. They lived together ' in peace. They knew 
 that a sin against what was in their nation esteemed 
 virtue, would be as strictly punished in Man as in Woman. 
 
 Now pass to the countries where marriage is between 
 
 one and one. I will not speak of the Pagan nations, 
 12 
 
134 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 but come to those which own the Christian rule. We all 
 know what that enjoins ; there is a standard to appeal to. 
 
 See, now, not the mass of the people, for we all know 
 that it is a proverb and a bitter jest to speak of the 
 " down- trodden million." We know that, down to our 
 own time, a principle never had so fair a chance to per- 
 vade the mass of the people, but that we must solicit its 
 illustration from select examples. 
 
 Take the Paladin, take the Poet. Did they believe 
 puritj more impossible to Man than to Woman? Did 
 they wish "Woman to believe that Man was less amenable 
 to higher motives, — that pure aspirations would not guard 
 him against bad passions, — that honorable employments 
 and temperate habits would not keep him free from slavery 
 to the body ? no ! Love was to them a part of hea- 
 ven, and they could not even wish to receive its happiness, 
 unless assured of being worthy of it. Its highest hap- 
 piness to them was that it made them wish to be worthy. 
 They courted probation. They wished not the title of 
 knight till the banner had been upheld in the heats of 
 battle, amid the rout of cowards. 
 
 I ask of you, young girls — I do not mean you whose 
 heart is that of an old coxcomb, though your locks have 
 not yet lost their sunny tinge. Not of you whose whole 
 character is tainted with vanity, inherited or taught, who 
 have early learned the love of coquettish excitement, and 
 whose eyes rove restlessly in search of a " conquest " or a 
 " beau ;" you who are ashamed not to be seen by others 
 the mark of the most contemptuous flattery or » injurious 
 desire. To such I do not speak. But to thee, maiden, 
 
MAN IS NOT OF SATYR DESCENT. 135 
 
 who, if not so fair, art yet of that unpolluted nature 
 which Milton saw when he dreamed of Comus and the 
 Paradise. Thou, child of an unprofaned wedlock, brought 
 up amid the teachings of the woods and fields, kept 
 fancy-free by useful employment and a free flight into 
 the heaven of thought, loving to please only those whom 
 thou wouldst not be ashamed to love; I ask of thee, 
 whose cheek has not forgotten its blush nor thy heart its 
 lark-like hopes, if he whom thou mayest hope the Father 
 will send thee, as the companion of life's toils and joys, 
 is not to thy thought pure ? Is not manliness to thy 
 thought purity, not lawlessness? Can his lips speak 
 falsely ? Can he do, in secret, what he could not avow 
 to the mother that bore him ? say, dost thou not look 
 for a heart free, open as thine own, all whose thoughts 
 may be avowed, incapable of wronging the innocent, or 
 still further degrading the fallen — a man, in short, in 
 whom brute nature is entirely subject to the impulses of 
 his better self? 
 
 Yes! it was thus that thou didst hope; for I have 
 many, many times seen the image of a future life, of a 
 destined spouse, painted on the tablets of a virgin heart. 
 
 It might be that she was not true to these hopes. She 
 was taken into what is called "the world," froth and 
 scum as it mostly is on the social caldron. There, she 
 saw fair Woman carried in the waltz close to the heart of 
 a being who appeared to her a Satyr. Being warned by 
 a male friend that he was in fact of that class, and not fit 
 for such familiar nearness to a chaste being, the advised 
 replied that " women should know nothing about such 
 
136 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 things.'^ She saw one fairer given in wedlock to a man 
 of the same class. " Papa and mamma said that ' all 
 men were faulty at some time in their lives ; thej had 
 a great many temptations.' Frederick would be so happy 
 at home ; he would not want to do wrong." She turned 
 to the married women ; they, tenfold horror ! laughed 
 at her supposing " men were like women." Sometimes, 
 I say, she was not true, and either sadly accommodated 
 herself to " Woman's lot," or acquired a taste for satyr- 
 society, like some of the Nymphs, and all the Bacchanals 
 of old. But to those who could not and would not 
 accept a mess of pottage, or a Circe cup, in lieu of their 
 birthright, and to these others who have yet their choice 
 to make, I say, Courage ! I have some words of cheer 
 for you. A man, himself of unbroken purity, reported 
 to me the words of a foreign artist, that "the world 
 would never be better till men subjected themselves to 
 the same laws they had imposed on women ;" that artist, 
 he added, was true to the thought. The same was true 
 of Canova, the same of Beethoven. " Like each other 
 demi-god, they kept themselves free from stain;" and 
 Michael Angelo, looking over here from the loneliness 
 of his century, might meet some eyes that need not shun 
 his glance. 
 
 In private life, I am assured by men who are not so 
 sustained and occupied by the worship of pure beauty, 
 that a similar consecration is possible, is practised ; that 
 many men feel that no temptation can be too strong for 
 the will of man, if he invokes the aid of the Spirit 
 instead of seeking extenuation from the brute alliances 
 
LH'B A HOLY TEMPLE. 137 
 
 of his nature. In short, what the child fancies is really 
 true, though almost the whole world declares it a lie. 
 Man is a child of God ; and if he seeks His guidance to 
 keep the heart with diligence, it will be so given that all 
 the issues of life may be pure. Life will then be a 
 temple. 
 
 The temple round 
 Spread green the pleasant ground ; 
 
 The fair colonnade 
 Be of pure marble pillars made ; 
 Strong to sustain the roof, 
 
 ^ Time and tempest proof ; 
 Yet, amidst which, the lightest breeze 
 
 Can play as it please ; 
 
 The audience hall 
 
 Be free to all 
 
 Who revere 
 The power worshipped here. 
 
 Sole guide of youth. 
 
 Unswerving Truth. 
 
 In the inmost shrine 
 
 Stands the image divine, 
 Only seen 
 By those whose deeds have worthy been — 
 
 Priestlike clean. 
 Those, who initiated are. 
 
 Declare, 
 
 As the hours 
 Usher in varying hopes and powers ; 
 
 It changes its face. 
 It changes its age. 
 
 Now a young, beaming grace. 
 Now Nestorian sage : 
 
 But, to the pure in heart, 
 
 This shape of primal art 
 
 12* 
 
138 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 In age is fair, 
 
 In youth seems wise. 
 Beyond compare, 
 Above surprise ; 
 What it teaches native seems, 
 
 Its new lore our ancient dreams ; 
 Incense rises from the ground ; 
 Music flows around ; 
 Firm rest the feet below, clear gaze the eyes above, 
 When Truth, to point the way through life, assumes the wand of Love; 
 But, if she cast aside the robe of green. 
 Winter's silver sheen. 
 White, pure as light. 
 Makes gentle shroud as worthy weed as bridal robe had been.* 
 
 We are now in a transition state, and but few steps 
 have yet been taken. From polygamy, Europe passed 
 to the marriage de convenmice. This was scarcely an 
 improvement. An attempt was then made to substitute 
 genuine marriage (the mutual choice of souls inducing 
 a permanent union), as yet baffled on every side by the 
 haste, the ignorance, or the impurity of Man. 
 
 Where Man assumes a high principle to which he is 
 not yet ripened, it will happen, for a long time, that the 
 few will be nobler than before ; the many, worse. Thus 
 now. In the country of Sidney and Milton, the metrop- 
 
 * As described by the historian : — 
 ** The temple of Juno is like what the character of Woman should be. 
 
 Columns ! graceful decorums, attractive yet sheltering. 
 
 Porch ! noble, inviting aspect of the life. 
 
 Kaos ! receives the worshippers. See here the statue of the 
 Divinity. 
 
 Ophistodomos ! Sanctuary where the most precious possessions 
 were kept safe from the hand of the spoiler and the eye of the world." 
 
INCREASED ATTENTION TO PURITY. 139 
 
 olis is a den of wickedness, and a sty of sensuality ; in 
 the country of Lady Russell, the custom of English 
 peeresses, of selling their daughters to the highest bidder, 
 is made the theme and jest of fashionable novels by 
 unthinking children who would stare at the idea of send- 
 ing them to a Turkish slave-dealer, though the circum- 
 stances of the bargain are there less degrading, as the 
 will and thoughts of the person sold are not so degraded 
 by it, and it is not done in defiance of an acknowledged 
 law of right in the land and the age. 
 
 I must here add that I do not believe there ever was 
 put upon record more depravation of Man, and more 
 despicable frivolity of thought and aim in Woman, than 
 in the novels which purport to give the picture of Eng- 
 lish fashionable life, which are read with such favor in 
 our drawing-rooms, and give the tone to the manners of 
 some circles. Compared with the cold, hard-hearted 
 folly there described, crime is hopeful ; for it, at least, 
 shows some power remaining in the mental constitution. 
 
 To return : — Attention has been awakened among men 
 to the stains of celibacy, and the profanations of mar- 
 riage. They begin to write about it and lecture about it. 
 It is the tendency now to endeavor to help the erring by 
 showing them the physical law. This is wise and excel- 
 lent ; but forget not the better half Cold bathing and 
 exercise will not suffice to keep a life pure, without an 
 inward baptism, and noble, exhilarating employment for 
 the thoughts and the passions. Early marriages are 
 desirable, but if (and the world is now so out of joint that 
 there are a hundred thousand chances to one against it) 
 
140 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 a man does not early, or at all, find the person to whom 
 he can be united in the marriage of souls, will you give 
 him in the marriage de convenance ? or, if not married, 
 can you find no way for him to lead a virtuous and 
 happy life ? Think of it well, ye who think yourselves 
 better than pagans, for many of them knew this sure 
 way.* 
 
 To you, women of America, it is more especially my 
 business to address myself on this subject, and my advice 
 may be classed under three heads : 
 
 Clear your souls from the taint of vanity. 
 
 Do not rejoice in conquests, either that your power 
 to allure may be seen by other women, or for the pleas- 
 ure of rousing passionate feelings that gratify your love 
 of excitement. ^ 
 
 It must happen, no doubt, that frank and generous 
 women will excite love they do not reciprocate, but, in nine 
 cases out of ten, the woman has, half consciously, done 
 much to excite. In this case, she shall not be held guilt- 
 less, either as to the unhappiness or injury of the lover. 
 Pure love, inspired by a worthy object, must ennoble 
 
 * The Persian sacred books, the Desatir, describe the great and holy 
 prince Ky Khosrou, as being '* an angel, and the son of an angel," one 
 to whom the Supreme says, " Thou art not absent from before me for 
 one twinkling of an eye. I am never out of thy heart. And I am 
 contained in nothing but in thy heart, and in a heart like thy heart. 
 And I am nearer unto thee than thou art to thyself." This prince 
 had in his Golden Seraglio three ladies of surpassing beauty, and all 
 four, in this royal monastery, passed their lives, and left the world as 
 virgins. 
 
 The Persian people had no scepticism when the history of such a 
 mind was narrated. 
 
THE OLD MAN ELOQUENT. 141 
 
 and bless, whether mutual or not; but that which is 
 excited by coquettish attraction of any grade of refine- 
 ment, must cause bitterness and doubt, as to the reality 
 of human goodness, so soon as the flush of passion is 
 over. And, that you may avoid all taste for these false 
 pleasures, 
 
 " Steep the soul 
 In one pure love, and it will last thee long." 
 
 The love of truth, the love of excellence, whether 
 you clothe them in the person of a special object or not, 
 will have power to save you from following Duessa, 
 and lead you in the green glades where Una's feet have 
 trod. 
 
 It was on this one subject that a venerable champion 
 of good, the last representative of the spirit which sancti- 
 fied the Revolution, and gave our country such a sunlight 
 of hope in the eyes of the nations, the same who lately, 
 in Boston, ofiered anew to the young men the pledge 
 taken by the young men of his day, offered, also, his 
 counsel, on being addressed by the principal of a girl's 
 school, thus : — • 
 
 REPLY OF MR. ADAMS. 
 
 Mr. Adams was so deeply affected by the address of 
 Miss Foster, as to be for some time inaudible. When 
 heard, he spoke as follows : 
 
 " This is the first instance in which a lady has thus 
 addressed me personally ; and I trust that all the ladies 
 present will be able sufficiently to enter into my feelings 
 
142 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 to know that I am more affected by this honor than by 
 any other I could have received. 
 
 " You have been pleased, madam, to allude to the 
 character of my father, and the history of my family, and 
 their services to the country. It is indeed true that, 
 from the existence of the republic as an independent 
 nation, my father and myself have been in the public 
 service of the country, almost without interruption. I 
 came into the world, as a person having personal respon- 
 sibilities, with the Declaration of Independence, which 
 constituted us a nation. I was a child at that time, and 
 had then perhaps the greatest of blessings that can be 
 bestowed on man — a mother who was anxious and capa- 
 ble to form her children to be what they ought to be. 
 From that mother I derived whatever instruction — 
 religious especially and moral — has pervaded a long 
 life ; I will not say perfectly, and as it ought to be ; but 
 I will say, because it is justice only to the memory of her 
 whom I revere, that if, in the course of my life, there 
 has been any imperfection, or deviation from what she 
 taught me, the fault is mine, and not hers. 
 
 " With such a mother, and such other relations with 
 the sex, of sister, wife, and daughter, it has been the 
 perpetual instruction of my life to love and revere the 
 female sex. And in order to carry that sentiment of 
 love and reverence to its highest degree of perfection, I 
 know of nothing that exists in human society better 
 adapted to produce that result, than institutions of the 
 character that I have now the honor to address. 
 
 '' I have been taught, as I have said, through the 
 
FLATTERY NOT PROOF OF PERFECTION. 143 
 
 course of mj life, to love and to revere the female sex ; 
 but I have been taught, also — and that lesson has per- 
 haps impressed itself on my mind even more strongly, 
 it may be, than the other — I have been taught not to 
 flatter them. It is not unusual, in the intercourse of 
 Man with the other sex — and especially for young men 
 — to think that the way to win the hearts of ladies is by 
 flattery. To love and to revere the sex, is what I think 
 the duty of Man ; but ?iot to fatter them ; and this I 
 would say to the young ladies here — and if they, and 
 others present, will allow me, w^ith all the authority 
 which nearly four score years may have with those who 
 have not yet attained one score — I would say to them 
 what I have no doubt they say to themselves, and are 
 taught here, not to take the flattery of men as proof of 
 perfection. 
 
 "I am now, however, I fear, assuming too much of 
 a character that does not exactly belong to me. I there- 
 fore conclude, by assuring you, madam, that your recep- 
 tion of me has affected me, as you perceive, more than I 
 can express in words ; and that I shall offer my best 
 prayers, till my latest hour, to the Creator of us all, that 
 this institution especially, and all others of a similar 
 kind, designed to form the female mind to wisdom and 
 virtue, may prosper to the end of time." 
 
 It will be interesting to add here the character of Mr. 
 Adams' mother, as drawn by her husband, the first John 
 Adams, in a family letter * written just before his death. 
 
 " I have reserved for the last the life of Lady Russell. 
 
 * Journal and Correspondence of Miss Adams, vol. i., p. 246. 
 
144 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 This I have not yet read, because I read it more than 
 forty years ago. On this hangs a tale which you ought 
 to know and communicate it to your children. I bought 
 the Life and Letters of Lady Russell in the year 1775, 
 and sent it to your grandmother, wuth an express intent 
 and desire that she should consider it a mirror in which 
 to contemplate herself; for, at that time, I thought it 
 extremely probable, from the daring and dangerous 
 career I was determined to run, that she would one day 
 find herself in the situation of Lady Russell, her husband 
 without a head. This lady was more beautiful than 
 Lady Russell, had a brighter genius, more information, 
 a more refined taste, and, at least, her equal in the vir- 
 tues of the heart ; equal fortitude and firmness of charac- 
 ter, equal resignation to the will of Heaven, equal in all 
 the virtues and graces of the Christian life. Like Lady 
 Russell, she never, by word or look, discouraged me 
 from running all hazards for the salvation of my coun- 
 try's liberties ; she was willing to share with me, and 
 that her children should share with us both, in all the 
 dangerous consequences we had to hazard." 
 
 Will a w^oman who loves flattery or an aimless excite- 
 ment, who wastes the flower of her mind on transitory 
 sentiments, ever be loved with a love like that, when fifty 
 years' trial have entitled to the privileges of '' the golden 
 marriage ? " 
 
 Such was the love of the iron-handed warrior for her, 
 not his hand-maid, but his help-meet : 
 
 " Whom God loves, to him gives he such a wife." 
 
 I find the whole of what I want in this relation, in the 
 
IMMORTAL EVE. 145 
 
 two epithets bj which Milton makes Adam address his 
 wife. 
 
 In the intercourse of every day he begins : 
 
 ** Daughter of God and man, accomplished Eve." * 
 
 In a moment of stronger feeling, 
 
 " Daughter of God and man, immortal Eve.'* 
 
 What majesty in the cadence of the line; what dignity, 
 what reverence in the attitude both of giver and receiver ! 
 
 The woman who permits, in her life, the alloy of van- 
 ity ; the woman who lives upon flattery, coarse or fine, 
 shall never be thus addressed. She is not immortal so 
 far as her will is concerned, and every woman who does 
 so creates miasma, whose spread is indefinite. The hand 
 which casts into the waters of life a stone of offence 
 knows not how far the circles thus caused may spread 
 their agitations. 
 
 A little while since I was at one of the most fashion- 
 able places of public resort. I saw there many women, 
 dressed without regard to the season or the demands of 
 the place, in apery, or, as it looked, in mockery, of Eu- 
 ropean fashions. I saw their eyes restlessly courting 
 attention. I saw the way in which it was paid ; the 
 style of devotion, almost an open sneer, which it pleased 
 those ladies to receive from men whose expression marked 
 their own low position in the moral and intellectual 
 world. Those women went to their pillows with their 
 
 * See Appendix H. 
 
 13 
 
146 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENIURr. 
 
 heads full of folly, their hearts of jealousy, or gratified 
 vanity ; those men, with the low opinion they already 
 entertained of Woman confirmed. These were American 
 ladies ; that is, they were of that class who have wealth 
 and leisure to make full use of the day, and confer bene- 
 fits on others. They were of that class whom the posses- 
 sion of external advantages makes of pernicious example 
 to many, if these advantages be misused. 
 
 Soon after, I met a circle of women, stamped by society 
 as among the most degraded of their sex. " How," it 
 was asked of them, '' did you come here ? " for by the 
 society that 1 saw in the former place they were shut up 
 in a prison. The causes were not difficult to trace : love 
 of dress, love of flattery, love of excitement. They had 
 not dresses like the other ladies, so they stole them ; they 
 could not pay for flattery by distinctions, and the dower 
 of a worldly marriage, so they paid by the profanation 
 of their persons. In excitement, more and more madly 
 sought from day to day, they drowned the voice of con- 
 science. 
 
 Now 1 ask you, my sisters, if the women at the fash- 
 ionable house be not answerable for those women being in 
 the prison ? 
 
 As to position in the world of souls, we may sup- 
 pose the women of the prison stood fairest, both because 
 they had misused less light, and because loneliness and 
 sorrow had brought some of them -to feel the need of bet- 
 ter life, nearer truth and good. This was no merit in 
 them, being an efiect of circumstance, but it was hopeful. 
 But you, my friends (and some of you I have already 
 
LIFT UP THE FALLEK. 147 
 
 met), consecrate yourselves without waiting for re- 
 proof, in free love and unbroken energy, to win and to 
 diffuse a better life. Offer beauty, talents, riches, on the 
 altar ; thus shall ye keep spotless your own hearts, and 
 be visibly or invisibly the angels to others. 
 
 I would urge upon those women who have not yet con- 
 sidered this subject, to do so. Do not forget the unfor- 
 tunates who dare not cross your guarded way. If it do 
 not suit you to act with those who have organized 
 measures of reform, then hold not yourself excused from 
 acting in private. Seek out these degraded women, give 
 them tender sympathy, counsel* employment. Take the 
 place of mothers, such as might have saved them 
 originally. 
 
 If you can do little for those already under the ban of 
 the world, — and the best-considered efforts have often 
 failed, from a want of strength in those unhappy ones to 
 bear up against the sting of shame and the prejudices of 
 the world, which makes them seek oblivion again in their 
 old excitements, — you will at least leave a sense of love 
 and justice in their hearts, that will prevent their becom- 
 ing utterly embittered and corrupt. And you may learn 
 the means of prevention for those yet uninjured. These 
 will be found in a diffusion of mental culture, simple 
 tastes, best taught by your example, a genuine self- 
 respect, and, above all, what the influence of Man tends 
 to hide from Woman, the love and fear of a divine, in 
 preference to a human tribunal. 
 
 But suppose you save many who would have lost their 
 bodily innocence (for as to mental, the loss of that is 
 
148 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 incalculably more general), through mere vanity and 
 folly ; there still remain many, the prey and spoil of the 
 brute passions of Man ; for the stories frequent in our 
 newspapers outshame antiquity, and vie with the horrors 
 of war. 
 
 As to this, it must be considered that, as the vanity 
 and proneness to seduction of the imprisoned women 
 represented a general degradation in their sex ; so do 
 these acts a still more general and worse in the male. 
 Where so many are weak, it is natural there should be 
 many lost ; where legislators admit that ten thousand 
 prostitutes are a fair proportion to one city, and husbands 
 tell their wives that it is folly to expect chastity from 
 men, it is inevitable that there should be many monsters 
 of vice. 
 
 I must in this place mention, with respect and grati- 
 tude, the conduct of Mrs. Child in the case of Amelia 
 Norman. The action and speech of this lady was of 
 straightforward nobleness, undeterred by custom or cavil 
 from duty toward an injured sister. She showed the case 
 and the arguments the counsel against the prisoner had the 
 assurance to use in their true light to the public. She 
 put the case on the only ground of religion and equity. 
 She was successful- in arresting the attention of many 
 who had before shrugged their shoulders, and let sin pass 
 as necessarily a part of the company of men. They 
 begin to ask whether virtue is not possible, perhaps neces- 
 sary, to Man as well as to Woman. They begin to 
 fear that the perdition of a woman must involve that of 
 
EUGENE SUE. 149 
 
 a man. This is a crisis. The results of this case will 
 be important. 
 
 In this connection I must mention Eugene Sue, the 
 French novelist, several of whose works have been lately 
 translated among us, as having the true spirit of reform 
 as to women. Like every other French writer, he is still 
 tainted with the transmissions of the old regime. Still, 
 falsehood may be permitted for the sake, of advancing 
 truth, evil as the way to good. Even George Sand, who 
 would trample on every graceful decorum, and every 
 human law, for the sake of a sincere life, does not see that 
 she violates it by making her heroines able to tell false- 
 hoods in a good cause. These French writers need ever 
 to be confronted by the clear perception of the English 
 and German mind, that the only good man, consequently 
 the only good reformer, is he 
 
 " Who bases good on good alone, and owes 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows.*' 
 
 Still, Sue has the heart of a reformer, and especially 
 towards women ; he sees what they need, and what causes 
 are injuring them. From the histories of Fleur de 
 Marie and La Louve, from the lovely and independent 
 character of Rigolette, from the distortion given to Ma- 
 tilda's mind, by the present views of marriage, and from 
 the truly noble and immortal character of the ''hump- 
 backed Sempstress" in the " Wandering Jew," may be 
 gathered much that shall elucidate doubt and direct 
 inquiry on this subject. In reform, as in philosophy, 
 the French are the interpreters to the civilized world. 
 13* 
 
150 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 'Their own attainments are not great, but they make clear 
 the past, and break down barriers to the future. 
 
 Observe that the good man of Sue is as pure as Sir 
 Charles Grandison. 
 
 Apropos to Sir Charles. Women are accustomed to 
 be told by men that the reform is to come from them. 
 "You," say the men, "must frown upon vice; you 
 must decline the attentions of the corrupt ; you must not 
 submit to the will of your husband when it seems to you 
 unworthy, but give the laws in marriage, and redeem it 
 from its present sensual and mental pollutions." 
 
 This seems to us hard. Men have, indeed, been, for 
 more than a hundred years, rating women for counte- 
 nancing vice. But, at the same time, they have carefully 
 hid from them its nature, so that the preference often 
 shown by women for bad men arises rather from a con- 
 fused idea that they are bold and adventurous, acquainted 
 with regions which women are forbidden to explore, and 
 the curiosity that ensues, than a corrupt heart in the 
 woman. As to marriage, it has been inculcated on 
 women, for centuries, that men have not only stronger 
 passions than they, but of a sort that it would be shame- 
 ful for them to share or even understand ; that, therefore, 
 they must "confide in their husbands," that is, submit 
 implicitly to their will; that the least appearance of 
 coldness or withdrawal, from whatever cause, in the wife 
 is wicked, because liable to turn her husband's thoughts 
 to illicit indulgence ; for a man is so constituted that he 
 must indulge his passions or die ! 
 
 Accordingly, a great part of women look upon men as 
 
A GRANDISON MUCH WANTED. 151 
 
 a kind of wild beasts, but '' suppose they are all alike ; " 
 the unmarried are assured by the married that, '' if they 
 knew men as they do," that is, by being married to them, 
 "they would not expect continence or self-government 
 fi-om them." 
 
 I might accumulate illustrations on this theme, drawn 
 from acquaintance with the histories of women, which 
 would startle and grieve all thinking men, but I forbear. 
 Let Sir Charles Grandison preach to his own sex ; or if 
 none there be who feels himself able to speak with au- 
 thority from a life unspotted in will or deed, let those 
 who are convinced of the practicability and need of a pure 
 life, as the foreign artist was, advise the others, and warn 
 them by their own example, if need be. y 
 
 The following passage, from a female writer, on female 
 affairs, expresses a prevalent way of thinking on this 
 subject : 
 
 "It may be that a young woman, exempt from all 
 motives of vanity, determines to take for a husband a 
 man who does not inspire her with a very decided incli- 
 nation. Imperious circumstances, the evident interest of 
 her family, or the danger of suffering celibacy, may ex- 
 plain such a resolution. If. however, she were to endea 
 vor to surmount a personal repugnance, we should look 
 upon this as injudicious. Such a rebellion of nature _ 
 marks the limit that the influence of parents, or the self- 
 sacrifice of the young girl, should never pass. We shall 
 be told that this repugnance is an affair of the imag- 
 ination. It may be so ; but imagination is a power 
 
152 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 which it is temerity to brave ; and its antipathy is more 
 difficult to conquer than its preference." * 
 
 Among ourselves, the exhibition of such a repugnance 
 from a woman who had been given in marriage " by ad- 
 vice of friends," was treated by an eminent physician as 
 sufficient proof of insanity. If he had said sufficient 
 cause for it, he would have been nearer right. 
 
 It has been suggested by men who were pained by 
 seeing bad men admitted, freely, to the society of modest 
 women, — thereby encouraged to vice by impunity, and 
 corrupting the atmosphere of homes, — that there should 
 be a senate of the matrons in each city and town, who 
 should decide what candidates were fit for admission to 
 their houses and the society of their daughters, f 
 
 Such a plan might have excellent results ; but it argues 
 a moral dignity and decision which does not yet exist, 
 and needs to be induced by knowledge and reflection. It 
 has been the tone to keep women ignorant on these sub- 
 jects, or, when they were not, to command that they 
 should seem so. "It is indelicate," says the father or 
 husband, '' to inquire into the private character of such 
 an one. It is sufficient that I do not think him unfit to 
 visit you." And so, this man, who would not tolerate 
 these pages in his house, " unfit for family reading," 
 because they speak plainly, introduces there a man whose 
 shame is written on his brow, as well as the open secret 
 of the whole town, and, presently, if respectable still, 
 
 * Madame Necker de Saussure. 
 
 t See Goethe's Tasso. " A synod of good women should decide," — 
 if the golden age is to be restored. 
 
IS PURITY AN EXOTIC? 158 
 
 and rich enough, gives him his daughter to wife. The 
 mother affects ignorance, "supposing he is no worse 
 than most men." The daughter is ignorant; something 
 in the mind of the new spouse seems strange to her, but 
 she supposes it is "woman's lot" not to be perfectly 
 happy in her affections; she has always heard, "men 
 could not understand women," so she weeps alone, or 
 takes to dress and the duties of the house. The husband, 
 of course, makes no avowal, and dreams of no redemp- 
 tion. 
 
 " In the heart of every young woman," says the female 
 writer above quoted, addressing herself to the husband, 
 " depend upon it, there is a fund of exalted ideas ; she 
 conceals, represses, without succeeding in smothering 
 them. So long as these ideas in yotii' wife are directed 
 to YOU, they are^ no doubt ^ innocent^ but take care that 
 they be not accompanied with too much pain. In other 
 respects, also, spare her delicacy. Let all the antecedent 
 parts of your life, if there are such, which would give her 
 pain, be concealed from her; her happiness and her 
 respect for you woidd suffer from this misplaced con- 
 fidence. Allow her to retain that flower of purity, which 
 shoidd distinguish her^ i?i your eyes, from every other 
 iDomany We should think so, truly, under this canon. 
 Such a man must esteem purity an exotic that could 
 only be preserved by the greatest care. Of the degree 
 of mental intimacy possible, in such a marriage, let every 
 one judge for himself ! 
 
 On this subject, let every woman, who has once begun 
 to think, examine herself; see whether she does not sup- 
 
154 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 pose virtue possible and necessary to Man, and whether 
 she would not desire for her son a virtue which aimed at 
 a fitness for a divine life, and involved, if not asceticism, 
 that degree of power over the lower self, which shall 
 ^^not exterminate the passions, but keep them chained at 
 the feet of reason." The passions, like fire, are a bad 
 master ; but confine them to the hearth and the altar, 
 and they give life to the social economy, and make each 
 sacrifice meet for heaven. 
 
 When many women have thought upon this subject, 
 some will be fit for the senate, and one such senate in 
 operation would affect the morals of the civilized world. 
 
 At present I look to the young. As preparatory to 
 the senate, I should like to see a society of novices, such 
 as the world has never yet seen, bound by no oath, wear- 
 ing no badge. In place of an oath, they should have a 
 religious faith in the capacity of Man for virtue ; instead 
 of a badge, should wear in the heart a firm resolve not to 
 stop short of the destiny promised him as a son of God. 
 Their service should be action and conservatism, not of 
 old habits, but of a better nature, enlightened by hopes 
 that daily grow brighter. 
 
 If sin was to remain in the world, it should not be by 
 their connivance at its stay, or one moment's concession 
 to its claims. 
 
 They should succor the oppressed, and pay to the up- 
 right the reverence due in hero-worship by seeking to 
 emulate them. They would not denounce the willingly 
 bad, but they could not be with them, for the two classes 
 could not breathe the same atmosphere. 
 
EXALTADOS ! EXALTADAS ! 155 
 
 They would heed no detention from the time-serving, 
 the worldly and the timid. 
 
 They could love no pleasures that were not innocent 
 and capable of good fruit. 
 
 I saw, in a foreign paper, the title now given to a party 
 abroad, "Los Exaltados." Such would be the title now 
 given these children by the world : Los Exaltados, Las 
 Exaltadas ; but the world would not sneer always, for 
 from them would issue a virtue by which it would, at 
 last, be exalted too. 
 
 I have in my eye a youth and a maiden whom I look 
 to as the nucleus of such a class. They are both in early 
 youth ; both as yet uncontaminated ; both aspiring, with- 
 out rashness ; both thoughtful ; both capable of deep 
 affection ; both of strong nature and sweet feelings ; both 
 capable of large mental development. They reside in 
 different regions of earth, but their place in the soul is 
 the same. To them I look, as, perhaps, the harbingers 
 and leaders of a new era, for never yet have I known 
 minds so truly virgin, without narrowness or ignorance. 
 
 When men call upon women to redeem them, they 
 mean such maidens. But such are not easily formed 
 under the present influences of society. As there are 
 more such young men to help give a different tone, there 
 will be more such maidens. 
 
 The English, novelist, D' Israeli, has, in his novel of 
 " The Young Duke," made a man of the most depraved 
 stock be redeemed by a woman who despises him when 
 he has only the brilliant mask of fortune and beauty to 
 cover the poverty of his heart and brain, but knows how 
 
156 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 to encourage him when he enters on a better course. But 
 this woman was educated by a father who valued charac- 
 ter in women. 
 
 Still, there will come now and then one who w^ill, as 
 I hope of mj young Exaltada, be example and instruction 
 for the rest. It was not the opinion of Woman current 
 among Jewish men that formed the character of the 
 mother of Jesus. 
 
 Since the sliding and backsliding men of the world, no 
 less than the mystics, declare that, as through Woman 
 Man was lost, so through Woman must Man be redeemed, 
 the time must be at hand. When she knows herself 
 indeed as "accomplished," still more as " immortal Eve," 
 this may be. 
 
 As an immortal, she may also know and inspire im- 
 mortal love, a happiness not to be dreamed of under the 
 circumstances advised in the last quotation. Where love 
 is based on concealment, it must, of course, disappear 
 when the soul enters the scene of clear vision ! 
 
 And, without this hope, how worthless every plan, 
 every bond, every power ! 
 
 " The giants," said the Scandinavian Saga, "had in- 
 duced Loke (the spirit that hovers between good and ill) 
 to steal for them Iduna (Goddess of Immortality) and 
 her apples of pure gold. He lured her out, by promising 
 to show, on a marvellous tree he had discovered, apples 
 beautiful as her own, if she would only take them with 
 her for a comparison. Thus having lured her beyond 
 the heavenly domain, she was seized and carried away 
 captive by the powers of misrule. 
 
LOVE PARTS NOT WITH IDUNA. 157 
 
 " As now the gods could not find their friend Iduna, 
 they were confused with grief ; indeed, they began visibly 
 to grow old and gray. Discords arose, and love grew 
 cold. Indeed, Odur, spouse of the goddess of love and 
 beauty, wandered away, and returned no more. At last, 
 however, the gods, discovering the treachery of Loke, 
 obliged him to win back Iduna from the prison in which 
 she sat mourning. He changed himself into a falcon, 
 and brought her back as a swallow, fiercely pursued by 
 the Giant King, in the form of an eagle. So she strives 
 to return among us, light and small as a swallow. We 
 must welcome her form as the speck on the sky that 
 assures the glad blue of Summer. Yet one swallow does 
 not make a summer. Let us solicit them in flights and 
 flocks!" 
 
 Returning from the future to the present, let us see 
 what forms Iduna takes, as she moves along the declivity 
 of centuries to the valley where the lily flower may con- 
 centrate all its fragrance. 
 
 It would seem as if this time were not very near to 
 one fresh from books, such as I have of late been — no : 
 not reading, but sighing over. A crowd of books hav- 
 ing been sent me since my friends knew me to be engaged 
 in this way, on Woman's " Sphere," Woman's " Mis- 
 sion," and Woman's " Destiny," I believe that almost 
 all that is extant of formal precept has come under my 
 eye. Among these I read with refreshment a little one 
 called "The Whole Duty of Woman," "indited by a 
 noble lady at the request of a noble lord," and which has 
 14 
 
 :^ THI? ""M 
 
158 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 this much of nobleness, that the view it takes is a relig- 
 ious one. It aims to fit Woman for heaven ; the main bent 
 of most of the others is to fit her to please, or, at least, 
 not to disturb, a husband. 
 
 Among these I select, as a favorable specimen, the 
 book I have already quoted, ^' The Studj^ of the Life 
 of Woman, by Madame Necker de Saussure, of Geneva, 
 translated from the French." This book was published 
 at Philadelphia, and has been read with much favor here. 
 Madame Necker is the cousin of Madame de Stael, and 
 has taken from her works the motto prefixed to this. 
 
 " Cette vie n'a quelque prix que si elle sert a' 1' edu- 
 cation morale de notre coeur." 
 
 Mde. Necker is, by nature, capable of entire consist- 
 ency in the application of this motto, and, therefore, the 
 qualifications she makes, in the instructions given, to her 
 own sex, show forcibly the weight which still paralyzes 
 and distorts the energies of that sex. 
 
 The book is rich in passages marked by feeling and 
 good suggestions ; but, taken in the whole, the impression 
 it leaves is this ; 
 
 Woman is, and shall remain, inferior to Man and 
 subject to his will, and, in endeavoring to aid her, we 
 must anxiously avoid anything that can be misconstrued 
 into expression of the contrary opinion, else the men will 
 be alarmed, and combine to defeat our efforts. 
 
 The present is a good time for these efforts, for men 
 are less occupied about women than formerly. Let us, 
 
 • This title seems to be incorrectly translated from the French. I 
 have not seen the original. 
 
PARAGUAY WOMAN. 159 
 
 then, seize upon the occasion, and do what we can to 
 make our lot tolerable. But we must sedulously avoid 
 encroaching on the territory of Man. If we study natural 
 history, our observations may be made useful, by some 
 male naturalist ; if we draw well, we may make our ser- 
 vices acceptable to the artists. But our names must not 
 be known ; and, to bring these labors to any result, we 
 must take some man for our head, and be his hands. 
 
 The lot of Woman is sad. She is constituted to expect 
 and need a happiness that cannot exist on earth. She 
 must stifle such aspirations within her secret heart, and 
 fit herself, as well as she can, for a life of resignations 
 and consolations. 
 
 She will be very lonely while living with her husband. 
 She must not expect to open her heart to him fully, or 
 that, after marriage, he will be capable of the refined 
 service of love. The man is not born for the woman, 
 only the woman for the man. '' Men cannot understand 
 the hearts of women." The life of Woman must be out- 
 wardly a well-intentioned, cheerful dissimulation of her 
 real life. 
 
 Naturally, the feelings of the mother, at the birth of 
 a female child, resemble those of the Paraguay woman, 
 described by Southey as lamenting in such heart-breaking 
 tones that her mother did not kill her the hour she was 
 born, — "her mother, who knew what the life of a wo- 
 man must be; " — or of those women seen at the north 
 by Sir A. Mackenzie, who performed this pious duty 
 towards female infants whenever they had an opportunity. 
 
 " After the first delight, the young mother experiences 
 
160 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 feelings a little different, according as the birth of a son 
 or a daughter has been announced. 
 
 '' Is it a son? A sort of glory swells at this thought 
 the heart of the mother ; she seems to feel that she is 
 entitled to gratitude. She has given a citizen, a defender, 
 to her country ; to her husband an heir of his name ; to 
 herself a protector. And yet the contrast of all these 
 fine titles with this being, so humble, soon strikes her. 
 At the aspect of this frail treasure, opposite feelings 
 agitate her heart ; she seems to recognize in him a nature 
 sii'perior to her own^ but subjected to a low condition, 
 and she honors a future greatness in the object of extreme 
 compassion. Somewhat of that respect and adoration 
 for a feeble child, of which some fine pictures offer the 
 expression in the features of the happy Mary, seem re- 
 produced with the young mother who has given birtli to 
 a son. 
 
 " Is it a daughter ? There is usually a slight degree 
 of regret ; so deeply rooted is the idea of the superiority 
 of Man in happiness and dignity ; and yet, as she looks 
 upon this child, she is more and more softened towards 
 it. A deep sympathy — a sentiment of identity with this 
 delicate being — takes possession of her ; an extreme pity 
 for so much weakness, a more pressing need of prayer, 
 stirs her heart. Whatever sorrows she may have felt, 
 she dreads for her daughter ; but she will guide her to 
 become much wiser, much better than herself And then 
 the gayety, the frivolity of the young w^oman have their 
 turn. This little creature is a flower to cultivate, a doll 
 to decorate.' 
 
BOND-MAIDS ! BRUNHILD AS ! 161 
 
 Similar sadness at the birth of a daughter I have heard 
 mothers express not unfrequently. 
 
 As to this living so entirely for men, I should think 
 when it was proposed to women they would feel, at least, 
 some spark of the old spirit of races allied to our own. 
 ''If he is to be my bridegroom and lord^'' cries Brun- 
 hilda,* " he must first be able to pass through fire and 
 water." ''I will serve at the banquet," says the Wal- 
 kyrie, '' but only him who, in the trial of deadly combat, 
 has shown himself a hero." 
 
 If Avomen are to be bond-maids, let it be to men supe- 
 rior to women in fortitude, in aspiration, in moral power, 
 in refined sense of beauty ! You who give yourselves 
 "to be supported," or because "one must love some- 
 thing," are they who make the lot of the sex such that 
 mothers are sad when daughters are born. 
 
 It marks the state of feeling on this subject that it 
 was mentioned, as a bitter censure on a woman who had 
 influence over those younger than herself, — "She makes 
 those girls want to see heroes ? " 
 
 " And will that hurt them? " 
 
 " Certainly ; how can you ask ? They will find none, 
 and so they will never be married." 
 
 " Get married" is the usual phrase, and the one that 
 correctly indicates the thought ; but the speakers, on this 
 occasion, were persons too outwardly refined to use it. 
 They were ashamed of the word, but not of the thing. 
 Madame Necker, however, sees good possible in celibacy. 
 
 Indeed, I kntDw not how the subject could be better 
 
 * See the Nibelungen Lays. 
 
 14* 
 
162 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 illustrated, than by separating the wheat from the chaff 
 in Madame Necker's book ; place them in two heaps, and 
 then summon the reader to choose ; giving him first a 
 near-sighted glass to examine the two; — it might be a 
 Christian, an astronomical, or an artistic glass, — any 
 kind of good glass to obviate acquired defects in the eye. 
 I would lay any wager on the result. 
 
 But time permits not here a prolonged analysis. I 
 have given the clues for fault-finding. 
 ^ As a specimen of the good take the following passage, 
 on the phenomena of what I have spoken of, as the lyri- 
 cal or electric element in Woman. 
 
 *' Women have been seen to show themselves poets in 
 the most pathetic pantomimic scenes, where all the pas- 
 sions were depicted full of beauty ; and these poets used 
 a language unknown to themselves, and, the performance 
 once over, their inspiration was a forgotten dream. With- 
 out doubt there is an interior development to beings so 
 gifted ; but their sole mode of communication with us is 
 their talent. They are, in all besides, the inhabitants of 
 another planet." 
 
 Similar observations have been made by those who 
 have seen the women at Irish wakes, or the funeral 
 ceremonies of modern Greece or Brittany, at times when 
 excitement gave the impulse to genius ; but, apparently, 
 without a thought that these rare powers belonged to no 
 other planet, but were a high development of the growth 
 of this, and might, by wise and reverent treatment, be 
 made to inform and embellish the scenes of every day. 
 But, when Woman has her fair chance, she will do 
 
MISS SEDGWICK. 163 
 
 BOj and the poem of the hour will vie with that of the 
 
 I come now with satisfaction to my own country, and to 
 a writer, a female writer, whom I have selected as the 
 clearest, wisest, and kindliest, who has, as yet, used pen 
 here on these subjects. This is Miss Sedgwick. 
 
 Miss Sedgwick, though she inclines to the private 
 path, and wishes that, by the cultivation of character, 
 might should vindicate right, sets limits nowhere, and 
 her objects and inducements are pure. They are the free 
 and careful cultivation of the powers that have been 
 given, with an aim at moral and intellectual perfection. 
 Her speech is moderate and sane, but never palsied by 
 fear or sceptical caution. 
 
 Herself a fine example of the independent and benefi- 
 cent existence that intellect and character can give to 
 Woman, no less than Man, if she know how to seek and 
 prize it, — also, that the intellect need not absorb or weak- 
 en, but rather will refine and invigorate, the afiections, — 
 the teachings of her practical good sense come with great 
 force, and cannot fail to avail much. Every way her 
 writings please me both as to the means and the ends. I 
 am pleased at the stress she lays on observance of the 
 physical laws, because the true reason is given. Only 
 in a strong and clean body can the soul do its message fitly. 
 
 She shows the meaning of the respect paid to personal 
 neatness, both in the indispensable form of cleanliness, 
 and of that love of order and arrangement, that must 
 issue from a true harmony of feeling. 
 
 The praises of cold water seem to me an excellent 
 
164 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 sign in tlie age. They denote a tendency to the true 
 life. We are now to have, as a remedy for ills, not orvie- 
 tan, or opium, or any quack medicine, but plenty of air 
 and water, with due attention to warmth and freedom in 
 dress, and simplicity of diet. 
 
 Every day we observe signs that the natural feelings 
 on these subjects are about to be reinstated, and the body 
 to claim care as the abode and organ of the soul ; not as 
 the tool of servile labor, or the object of voluptuous 
 indulgence. 
 
 A poor woman, who had passed through the lowest 
 grades of ignominy, seemed to think she had never been 
 wholly lost, " for," said she, '' I would always have good 
 under-clothes ; " and, indeed, who could doubt that this 
 denoted the remains of private self-respect in the mind ? 
 
 A woman of excellent sense said, " It might seem 
 childish, but to her one of the most favorable signs of 
 the times was that the ladies had been persuaded to give 
 up corsets." 
 
 Yes ! let us give up £tll artificial means of distortion. 
 Let life be healthy, pure, all of a piece. Miss Sedgwick, 
 in teaching that domestics must have the means of bath- 
 ing as much as their mistresses, and time, too, to bathe, 
 has symbolized one of the most important of human 
 rights. 
 
 Another interesting sign of the time is the influence 
 exercised by tw^o women. Miss Martineau and Miss Bar- 
 rett, from their sick-rooms. The lamp of life which, if 
 it had been fed only by the affections, depended on pre- 
 carious human relations, would scarce have been able to 
 
165 
 
 maintain a feeble glare in the lonely prison, now shines 
 far and wide over the nations, cheering fellow-sufferers 
 and hallowing the joy of the healthful. 
 
 These persons need not health or youth, or the charms 
 of personal presence, to make their thoughts available. 
 A few more such, and '' old woman " * shall not be the 
 synonyme for imbecility, nor '^ old maid " a term of con- 
 tempt, nor Woman be spoken of as a reed shaken by the 
 wind. 
 
 It is time, indeed, that men and women both should 
 cease to grow old in any other way than as the tree 
 does, full of grace and honor. The hair of the artist 
 turns white, but his eye shines clearer than ever, and we 
 feel that age brings him maturity, not decay. So would 
 it be with all, were the springs of immortal refreshment 
 but unsealed within the soul ; then, like these women, they 
 would see, from the lonely chamber window, the glories 
 of the universe; or, shut in darkness, be visited by 
 angels. 
 
 1 now touch on my own pla<;e and day, and, as I 
 write, events are occurring that threaten the fair fabric 
 approached by so long an avenue. Week before last, the 
 Gentile was requested to aid the Jew to return to Pales- 
 tine; for the Millennium, the reign of the Son of Mary 
 was near. Just now, at high and solemn mass, thanks 
 were returned to the Virgin for having delivered O'Con- 
 nell from unjust imprisonment, in requital of his having 
 consecrated to her the league formed in behalf of Liberty 
 
 * An apposite passage is quoted in Appendix F. 
 
166 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 'on Tara's Hill. But last week brought news which 
 threatens that a cause identical with the enfranchisement 
 of Jews, Irish, women, ay, and of Americans in general, 
 too, is in danger, for the choice of the people threatens 
 to rivet the chains of slavery and the leprosy of sin 
 permanently on this nation, through the Annexation of 
 Texas ! 
 
 Ah ! if this should take place, who will dare again to 
 feel the throb of heavenly hope, as to the destiny of this 
 country ? The noble thought that gave unity to all our 
 knowledge, harmony to all our designs, — the thought 
 that the progress of history had brought on the era, the 
 tissue of prophecies pointed out the spot, where human- 
 ity was, at last, to have a fair chance to know itself, and 
 all men be born free and equal for the eagle's flight, — 
 flutters as if about to leave the breast, which, deprived 
 of it, will have no more a nation, no more a home on 
 earth. 
 
 Women of my country ! — Exaltadas ! if such there 
 be, — women of English, old English nobleness, who 
 understand the courage of Boadicea, the sacrifice of Go- 
 diva, the power of Queen Emma to tread the red-Tiot iron 
 unharmed, — women who share the nature of Mrs. 
 Hutchinson, Lady Russell, and the mothers of our 
 own revolution, — have you nothing to do with this ? 
 You see the men, how they are willing to sell shame- 
 lessly the happiness of countless generations of fellow- 
 creatures, the honor of their country, and their immortal 
 souls, for a money market and political power. Do you 
 not feel within you that which can reprove them, which 
 
LIFT OFF THE CURSE. 167 
 
 can check, which can convince them ? You would not 
 speak in vain ; whether each in her own home, or banded 
 in unison. 
 
 Tell these men that you will not accept the glittering 
 baubles, spacious dwellings, and plentiful service, they 
 mean to ofifer you through these means. Tell them that 
 the heart of Woman demands nobleness and honor in 
 Man, and that, if they have not purity, have not mercy, 
 they are no longer fathers, lovers, husbands, sons of 
 yours. 
 
 This cause is your own, for, as I have before said, 
 there is a reason why the foes of African Slavery seek 
 more freedom for women; but put it not upon that 
 ground, but on the ground of right. 
 
 If you have a power, it is a moral power. The films 
 of interest are not so close around you as around the 
 men. If you will but think, you cannot fail to wish to 
 save the country from this disgrace. Let not slip the 
 occasion, but do something to lift off the curse incurred 
 by Eve. 
 
 You have heard the women engaged in the Abolition 
 movement accused of boldness, because they lifted the 
 voice in public, and lifted the latch of the stranger. But 
 were these acts, whether performed judiciously or no, so 
 bold as to dare before God and Man to partake the fruits 
 of such offence as this ? 
 
 You hear much of the modesty of your sex. Preserve 
 it by filling the mind with noble desires that shall ward 
 off the corruptions of vanity and idleness. A profligate 
 woman, who left her accustomed haunts and took service 
 
V 
 
 168 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 in a New York boarding-house, said "she had never 
 heard talk so vile at the Five Points, as from the ladies 
 at the boarding-house." And why ? Because they 
 were idle ; because, having nothing worthy to engage 
 them, they dwelt, with unnatural curiosity, on the ill 
 they dared not go to see.J 
 
 It will not so much injure your modesty to have your 
 name, by the unthinking, coupled with idle blame, as to 
 have upon your soul the weight of not trying to save a 
 whole race of women from the scorn that is put upon 
 their modesty. 
 
 Think of this well ! I entreat, I conjure you, before it 
 is too late. It is my belief that something effectual 
 might be done by women, if they would only consider 
 the subject, and enter upon it in the true spirit, — a spirit 
 gentle, but firm, and which feared the offence of none, 
 save One who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity. 
 
 And now I have designated in outline, if not in ful- 
 ness, the stream which is ever flowing from the heights 
 of my thought. 
 
 In the earlier tract I was told I did not make my 
 meaning sufficiently clear. In this I have consequently 
 tried to illustrate it in various ways, and may have been 
 guilty of much repetition. Yet, as I am anxious to leave 
 no room for doubt, I shall venture to retrace, once more, 
 the scope of my design in points, as was done in old- 
 fashioned sermons. 
 
 Man is a being of two-fold relations, to nature beneath, 
 and intelligences above him. The earth is his school, if 
 
GROWTH OF MAN TWO-FOLD. 169 
 
 not his birth-place ; God his object ; life and thought his 
 means of interpreting nature, and aspiring to God. 
 
 Only a fraction of this purpose is accomplished in the 
 life of any one man. Its entire accomplishment is to be 
 hoped only from the sum of the lives of men, or Man 
 considered as a whole. 
 
 As this whole has one soul and one body, any injury or 
 obstruction to a part, or to the meanest member, affects 
 the whole. Man can never be perfectly happy or virtu- 
 ous, till all men are so. 
 
 To address Man wisely, you must not forget that his 
 life is partly animal, subject to the same laws with 
 Nature. 
 
 But you cannot address him wisely unless you con- 
 sider him still more as soul, and appreciate the condi- 
 tions and destiny of soul. 
 
 The growth of Man is two-fold, masculine and fem- 
 inine. 
 
 So far as these two methods can be distinguished, they 
 are so as 
 
 Energy and Harmony ; 
 
 Power and Beauty ; 
 
 Intellect and Love ; 
 or by some such rude classification ; for we have not 
 language primitive and pure enough to express such 
 ideas with precision. 
 
 These two sides are supposed to be expressed in Man 
 
 and Woman, that is, as the more and the less, for the 
 
 faculties have not been given pure to either, but only in 
 
 preponderance. There are also exceptions in great num- 
 
 15 
 
170 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 ber, such as men of far more beauty than power, and the 
 reverse. But, as a general rule, it seems to have been 
 the intention to give a preponderance on the one side, 
 that is called masculine, and on the other, one that is 
 called feminine. 
 
 There cannot be a doubt tha,t, if these two developments 
 were in perfect harmony, they would correspond to and 
 fulfil one another, like hemispheres, or the tenor and bass 
 in music. 
 
 But there is no perfect harmony in human nature ; 
 and the two parts answer one another only now and 
 then ; or, if there be a persistent consonance, it can only 
 be traced at long intervals, instead of discoursing an 
 obvious melody. 
 
 What is the cause of this ? 
 
 Man, in the order of time, was developed first ; as 
 energy comes before harmony ; power before beauty. 
 
 Woman was therefore under his care as an elder. He 
 might have been her guardian and teacher. 
 
 But, as human nature goes not straight forward, but 
 by excessive action and then reaction in an undulated 
 course, he misunderstood and abused his advantages, and 
 became her temporal master instead of her spiritual sire. 
 ^ On himself came the punishment. He educated 
 Woman more as a servant than a daughter, and found 
 himself a king without a queen. 
 
 The children of this unequal union showed unequal 
 natures, and, more and more, men seemed sons of the 
 handmaid, rather than princess. 
 
 At last, there were so many Ishmaelites that the rest 
 
THE HEMISPHERES. 171 
 
 grew frightened and indignant. They laid the blame on 
 Hagar, and drove her forth into the wilderness. 
 
 But there were none the fewer Ishmaelites for that. 
 
 At last men became a little wiser, and saw that the 
 infent Moses was, in every case, saved by the pure 
 instincts of Woman's breast. For, as too much adversity 
 is better for the moral nature than too much prosperity, 
 Woman, in this respect, dwindled less than Man, though 
 in other respects still a child in leading-strings. 
 
 So Man did her more and more justice, and grow more 
 and more kind. 
 
 But yet — his habits and his will corrupted by the 
 past — he did not clearly see that Woman was half him- 
 self; that her interests were identical with his ; and that, 
 by the law of their common being, he could never reach 
 his true proportions while she remained in any wise shorn 
 of hers. 
 
 And so it has gone on to our day ; both ideas develop- 
 ing, but more slowly than they would under a clearer 
 recognition of truth and justice, which would have per- 
 mitted the sexes their due influence on one another, and 
 mutual improvement from more dignified relations. 
 
 Wherever there was pure love, the natural influences 
 were, for the time, restored. 
 
 Wherever the poet or artist gave free course to his 
 genius, he saw the truth, and expressed it in worthy 
 forms, for these men especially share and need the femi- 
 nine principle. The divine birds need to be brooded into 
 life and song by mothers. 
 
 Wherever religion (I mean the thirst for truth and 
 
172 WOMAN 'IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 good, not the love of sect and dogma) had its course, the 
 original design was apprehended in its simplicity, and the 
 dove presaged sweetly from Dodona's oak. 
 
 I have aimed to show that no age was left entirely 
 without a witness of the equality of the sexes in function, 
 duty and hope. 
 
 Also that, when there was unwillingness or ignorance, 
 which prevented this being acted upon, women had not 
 the less power for their want of light and noble freedom. 
 But it was power which hurt alike them and those against 
 whom they made use of the arms of the servile, — cun- 
 ning, blandishment, and unreasonable emotion. 
 
 That now the time has come when a clearer vision and 
 better action are possible — when Man and Woman may 
 regard one another as brother and sister, the pillars of 
 one porch, the priests of one worship. 
 
 I have believed and intimated that this hope would 
 receive an ampler fruition, than ever before, in our own 
 land. 
 
 And it will do so if this land carry out the principles 
 from which sprang our national life. 
 
 I believe that, at present, women are the best helpers 
 of one another. 
 
 Let them think ; let them act ; till tliey know what 
 they need. 
 
 We only ask of men to remove arbitrary barriers. 
 Some would like to do more. But I believe it needs 
 that Woman show herself in her native dignity, to teach 
 them how to aid her ; their minds are so encumbered by 
 tradition. 
 
WHAT USE WILL SHE MAKE OF LIBERTY? 173 
 
 When Lord Edward Fitzgerald travelled with the In- 
 dians, his manly heart obliged him at once to take the 
 packs from the squaws and carry them. But we do not 
 read that tl.e red men followed his example, though they 
 are ready enough to carry the pack of the white woman, 
 because she seems to them a superior being. 
 
 Let Woman appear in the mild majesty of Ceres, and 
 rudest churls will be willing to learn from her. 
 
 You ask, what use will she make of liberty, when she ' 
 has so long been sustained and restrained ? --^ 
 
 I answer ; in the first place, this will not be suddenly 
 given. I read yesterday a debate of this year on the 
 subject of enlarging women's rights over property. It 
 was a leaf from the class-book that is preparing for the 
 needed instruction. The men learned visibly as they 
 spoke. The champions of Woman saw the fallacy of 
 arguments on the opposite side, and were startled by 
 their own convictions. With their wives at home, and 
 the readers of the paper, it was the same. And so the 
 stream flows on ; thought urging action, and action lead- 
 ing to the evolution of still better thought ._- 
 
 But, were this freedom to come suddenly, I have no 
 fear of the consequences. Individuals might commit 
 excesses, but there is not only in the sex a reverence for 
 decorums and limits inherited and enhanced from genera- 
 tion to generation, which many years of other life could 
 not efface, but a native love, in Woman as Woman, of 
 proportion, of "the simple art of not too much," — a 
 Greek moderation, which would create immediately a 
 restraining party, the natural legislators and instructors 
 15* 
 
174 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 of the rest, and would gradually establish such rules as 
 are needed to guard, without impeding, life. 
 
 The Graces would lead the choral dance, and teach 
 the rest to regulate their steps to the measure of beauty. 
 
 But if you ask me what offices they may fill, I reply 
 — any. I do not care what case you put ; let them be 
 sea-captains, if you will. I do not doubt there are 
 women well fitted for such an office, and, if so, I should 
 be as glad to see them in it, as to welcome the maid of 
 Saragossa, or the maid of Missolonghi, or the Suliote 
 heroine, or Emily Plater. 
 
 I think women need, especially at this juncture, a 
 much greater range of occupation than they have, to rouse 
 their latent powers. A party of travellers lately visited 
 a lonely hut on a mountain. There they found an old 
 woman, who told them she and her husband had lived there 
 forty years. "Why," they said, "did you choose so 
 barren a spot ? " She " did not know ; it was the riian^s 
 notion.''^ 
 
 And, during forty years, she had been content to act, 
 without knowing why, upon "the man's notion." I 
 would not have it so. 
 
 In families that I know, some little girls like to saw 
 wood, others to use carpenters' tools. Where these tastes 
 are indulged, cheerfulness and good-humor are promoted. 
 Where they are forbidden, because " such things are not 
 proper for gMs," they grow sullen and mischievous. 
 
 Fourier had observed these wants of women, as no one 
 can fail to do who watches the desires of little girls, or 
 knows the ennui that haunts grown women, except where 
 
VARIETY OF EMPLOYMENTS. 175 
 
 they make to themselves a serene little world by art of 
 some kind. He, therefore, in proposing a great variety 
 of employments, in manufactures or the care of plants 
 and animals, allows for one third of women as likely to 
 have a taste for masculine pursuits, one third of men for 
 feminine. 
 
 Who does not observe the immediate glow and serenity 
 that is diffused over the life of women, before restless or 
 fretful, by engaging in gardening, building, or the lowest 
 department of art ? Here is something that is not routine, 
 something that draws forth life towards the infinite. 
 
 I have no doubt, however, that a large proportion of 
 women would give themselves to the same employments 
 as now, because there are circumstances that must lead 
 them. Mothers will delight to make the nest soft and 
 warm. Nature would take care of that ; no need to clip 
 the wings of any bird that wants to soar and sing, or finds 
 in itself the strength of pinion for a migratory flight 
 unusual to its kind. The difference would be that all 
 need not be constrained to employments for which some 
 are unfit.__ :._„_-..— ^^— 
 
 I have urged upon the sex self-subsistence in its two 
 forms of self-reliance and self-impulse, because I believe 
 them to be the needed means of the present juncture. 
 
 I have urged on Woman independence of Man, not 
 that I do not think the sexes mutually needed by one 
 another, but because in Woman this fact has led to an 
 excessive devotion, which has cooled love, degraded mar- 
 riage, and prevented either sex from being what it should 
 be to itself or the other. 
 
176 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 I wish Woman to live, first for God's sake. Then she 
 will not make an imperfect man her god, and thus sink 
 to idolatry. Then she will not take what is not fit for 
 her from a sense of weakness and poverty. Then, if she 
 finds what she needs in Man embodied, she will know how 
 to love, and be worthy of being loved. 
 
 By being more a soul, she will not be less Woman, for 
 nature is perfected through spirit. 
 
 Now there is no woman, only an overgrown child. 
 
 That her hand may be given with dignity, she must be 
 able to s tand alone. ] I wish to see men and women capa- 
 ble of such relations as are depicted by Landor in his 
 Pericles and Aspasia, where grace is the natural garb of 
 strength, and the afiections are calm, because deep. The 
 softness is that of a firm tissue, as when 
 
 " The gods approve 
 The depth, but not the tumult of the soul, 
 A fervent, not ungovernable love." 
 
 A profound thinker has said, " No married woman can 
 represent the female world, for she belongs to her hus- 
 band. The idea of Woman must be represented by a 
 virgin." 
 
 But that is the very fault of marriage, and of the pres- 
 ent relation between the sexes, that the woman does 
 belong to the man, instead of forming a whole with him. 
 Were it otherwise, there Avould be no such limitation to 
 the thought. 
 
 Woman, self-centred, would never be absorbed by any 
 relation ; it would be only an experience to her as to 
 
BE TRUE TO-DAY. 177 
 
 man. It is a vulgar error that love, a love, to Woman 
 is her whole existence ; she also is born for Truth and 
 Love in their universal energy. Would she but assume 
 her inheritance, Mary would not be the only virgin 
 mother. Not Manzoni alone would celebrate in his wife 
 the virgin mind with the maternal wisdom and conjugal 
 affections. The soul is ever young, ever virgin. 
 
 And will not she soon appear? — the woman who shall 
 vindicate their birthright for all women ; who shall 
 teach them what to claim, and how to use what they 
 obtain ? Shall not her name be for her era Victoria, for 
 her country and life Virginia? Yet predictions are 
 rash ; she herself must teach us to give her the fitting 
 name. 
 
 An idea not unknown to ancient times has of late been 
 revived, that, in the metamorphoses of life, the soul 
 assumes the form, first of Man, then of Woman, and 
 takes the chances, and reaps the benefits of either lot. 
 Why then, say some, lay such emphasis on the rights or 
 needs of Woman ? What she wins not as Woman will 
 come to her as Man. 
 
 That makes no difference. It is not Woman, but the 
 law of right, the law of growth, that speaks in us, and 
 demands the perfection of each being in its kind — apple 
 as apple, Woman as Woman. Without adopting your 
 theory, I know that I, a daughter, live through the life 
 of Man ; but what concerns me now is, that my life be a 
 beautiful, powerful, in a word, a complete life in its 
 kind Had I but one more moment to live I must wish 
 the same. 
 
178 WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 Suppose, at the end of jour cycle, your great world- 
 year, all will be completed, whether I exert myself or 
 not (and the supposition isfalse, — but suppose it true), 
 am I to be indijQTerent about it ? Not so ! I must beat 
 my own pulse true in the heart of the world ; for that is 
 virtue, excellence, health. 
 
 Thou, Lord of Day ! didst leave us to-night so calmly 
 glorious, not dismayed that cold winter is coming, not 
 postponing thy beneficence to the fruitful summer ! Thou 
 didst smile on thy day's work when it was done, and 
 adorn thy down-going as thy up-rising, for thou art 
 loyal, and it is thy nature to give life, if thou canst, and 
 shine at all events ! 
 
 I stand in the sunny noon of life. Objects no longer 
 glitter in the dews of morning, neither are yet softened 
 by the shadows of evening. Every spot is seen, every 
 chasm revealed. Climbing the dusty hill, some fair effi- 
 gies that once stood for symbols of human destiny have 
 been broken ; those I still have with me show defects in 
 this broad light. Yet enough is left, even by experience, 
 to point distinctly to the glories of that destiny ; faint, 
 but not to be mistaken streaks of the future day. I can 
 say with the bard, 
 
 ** Though many have suffered shipwreck, still beat noble hearts." 
 
 Always the soul says to us all. Cherish your best 
 hopes as a faith, and abide by them in action. Such 
 shall be the effectual fervent means to their fulfilment ; 
 
 For the Power to whom we bow 
 Has given its pledge that, if not now, 
 
BE TRUE TO-DAY. 179 
 
 They of pure and steadfast mind, 
 By faith exalted, truth refined. 
 Shall hear all music loud and clear. 
 Whose first notes they ventured here. 
 Then fear not thou to wind the horn, 
 Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn ; 
 Ask for the castle's Kjng and Queen ; 
 Though rahble rout may rush between, 
 Beat thee senseless to the ground, 
 In the dark beset thee round ; 
 Persist to ask, and it will come ; 
 Seek not for rest in humbler home ; 
 So shalt thou see, what few have seen, 
 The palace home of King and Queen. 
 Ibth November J 1844. 
 
PART II. 
 
 MISCELLANIES 
 
 16 
 
MISCELLANIES 
 
 AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 
 
 A DEIVE THROUGH THE COUNTRY NEAR BOSTON. 
 
 Aglauron and Laurie are two of the pleasantest men 
 I know. Laurie combines, with the external advantages 
 of a beautiful person and easy address, all the charm 
 which quick perceptions and intelligent sympathy give to 
 the intercourse of daily life. He has an extensive, 
 though not a deep, knowledge of men and books, — his 
 naturally fine taste has been more refined by observation, 
 both at home and abroad, than is usual in this busy 
 country : and, though not himself a thinker, he follows 
 with care and delight the flights of a rapid and inventive 
 mind. He is one of those rare persons who, without 
 being servile or vacillating, present on no side any bar- 
 rier to the free action of another mind. Yes, he is 
 really an agreeable companion. I do not remember ever 
 to have been wearied or chilled in his company. 
 
 Aglauron is a person of far greater depth and force 
 than his friend and cousin, but by no means as agreeable. 
 His mind is ardent and powerful, rather than brilliant 
 and ready, — neither does he with ease adapt himself to 
 
184 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the course of another. But, when he is once kindled, 
 the blaze of light casts every object on which it falls 
 into a bold relief, and gives every scene a lustre unknown 
 before. He is not, perhaps, strictly original in his 
 thoughts ; but the severe truth of his character, and the 
 searching force of his attention, give the charm of origin- 
 ality to what he says. Accordingly, another cannot, by 
 repetition, do it justice. I have never any doubt when I 
 write down or tell what Laurie says, but Aglauron must 
 write for himself 
 
 Yet I almost always take notes of what has passed, 
 for the amusement of a distant friend, who is learning, 
 amidst the western prairies, patience, and an apprecia- 
 tion of the poor benefits of our imperfectly civilized state. 
 And those I took this day, seemed not unworthy of a 
 more general circulation. The sparkle of talk, the free 
 breeze that swelled its current, are always fled when you 
 write it down ; but there is a gentle floAV, and truth to the 
 moment, rarely attained in more elaborate compositions. 
 
 My two friends called to ask if I would drive with 
 them into the country, and I gladly consented. It was a 
 beautiful afternoon of the last week in May. Nature 
 seemed most desirous to make up for the time she had 
 lost in an uncommonly cold and wet spring. The leaves 
 were bursting from their sheaths with such rapidity that 
 the trees seemed actually to greet you as you passed 
 along. The vestal choirs of snow-drops and violets 
 were chanting their gentle hopes from every bank, the 
 orchards were white with blossoms, and the birds singing 
 in almost tumultuous glee. 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 185 
 
 We drove for some time in silence, perhaps fearful to 
 disturb the universal song by less melodious accents, 
 when Aglauron said : 
 
 " How entirely are we new-born to-day ! How are all 
 the past cold skies and hostile breezes vanished before 
 this single breath of sweetness ! How consoling is the 
 truth thus indicated ! " 
 
 Laurie. It is indeed the dearest fact of our conscious- 
 ness, that, in every moment of joy, pain is annihilated. 
 There is no past, and the future is only the sunlight 
 streaming into the far valley. 
 
 Aglauron. Yet it was the night that taught us to 
 prize the day. 
 
 Laurie> Even so. And I, you know, object to none 
 of the '• dark masters." 
 
 Aglauron. Nor I, — because I am sure that whatever 
 is, is good ; and to find out the why is all our employ- 
 ment here. But one feels so at home in such a day as 
 this ! 
 
 Laurie. As this, indeed ! I never heard so many 
 birds, nor saw so many flowers. Do you not like these 
 yellow flowers ? 
 
 Aglauron. They gleam upon the fields as if to 
 express the bridal kiss of the sun. He seems most happy, 
 if not most wealthy, when first he is wed to the earth. 
 
 Laurie. I believe I have some such feeling about 
 
 these golden flowers. When I did not know what was 
 
 the Asphodel, so celebrated by the poets, I thuoght it 
 
 was a golden flower ; yet this yellow is so ridiculed as 
 
 vulgar. 
 
 16* 
 
186 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Aglauron. It is because our vulgar luxury depreciates 
 objects not fitted to adorn our dwellings. These yellow 
 flowers will not bear being taken out of their places and 
 brought home to the centre-table. But, when enamelling 
 the ground, the cowslip, the king-cup, — nay, the mari- 
 gold and dandelion even, — are resplendently beautiful. 
 
 Laurie. They are the poor man's gold. See that 
 dark, unpainted house, with its lilac shrubbery. As it 
 stands, undivided from the road to which the green bank 
 slopes down from the door, is not the effect of that 
 enamel of gold dandelions beautiful ? 
 
 Aglauron. It seems as if a stream of peace had flowed 
 from the door-step down to the very dust, in waves of 
 light, to greet the passer-by. That is, indeed, a quiet 
 house. It looks as if somebody's grandfather lived there 
 still. 
 
 Laurie. It is most refreshing to see the dark boards 
 amid those houses of staring white. Strange that, in 
 the extreme heat of summer, aching eyes don't teach the 
 people better. 
 
 Aglauron. We are still, in fact, uncivilized, for all 
 our knowledge of what is done " in foreign parts " cannot 
 make us otherwise. Civilization must be homogeneous, — 
 must be a natural growth. This glistening white paint 
 was long preferred because the most expensive ; just as 
 in the West, I understand, they paint houses red to 
 make them resemble the hideous red brick. And the 
 eye, thus spoiled by excitement, prefers red or white to 
 the stone-color, or the browns, which would harmonize 
 with other hues. 
 
AGLAURON AND LATIRIE. 187 
 
 Laurie, I should think the eye could never be spoiled 
 so far as to like these white palings. These bars of 
 glare amid the foliage are unbearable. 
 
 Myself. What color should they be ? 
 
 Laurie. An invisible green, as in all civilized parts 
 of the globe. Then your eye would rest on the shrub- 
 bery undisturbed. 
 
 Myself. Your vaunted Italy has its palaces of white 
 stucco and buildings of brick. 
 
 Laurie. Ay, — but the stucco is by the atmosphere 
 soon mellowed into cream-color, the brick into rich 
 brown. 
 
 Myself I have heard a connoisseur admire our own 
 red brick in the afternoon sun, above all other colors. 
 
 Laurie. There are some who delight too much in the 
 stimulus of color to be judges of harmony of coloring. 
 It is so, often, with the Italians. No color is too keen 
 for the eye of the Neapolitan. He thinks, with little 
 Riding-hood, there is no color like red. I have seen one 
 of the most beautiful new palaces paved with tiles of a 
 brilliant red. But this, too, is barbarism. 
 
 Myself. You are pleased to call it so, because you 
 make the English your arbiters in point of taste ; but I 
 do not think they, on your own principle, are our proper 
 models. With their ever- weeping skies, and seven-piled 
 velvet of verdure, they are no rule for us, whose eyes 
 are accustomed to the keen blue and brilliant clouds of 
 our own realm, and who see the earth wholly green 
 scarce two months in the year. No white is more glis- 
 tening than our January snows; no house here hurts my 
 
188 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 eye more than the fields of white-weed will, a fortnight 
 hence. 
 
 Law'ie. True refinement of taste would bid the eye 
 seek repose the more. But, even admitting what you 
 say, there is no harmony. The architecture is borrowed 
 from England; why not the rest? 
 
 Aglaiiron. But, my friend, surely these piazzas and 
 pipe-stem pillars are all American. 
 
 Laurie. But the cottage to which they belong is Eng- 
 lish. The inhabitants, suffocating in small rooms, and 
 beneath sloping roofs, because the house is too low to 
 admit any circulation of air, are in need, we must admit, 
 of the piazza, for elsewhere they must suffer all the tor- 
 ments of Mons. Chaubert in his first experience of the 
 oven. But I do not assail the piazzas, at any rate ; they 
 are most desirable, in these hot summers of ours, were 
 they but in proportion with the house, and their pillars 
 with one another. But I do object to houses which are 
 desirable neither as summer nor winter residences here. 
 The shingle palaces, celebrated by Irving' s wit, were far 
 more appropriate, for they, at least, gave free course to 
 the winds of heaven, when the thermometer stood at 
 ninety-five degrees in the shade. 
 
 Aglauron. Pity that American wit nipped in the 
 bud those early attempts at an American architecture. 
 Here in the East, alas ! the case is become hopeless. But 
 in the West the log-cabin still promises a proper basis. 
 
 Laurie. You laugh at me. But so it is. I am not 
 so silly as to insist upon American architecture, Ameri- 
 can art, in the 4th of July style, merely for the grati- 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 189 
 
 fication of national vanity. But a building, to be beau- 
 tiful, should harmonize exactly with the uses to which it 
 is to be put, and be an index to the climate and habits of 
 the people. There is no objection to borrowing good 
 thoughts from other nations, if we adopt the new style 
 because we find it will serve our convenience, and not 
 merely because it looks pretty outside. 
 
 Aglauron. I agree with you that here, as well as in 
 manners and in literature, there is too ready access to the 
 old stock, and, though I said it in jest, my hope is, in 
 truth, the log-cabin. This the settler will enlarge, as his 
 riches and his family increase ; he will beautify as his 
 character refines, and as his eye becomes accustomed to 
 observe objects around him for their loveliness as well as 
 for their utility. He will borrow from Nature the forms 
 and coloring most in harmony with the scene in which 
 his dwelling is placed. Might growth here be but slow 
 enough ! Might not a greediness for gain and show 
 cheat men of all the real advantages of their experience ! 
 
 (Here a carriage passed.) 
 
 Laurie. Who is that beautiful lady to whom you 
 bowed ? 
 
 Aglauron. Beautiful do you think her? At this 
 distance, and with the freshness which the open air gives 
 to her complexion, she certainly does look so, and was so 
 still, five years ago, when I knew her abroad. It is 
 Mrs. V . 
 
 Laurie. I remember with what interest you men- 
 tioned her in your letters. And you promised to tell me 
 her true story. 
 
190 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Aglauron. I was much interested, then, both in her 
 and her story. But, last winter, when I met her at the 
 South, she had altered, and seemed so much less attrac- 
 tive than before, that the bright colors of the picture are 
 well-nigh eflfaced. 
 
 Laurie. The pleasure of telling the story will revive 
 them again. Let us fasten our horses and go into this 
 little wood. There is a seat near the lake which is pretty 
 enough to tell a story upon. 
 
 Aylauron. In all the idyls I ever read, they were 
 told in caves, or beside a trickling fountain. 
 
 Laurie. That was in the last century. We will 
 innovate. Let us begin that American originality we 
 were talking about, and make the bank of a lake answer 
 our purpose. 
 
 We dismounted accordingly, but, on reaching the spot, 
 Aglauron at first insisted on lying on the grass, and gaz- 
 ing up at the clouds in a most uncitizen-like fashion, and 
 it was some time before we could get the promised story. 
 
 At last, — 
 
 I first saw Mrs. Y at the opera in Vienna. Abroad, 
 
 I scarcely cared for anything in comparison with music. 
 Li many respects the Old World disappointed my hopes ; 
 society was, in essentials, no better, nor worse, than at 
 home, and I too easily saw through the varnish of con- 
 ventional refinement. Lions, seen near, were scarcely 
 more interesting than tamer cattle, and much more an- 
 noying in their gambols and caprices. Parks and orna- 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 191 
 
 mental grounds pleased me less than the native forests and 
 wide-rolling rivers of my own land. But in the Arts, and 
 most of all in Music, I found all my wishes more than 
 realized. I found the soul of man uttering itself with 
 the swiftness, the freedom and the beauty, for which I had 
 always pined. I easily conceived how foreigners, once 
 acquainted with this diverse language, pass their lives 
 without a wish for pleasure or employment beyond hear- 
 ing the great works of the masters. It seemed to me 
 that here was wealth to feed the thoughts for ages. 
 This lady fixed my attention by the rapturous devotion 
 with which she listened. I saw that she too had here found 
 her proper home. Every shade of thought and feeling 
 expressed in the music was mirrored in her beautiful 
 countenance. Her rapture of attention, during some pas- 
 sages, was enough of itself to make you hold your breath ; 
 and a sudden stroke of genius lit her face into a very 
 heaven with its lightning. It seemed to me that in her I 
 should find one who would truly sympathize with me, one 
 who looked on the art not as a connoisseur, but a votary. 
 
 I took the speediest opportunity of being introduced to 
 her at her own house by a common friend. 
 
 But what a difference ! At home I scarcely know her. 
 Still she was beautiful ; but the sweetness, the elevated 
 expression, which the satisfaction of an hour had given 
 her, were entirely fled. Her eye was restless, her 
 cheek pale and thin, her whole expression perturbed and 
 sorrowful. Every gesture spoke the sickliness of a spirit 
 long an outcast from its natural home, bereft of happi- 
 ness, and hopeless of good. 
 
192 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 I perceived, at first sight of her every-day face, that 
 it was not unknown to me. Three or four years earlier, 
 staying in the country-house of one of her friends, I had 
 seen her picture. The house was very dull, — as dull as 
 placid content with the mere material enjoyments of life, 
 and an inert gentleness of nature, could make its inhab- 
 itants. They were people to be loved, but loved without 
 a thought. Their wings had never grown, nor their eyes 
 coveted a wider prospect than could be seen from the 
 parent nest. The friendly visitant could not discompose 
 them by a remark indicating any expansion of mind or 
 life. Much as I enjoyed the beauty of the country around, 
 when out in the free air, my hours within the house 
 would have been dull enough but for the contemplation 
 of this picture. While the round of common-place songs 
 was going on, and the whist-players were at their work, I 
 used to sit and wonder how this being, so sovereign in the 
 fire of her nature, so proud in her untamed loveliness, 
 could ever have come of their blood. Her eye, from the 
 canvas, even, seemed to annihilate all things low or little, 
 and able to command all creation in search of the object 
 of its desires. She had not found it, though ; I felt this 
 on seeing her now. She, the queenly woman, the Boa- 
 dicea of a forlorn hope, as she seemed born to be, the 
 only woman whose face, to my eye, had ever given prom- 
 ise of a prodigality of nature sufficient for the enter- 
 tainment of a poet's soul, was — I saw it at a glance — 
 a captive in her life, and a beggar in her afiections. 
 
 Laurie. A dangerous object to the traveller's eye, 
 methinks ! 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 193 
 
 Aglavron. Not to mine ! The picture had been so ; 
 but, seeing her now, I felt that the glorious promise of 
 her youthful prime had failed. She had missed her 
 course ; and the beauty, whose charm to the imagination 
 had been that it seemed invincible, was now subdued and 
 mixed with earth. 
 
 Laurie. I can never comprehend the cruelty in your 
 way of viewing human beings, Aglauron. To err, to 
 suffer, is their lot ; all who have feeling and energy of 
 character must share it; and I could not endure a 
 •woman who at six-and-twenty bore no trace of the 
 past. 
 
 Aglauron. Such women and such men are the com- 
 panions of every-day life. But the angels of oui- thoughts 
 are those moulds of pure beauty which must break with 
 a fall. The common air must not touch them, for they 
 make their own atmosphere. I admit that such are not 
 for the tenderness of daily life ; their influence must be 
 high, distant, starlike, to be pure. 
 
 'Such was this woman to me before I knew her : one 
 whose splendid beauty drew on my thoughts to their 
 future home. In knowing her, I lost the happiness I had 
 enjoyed in knowing what she should have been. At first 
 the disappointment was severe, but I have learnt to par- 
 don her, as others who get mutilated or worn in life, and 
 show the royal impress only in their virgin courage. 
 But this subject would detain me too long. Let me 
 rather tell you of Mrs. V 's sad history. 
 
 A friend of mine has said that beautiful persons seem 
 rarely born to their proper family, but amidst persona 
 17 
 
194 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 SO rough and uncongenial that their presence commands 
 like that of a reproving angel, or pains like that of some 
 poor prince changed at nurse, and bound for life to the 
 society of churls. 
 
 So' it was with Emily. Her father was sordid, her 
 mother weak ; persons of great wealth and greater self- 
 ishness. She was the youngest by many years, and left 
 alone in her father's hduse. Notwithstanding the want 
 of intelligent sympathy while she was growing up, and 
 the want of all intelligent culture, she was not an 
 unhappy child. The unbounded and foolish indulgence 
 with which she was treated did not have an obviously bad 
 effect upon her then ; it did not make her selfish, sen- 
 sual, or vain. Her character was too powerful to dAvell 
 upon such boons as those nearest her could bestow. She 
 negligently received them all as her due. It was Jater 
 that ihe pernicious effects of the absence of all discipline 
 showed themselves ; but in early years she was happy in 
 her lavish feelings, and in beautiful nature, on which she 
 could pour them, and in her own pursuits. Music was 
 her passion ; in it she found food, and an answer for feel- 
 ings destined to become so fatal to her peace, but which 
 then glowed so sweetly in her youthful form as to enchant 
 the most ordinary observer. 
 
 When she was not more than fifteen, and expanding 
 like a flower in each sunny day, it was her misfortune 
 that her first husband saw and loved her. Emily, though 
 pleased by his handsome person and gay manners, never 
 bestowed a serious thought on him. If she had, it would 
 have been the first ever disengaged from her life of pleas- 
 
AGLAURON ANT) LAURIE. 195 
 
 Urable sensation. But when he did plead his cause 
 with all the ardor of youth, and the flourishes which have 
 been bj usage set apart for such occasions, she listened 
 with delight ; for all his talk of boundless love, undjing 
 faith, etc., seemed her native tongue. It was like the 
 most glowing sunset sky. It swelled upon the ear like 
 music. It was the only way she ever wished to be 
 addressed, and she now saw plainly why all talk of every- 
 day people had fallen unlieeded on her ear. She could 
 have listened all day. But when, emboldened by the 
 beaming eye and ready smile with which she heard, he 
 pressed his suit more seriously, and talked of marriage, 
 she drew back astonished. Marry yet ? — impossible ! 
 She had never thought of it ; and as she thought now 
 of marriages, such as she had seen them, there was noth- 
 ing in marriage to attract. But L was not so easily 
 
 repelled ; he made her every promise of pleasure, as one 
 would to a child. He would take her away to journey 
 through scenes more beautiful than she had ever dreamed 
 of; he would take her to a city where, in the fairest 
 home, she should hear the finest music, and he himself. 
 in every scene, would be her devoted slave, too happy if 
 for every new pleasure he received one of those smiles 
 which had become his life. 
 
 He saw her yielding, and hastened to secure her. Her 
 father was delighted, as fathers are strangely wont to be. 
 that he was likely to be deprived of his child, his pet, 
 his pride. The mother was threefold delighted that she 
 would have a daughter married so youjig, — at least three 
 years younger than any of her elder sisters were 
 
196 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 married. Both lent their influence ; and Emily, accus- 
 tomed to rel J on them against all peril and annoyance, 
 till she scarcely knew there was pain or evil in the world, 
 gave her consent, as she would have given it to a pleasure- 
 party for a day or a week. 
 
 The marriage was hurried on ; L intent on gain- 
 ing his object, as men of strong will and no sentiment are 
 wont to be, the parents thinking of the eclat of the 
 match. Emily was amused by the preparations for the 
 festivity, and full of excitement about the new chapter 
 which was to be opened in her life. Yet so little idea had 
 she of the true business of life, and the importance of its 
 ties, that perhaps there was no figure in the future that 
 occupied her less than that of her bridegroom, a hand- 
 some man, with a sweet voice, her captive, her adorer. 
 She neither thought nor saw further, lulled by the pictures 
 of bliss and adventure which were floating before her 
 fancy, the more enchanting because so vague. 
 
 It was at this time that the picture that so charmed 
 me was taken. The exquisite rose had not yet opened 
 its leaves so as to show its heart; but its fragrance and 
 blushful pride w^ere there in perfection. 
 
 Poor Emily ! She had the promised journeys, the 
 splendid home. Amid the former her mind, opened by 
 new scenes, already learned that something she seemed to 
 possess was wanting in the too constant companion of her 
 days. In the splendid home she received not only 
 musicians, but other visitants, who taught her strange 
 things. 
 
 Four little months after her leaving home, her parents 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 197 
 
 were astonished by receiving a letter in "which she told 
 them they had parted with her too soon ; that she was not 
 
 happy with Mr L , as he had promised she should be, 
 
 and that she wished to have her marriage broken. She 
 urged her father to make haste about it, as she had par- 
 ticular reasons for impatience. You may easily conceive 
 of the astonishment of the good folks at home. Her 
 mother wondered and cried. Her father immediately 
 ordered his horses, and went to her. 
 
 He was received with rapturous delight, and almost at 
 the first moment thanked for his speedy compliance with 
 her request. But when she found that he opposed her 
 desire of having her marriage broken, and when she 
 urged him with vehemence and those marks of caressing 
 fondness she had been used to find all-powerful, and he 
 told her at last it could not be done, she gave way to a 
 paroxysm of passion ; she declared that she could not and 
 
 would not live with Mr. L ; that, so soon as she 
 
 saw anything of the world, she saw many men that she 
 infinitely preferred to him ; and that, since her father and 
 mother, instead of guarding her, so mere a child as she 
 was, so entirely inexperienced, against a hasty choice, had 
 persuaded and urged her to it, it was their duty to break 
 the match when they found it did not make her happy. 
 
 ''My child, you are entirely unreasonable." 
 
 "It is not a time to be patient; and I was too yield- 
 ing before. I am not seventeen. Is the happiness of my 
 whole life to be sacrificed? " 
 
 ''Emily, you terrify me! Do you love anybody 
 
 else?" 
 
 17* 
 
198 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 " Not yet ; but I am sure I shall find some one to love, 
 now I know what it is. I have seen already many whom 
 I prefer to Mr. L ." 
 
 ''Is he not kind to you ? " 
 
 " Kind ! yes ; but he is perfectly uninteresting. I 
 hate to be with him. I do not wish his kindness, nor to 
 remain in his house." 
 
 In vain her father argued ; she insisted that she could 
 never be happy as she was ; that it was impossible the 
 law could be so cruel as to bind her to a vow she had 
 taken when so mere a child ; that she would go home 
 with her father now, and they would see what could be 
 done. She added that she had already told her husband 
 her resolution. 
 
 " And how did he bear it ? " 
 
 " He was very angry ; but it is better for him to be 
 angry once than unhappy always, as I should certainly 
 make him did I remain here." 
 
 After long and fruitless attempts to reason her into a 
 difierent state of mind, the father went in search of the 
 husband. He found him irritated and mortified. He 
 loved his wife, in his way, for her personal beauty. He 
 was very proud of her ; he was piqued to the last degree 
 by her frankness. He could not but acknowledge the 
 truth of what she said, that she had been persuaded into 
 the match when but a child; for she seemed a very 
 infant now, in wilfulness and ignorance of the world. 
 But I believe neither he nor her father had one compunc- 
 tious misgiving as to their having profaned the holiness 
 of marriage by such an union. Their minds had never 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 190 
 
 been opened to the true meaning of life, and, though they 
 thought themselves so much wiser, they were in truth 
 much less so than the poor, passionate Emily, — for her 
 heart, at least, spoke clearly, if her mind lay in darkness. 
 
 They could do nothing with her, and her father was at 
 length compelled to take her home, hoping that her 
 mother might be able to induce her to see things in a 
 different light. But father, mother, uncles, brothers, all 
 reasoned with her in vain. Totally unused to disappoint- 
 ment, she could not for a long time believe that she was 
 forever bound by a bond that sat uneasily on her untamed 
 spirit. When at last convinced of the truth, her despair 
 was terrible. 
 
 " Am I his ? his forever ? Must I never then love ? 
 Never marry one whom I could really love ? Mother ! it 
 is too cruel. I cannot, will not believe it. You always 
 wished me to belong to him. You do not now wish to 
 aid me, or you are afraid ! 0, you would not be so, 
 could you but know what I feel ! '' 
 
 At last convinced, she then declared that if she could 
 
 not be legally separated from L , but must consent 
 
 to bear his name, and never give herself to another, she 
 would at least live with him no more. She would not 
 again leave her father's house. Here she was deaf to all 
 argument, and only force could have driven her away. 
 
 Her indifference to L had become hatred, in the 
 
 course of these thoughts and conversations. She regarded 
 herself as his victim, and him as her betrayer, since, she 
 said, he was old enough to know the importance of the 
 step to which he led her. Her mind, naturally noble, 
 
200 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 though now in this wild state, refused to admit his love 
 as an excuse. '' Had he loved me," she said, " he would 
 have wished to teach me to love him, before securing me 
 as his property. He is as selfish as he is dull and unin- 
 teresting. No ! I will drag on mj miserable years here 
 alone, but I will not pretend to love him, nor gratify him 
 by the sight of his slave ! " 
 
 A year and more passed, and found the unhappy 
 Emily inflexible. Her husband at last sought employ- 
 ment abroad, to hide his mortification. 
 
 After his departure, Emily relaxed once from the 
 severe coldness she had shown since her return home. 
 She had passed her time there with her music, in reading 
 poetry, in solitary walks. But as the person who had 
 been, however unintentionally, the means of making her 
 so miserable, was further removed from her, she showed 
 willingness to mingle again with the family, and see one 
 or two young friends. 
 
 One of these, Almeria, effected what all the armament 
 of praying and threatening friends had been unable to do. 
 She devoted herself to Emily. She shared her employ- 
 ments and her walks ; she sympathized with all her feel- 
 ings, even the morbid ones which she saw to be sincerity, 
 tenderness and delicacy gone astray, — perverted and 
 soured by the foolish indulgence of her education, and 
 the severity of her destiny made known suddenly to a 
 mind quite unprepared. At last, having won the confi- 
 dence and esteem of Emily, by the wise and gentle check 
 her justice and clear perceptions gave to all extravagance, 
 
AQLAURON AND LAURIE. 201 
 
 Almeria ventured on representing to Emily her conduct 
 as the world saw it. 
 
 To this she found her quite insensible. '' What is the 
 world to me ? " she said. " I am forbidden to seek there 
 all it can offer of value to Woman — sympathy and a 
 home." 
 
 '^It is full of beauty still," said Almeria, looking out 
 into the golden and perfumed glories of a June day. 
 
 " Not to the prisoner and the slave," said Emily. 
 
 '' All are such, whom God hath not made free; " and 
 Almeria gently ventured to explain the hopes of larger 
 span which enable the soul that can soar upon their 
 wings to disregard the limitations of seventy years. 
 
 Emily listened with profound attention. The words 
 were familiar to her, but the tone was not ; it was that 
 which rises from the depths of a purified spirit, — purified 
 by pain, softened into peace. 
 
 "Have you made any use of these thoughts in your 
 life, Almeria? " 
 
 The lovely preacher hesitated not to reveal a tale be- 
 fore unknown except to her own heart, of woe, renuncia- 
 tion, and repeated blows from a hostile fate. 
 
 ' Emily heard it in silence, but she understood. The 
 great illusions of youth vanished. She did not suffer 
 alone ; her lot was not peculiar. Another, perhaps many, 
 were forbidden the bliss of sympathy and a congenial 
 environment. And what had Almeria done ? Revenged 
 herself? Tormented all around her? Clung with wild 
 passion to a selfish resolve ? Not at all. She had made 
 the best of a wreck of life, and deserved a blessing on a 
 
202 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 new voyage. She had sought consolation in disinterested 
 tenderness for her fellow-suflferers, and she deserved to 
 cease to suiGfer. 
 
 The lesson was taken home, and gradually leavened the 
 whole being of this spoiled but naturally noble child. 
 
 A few weeks afterwards, she asked her father wheii 
 Mr. L was expected to return. 
 
 '' In about three months," he replied, much surprised. 
 
 " I should like to have you write to him for me." 
 
 "What new absurdity?" said the father, who, long 
 mortified and harassed, had ceased to be a fond father to 
 his once adored Emily. 
 
 '' Say that my views are unchanged as to his soliciting 
 a marriage with me when too childish to know my own 
 mind on that or any other subject ; but I have now seen 
 enough of the world to know that he meant no ill, if no 
 good; and was no more heedless in this great matter than 
 many others are. He is not born to know what one con- 
 stituted like me must feel, in a home where I found no 
 rest for my heart. I have now read, seen and thought, 
 what has made me a woman. I can be what you call 
 reasonable, though not perhaps in your way. I see that 
 my misfortune is irreparable. I heed not the world's 
 opinion, and would, for myself, rather remain here, and 
 keep up no semblance of a connection which my matured 
 mind disclaims. But that scandalizes you and my 
 mother, and makes your house a scene of pain and morti- 
 fication in your old age. I know you, too, did not 
 neglect the charge of me, in your own eyes. I owe you 
 gratitude for your affectionate intentions at least. 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 203 
 
 * 
 
 " L too is as miserable as mortification can make one 
 
 like him. Write, and ask him if he wishes m j presence in 
 his house on mj own terms. He must not expect from 
 me the afiection, or marks of affection, of a w4fe. I should 
 never have been his wife had I waited till I understood 
 life or myself But I will be his attentive and friendly 
 companion, the mistress of his house, if he pleases. To 
 the world it will seem enough, — he will be more comfort- 
 able there, — and what he wished of me was, in a great 
 measure, to show me to the world. I saw that, as soon as 
 we were in it, I could not give him happiness if I would, 
 for we have not a thought nor employment in common. 
 But if we can agree on the way, we may live together 
 without any one being very miserable except myself, and 
 I have made up my mind." 
 
 The astonishment of the father may be conceived, and 
 his cavils ; L 's also. 
 
 To cut the story short, it was settled in Emily's way, 
 for she was one of the sultana kind, dread and dangerous. 
 
 L hardly wished her to love him now, for he half 
 
 , hated her for all she had done ; yet he was glad to have 
 her back, as she had judged, for the sake of appearances. 
 All was smoothed over by a plausible story. People, 
 indeed, knew the truth as to the fair one's outrageous 
 
 conduct perfectly, but Mr. L was rich, his wife 
 
 beautiful, and gave good parties ; so society, as such, 
 bowed and smiled, while individuals scandalized the pair. 
 
 They had been living on this footing for several years, 
 when I saw Emily at the opera. She was a much altered 
 being. Debarred of happiness in her affections, she had 
 
204 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 turned for sokce to the intellectual life, and her natu- 
 rally powerful and brilliant mind had matured into a 
 splendor which had never been dreamed of by those who 
 had seen her amid the freaks and daj-dreams of her early 
 youth. 
 
 Yet. as I said before, she was not captivating to me, 
 as her picture had been. She was, in a different way, as 
 beautiful in feature and coloring as in her spring-time. 
 Her beauty, all moulded and mellowed by feeling, was far 
 more eloquent ; but it had none of the virgin magnifi- 
 cence, the untouched tropical luxuriance, which had fired 
 my fancy. The false position in which she lived had 
 shaded her expression with a painful restlessness ; and 
 her eye proclaimed that the conflicts of her mind had 
 strengthened, had deepened, but had not yet hallowed, 
 her character. 
 
 She was, however, interesting, deeply so ; one of those 
 rare beings who fill your eye in every mood. Her passion 
 for music, and the great excellence she had attained as a 
 performer, drew us together. I was her daily visitor ; 
 but, if my admiration ever softened into tenderness, it was 
 the tenderness of pity for her unsatisfied heart, and cold, 
 false life. 
 
 But there was one who saw with very different eyes. 
 
 V had been intimate with Emily some time before 
 
 my arrival, and every day saw him more deeply enamored. 
 
 Laurie. And pray where was the husband all this 
 time? 
 
 Aglauron. L had sought consolation in ambition. 
 
 He was a man of much practical dexterity, but of little 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 205 
 
 thought, and less heart. He had at first been jealous of 
 Emily for his honor's sake, — not for any reality, — for 
 she treated him with great attention as to the comforts of 
 daily life ; but otherwise, with polite, steady coldness. 
 Finding that she received the court, which many were dis- 
 posed to pay her, with grace and affability, but at heart 
 with imperial indifference, he ceased to disturb himself; 
 for, as she rightly thought, he was incapable of under- 
 standing her. A coquette he could have interpreted ; 
 but a romantic character like hers, born for a grand 
 passion, or no love at all, he could not. Nor did he see 
 
 that V was likely to be more to her than any of her 
 
 admirers. 
 
 Laurie. I am afraid I should have shamed his obtuse- 
 
 ness. y has nothing to recommend him that I know 
 
 of, except his beauty, and that is the beauty of a petit- 
 mmtre — effeminate, without character, and very unlikely, 
 I should judge, to attract such a woman as you give me 
 the idea of 
 
 Aglauron. You speak like a man, Laurie ; but have 
 you never heard tales of youthful minstrels and pages 
 being preferred by princesses, in the land of chivalry, to 
 stalwart knights, who were riding all over the land, doing 
 their devoirs maugre scars and starvation ? And why ? 
 One want of a woman's heart is to admire and be pro- 
 tected ; but another is to be understood in all her delicate 
 feelings, and have an object who shall know how to 
 receive all the marks of her inventive and bour.teous affec- 
 tion. V is such an one ; a being of infinite grace 
 
 18 
 
206 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and tenderness, and an equal capacity for prizing the 
 same in another. 
 
 Effeminate, say you ? Lovely, rather, and loyable. 
 He was not, indeed, made to grow old : but I never saw 
 a fairer spring-time than shone in his eye when life, and 
 thought, and love, opened on him all together. 
 
 He was to Emily like the soft breathing of a flute in 
 some solitary valley ; indeed, the delicacy of his nature 
 made a solitude around him in the world. So delicate 
 was he, and Emily for a long time so unconscious, that 
 nobody except myself divined how strong was the attrac- 
 tion which, as it drew them nearer together, invested both 
 with a lustre and a sweetness which charmed all around 
 them. 
 
 But I see the sun is declining, and warns me to cut 
 short a tale which would keep us here till dawn if I were 
 to detail it as I should like to do in my own memories. 
 The progress of this affair interested me deeply ; for, like 
 all persons whose perceptions are more lively than their 
 hopes, I delight to live from day to day in the more 
 ardent experiments of others. I looked on with curiosity, 
 with sympathy, with fear. How could it end ? What 
 w^ould become of them, unhappy lovers ? One too noble, 
 the other too delicate, ever to find happiness in an 
 unsanctioned tie. 
 
 I had, however, no right to interfere, and d'd not, 
 even by a look, until one evening, when the occas on waa 
 forced upon me. 
 
 There was a summer fete given at L 's. I had 
 
 mingled for a while with the guests in the brilliant apart- 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 207 
 
 ments ; but the heat oppressed, the conversation failed to 
 interest me. An open window tempted me to the garden, 
 whose flowers and tufted lawns lay bathed in moonlight. 
 I went out alone ; but the music of a superb band fol- 
 lowed my steps, and gave impulse to my thoughts. A 
 dreaming state, pensive though not absolutely sorrowful, 
 came upon me, — one of those gentle moods when thoughts 
 flow through the mind amber-clear and soft, noiseless, 
 because unimpeded. I sat down in an arbor to enjoy it, 
 and probably stayed much longer than I could have 
 imagined ; for when I reentered the large saloon it was 
 deserted. The lights, however, were not extinguished, 
 and, hearing voices in the inner room, I supposed some 
 guests still remained ; and, as I had not spoken with Emily 
 that evening, I ventured in to bid her good-night. I 
 
 started, repentant, on finding her alone with Y , and 
 
 in a situation that announced their feelings to be no longer 
 concealed from each other. She, leaning back on the 
 
 sofa, was weeping bitterly, while V , seated at her 
 
 feet, holding her hands within his own, was pouring forth 
 his passionate words with a fervency which prevented him 
 from perceiving my entrance. But Emily perceived me 
 at once, and starting up, motioned me not to go, as I had 
 intended. I obeyed, and sat down. A pause ensued, 
 
 awkward for me and for V , who sat with his eyes cast 
 
 down and blushing like a young girl detected in a burst 
 of feeling long kept secret. Emily sat buried in thought, 
 the tears yet undried upon her cheeks. She was pale, 
 but nobly beautiful, as I had never yet seen her. 
 
 After a few moments I broke the silence, and attempted 
 
208 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 to tell why I had returned so late. She interrupted me : 
 " No matter, Aglauron, how it happened ; whatever the 
 
 chance, it promises to give both V and mjseif, what 
 
 we greatly need, a calm friend and adviser. You are 
 the only person among these crowds of men whom I could 
 consult ; for I have read friendship in your eye, and I 
 
 know you have truth and honor. V thinks of you 
 
 as I do, and he too is, or should be, glad to have some 
 counsellor beside his own wishes." 
 
 y did not raise his eyes ; neither did he contradict 
 
 her. After a moment he said, "I believe Aglauron to 
 be as free from prejudice as any man, and most true and 
 honorable ; yet who can judge in this matter but our- 
 selves?" 
 
 "No one shall judge," said Emily; "but I want 
 counsel. God help me ! I feel there is a right and 
 wrong; but how can my mind, which has never been 
 trained to discern between them, be confident of its power 
 at this important moment ? Aglauron, what remains to 
 me of happiness, — if anything do remain ; perhaps the 
 hope of heaven, if, indeed, there be a heaven, — is at 
 stake ! Father and brother have failed their trust. I 
 have no friend able to understand, wise enough to coun- 
 sel me. The only one whose words ever came true to my 
 thoughts, and of whom you have often reminded me, is 
 distant. Will you, this hour, take her place? " 
 
 " To the best of my ability," I replied without hesi- 
 tation, struck by the dignity of her manner. 
 
 " You know," she said, " all my past history ; all do 
 so here, the ugh they do not talk loudly of it. You and 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 209 
 
 all others have probably blamed me. You know not, 
 you cannot guess, the anguish, the struggles of my child- 
 ish mind when it first opened to the meaning of those 
 words, Love, Marriage, Life. When I was bound to 
 
 Mr. L , by a vow which from my heedless lips was 
 
 mockery of all thought, all holiness, I had never known a 
 duty, I had never felt the pressure of a tie. Life had 
 been, so far, a sweet, voluptuous dream, and I thought 
 of this seemingly so kind and amiable person as a new 
 and devoted ministrant to me of its pleasures. But I 
 was scarcely in his power when I awoke. I perceived 
 the unfitness of the tie ; its closeness revolted me. 
 
 " I had no timidity ; I had always been accustomed to 
 
 indulge my feelings, and I displayed them now. L , 
 
 irritated, asserted his mastery ; this drove me wild ; I 
 soon hated him, and despised too his insensibility to all 
 which I thought most beautiful. From all his faults, 
 and the imperfection of our relation, grew up in my 
 mind the knowledge of what the true might be to me. 
 It is astonishing how the thought grew upon me day by 
 day. I had not been married more than three months 
 before I knew what it would be to love, and I longed to 
 be free to do so. I had never known what it was to be 
 resisted, and the thought never came to me that I could 
 now, and for all my life, be bound by so early a mis- 
 take. I thought only of expressing my resolve to be 
 free. 
 
 '• How I was repulsed, how disappointed, you know, 
 or could divine if you did not know ; for all but me have 
 been trained to bear the burden from their youth up, 
 18^ 
 
210 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and accustomed to have the individual will fettered for 
 the advantige of society. For the same reason, you can- 
 not guess the silent fury that filled my mind when I at 
 last found that I had struggled in vain, and that I must 
 remain in the bondage that I had ignorantly put on. 
 
 " My affections were totally alienated from my family, 
 for I felt they had known what I had not, and had 
 neither put me on my guard, nor warned me against pre- 
 cipitation whose consequences must be fatal. I saw, 
 indeed, that they did not look on life as I did, and could 
 be content without being happy ; but this observation 
 was far from making me love them more. I felt alone, 
 bitterly, contemptuously alone. I hated men who had 
 made the laws that bound me. I did not believe in God ; 
 for why had He permitted the dart to enter so unprepared 
 a breast ? I determined never to submit, though I dis- 
 dained to struggle, since struggle was in vain. In pass- 
 ive, lonely wretchedness I would pass my days. I 
 would not feign what I did not feel, nor take the hand 
 which had poisoned for me the cup of life before I had 
 sipped the first drops. 
 
 "A friend — the only one I have ever known — 
 taught me other thoughts. She taught me that others, 
 perhaps all others, were victims, as much as myself 
 She taught me that if all the wrecked submitted to be 
 drowned, the world would be a desert. She taught me 
 to pity others, even those I myself was paining; for 
 she showed me that they had sinned in ignorance, and 
 that I had no right to make them suffer so long as I 
 
AGLAX7R0N AND LAURIE. 211 
 
 myself di i, merely because they were the authors of my 
 suffering. 
 
 " She showed me, by her own pure example, what 
 were Duty and Benevolence and Employment to the 
 soul, even when baffled and sickened in its dearest 
 wishes. That example was not wholly lost : I freed my 
 parents, at least, from their pain, and, without falsehood, 
 became less cruel and more calm. 
 
 "Yet the kindness, the calmness, have never gone 
 deep. I have been forced to live out of myself ; and life, 
 busy or idle, is still most bitter to the homeless heart. 
 I cannot be like Almeria ; I am more ardent ; and, 
 Aglauron, you see now I might be happy." 
 
 She looked towards Y . I followed her eye, and 
 
 was well-nigh melted too by the beauty of his gaze. 
 
 " The question in my mind is," she resumed, '' have 
 I not a right to fly ? To leave this vacant life, and a 
 tie which, but for worldly circumstances, presses as heav- 
 ily on L as on myself I shall mortify him ; but 
 
 that is a trifle compared with actual misery. I shall 
 grieve my parents ; but, were they truly such, would 
 they not grieve still more that I must reject the life of 
 mutual love ? I have already sacrificed enough ; shall I 
 sacrifice the happiness of one I could really bless for 
 those who do not know one native heart-beat of my 
 life?" 
 
 V kissed her hand. 
 
 " And yet," said she, sighing, " it does not always 
 look so. We must, in that case, leave the world ; it will 
 not tolerate us. Can I make V happy in solitude ? 
 
212 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 And what would Almeria think ? Often it seems that 
 she would feel that now I do love, and could make a 
 green spot in the desert of life over which she mourned, 
 she would rejoice to have me do so. Then, again, 
 something whispers she might have objections to make ; 
 and I wish — 0, I long to know them ! For I feel 
 that this is the great crisis of my life, and that if I do 
 not act wisely, now that I have thought and felt, it will 
 be unpardonable. In my first error I was ignorant 
 what I wished, but now I know, and ought not to be 
 weak or deluded." 
 
 I said, " Have you no religious scruples ? Do you 
 never think of your vow as sacred? " 
 
 " Never ! " she replied, with flashing eyes. " Shall 
 the woman be bound by the folly of the child ? No ! — 
 
 I have never once considered myself as L 's wife. If 
 
 I have lived in his house, it was to make the best of 
 what was left, as Almeria advised. But what I feel he 
 knows perfectly. I have never deceived him. But ! 
 I hazard all ! all ! and should I be again ignorant, again 
 deceived " — — 
 
 V here poured forth all that can be imagined. 
 
 I rose : '' Emily, this case seems to me so extraordi- 
 nary that I must have time to think. You shall hear 
 from me. I shall certainly give you my best advice, 
 and I trust you will not over-value it." 
 
 '' I am sure," she said, " it will be of use to me, and 
 
 will enable me to decide what I shall do. V , now 
 
 go away with Aglauron • it is too late for you to stay 
 here." 
 
AGLAURON AND LAURIE. 213 
 
 I do not know if I have made obvious, in this account, 
 what struck me most in the interview, — a certain sav- 
 age force in the character of this beautiful woman, quite 
 independent of the reasoning power. I saw that, as she 
 could give no account of the past, except that she saw it 
 was fit, or saw it was not, so she must be dealt with 
 now by a strong instalment made bj another from his 
 own point of view, which she would accept or not, as 
 suited her. 
 
 There are some such characters, which, like plants, 
 stretch upwards to the light ; they accept what nourishes, 
 they reject what injures them. They die if wounded, — 
 blossom if fortunate ; but never learn to analyze all 
 this, or find its reasons ; but, if they tell their story, it 
 is in Emily's way ; — ''it was so ; " "I found it so." 
 
 I talked with Y , and found him, as I expected, 
 
 not the peer of her he loved, except in love. His pas- 
 sion was at its height. Better acquainted with the world 
 than Emily, — not because he had seen it more, but 
 because he had the elements of the citizen in him, — he 
 had been at first equally emboldened and surprised by the 
 ease with which he won her to listen to his suit. But 
 he was soon still more surprised to find that she would 
 only listen. She had no regard for her position in 
 society as a married woman, — none for her vow. She 
 frankly confessed her love, so far as it went, but doubted 
 as to whether it was her whole love^ and doubted still 
 
 more her right to leave L , since she had returned 
 
 to him, and could not break the bond so entirely as to 
 give them firm foot-hold in the world. 
 
214 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 " I may make you unhappy," she said, " and then be 
 unhappy myself; these laws, this society, are so strange, 
 I can make nothing of them. In music I am at home. 
 Why is not all life music ? We instantly know when 
 we are going wrong there. Convince me it is for the 
 best, and I will go with you at once. But now it seems 
 wrong, unwise, scarcely better than to stay as we are. 
 We must go secretly, must live obscurely in a corner. 
 That I cannot bear, — all is wrong yet. Why am I not 
 at liberty to declare unblushingly to all men that I will 
 leave the man whom I do not love, and go with him I 
 do love? That is the only way that would suit me, — I 
 cannot see clearly to take any other course." 
 
 I found y had no scruples of conscience, any 
 
 more than herself He was wholly absorbed in his pas- 
 sion, and his only wish was to persuade her to elope, that 
 a divorce might follow, and she be all his own. 
 
 I took my part. I wrote next day to Emily. I told 
 her that my view must differ from hers in this : that I 
 had, from early impressions, a feeling of the sanctity of 
 the marriage vow. It was not to me a measure intended 
 merely to insure the happiness of two individuals, but 
 a solemn obligation, which, whether it led to happiness 
 or not, was a means of bringing home to the mind 
 the great idea of Duty, the understanding of which, and 
 not happiness, seemed to be the end of life. Life looked 
 not clear to me otherwise. I entreated her to separate 
 
 herself from V for a year, before doing anything 
 
 decisive ; she could then look at the subject from other 
 points of view, and see the bearing on mankind as well 
 
AGLAUEON AND LAURIE. 215 
 
 as on herself alone. If she still found that happiness 
 
 and y were her chief objects, she might be more 
 
 sure of herself after such a trial. I was careful not to 
 add one word of persuasion or exhortation, except that I 
 recommended her to the enlightening love of the Father 
 of our spirits. 
 
 Laurie. With or without persuasion, your advice had 
 small chance, I fear, of being followed. 
 
 Aglaiiron. You err. Next day V — — departed. 
 Emily, with a calm brow and earnest eyes, devoted her- 
 self to thought, and such reading as I suggested. 
 
 Laurie. And the result ? 
 
 Aglauron. I grieve not to be able to point my tale 
 with the expected moral, though perhaps the true 
 
 denouement may lead to one as valuable. L died 
 
 within the year, and she married Y . 
 
 Laurie. And the result ? 
 
 Aglauron. Is for the present utter disappointment in 
 him. She was infinitely blest, for a time, in his devo- 
 tion, but presently her strong nature found him too 
 much hers, and too little his own. He satisfied her as 
 
 little as L had done, though always lovely and dear. 
 
 She saw with keen anguish, though this time without 
 bitterness, that we are never wise enough to be sure any 
 measure will fulfil our expectations. 
 
 But — I know not how it is — Emily does not yet com- 
 mand the changes of destiny which she feels so keenly 
 and faces so boldly. Born to be happy only in the clear 
 light of religious thought, she still seeks happiness else- 
 where. She is now a mother, and all other thoughts 
 
216 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 are merged in that. But she will not long be permitted 
 to abide there. One more pang, and I look to see her find 
 her central point, from which all the paths she has taken 
 lead. She loves truth so ardently, though as yet only 
 in detail, that she will yet know truth as a whole. She 
 
 will see that she does not live for Emily, or for V , 
 
 or for her child, but as one link in a divine purpose. 
 Her large nature must at last serve knowingly. 
 
 Myself. I cannot understand you, Aglauron ; I do 
 not guess the scope of your story, nor sympathize with 
 your feeling about this lady. She is a strange, and, I 
 think, very unattractive person. I think her beauty 
 must have fascinated you. Her character seems very 
 inconsistent. 
 
 Aglauron. Because I have drawn from life. 
 
 Myself. But, surely, there should be a harmony 
 somewhere. 
 
 Aglauron. Could we but get the right point of view. 
 
 Laurie. And where is that ? 
 
 He pointed to the sun, just sinking behind the pine- 
 grove. We mounted and rode home without a word 
 more. But I do not understand Aglauron yet, nor what 
 he expects from this Emily. Yet her character, though 
 almost featureless at first, gains distinctness as I think 
 of it more. Perhaps in this life I shall find its key. 
 
THE WRONGS OF AMERICAN WOMEN. THE 
 DUTY OF AMERICAN WOMEN. 
 
 The same day brought us a copy of Mr. Burdett's 
 little book, — in which the sufferings and difficulties that 
 beset the large class of women who must earn their 
 subsistence in a city like New York, are delineated with 
 BO much simplicity, feeling, and exact adherence to the 
 facts, — and a printed circular, containing proposals for 
 immediate practical adoption of the plan more fully 
 described in a book published some weeks since, under 
 the title, " The Duty of American Women to their Coun- 
 try," which was ascribed alternately to Mrs. Stowe and 
 Miss Catharine Beecher. The two matters seemed 
 linked to one another by natural parity. Full acquaint- 
 ance with the wrong must call forth all manner of 
 inventions for its redress. 
 
 The circular, in showing the vast want that already 
 exists of good means for instructing the children of this 
 nation, especially in the West, states also the belief that 
 among women, as being less immersed in other cares and 
 toils, from the preparation it gives for their task as 
 mothers, and from the necessity in which a great propor- 
 tion stand of earning a subsistence somehow, at least 
 during the years which precede marriage, if they do 
 19 
 
218 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 marry, must the number of teachers wanted be found, 
 TFhich is estimated already at sixty thousand. 
 
 We cordially sympathize with these views. 
 
 Much has been written about woman's keeping within 
 her sphere, which js defined as the domestic sphere. As 
 a little girl she is to learn the lighter family duties, 
 while she acquires that limited acquaintance with the 
 realm of literature and science that will enable her tc 
 superintend the instruction of children in their earliest 
 years. It is not generally proposed that she should be 
 sufficiently instructed and developed to understand the 
 pursuits or aims of her future husband ; she is not to be 
 a help-meet to him in the way of companionship and 
 counsel, except in the care of his house and children. 
 Her youth is to be passed partly in learning to keep 
 house and the use of the needle, partly in the social 
 circle, where her manners may be formed, ornamental 
 accomplishments perfected and displayed, and the hus- 
 band found who shall give her the domestic sphere for 
 which she is exclusively to be prepared. 
 
 Were the destiny of Woman thus exactly marked out ; 
 did she invariably retain the shelter of a parent's or 
 guardian's roof till she married ; did marriage give her a 
 sure home and protector ; were she never liable to remain 
 a widow, or, if so, sure of finding immediate protection 
 from a brother or new husband, so that she might never 
 be forced to stand alone one moment ; and were her mind 
 givQQ for this world only, with no faculties capable of 
 eternal growth and infinite improvement ; we would still 
 demand for her a far wider and more generous culture, 
 
AMERICAN WOMEN. 219 
 
 than is proposed by those who so anxiously define her 
 sphere. We would demand it that she might not igno- 
 rantly or frivolously thwart the designs of her husband ; 
 that she might be the respected friend of her sons, not 
 less than of her daughters ; that she might give more 
 refinement, elevation and attraction, to the society which 
 is needed to give the characters of rtieu polish and plas- 
 ticity, — no less so than to save them from vicious and 
 sensual habits. But the most fastidious critic on the 
 departure of Woman from her sphere can scarcely fail to 
 see, at present, that a vast proportion of the sex, if not 
 the better half, do not, cannot have this domestic sphere. 
 Thousands and scores of thousands in this country, no less 
 than in Europe, are obliged to maintain themselves alone. 
 Far greater numbers divide with their husbands the care 
 of earning a support for the family. In England, now, 
 the progress of society has reached so admirable a pitch, 
 that the position of the sexes is frequently reversed, and 
 the husband is obliged to stay at home and '' mind the 
 house and bairns," while the wife goes forth to the em- 
 ployment she alone can secure. 
 
 We readily admit that the picture of this is most pain- 
 ful ; — that Nature made an entirely opposite distribution 
 of functions between the sexes. We believe the natural 
 order to be the best, and that, if it could be followed in 
 an enlightened spirit, it would bring to Woman all she 
 wants, no less for her immortal than her mortal destiny. 
 We are not surprised that men who do not look deeply 
 and carefully at causes and tendencies, should be led, by 
 disgust at the hardened, hackneyed characters which 
 
220 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 the present stato of things too often produces in women, 
 to such conclusions as they are. We, no more than 
 thej, delight in the picture of the poor woman digging 
 in the mines in her husband's clothes. We, no more 
 than they, delight to hear their voices shrilly raised in 
 the market-place, whether of apples, or of celebrity. 
 But we see that at present they must do as they do for 
 bread. Hundreds and thousands must step out of that 
 hallowed domestic sphere, with no choice but to work or 
 steal, or belong to men, not as wives, but as the wretched 
 slaves of sensuality. 
 
 And this transition state, with all its revolting features, 
 indicates, we do believe, an approach of a nobler era than 
 the world has yet known. We trust that by the stress 
 and emergencies of the present and coming time the minds 
 of women will be formed to more reflection and higher 
 purposes than heretofore ; their latent powers developed, 
 their characters strengthened and eventually beautified 
 and harmonized. Should the state of society then be 
 such that each may remain, as Nature seems to have in- 
 tended, Woman the tutelary genius of home, while Man 
 manages the out-door business of life, both may be done 
 with a "wisdom, a mutual understanding and respect, un- 
 known at present. Men will be no less gainers by this 
 than women, finding in pure and more religious marriages 
 the joys of friendship and love combined, — in their 
 mothers and daughters better instruction, sweeter and 
 nobler companionship, and in society at large, an excite- 
 ment to their finer powers and feelings unknown at 
 present, except in the region of the fine arts. 
 
AMERICAN WOMEN. 221 
 
 Blest be the generous, the wise, who seek to forward 
 hopes like these, instead of struggling, against the fiat of 
 Providence and the march of Fate, to bind down rushing 
 life to the standard of the past ! Such efibrts are vain, 
 but those who make them are unhappy and unwise. 
 
 It is not, however, to such that we address ourselves, 
 but to those who seek to make the best of things as they 
 are, while they also strive to make them better. Such 
 persons will have seen enough of the state of things in 
 London, Paris, New York, and manufacturing regions 
 everywhere, to feel that there is an imperative necessity 
 for opening more avenues of employment to women, and 
 fitting them better to enter them, rather than keeping 
 them back. 
 
 Women have invaded many of the trades and some of 
 the professions. Sewing, to the present killing extent, 
 they cannot long bear. Factories seem likely to afibrd 
 them permanent employment. In the culture of fruit, 
 flowers, and vegetables, even in the sale of them, we re- 
 joice to see them engaged. In domestic service they will 
 be aided, but can never be supplanted, by machinery. 
 As much room as there is here for Woman's mind and 
 Woman's labor, will always be filled. A few have usurped 
 the martial province, but these must always be few ; the 
 nature of Woman is opposed to war. It is natural enough 
 to see "female physicians," and we believe that the lace 
 HJap and work-bag are as muchat home here as the wig 
 and gold-headed cane. In the priesthood, they have, 
 from all time, shared more or less — in many eras more 
 than at the present. We believe there has been no 
 19* 
 
222 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 female lawyer, and probably will be none. The pen, 
 many of the fine arts, they have made their own ; and in 
 the more refined countries of the world, as writers, as 
 musicians, as painters, as actors, women occupy as advan- 
 tageous ground as men. Writing and music may be 
 esteemed professions for them more than any other. 
 
 But there are two others — where the demand must 
 invariably be immense, and for which they are naturally 
 better fitted than men — for which we should like to see 
 them better prepared and better rewarded than they are. 
 These are the professions of nurse to the sickj^ and of the 
 teacher. The first of these professions we have warmly 
 desired to see dignified. It is a noble one, now most 
 unjustly regarded in the light of menial service. It is 
 one which no menial, no servile nature can fitly occupy. 
 We were rejoiced when an intelligent lady of Massachu- 
 setts made the refined heroine of a little romance select 
 this calling. This lady (Mrs. George Lee) has looked 
 on society with unusual largeness of spirit and healthiness 
 of temper. She is well acquainted Avith the world of 
 conventions, but sees beneath it the world of nature. She 
 is a generous writer, and unpretending as the generous 
 are wont to be. We do not recall the name of the tale, 
 but the circumstance above mentioned marks its temper. 
 We hope to see the time when the refined and cultivated 
 will choose this profession, and learn it, not only through 
 experience and under the direction of the doctor, but by 
 acquainting themselves with the laws of matter and of 
 mind, so that all they do shall be intelligently done, and 
 afford them the means of developing intelligence, as well 
 
AMEKICAN WOMEN. 223 
 
 as the nobler, tenderer feelings of humanity ; for even 
 this last part of the benefit they cannot receive if their 
 work be done in a selfish or mercenary spirit. 
 
 The other profession is that of teacher, for which wo- 
 men are peculiarly adapted by their nature, superiority 
 in tact, quickness of sympathy, gentleness, patience, and 
 a clear and animated manner in narration or description. 
 To form a good teacher, should be added to this, sincere 
 modesty combined with firmness, liberal views, with a 
 power and will to liberalize them still further, a good 
 method, and habits of exact and thorough investigation. 
 In the two last requisites women are generally deficient, 
 but there are now many shining examples to prove that 
 if they are immethodical and superficial as teachers, it is 
 because it is the custom so to teach them, and that when 
 aware of these faults, they can and will correct them. 
 
 The profession is of itself an excellent one for the im- 
 provement of the teacher during that interim between 
 youth and maturity when the mind needs testing, temper- 
 ing, and to review and rearrange the knowledge it has 
 acquired. The natural method of doing this for one's self, 
 is to attempt teaching others ; those years also are the 
 best of the practical teacher. The teacher should be near 
 the pupil, both in years and feelings ; no oracle, but the 
 eldest brother or sister of the pupil. More experience 
 and years form the lecturer and director of studies, but 
 injure the powers as to familiar teaching. 
 
 These are just the years of leisure in the lives even of 
 those wom'^n who are to enter the domestic sphere, and 
 
224 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 this calling most of all compatible with a constant prog- 
 ress as to qualifications for that. 
 
 Viewing the matter thus, it may well be seen that we 
 should hail with joj the assurance that sixty thousand 
 female teachers are wanted, and more likely to be, and 
 that a plan is projected which looks wise, liberal and 
 generous, to afford the means, to those whose hearts 
 answer to this high calling, of obeying their dictates. 
 
 The plan is to have Cincinnati as a central point, 
 where teachers shall be for a short time received, exam- 
 ined, and prepared for their duties. By mutual agree- 
 ment and cooperation of the various sects, funds are to be 
 raised, and teachers provided, according to the wants and 
 tendencies of the various locations now destitute. What 
 is to be done for them centrally, is for suitable persons to 
 examine into the various kinds of fitness, communicate 
 some general views whose value has been tested, and 
 counsel adapted to the difficulties and advantages of their 
 new positions. The central committee are to have the 
 charge of raising funds, and finding teachers, and places 
 where teachers are wanted. 
 
 The passage of thoughts, teachers and funds, will be 
 from East to West — the course of sunlight upon this 
 earth. 
 
 The plan is offered as the most extensive and pliant 
 means of doing a good and preventing ill to this nation, 
 by means of a national education, whose normal school 
 shall have an invariable object in the search after truth, 
 and the diffusion of the means of knowledge, while its 
 form shall be plastic according to the wants of the time. 
 
AMERICAN WOMEN. 225 
 
 This normal ajhool promises to have good effects, for 
 it proposes worthy aims through simple means, and the 
 motive for its formation and support seems to be disin- 
 terested philanthropy. 
 
 It promises to eschew the bitter spirit of sectarianism 
 and proselytism, else we, for one party, could have 
 nothing to do with it. Men, no doubt, have oftentimes 
 been kept from absolute famine by the wheat with which 
 such tares are mingled ; but we believe the time is come 
 when a purer and more generous food is to be offered to 
 the people at large. We believe the aim of all education 
 to be to rouse the mind to action, show it the means of 
 discipline and of information ; then leave it free, with 
 God, Conscience, and the love of Truth, for its guardians 
 and teachers. Woe be to those who sacrifice these aims 
 of universal and eternal value to the propagation of a set 
 of opinions ! We can accept such doctrine as is offered 
 by Rev. Calvin E. Stowe, one of the committee, in the 
 following passage : 
 
 ''In judicious practice, I am persuaded there will 
 seldom be any very great difficulty, especially if there be 
 excited in the community anything like a whole-hearted 
 and enlightened sincerity in the cause of public instruc- 
 tion. 
 
 " It is all right for people to suit their own taste and 
 convictions in respect to sect ; and by fair means, and at 
 proper times, to teach their children and those under 
 their influence to prefer the denominations which they 
 prefer ; but further than this no one has any right to go. 
 It is all wrong to hazard the well-being of the soul, to 
 
226 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 jeopardize great public interests for the sake of advancing 
 the interests of a sect. People must learn to practise 
 some self-denial, on Christian principles, in respect to 
 their denominational prejudices as well as in respect to 
 other things, before pure religion can ever gain a com- 
 plete victory over every form of human selfishness." 
 
 The persons who propose themselves to the examina- 
 tion and instruction of the teachers at Cincinnati, till the 
 plan shall be sufficiently under way to provide regu- 
 larly for the office, are Mrs. Stowe and Miss Catharine 
 Beecher, ladies well known to fame, as possessing unu- 
 sual qualifications for the task. 
 
 As to finding abundance of teachers, who that reads 
 this little book of Mr. Burdett's, or the account of the 
 compensation of female labor in New York, and the 
 hopeless, comfortless, useless, pernicious lives of those 
 who have even the advantage of getting work must lead, 
 with the sufferings and almost inevitable degradation to 
 which those who cannot are exposed, but must long to 
 snatch such as are capable of this better profession (and 
 among the multitude there must be many who are or could 
 be made so) from their present toils, and make them 
 free, and the means of freedom and growth in others ? 
 
 To many books on such subjects — among others to 
 ''Woman in the Nineteenth Century " — the objection 
 has been made, that they exhibit ills without specifying 
 any practical means for their remedy. The writer of the 
 last-named essay does indeed think that it contains one 
 great rule which, if laid to heart, would prove a practi- 
 cal remedy for many ills, and of such daily and hourly 
 
AMERICAN WOMEN. 227 
 
 efficacy in the conduct of life, that any extensive observ- 
 ance of it for a single year would perceptibly raise the 
 tone of thought, feeling and conduct, throughout the civ- 
 ilized world. But to those who ask not only such a prin- 
 ciple, but an external method for immediate use, we say 
 that here is one proposed which looks noble and promis- 
 ing; the proposers offer themselves to the work" with 
 heart and hand, with time and purse. Go ye and" do 
 likewise. 
 
 2* 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 When I first knew George Sand, I thought to have 
 found tried the experiment I wanted. I did not value 
 Bettine so much. She had not pride enough for me. 
 Only now, when I am sure of myself, can I pour out my 
 soul at the feet of another. In the assured soul it is 
 kingly prodigality; in one which cannot forbear it is 
 mere babyhood. I love '' abandon" only when natures 
 are capable of the extreme reverse. I knew Bettine 
 w^ould end in nothing ; when I read her book I knew 
 she could not outlive her love. 
 
 But in '■^ Les Sept Cordes de la Lyre^'' which I read 
 first, I saw the knowledge of the passions and of social 
 institutions, with the celestial choice which rose above 
 them. I loved Helene, w^ho could hear so well the 
 terrene voices, yet keep her eye fixed on the stars. That 
 would be my wish also. — to know all, and then choose. 
 I even revered her, for I was not sure that I could have 
 resisted the call of the now ; could have left the spirit 
 and gone to God ; and at a more ambitious age I could 
 not have refused the philosopher. But I hoped much 
 from her steadfastness, and I thought I heard the last 
 tones of a purified life. Gretchen, in the golden cloud, 
 is raised above all past delusions, worthy to redeem and 
 
GEORGE SAND. 229 
 
 upbear the wise man who stumbled into the pit of error 
 while searching for truth. 
 
 Still, in •' Andre " and " Jacques," I trace the same 
 high morality of one who had tried the liberty of circum- 
 stance only to learn to appreciate the liberty of law ; — 
 to know that license is the foe of freedom ; and, though 
 the sophistry of Passion in these books disgusted me, 
 flowers of purest hue seemed to grow upon the dark and 
 dirty ground. I thought she had cast aside the slough 
 of her past life, and begun a new existence beneath the 
 sun of a new ideal. 
 
 But here, in the " Lettres dun Voyageur^^^ what do 
 I see ? An unfortunate, wailing her loneliness, wailing 
 her mistakes, writing for money ! She has genius, and 
 a manly grasp of mind, but not a manly heart. Will 
 there never be a being to combine a man's mind and a 
 woman's heart, and who yet finds life too rich to weep 
 over ? Never ? 
 
 When I read in " Leon Leoni " the account of the 
 jeweller's daughter's life with her mother, passed in 
 dressing, and learning to be looked at when dressed, 
 
 ^^avec un front impassible^'''' it reminded me of and 
 
 her mother. What a heroine she would be for Sand ! 
 She has the same fearless softness with Juliet, and a 
 sportive na'iveti^ a mixture of bird and kitten, unknown 
 to the dupe of Leoni. 
 
 If I were a man, and washed a wife, as many do, 
 
 merely as an ornament, a silken toy, I would take 
 
 as soon as any I know. Her fantastic, impassioned and 
 mutable nature would yield an inexhaustible amusement. 
 20 
 
230 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 She is capable of the most romantic actions, — wild as the 
 falcon, voluptuous as the tuberose ; jet she has not in 
 her the elements of romance, like a deeper or less suscep- 
 tible nature. My cold and reasoning , with her one 
 
 love lying, perhaps never to be unfolded, beneath such 
 sheaths of pride and reserve, would make a far better 
 heroine. 
 
 and her mother diifer from Juliet and her 
 
 mother by the impulse a single strong character gave 
 them. Even at this distance of time there is a light 
 but perceptible taste of iron in the water. 
 
 George Sand disappoints me, as almost all beings do, 
 especially since I have been brought close to her person 
 by the " Lettres d'un YoyageurP Her remarks on 
 Lavater seem really shallow, a la mode du genre feni- 
 inin. No self-ruling Aspasia she, but a frail woman^ 
 mourning over her lot. Any peculiarity in her destiny 
 seems accidental ; she is forced to this and to that to earn 
 her bread, forsooth ! 
 
 Yet her style — with what a deeply smouldering fire 
 it burns ! Not vehement, but intense, like Jean Jacques. 
 
FROM A NOTICE OF GEORGE SAND. 
 
 It is probably known to a great proportion of readers 
 that this writer is a woman, who writes under the name, 
 and frequently assumes the dress and manners, of a 
 man. It is also known that she has not only broken 
 the marriage-bond, and, since that, formed other connec- 
 tions, independent of the civil and ecclesiastical sanction, 
 but that she first rose into notice through works which 
 systematically assailed the present institution of mar- 
 riage, and the social bonds which are connected with it. 
 
 No facts are more adapted to startle every feeling of 
 our community : but, since the works of Sand are read 
 here, notwithstanding, and cannot fail to be so while 
 they exert so important an influence abroad, it would be 
 well they should be read intelligently, as to the circum- 
 stances of their birth and their tendency. 
 
 George Sand we esteem to be a person of strong pas- 
 sions, but of original nobleness and a love of right sufii- 
 cient to guide them all to the service of worthy aims. But 
 she fell upon evil times. She was given in marriage, ac- 
 cording to the fashion of the old regime ; she was taken 
 from a convent, where she had heard a great deal about the 
 law of God and the example of Jesus, into a society 
 where no vice was proscribed, if it would only wear the 
 
232 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 cl >ak of hypocrisy. She found herself impatient of decep- 
 tion, and loudly appealed to by passion ; she yielded, but 
 she could not do so, as others did, sinning against T^hat 
 she owned to be the rule of right and the will of Heaven. 
 She protested, she examined, she " hacked into the roots 
 of things," and the bold sound of her axe called around her 
 every foe that finds a home amid the growths of civiliza- 
 tion. Still she persisted. '' If it be real," thought she, 
 '• it cannot be destroyed ; as to what is false, the sooner 
 it goes the better ; and I, for one, would rather perish 
 by its fall, than wither in its shade." 
 
 Schiller puts into the mouth of Mary Stua;rt these 
 words, as her only plea : " The world knows the worst 
 of me, and I may boast that, though I have erred, I am 
 better than my reputation." Sand may say the same. 
 All is open, noble ; the free descriptions, the soph- 
 istry of passion, are, at least, redeemed by a desire for 
 truth as strong as ever beat in any heart. To the weak 
 or unthinking, the reading of such books may not be 
 desirable, for only those who take exercise as men can 
 digest strong meat. But to any one able to understand 
 the position and circumstances, we believe this reading 
 cannot fail of bringing good impulses, valuable sugges- 
 tions ; and it is quite free from that subtle miasma which 
 taints so large a portion of French literature, not less 
 since the Revolution than before. This we say to the 
 foreign reader. To her own country, Sand is a boon 
 precious and prized, both as a warning and a leader, for 
 which none there can be ungrateful. She has dared to 
 probe its festering wounds ; and if they be not past all 
 
GEORGE SAND. 233 
 
 surgery, she is one who, most of any, helps towards a 
 cure. 
 
 Would, indeed, the surgeon had come with quite 
 clean hands ' A woman of Sand's genius — as free, as 
 bold, and pure from even the suspicion of error — might 
 have filled an apostolic station among her people. The7i 
 with what force had come her cry, " If it be false, give it 
 up ; but if it be true, keep to it, — one or the other ! " 
 
 But we have read all we wish to say upon this subject 
 lately uttered just from the quarter we could wish. It 
 is such a woman, so unblemished in character, so high in 
 aim, so pure in soul, that should address this other, as 
 noble in nature, but clouded by error, and struggling 
 with circumstances. It is such women that will do such 
 others justice. They are not afraid to look for virtue, 
 and reply to aspiration, among those who have not dwelt 
 " in decencies forever." It is a source of pride and hap- 
 piness to read this address from the heart of Elizabeth 
 Barrett : — 
 
 TO GEORGE SAND. 
 
 A DESIRE. 
 
 Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man, 
 Self-called George Sand ! whose soul amid the lions 
 Of thy tumultuous senses moans defiance, 
 And answers roar for roar, as spirits can, — 
 I would some wild, miraculous thunder ran 
 Above the applauding circus, in appliance 
 Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science. 
 Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan. 
 From the strong shoulders, to amaze the place 
 With holier light ! That thou, to woman's claim^ 
 
 20* 
 
234 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 And man's, might join, beside, the angel's grace 
 Of a pure genius, sanctified from blame. 
 
 Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace, 
 To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame ! 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 A RECOGNITION. 
 
 True genius, but true woman ! dost deny 
 
 Thy woman's nature with a manly scorn, 
 
 And break away the gauds and armlets worn 
 By weaker woman in captivity ? 
 Ah, vain denial ! that revolted cry 
 Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn : — 
 Thy woman's hair, my sister ! all unshorn, 
 
 Floats back dishevelled strength in agony. 
 Disproving thy man's name ; and while before 
 
 The world thou burnest in a poet-fire. 
 We see thy woman-heart beat evermore 
 
 Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart ! and higher, 
 Till God unsex thee on the spirit-shore. 
 
 To which, alone unsexing, purely aspire ! 
 
 This last sonnet seems to have been written after see- 
 ing the picture of Sand, which represents her in a man's 
 dress, but with long, loose hair, and an eye whose mourn- 
 ful fire is impressive, even in the caricatures. 
 
 For some years Sand has quitted her post of assail- 
 ant. She has seen that it is better to seek some form of 
 life worthy to supersede the old, than rudely to destroy 
 it, heedless of the future. Her force is bending towards 
 philanthropic measures. She does not appear to possess 
 much of the constructive faculty ; and, though her writ- 
 ings command a great pecuniary compensation, and have 
 
GEORGE SAND. 235 
 
 a wide sway, it is rather for their tendency than for their 
 thought. She has reached no commanding point of view 
 from which she may give orders to the advanced corps. 
 She is still at work with others in the breach, though she 
 works with more force than almost any. 
 
 In power, indeed. Sand bears the palm above all other 
 French novelists. She is vigorous in conception, often 
 great in the apprehension and the contrast of characters. 
 She knows passion, as has been hinted, at a white heat, 
 when all the lower particles are remoulded by its power. 
 Her descriptive talent is very great, and her poetic feel- 
 ing exquisite. She wants but little of being a poet, but 
 that little is indispensable. Yet she keeps us always 
 hovering on the borders of enchanted fields. She has, to 
 a signal degree, that power of exact transcript from her 
 own mind, in which almost all writers fail. There is no 
 veil, no half-plastic integument between us and the 
 thought ; we vibrate perfectly with it. 
 
 This is her chief charm, and next to it is one in which 
 we know no French writer that resembles her, except 
 Rousseau, though he, indeed, is vastly her superior in it ; 
 that is, of concentrated glow. Her nature glows beneath 
 the words, like fire beneath ashes, — deep, deep ! 
 
 Her best works are unequal ; in many parts written 
 hastily, or carelessly, or with flagging spirits. They all 
 promise far more than they can perform ; the work is not 
 done masterly ; she has not reached that point where a 
 writer sits at the helm of his own genius. 
 
 Sometimes she plies the oar, — sometimes she drifts. 
 But what greatness she has is genuine ; there is no tinsel 
 
236 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of any kind, no drapery carefully adjusted, no chosen 
 gesture about her. May Heaven lead her, at last, to the 
 full possession of her best self, in harmony with the 
 higher laws of life ! 
 
 We are not acquainted with all her works, but among 
 those we know, mention " La Roche Maupart^^^ 
 " AndH^^^ " Jacques^''^ " Les Sept Cordes de la Lyre^^^ 
 and " Les Maiti^es Mosaistes,^^ as representing her 
 higher inspirations, her sincerity in expression, and her 
 dramatic powers. They are full of faults ; still they show 
 her scope and aim with some fairness, which such of her 
 readers as chance first on such of her books as " Leone 
 Leoni " may fail to find ; or even such as " Si?non,^^ and 
 ^' Spiridio?i,^^ though into the imperfect web of these are 
 woven threads of pure gold. Such is the first impression 
 made by the girl Fiamma. so noble, as she appears before 
 us with the words ^^ E Vo7iore ;^^ such the thought in 
 Splridion of making the apparition the reward of virtue. 
 
 The work she is now publishing, " Consitelo,^^ with its 
 sequel, '■'' Baroness de Riidolstadt^''^ exhibits her genius 
 poised on a firmer pedestal, breathing a serener air. Still 
 it is faulty in conduct, and shows some obliquity of 
 vision. She has not reached the Interpreter's house yet. 
 But when she does, she will have clues to guide many a 
 pilgrim, whom one less tried, less tempted than herself 
 could not help on the way. 
 
PROM A CRITICISM ON "CONSUELO." 
 
 * ^ * * *. The work itself cannot fail of innumer- 
 able readers, and a great influence, for it counts many of 
 the most significant pulse-beats of the time. Apart from 
 its range of character and fine descriptions, it records 
 some of the mystical apparitions, and attempts to solve 
 some of the problems of the time. How to combine the 
 benefits of the religious life with those of the artist-life 
 in an existence more simple, more full, more human in 
 short, than either of the two hitherto known by these 
 names has been, — this problem is but poorly solved in 
 the " Countess of Rudolstadt," the sequel to Consuelo. 
 It is true, as the English reviewer says, that George 
 Sand is a far better poet than philosopher, and that the 
 chief use she can be of in these matters is, by her great 
 range of observation and fine intuitions, to help to de- 
 velop the thoughts of the time adittle way further. But 
 the sincerity, the reality of all he can obtain from this 
 writer will be highly valued by the earnest man. 
 
 In one respect the book is entirely successful — in show- 
 ing how inward purity and honor may preserve a woman 
 from bewilderment and danger, and secure her a genuine 
 independence. Whoever aims at this is still considered, 
 by unthinking or prejudiced minds, as wishing to despoil 
 the female chai*acter of its natural and peculiar loveliness. 
 
238 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 It is supposed that delicacy must imply weakness, and 
 that only 3n Amazon can stand upright, and have suf- 
 ficient command of her faculties to confront the shock of 
 adversity, or resist the allurements of tenderness. Miss 
 Bremer, Dumas, and the northern novelist, Andersen, 
 make women who have a tendency to the intellectual life 
 of an artist fail, and suffer the penalties of arrogant 
 presumption, in the very first steps of a career to which 
 an inward vocation called them in preference to the usual 
 home duties. Yet nothing is more obvious than that the 
 circumstances of the time do, more and more frequently, 
 call women to such lives, and that, if guardianship is 
 absolutely necessary to women, many must perish for 
 want of it. There is, then, reason to hope that God may 
 be a sufficient guardian to those who dare rely on him ; 
 and if the heroines of the novelists we have named ended 
 as they did, it was for the want of the purity of ambition 
 and simplicity of character which do not permit such as 
 Consuelo to be either unsexed and depraved, or unresist- 
 ing victims and breaking reeds, if left alone in the storm 
 and crowd of life. To many women this picture will 
 prove a true Consuelo (consolation), and we think even 
 very prejudiced men will not read it without being 
 charmed with the expansion, sweetness and genuine force, 
 of a female character, such as they have not met, but 
 must, when painted, recognize as possible, and may be 
 led to review their opinions, and perhaps to elevate and 
 enlarge their hopes, as to " Woman's sphere " and " Wo- 
 man's mission." If such insist on what they have heard 
 of the private life of this writer, and refuse to believe 
 
FROM A CRITICISM ON CONSUELO. 239 
 
 that any good thing can come out of Nazareth^ we reply 
 that we do not know the true facts as to the history of 
 George Sand. There has been no memoir or notice of her 
 published on which any one can rely, and we have seen 
 too much of life to accept the monsters of gossip in 
 reference to any one. But we know, through her works, 
 that, whatever the stains on her life and reputation may 
 have been, there is in her a soul so capable of goodness 
 and honor as to depict them most successfully in her 
 ideal forms. It is her works, and not her private life, 
 that we are considering. Of her works we have mean^ 
 of judging ; of herself, not. But among those who have 
 passed unblamed through the walks of life, we have not 
 often found a nobleness of purpose and feeling, a sincere 
 religious hope, to be compared with the spirit that 
 breathes through the pages of Consuelo. 
 
 The experiences of the artist-life, the grand and 
 penetrating remarks upon music, make the book a 
 precious acquisition to all whose hearts are fashioned to 
 understand such things. 
 
 We suppose that we receive here not only the mind 
 of the writer, but of Liszt, with whom she has publicly 
 corresponded in the '^ Lettres dun Voyageur.''^ None 
 could more avail us, for '' in him also is a spark of the 
 divine fire," as Beethoven said of Ichubert. We may 
 thus consider that we have in this book the benefit of the 
 most electric nature, the finest sensibility, and the bold- 
 est spirit of investigation combined, expressing themselves 
 in a little world of beautiful or picturesque forms. 
 
 Although there are grave problems discussed, and sad 
 
240 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and searching experiences described in this work, jet its 
 spirit is, in the main, hopeful, serene, almost glad. It 
 is the spirit inspired from a near acquaintance with the 
 higher life of art. Seeing there something really 
 achieved and completed, corresponding with the soul's 
 desires, faith is enlivened as to the eventual fulfilment 
 of those desires, and we feel a certainty that the exist- 
 ence which looks at present so marred and fragmentary 
 shall yet end in harmony. The shuttle is at work, and 
 the threads are gradually added that shall bring out the 
 pattern, and prove that what seems at present confusion 
 is really the way and means to order and beauty. 
 
JENNY LIND, 
 
 THE "CONSUELO" OF GEORGE SAND. 
 
 Jenny Lind, the prima donna of Stockholm, is among 
 the most distinguished of those geniuses who have been 
 invited to welcome the queen to Germany. Her name 
 has been unknown among us, as she is still young, and 
 has not wandered much from the scene of her first 
 triumphs ; but many may have seen, last winter, in the 
 foreign papers, an account of her entrance into Stock- 
 holm after an absence of some length. The people 
 received her with loud cries of homage, took the horses 
 from her carriage and drew her home ; a tribute of 
 respect often paid to conquerors and statesmen, but 
 seldom, or, as far as we know, never to the priesthood of 
 the muses, who have conferred the higher benefit of rais- 
 ing, refining and exhilarating, the popular mind. 
 
 An accomplished Swede, now in this country, com- 
 municated to a friend particulars of Jenny Lind's career, 
 which suggested the thought that she might have given 
 the hint for the principal figure in Sand's late famous 
 novel, " Consuelo." 
 
 This work is at present in process of translation in 
 
 '' The Harbinger," a periodical published at Brook Farm, 
 
 Mass. ; but, as this translation has proceeded but a little 
 
 way, and the book in its native tongue is not generally, 
 
 21 
 
242 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 /though It has been extensively, circulated here, we will 
 give a slight sketch of its plan. 
 
 It has been a work of deepest interest to those who 
 / have looked upon Sand for some years back, as one of 
 the best exponents of the difficulties, the errors, the 
 aspirations, the weaknesses, and the regenerative powers 
 f the present epoch. The struggle in her mind and the 
 experiments of her life have been laid bare to the eyes 
 of her fellow-creatures with fearless openness — fearless 
 not shameless. Let no man confound the bold unreserve 
 of Sand with that of those who have lost the feeling of 
 beauty and the love of good. With a bleeding heart and 
 bewildered feet she sought the truth, and if she lost the 
 way, returned as soon as convinced she had done so ; but 
 she would never hide the fact that she had lost it. 
 ''What God knows, I dare avow to man," seems to be 
 her motto. It is impossible not to see in her, not only 
 the distress and doubts of the intellect, but the tempta- 
 tions of a sensual nature ; but we see too the courage of 
 a hero and a deep capacity for religion. This mixed 
 nature, too, fits her peculiarly to speak to men so dis- 
 eased as men are at present. They feel she knows their 
 ailment, and if she find a cure, it will really be by a 
 specific remeiiy, 
 
 An upward tendency and growing light are observable 
 in all her works for several years past, till now, in the 
 present, she has expressed such conclusions as forty 
 years of the most varied experience have brought to one 
 who has shrunk from no kind of discipline, yet still cried 
 to God amid it all ; one who, whatever you may say 
 
JENNY LIND. 243 
 
 against her, you must feel has never accepted a word for 
 a thing, or worn one moment the veil of hypocrisy : and 
 this person one of the most powerful nature, both as to 
 passion and action, and of an ardent, glowing genius. 
 These conclusions are sadly incomplete. There is an 
 amazing alloy in the last product of her crucible, but 
 there is also so much of pure gold that the book is 
 truly a cordial, as its name of Consuelo (consolation) 
 promises. 
 
 The young Consuelo lives as a child the life of a 
 beggar. Her youth is passed in the lowest circumstances 
 of the streets of Venice. She brings the more perti- 
 nacious fire of Spanish blood to be fostered by the cheer- 
 ful airs of Italy. A vague sense of the benefits to be 
 derived, from such mingling of various influences, in the 
 formation of a character, is to be discerned in several 
 works of art now, when men are really wishing to become 
 citizens of the world, though old habits still interfere on 
 every side with so noble a development. 
 
 Nothing can be more charminoj than the first volume, 
 which describes the young girl amid the common life of 
 Yenice. It is sunny, open, and romantic as the place. 
 The beauty of her voice, when a little singing-girl in the 
 streets, arrested the attention of a really great and 
 severe master, Porpora, who educated her to music. In 
 this she finds the vent and the echo for her higher self 
 Her afiections are fixed on a young companion, an 
 unworthy object, but she does not know him to be so. 
 She judges from her own candid soul, that all must be 
 good, and derives from the tie, for a while, the fostering 
 
244 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 influences which love alone has for genius. Clear per- 
 ception follows quickly upon her first triumphs in art. 
 They have given her a rival, and a mean rival, in her 
 betrothed, whose talent, though great, is of an inferior 
 grade to hers ; who is vain, every way impure. Her 
 master, Porpora, tries to avail himself of this disappoint- 
 ment to convince her that the artist ought to devote 
 himself to art alone; that private ties must interfere 
 with his perfection and his glory. But the nature of 
 Consuelo revolts against this doctrine, as it would against 
 the seclusion of a convent. She feels that genius requires 
 manifold experience for its development, and that the 
 mind, concentrated on a single object, is likely to pay by 
 a loss of vital energy for the economy of thoughts and 
 time. 
 
 Driven by these circumstances into Germany, she is 
 brought into contact with the old noblesse, a very dif- 
 ferent, but far less charming, atmosphere than that of the 
 gondoliers of Venice. But here, too, the strong, simple 
 character of our Consuelo is unconstrained, if not at 
 home, and when her heart swells and needs expansion, 
 she can sing. 
 
 Here the Count de Rudolstadt, Albert, loves Consuelo, 
 which seems, in the conduct of the relation, a type of a 
 religious democracy in love with the spirit of art. We 
 do not mean that any such cold abstraction is consciously 
 intended, but all that is said means this. It shadows 
 forth one of the greatest desires which convulse our age. 
 
 A most noble meaning is couched in the history of 
 Albert, and though the writer breaks down under such 
 
JENNY LIND. 245 
 
 great attempts, and the religion and philosophy of the 
 book are clumsily embodied compared with its poesy 
 and rhetoric, yet great and still growing thoughts are 
 expressed with sufficient force to make the book a com- 
 panion of rare value to one in the same phase of mind. 
 
 Albert is the aristocratic democrat, such as Alfieri was ; 
 one who, in his keen perception of beauty, shares the 
 good of that culture which ages have bestowed on the 
 more fortunate classes, but in his large heart loves and 
 longs for the good of all men, as if he had himself suf- 
 fered in the lowest pits of human misery. He is all this 
 and more in his transmigration, real or fancied, of soul, 
 through many forms of heroic effort and bloody error ; in 
 his incompetency to act at the present time, his need of 
 long silences, of the company of the dead and of fools, 
 and eventually of a separation from all habitual ties, is 
 expressed a great idea, which is still only in the throes of 
 birth, yet the nature of whose life we begin to prognosti- 
 cate with some clearness. 
 
 Consuelo's escape from the castle, and even from 
 Albert, her admiration of him, and her incapacity to love 
 him till her own character be more advanced, are told 
 with great naturalness. Her travels with Joseph Haydn 
 are again as charmingly told as the Venetian life. Here 
 the author speaks from her habitual existence, and far 
 more masterly than of those deep places of thought where 
 she is less at home. She has lived much, discerned 
 much, felt great need of great thoughts, but not been able 
 to think a great way for herself She fearlessly accom- 
 21* 
 
246 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 panies the spirit of the age, but she never surpasses it ; 
 ^Jhat is the office of the great thinker. 
 
 At Vienna Consuelo is brought fully into connection 
 with the great world as an artist. She finds that its real- 
 ities, so far from being less, are even more harsh and 
 sordid for the artist than for any other ; and that with 
 avarice, envy and falsehood, she must prepare for the fear- 
 ful combat which awaits noble souls in any kind of arena, 
 with the pain of disgust when they cannot raise them- 
 selves to patience — with the almost equal pain, when 
 they can, of pity for those who know not what they do. 
 
 Albert is on the verge of the grave ; and Consuelo, 
 who, not being able to feel for him sufficient love to find 
 in it compensation for the loss of that artist-life to which 
 she feels Nature has destined her, had hitherto resisted 
 the entreaties of his aged father, and the pleadings of her 
 own reverential and tender sympathy with the wants of 
 his soul, becomes his wife just before he dies. 
 
 The sequel, therefore, of this history is given under 
 the title of Countess of Rudolstadt. Consuelo is still on 
 the stage ; she is at the Prussian court. The well-known 
 features of this society, as given in the memoirs of the 
 time, are put together with much grace and wit. The 
 sketch of Frederic is excellent. 
 
 The rest of the book is devoted to expression of the 
 author's ideas on the subject of reform, and especially of 
 association as a means thereto. As her thoughts are yet 
 in a very crude state, the execution of this part is equally- 
 bungling and clumsy. Worse : she falsifies the characters 
 of both Consuelo and Albert, — who is revived again by 
 
JENNY LIND. 247 
 
 subterfuge of trance, — and stains her best arrangements 
 by the mixture of falsehood and intrigue. 
 
 Yet she proceeds towards, if she walks not by, the light 
 of a great idea ; and sincere democracy, universal relig- 
 ion, scatter from afar many seeds upon the page for a 
 future time. The book should be, and will be, univer- 
 sally read. Those especially who have witnessed all 
 Sand's doubts and sorrows on the subject of marriage, 
 will rejoice in the clearer, purer ray which dawns upon 
 her now. The most natural and deep part of the book, 
 though not her main object, is what relates to the struggle 
 between the claims of art and life, as to whether it be 
 better for the world and one's self to develop to perfec- 
 tion a talent which Heaven seemed to have assigned as a 
 special gift and vocation, or sacrifice it whenever the 
 character seems to require this for its general develop- 
 ment. The character of Consuelo is, throughout the first 
 part, strong, delicate, simple, bold, and pure. The fair 
 lines of this picture are a good deal broken in the second 
 part ; but we must remain true to the impression origi- 
 nally made upon us by this charming and noble creation 
 of the soul of Sand. 
 
 It is in reference to our Consuelo that a correspond- 
 ent * writes, as to Jenny Lind ; and we are rejoiced to 
 find that so many hints were, or might have been, fur- 
 nished for the picture from real life. If Jenny Lind did 
 not suggest it, yet she must also be, in her own sphere, a 
 Consuelo. 
 
 * We do not know how accurate is this correspondent's statement of 
 facts. The narrative is certainly interesting. — Bd. 
 
248 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 *' Jenny Lind must have been born about 1822 or 1823. 
 When a young child, she was observed, playing about and 
 singing in the streets of Stockholm, by Mr. Berg, master 
 of singing for the royal opera. Pleased and astonished 
 at the purity and suavity of her voice, he inquired 
 instantly for her family, and found her father, a poor inn- 
 keeper, willing and glad to give up his daughter to his 
 care, on the promise to protect her and give her an excel- 
 lent musical education. He was always very careful of 
 her, never permitting her to sing except in his presence, 
 and never letting her appear on the stage, unless as a 
 mute figure in some ballet, such, for instance, as Cupid 
 and the Graces, till she was sixteen, when she at once 
 executed her part in ' Der Freyschutz,' to the full satis- 
 faction and surprise of the public of Stockholm. From 
 that time she gradually became the favorite of every one. 
 Without beauty, she seems, from her innocent and gracious 
 manners, beautiful on the stage and charming in society. 
 She is one of the few actresses whom no evil tongue can 
 ever injure, and is respected and welcomed in any and all 
 societies. 
 
 "The circumstances that reminded me of Consuelowere 
 these : that she was a poor child, taken up by this sing- 
 ing-master, and educated thoroughly and severely by him ; 
 that she loved his son, who was a good-for-nothing fellow, 
 like Anzoleto, and at last discarded him ; that she refused 
 the son of an English earl, and, when he fell sick, his 
 father condescended to entreat for him, just as the Count 
 of Rudolstadt did for his son ; that, though plain and 
 low in stature, when singing her best parts she appears 
 
JENNY LIND. 249 
 
 beautiful, and awakens enthusiastic admiration ; that she 
 is rigidly correct in her demeanor towards her numerous 
 admirers, having even returned a present sent her by the 
 crown-prince, Oscar, in a manner that she deemed equiv- 
 ocal. This last circumstance being noised abroad, the 
 next time she appeared on the stage she was greeted with 
 more enthusiastic plaudits than ever, and thicker showers 
 of flowers fell upon her from the hands of her true friends, 
 the public. She was more fortunate than Consuelo in not 
 being compelled to sing to a public of Prussian corporals." 
 
 Indeed, the picture of Frederic's opera-audience, with 
 the pit full of his tall grenadiers with their wives on their 
 shoulders, never daring to applaud except when he gave 
 the order, as if by tap of drum, opposed to the tender and 
 expansive nature of the artist, is one of the best tragi- 
 comedies extant. In Russia, too, all is military ; as soon 
 as a new musician arrives, he is invested with a rank in 
 the army. Even in the church Nicholas has lately done 
 the same. It seems as if he could not believe a man to be 
 alive, except in the army ; could not believe the human 
 heart could beat, except by beat of drum. But we be- 
 lieve in Russia there is at least a mask of gayety thrown 
 over the chilling truth. The great Frederic wished no 
 disguise ; everywhere he was chief corporal, and trampled 
 with his everlasting boots the fair flowers of poesy into the 
 dust. 
 
 The North has been generous to us of late ; she has 
 sent us Ole Bull She is about to send Frederika 
 Bremer. May she add Jenny Lind ! 
 
CAROLINE. 
 
 The other evening I heard a gentle voice reading aloud 
 the story of Maurice, a boy who, deprived of the use of his 
 limbs by paralysis, was sustained in comfort, and almost 
 in cheerfulness, by the exertions of his twin sister. Left 
 with him in orphanage, her affections were centred upon 
 him, and, amid the difficulties his misfortunes brought 
 upon them, grew to a fire intense and pure enough to 
 animate her with angelic impulses and powers. As he 
 could not move about, she drew him everywhere in a 
 little cart ; and when at last they heard that sea-bathing 
 might accomplish his cure, conveyed him, in this way, 
 hundreds of miles to the sea^shore. Her pious devotion 
 and faith were rewarded by his cure, and (a French 
 story would be entirely incomplete otherwise) with 
 money, plaudits and garlands, from the by-standers. 
 
 Though the story ends in this vulgar manner, it is, in 
 its conduct, extremely sweet and touching, not only as to 
 the beautiful qualities developed by these trials in the 
 brother and sister, but in the purifying and softening 
 influence exerted, by the sight of his helplessness and her 
 goodness, on all around them. 
 
 Those who are the victims of some natural blight 
 often fulfil this important office, and bless those within 
 their sphere more, by awakening feelings of holy tender- 
 
CAROLINE. 251 
 
 ness and compassion, than a man healthy and strong can 
 do bj the utmost exertion of his good-will and energies. 
 Thus, in the East, men hold sacred those in whom they 
 find a distortion or alienation of mind which makes them 
 unable to provide for themselves. The well and sane feel 
 themselves the ministers of Providence to carry out a mys- 
 terious purpose, while taking care of those who are thus left 
 incapable of taking care of themselves ; and, while fulfill- 
 ing this ministry, find themselves refined and made better. 
 
 The Swiss have similar feelings as to those of their 
 families whom cretinism has reduced to idiocy. They are 
 attended to, fed, dressed clean, and provided with a pleas- 
 ant place for the day, before doing anything else, even 
 by very busy and poor people. 
 
 We have seen a similar instance, in this country, of 
 voluntary care of an idiot, and the mental benefits that 
 ensued. This idiot, like most that are called so, was not 
 without a glimmer of mind. 
 
 His teacher was able to give him some notions, both 
 of spiritual and mental facts ; at least she thought she 
 had given him the idea of God, and though it appeared 
 by his gestures that to him the moon was the representa- 
 tive of that idea, yet he certainly did conceive of some- 
 thing above him, and which inspired him with reverence 
 and delight. He knew the names of two or three per- 
 sons who had done him kindness, and when they were 
 mentioned, would point upward, as he did to the moon, 
 showing himself susceptible, in his degree, of Mr. Car- 
 lyle's grand method of education, hero-worship. She had 
 awakened in him a love of music, so that he could be 
 
252 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 soothed in his most violent moods by her gentle SLiging. 
 It was a most touching sight to see him sitting opposite 
 to her at such times, his wondering and lack-lustre eyes 
 filled with childish pleasure, while in hers gleamed the 
 same pure joj that we may suppose to animate the looks 
 of an angel appointed by Heaven to restore a ruined world. 
 
 We knew another instance, in which a young girl 
 became to her village a far more valuable influence than 
 any patron saint who looks down from his stone niche, 
 while his votaries recall the legend of his goodness in 
 days long past. 
 
 Caroline lived in a little, quiet country village — quiet 
 as no village can now remain, since the railroad strikes 
 its spear through the peace of country life. She lived 
 alone with a widowed mother, for whom, as well as for 
 herself, her needle won bread, while the mother's strength 
 and skill sufficed to the simple duties of their household. 
 They lived content and hopeful, till, whether from sitting 
 still too much, or some other cause, Caroline became ill, 
 and soon the physician pronounced her spine to be affected, 
 and to such a degree that she was incurable. 
 
 This news was a thunder-bolt to the poor little cottage. 
 The mother, who had lost her elasticity of mind, wept in 
 despair ; but the young girl, who found so early all the 
 hopes and joys of life taken from her, and that she was 
 seemingly left without any shelter from the storm, had 
 even at first the faith and strength to bow her head in 
 gentleness, and say, " God will provide." She sustained 
 and cheered her mother. 
 
 And God did provide. With simultaneous vibration 
 
CAROLINE. 253 
 
 the hearts of all their circle acknowledged the divine 
 obligation of love and mutual aid between human beings. 
 Food, clothing, medicine, service, were all offered freely 
 to the widow and her daughter. 
 
 Caroline grew worse, and was at last in such a state 
 that she could only be moved upon a sheet, and by the 
 aid of two persons. In this toilsome service, and every 
 other that she required for years, her mother never needed 
 to ask assistance. The neighbors took turns in doing all 
 that was required, and the young girls, as they were grow- 
 ing up, counted it among their regular employments to 
 work for or read to Caroline. 
 
 Not without immediate reward was their service of 
 love. The mind of the girl, originally bright and pure, 
 was quickened and wrought up to the finest susceptibility 
 by the nervous exaltation that often ensues upon affection 
 of the spine. The soul, which had taken an upward im- 
 pulse from its first act of resignation, grew daily more 
 and more into communion with the higher regions of life, 
 permanent and pure. Perhaps she was instructed by 
 spirits which, having passed through a similar trial of 
 pain and loneliness, had risen to see the reason why. 
 However that may be, she grew in nobleness of vieiv and 
 purity of sentiment, and, as she received more instruc- 
 tion from books also than any other person in her circle, 
 had. from many visitors abundant information as to the 
 events which were passing around her, and leisure to 
 reflect on them with a disinterested desire for truth, she 
 became so much wiser than her companions as to be at 
 last their preceptress and best friend, and her brief, 
 22 
 
254 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 gentle comments and counsels were listened to as oracles 
 from one enfranchised from the films which selfishness 
 and passion cast over the eyes of the multitude. 
 
 The tAvofold blessing conferred by her presence, both 
 in awakening none but good feelings in the hearts of 
 others, and in the instruction she became able to confer, 
 was such, that, at the end of five years, no member of 
 that society would have been so generally lamented as 
 Caroline, had Death called her away. 
 
 But the messenger, who so often seems capricious in 
 his summons, took first the aged mother, and the poor 
 girl found that life had yet the power to bring her grief, 
 unexpected and severe. 
 
 And now the neighbors met in council. Caroline could 
 not be left, quite alone in the house. Should they take 
 turns, and stay with her by night as well as by day ? 
 
 ''Not so," said the blacksmith's wife ; "the house will 
 never seem like home to her now, poor thing! and 
 't would be kind of dreary for her to change about her 
 nusses so. I '11 tell you what ; all my children but one 
 are married and gone off; we have property enough ; I 
 will have a good room fixed for her, and she shall live 
 with us. My husband wants her to, as much as me." 
 
 The council acquiesced in this truly humane arrange- 
 ment, and Caroline lives there still ; and we are assured 
 that none of her friends dread her departure so much as 
 the blacksmith's wife. 
 
 "'Ta'n't no trouble at all to have her," she says, 
 *' and if it was, I should n't care ; she is so good and still, 
 
CAROLINE. 255 
 
 ahd talks so pretty ! It 's as good bein' with her as goin' 
 to meetin' ! " 
 
 De Maistre relates some similar passages as to a sick 
 girl in St. Petersburgh, though his mind dwelt more on 
 the spiritual beauty evinced in her remarks, than on the 
 good she had done to those around her. Indeed, none 
 bless more than those who " only stand and wait." Even 
 if their passivity be enforced by fate, it will become a 
 spiritual activity, if accepted in a faith higher above fate 
 than the Greek gods were supposed to sit enthroned above 
 misfortune. 
 
EVER-GROWING LIVES. 
 
 ** Age could not wither her, nor custom stale 
 Her infinite variety." 
 
 So was one person described by the pen which has 
 made a clearer mark than any other on the history of 
 Man. But is it not surprising that such a description 
 should apply to so few ? 
 
 Of two or three women we read histories that corre- 
 spond with the hint given in these lines. They were 
 women in whom there was intellect enough to temper and 
 enrich, heart enough to soften and enliven the entire 
 being. There was soul enough to keep the body beauti- 
 ful through the term of earthly existence ; for while the 
 roundness, the pure, delicate lineaments, the flowery 
 bloom of youth were passing, the marks left in the course 
 of those years were not merely of time and care, but also 
 of exquisite emotions and noble thoughts. With such 
 chisels Time works upon his statues, tracery and fretwork, 
 well worth the loss of the first virgin beauty of the ala- 
 baster ; while the fire within, growing constantly brighter 
 and brighter, shows all these changes in the material, as 
 rich and varied ornaments. The vase, at last, becomes a 
 lamp of beauty, fit to animate the councils of the great, 
 or the solitude of the altar. 
 
EVER-GROWING LIVES. 257 
 
 Two or three women there have been, who have thus 
 grown even more beautiful with age. We know of many 
 more men of whom this is true. These have been heroes, 
 or still more frequently poets and artists ; with whom 
 the habitual life tended to expand the soul, deepen and 
 vary the experience, refine the perceptions, and immor- 
 talize the hopes and dreams of youth. 
 
 They were persons who never lost their originality of 
 character, nor spontaneity of action. Their impulses 
 proceeded from a fulness and certainty of character, that 
 made it impossible they should doubt or repent, whatever 
 the results of their actions might be. 
 
 They could not repent, in matters little or great, 
 because they felt that their actions were a sincere expo- 
 sition of the wants of their souls. Their impulsiveness 
 was not the restless fever of one who must change his 
 place somehow or some- whither, but the waves of a tide, 
 which might be swelled to vehemence by the action of the 
 winds or the influence of an attractive orb, but was none 
 the less subject to fixed laws. 
 
 A character which does not lose its freedom of motion 
 and impulse by contact with the world, grows with its 
 years more richly creative, more freshly individual. It 
 is a character governed by a principle of its own, and not 
 by rules taken from other men's experience ; and therefore 
 it is that 
 
 •' Age cannot wither them, nor custom stale 
 Their infinite variety." 
 
 Like violins, they gain by age, and the spirit of him 
 who discourseth through them most excellent music, 
 
 22* 
 
258 • MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ** Like wine well kept and long. 
 Heady, nor harsh, nor strong, 
 With each succeeding year is quaffed 
 A richer, purer, mellower draught." 
 
 Our French neighbors have been the object of humor- 
 ous satire for their new coinage of terms to describe the 
 heroes of their modern romance. A hero is no hero 
 unless he has " ravaged brows," is "blase " or "brise "" 
 or " fatigue." His eyes must be languid, and his cheeks 
 hollow. Youth, health and strength, charm no more; 
 only the tree broken by the gust of passion is beautiful, 
 only the lamp that has burnt out the better part of its oil 
 precious, in their eyes. This, with them, assumes the air 
 of caricature and grimace, yet it indicates a real want of 
 this time — a feeling that the human being ought to grow 
 more rather than less attractive with the passage of 
 time, and that the decrease in physical charms would, in 
 a fair and full life, be more than compensated by an 
 increase of those which appeal to the imagination and 
 higher feelings. 
 
 A friend complains that, while most men are like 
 music-boxes, which you can wind up to play their set of 
 tunes, and then they stop, in our society the set consists 
 of only two or three tunes at most. That is because no 
 new melodies are added after five-and-twenty at farthest. 
 It is the topic of jest and amazement with foreigners that 
 what is called society is given up so much into the hands 
 of boys and girls. Accordingly it wants spirit, variety 
 and depth of tone, and we find there no historical pres- 
 ences, none of the charms, infinite in variety, of Cleopatra, 
 
EVER-GROWING LIVES. 259 
 
 no heads of Julius Caesar, overflowing with meanings, as 
 the sun with light. 
 
 Sometimes we hear an educated voice that shows us 
 how these things might be altered. It has lost the fresh 
 tone of youth, but it has gained unspeakably in depth, 
 brilliancy, and power of expression. How exquisite its 
 modulations, so finely shaded, showing that all the inter- 
 vals are filled up with little keys of fairy delicacy and in 
 perfect tune ! 
 
 Its deeper tones sound the depth of the past ; its 
 more thrilling notes express an awakening to the infinite, 
 and ask a thousand questions of the spirits that are to 
 unfold our destinies, too far-reaching to be clothed in 
 words. Who does not feel the sway of such a voice ? It 
 makes the whole range of our capacities resound and 
 tremble, and, when there is positiveness enough to give 
 an answer, calls forth most melodious echoes. 
 
 The human eye gains, in like manner, by time and ex- 
 perience. Its substance fades, but it is only the more 
 filled with an ether^sal lustre which penetrates the gazer 
 till he feels as if 
 
 " That eye were in itself a soul," 
 
 and realizes the range of its power 
 
 *' To rouse, to win, to fascinate, to melt, 
 And by its spell of undefined control 
 Magnetic draw the secrets of the soul." 
 
 The eye that shone ' beneath the white locks of Thor- 
 waldsen was such an one, — the eye of immortal youth, 
 the indicator of the man's whole aspect in a future sphere. 
 
260 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 We have scanned such eyes closely ; when near, we saw 
 that the lids were red, the corners defaced with omi- 
 nous marks, the orb looked faded and tear-stained ; hut 
 when we retreated far enough for its ray to reach us, it 
 seemed far younger than the clear and limpid gaze of 
 infancy, more radiant than the sweetest beam in that of 
 early youth. The Future and the Past met in that 
 glance. 
 
 for more such eyes ! The vouchers of free, of full 
 and ever-growing lives ! 
 
HOUSEHOLD NOBLENESS. 
 
 " Mistress of herself, though China 1^11." 
 
 Women, in general, are indignant that the satirist 
 should have made this the climax to his praise of a 
 woman. And yet, we fear, he saw only too truly. 
 What unexpected failures have we seen, literally, in this 
 respect ! How often did the Martha blur the Mary out 
 of the face of a lovely woman at the sound of a crash 
 amid glass and porcelain ! What sad littleness in all the 
 department thus represented! Obtrusion of the mop 
 and duster on the tranquil meditation of a husband and 
 brother. Impatience if the carpet be defaced by the feet 
 even of cherished friends. 
 
 There is a beautiful side, and a good reason here ; but 
 why must the beauty degenerate, and give place to 
 meanness ? 
 
 To Woman the care of home is confided. It is the 
 sanctuary, of which she should be the guardian angel. 
 To all elements that are introduced there she should be 
 the "ordering mind." She represents the spirit of 
 beauty, and her influence should be spring-like, clothing 
 all objects within her sphere with lively, fresh and ten- 
 der hues. 
 
 She represents purity, and all that appertains to hei 
 should be kept delicately pure. She is modesty, and 
 
262 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 draperies should soften all rude lineaments, and exclude 
 glare and dust. She is harmony, and all objects should 
 be in their places ready for, and matched to, their uses. 
 
 We all know that there is substantial reason for the 
 offence we feel at defect in any of these ways. A woman 
 who wants purity, modesty and harmony, in her dress 
 and manners, is insufferable ; one who wants them in the 
 arrangements of her house, disagreeable to everybody. 
 She neglects the most obvious ways of expressing what 
 we desire to see in her, and the inference is ready, that 
 the inward sense is wanting. 
 
 It is with no merely gross and selfish feeling that all 
 men commend the good housekeeper, the good nurse. 
 Neither is it slight praise to say of a woman that she 
 does well the honors of her house in the way of hospital- 
 ity. The wisdom that can maintain serenity, cheerful- 
 ness and order, in a little world of ten or twelve persons, 
 and keep ready the resources that are needed for their 
 sustenance and recovery in sickness and sorrow, is the 
 same that holds the stars in their places, and patiently 
 prepares the precious metals in the most secret chambers 
 of the earth. The art of exercising a refined hospitality 
 is a fine art, and the music thus produced only differs 
 from that of the orchestra in this, that in the former 
 case the overture or sonata cannot be played twice in the 
 same manner. It requires that the hostess shall combine 
 true self-respect and repose, 
 
 ** The simple art of not too much," 
 
 with refined perception of individual traits and moods in 
 
HOUSEHOLD NOBLENESS. 263 
 
 character, with variety and vivacity, an ease, grace and 
 gentleness, that diffuse their sweetness insensibly through 
 every nook of an assembly, and call out reciprocal sweet- 
 ness wherever there is any to be found. 
 
 The only danger in all this is the same that besets us 
 in every walk of life ; to wit, that of preferring the 
 outward sign to the inward spirit whenever there is 
 cause to hesitate between the two. 
 
 " I admire," says Goethe, '' the Chinese novels ; they 
 express so happily ease, peace and a finish unknown to 
 other nations in the interior arrangements of their 
 homes. 
 
 ^' In one of them I came upon the line, ' I heard the 
 lovely maidens laughing, and found my way to the 
 garden, where they were seated in their light cane- 
 chairs.' To me this brings an immediate animation, by 
 the images it suggests of lightness, brightness and ele- 
 gance." 
 
 This is most true, but it is also most true that the 
 garden-house would not seem thus charming unless its 
 light cane-chairs had lovely, laughing maidens seated in 
 them. And the lady who values her porcelain, that 
 most exquisite product of the peace and thorough -breed- 
 ing of China, so highly, should take the hint, and re- 
 member that unless the fragrant herb of wit, sweetened 
 by kindness, and softened by the cream of affability, also 
 cro^ni her board, the prettiest tea-cups in the world 
 might as well lie in fragments in the gutter, as adorn her 
 social show. The show loses its beauty when it ceases 
 to represent a substance. 
 
264 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Here, as elsewhere, it is only vanity, narrowness and 
 self-seeking, that spoil a good thing. Women would 
 never be too good housekeepers for their own peace and 
 that of others, if they considered housekeeping only as a 
 means to an end. If their object were really the peace 
 and joy of all concerned, they could bear to have their 
 cups and saucers broken more easily than their tempers, 
 and to have curtains and carpets soiled, rather than their 
 hearts by mean and small feelings. But they are 
 brought up to think it is a disgrace to be a bad house- 
 keeper, not because they must, by such a defect, be a 
 cause of suffering and loss of time to all within their 
 sphere, but because all other women will laugh at them 
 if they are so. Here is the vice, — for want of a high 
 motive there can be no truly good action. 
 
 We have seen a woman, otherwise noble and magnani- 
 mous in a high degree, so insane on this point as to weep 
 bitterly because she found a little dust on her picture- 
 frames, and torment her guests all dinner-time with 
 excuses for the way in which the dinner was cooked. 
 
 We have known others to join with their servants to 
 backbite the best and noblest friends for trifling derelic- 
 tions against the accustomed order of the house. The 
 broom swept out the memory of much sweet counsel and 
 loving-kindness, and spots on the table-cloth were more 
 regarded than those they made on their own loyalty and 
 honor in the most intimate relations. 
 
 "The worst of furies is a woman scorned," and the 
 sex, so lively, mobile, impassioned, when passion is 
 aroused at all, are in danger of frightful error, under 
 
HOUSEHOLD NOBLENESS. 265 
 
 great temptation. The angel can give place to a more 
 subtle and treacherous demon, though one, generally, of 
 less tantalizing influence, than in the breast of man. In 
 great crises. Woman needs the highest reason to restrain 
 her; but her besetting sin is that of littleness. Just 
 because nature and society unite to call on her for 
 such fineness and finish, she can be so petty, so fretful, 
 so vain, envious and base ! 0, women, see your danger ! 
 See how much you need a great object in all your little 
 actions. You cannot be fair, nor can your homes be 
 fair, unless you are holy and noble. Will you sweep 
 and garnish the house, only that it may be ready for 
 a legion of evil spirits to enter in — for imps and 
 demons of gossip, frivolity, detraction, and a restless 
 fever about small ills ? What is the house for, if good 
 spirits cannot peacefully abide there? Lo ! they are ask- 
 ing for the bill in more than one well-garnished man- 
 sion. They sought a home and found a work-house. 
 Martha ! it was thy fault ! 
 23 
 
"GLUMDALCLITCHEj." 
 
 This title was wittily given by an editor of this city 
 to the ideal woman demanded in " Woman in the Nine- 
 teenth Century." We do not object to it, thinking it 
 is really desirable that women should grow beyond the 
 average size which has been prescribed for them. We 
 find in the last news from Pans these anecdotes of two 
 who ^'' tower " an inch or more ''above their sex," if not 
 yet of Glumdalclitch stature. 
 
 " Bravissima ! — The 7th of May, at Paris, a young 
 girl, who was washing linen, fell into the Canal St. 
 Martin. Those around called out for help, but none ven- 
 tured to give it. Just then a young lady elegantly 
 dressed came up and saw the case : in the twinkling of 
 an eye she threw off her hat and shawl, threw herself in, 
 and succeeded in dragging the young girl to the brink, 
 after having sought for her in vain several times under 
 the water. This lady was Mile. Adele Chevalier, an 
 actress. She was carried, with the girl she had saved, 
 into a neighboring house, which she left, after having 
 received the necessary cares, in a fiacre, and amid the 
 plaudits of the crowd." 
 
 The second anecdote is of a difierent kind, but displays 
 a kind of magnanimity still more unusual in this poor 
 servile world: 
 
GLUMDALCLITCHES. 267 
 
 " One of our (French) most distinguished painters of 
 sea-subjects. Gudin, has married a rich young English 
 ladj, belonging to a family of high rank, and related to 
 the Duke of Wellington. M. Gudin was lately at 
 
 Berlin at the same time with K , inspector of pictures 
 
 to the King of Holland. The King of Prussia desired 
 that both artists should be presented to him, and received 
 Gudin in a very flattering manner ; his genius being his 
 only letter of recommendation. 
 
 "Monsieur K has not the same advantage; but, 
 
 to make up for it, he has a wife who enjoys in Holland a 
 great reputation for her beauty. The King of Prussia is 
 a cavalier, who cares more for pretty ladies than for 
 
 genius. So Monsieur and Madame K were invited 
 
 to the royal table — an honor which was not accorded to 
 Monsieur and Madame Gudin. 
 
 " Humble representations were made to the monarch, 
 advising him not to make such a marked distinction 
 between the French artist and the Dutch amateur. 
 These failing, the wise counsellors went to Madame Gudin, 
 and, intimating that they did so with the good-will of the, 
 king, said that she might be received as cousin to the 
 Duke of Wellington, as daughter of an English general, 
 and of a family which dates back to the thirteenth cen- 
 tury. She could, if she wished, avail herself of her 
 rights of birth to obtain the same honors with Madame 
 
 K . To sit at the table of the king, she need only 
 
 cease for a moment to be Madame Gudin, and become 
 once more Lady L ." 
 
 Does not all this sound like a history of the seven- 
 
268 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 teenth century? Surelj etiquette was never main- 
 tained in a more arrogant manner at the court of Louis 
 XIY. 
 
 But Madame Gudin replied that her highest pride lay 
 in the celebrated name which she bears at present ; that 
 she did not wish to rely on any other to obtain so futile 
 a distinction, and that, in her eyes, the most noble 
 escutcheon was the palette of her husband. 
 
 I need not say that this dignified feeling was not com- 
 prehended. Madame Gudin was not received at the table, 
 but she had shown the nobleness of her character. For 
 
 the rest, Madame K , on arriving at Paris, had the 
 
 bad taste to boast of having been distinguished above 
 Madame Gudin, and the story reaching the Tuileries, 
 where Monsieur and Madame Gudin are highly favored, 
 excited no little mirth in the circle there. 
 
"ELLEN: OR, PORGIVE AND FORGET." 
 
 We notice this coarsely-written little fiction because it 
 is one of a class which we see growing with pleasure. We 
 see it with pleasure, because, in its way, it is genuine. It 
 is a transcript of the crimes, calumnies, excitements, half- 
 blind love of right, and honest indignation at the sort of 
 wrong which it can discern, to be found in the class from 
 which it emanates. 
 
 That class is a large one in our country villages, and 
 these books reflect its thoughts and manners as half-penny 
 ballads do the life of the streets of London. The ballads 
 are not more true to the facts ; but they give us, in a 
 coarser form, far more of the spirit than we get from the 
 same facts reflected in the intellect of a Dickens, for in- 
 stance, or of any writer far enough above the scene to be 
 properly its artist. 
 
 So, in this book, we find what Cooper, Miss Sedgwick' 
 and Mrs. Kirkland, might see, as the writer did, but could 
 hardly believe in enough to speak of it with such fidelity. 
 
 It is a current' superstition that country people are 
 more pure and healthy in mind and body than those who 
 live in cities. It may be so in countries of old-established 
 habits, where a genuine peasantry have inherited some of 
 the practical wisdom and loyalty of the past, with most 
 23* 
 
270 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 of its errors. "We have our doubts, though, from the 
 stamp upon literature, always the nearest evidence of 
 truth we can get, whether, even there, the difference 
 between town and country life is as much in favor of the 
 latter as is generally supposed. But in our land, where 
 the country is at present filled with a mixed population, 
 who come seeking to be purified by a better life and cul- 
 ture from all the ills and diseases of the w^orst forms of 
 civilization, things often look worse than in the city; 
 perhaps because men have more time and room to let their 
 faults grow and ofiend the light of day. 
 
 There are exceptions, and not a few ; but, in a very 
 great proportion of country villages, the habits of the 
 people, as to food, air, and even exercise, are ignorant and 
 unhealthy to the last degree. Their want of all pure 
 faith, and appetite for coarse excitement, is shown by 
 continued intrigues, calumnies, and crimes. 
 
 We have lived in a beautiful village, where, more favor- 
 ably placed than any other person in it, both as to with- 
 drawal from bad associations and nearness to good, 
 we heard inevitably, from domestics, work-people, and 
 school-children, more ill of human nature than we could 
 possibly sift were we to elect such a task from all the 
 newspapers of this city in the same space of time. 
 
 We believe the amount of ill circulated by means of 
 /anonymous letters, as described in this book, to be as 
 great as can be imported in all the French novels (and 
 that is a bold word). We know ourselves of two or three 
 cases of morbid wickedness, displayed by means of anony- 
 mous letters, that may vie with what puzzled the best wits 
 
571 
 
 of France in a famous law-suit not long since. It is true, 
 there is, to balance all this, a healthy rebound, — a sur- 
 prise and a shame ; and there are heartily good people, 
 such as are described in this book, who, having taken a 
 direction upward, keep it, and cannot be bent downward 
 nor aside. But, then, the reverse of the picture is of a 
 blackness that would appall one who came to it with any 
 idyllic ideas of the purity and peaceful loveliness of 
 agi'icultural life. 
 
 But what does this prove ? Only the need of a dis- 
 semination of all that is best, intellectually and morally, 
 through the whole people. Our groves and fields have 
 no good fairies or genii who teach, by legend or gentle 
 apparition, the truths, the principles, that can alone pre- 
 serve the village, as the city, from the possession of the 
 fiend. Their place must be taken by the school-master, 
 and he must be one who knows not only '•' readin', 
 writin', and 'rithmetic," but the service of God and the 
 destiny of man. Our people require a thoroughly-dif- 
 fused intellectual life, a religious aim, such as no people 
 at large ever possessed before ; else they must sink till 
 they become dregs, rather than rise to become the cream 
 of creation, which they are too apt to flatter thomselves 
 with the fancy of being already. 
 
 The most interesting fiction we have ever read iu this 
 coarse, homely, but genuine class, is one called " Metal- 
 lek." It may be in circulation in this city ; but Ave 
 bought it in a country nook, and from a pedlar ; and it 
 seemed to belong to the country. Had we met with it in 
 any other way. it would probably have been to throw it 
 
272 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 aside again directly, for the author does not know how 
 to write English, and the first chapters give no idea of 
 his power of apprehending the poetrj of life. But hap- 
 pening to read on, we became fixed and charmed, and 
 have retained from its perusal the sweetest picture of 
 life lived in this land, ever afforded us, out of the pale 
 of personal observation. That such things are, private 
 observation has made us sure ; but the writers of books 
 rarely seem to have seen them ; rarely to have walked 
 alone in an untrodden path long enough to hold com- 
 mune with the spirit of the scene. 
 
 In this book you find the very life ; the most vulgar 
 prose, and the most exquisite poetry. You follow the 
 hunter in his path, walking through the noblest and 
 fairest scenes only to shoot the poor animals that were 
 happy there, winning from the pure atmosphere little 
 benefit except to good appetite, sleeping at night in the 
 dirty hovels, with people who burrow in them to lead a 
 life but little above that of the squirrels and foxes. 
 There is throughout that air of room-enough, and free if 
 low forms of human nature, which, at such times, makes 
 bearable all that would otherwise be so repulsive. 
 
 But when we come to the girl who is the presiding 
 deity, or rather the tutelary angel of the scene, how are 
 all discords harmonized ; how all its latent music poured 
 forth ! It is a portrait from the life — it has the mystic 
 charm of fulfilled reality, how far beyond the fairest 
 ideals ever born of thought ! Pure, and brilliantly 
 blooming as the flower of the wilderness, she, in like 
 manner, shares while she sublimes its nature. She plays 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 273 
 
 round the most vulgar and rude beings, gentle and 
 caressing, yet unsullied ; m her wildness there is nothing 
 cold or savage ; her elevation is soft and warm. Never 
 have we seen natural religion more beautifully expressed; 
 never so well discerned the influence of the natural nun, 
 who needs no veil or cloister to guard from profanation 
 the beauty she has dedicated to God, and which only 
 attracts human love to hallow it into the divine. 
 
 The lonely life of the girl after the death of her 
 parents, — her fearlessness, her gay and sweet enjoy- 
 ment of nature, her intercourse with the old people of 
 the neighborhood, her sisterly conduct towards her 
 "suitors," — all seem painted from the life: but the 
 death-bed scene seems borrowed from some sermon, and 
 is not in harmony with the rest. 
 
 In this connection we must try to make amends for 
 the stupidity of an earlier notice of the novel, called 
 "Margaret, or the Real and Ideal," &;c. At the time 
 of that notice we had only looked into it here and there, 
 and did no justice to a work full of genius, profound in 
 its meaning, and of admirable fidelity to nature in its 
 details. Since then we have really read it, and appre- 
 ciated the sight and representation of soul-realities ; and 
 we have lamented the long delay of so true a pleasure. 
 
 A fine critic said, " This is a Yankee novel ; or rather 
 let it be called the Yankee novel, as nowhere else are the 
 thought and dialect of our villages really represented." 
 Another discovered that it must have been written in 
 Maine, by the perfection with which peculiar features of 
 scenery there are described. 
 
 ^ 
 
274 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 A young girl could not sufficiently express her delight 
 at the simple nature with which scenes of childhood are 
 given, and especially at Margaret's first going to meet- 
 ing. She had never elsewhere found written down what 
 she had felt. 
 
 A mature reader, one of the most spiritualized and 
 harmonious minds we have ever met, admires the depth 
 and fulness in which the workings of the spirit through 
 the maiden's life are seen by the author, and shown to 
 us; but laments the great apparatus with which the 
 consummation of the whole is brought about, and the 
 formation of a new church and state, before the time is 
 yet ripe, under the banner of Mons. Christi. 
 
 But all these voices, among those most worthy to be 
 heard, find in the book a real presence, and draw from 
 it auspicious omens that an American literature is pos- 
 sible even in our day, because there are already in the 
 mind here existent developments worthy to see the light, 
 gold-fishes amid the moss in the still waters. 
 
 For ourselves, we have been most charmed with the 
 way the Real and Ideal are made to weave and shoot 
 rays through one another, in which Margaret bestows on 
 external nature what she receives through books, and 
 wins back like gifts in turn, till the pond and the 
 mythology are alternate sections of the same chapter. 
 We delight in the teachings she receives through Chilion 
 and his violin, till on the grave of "one who tried to 
 love his fellow-men" grows up the full white rose-flower 
 of her life. ThQ ease with which she assimilates the city 
 
ELLEN: OR, FORGIVE AND FORGET. 275 
 
 life when in it, making it a part of her imaginative tapes- 
 try, is a sign of the power to which she has grown. 
 
 We have much more to think and to say of the book, 
 as a whole, and in parts; and should the mood and 
 summer leisure ever permit a familiar and intimate 
 acquaintance with it, we trust thej will be both thought 
 and said. For the present, we will only add that it 
 exhibits the same state of things, and strives to point out 
 such remedies as we have hinted at in speaking of the 
 little book which heads this notice ; itself a rude char- 
 coal sketch, but if read as hieroglyphics are, pointing to 
 important meanings and results. 
 
"COURRIER DES ETATS UNIS. 
 
 No other nation can hope to vie with the French in 
 the talent of communicating information with ease, 
 vivacity and consciousness. They must always be the 
 best narrators and the best interpreters, so far as pre- 
 senting a clear ^statement of outlines goes. Thus they 
 are excellent in conversation, lectures, and journalizing. 
 
 After we know all the news of the day, it is still 
 pleasant to read the bulletin of the ^^Courrier des Etats 
 Uiiisy We rarely agree with the view taken; but as a 
 summary it is so excellently well done, every topic put 
 in its best place, with such a light and vigorous hand, 
 that we have the same pleasure we have felt in fairy 
 tales, when some person under trial is helped by a kind 
 fairy to sort the silks and feathers to their different 
 places, till the glittering confusion assum'es the order, — 
 of a kaleidoscope. 
 
 Then, what excellent correspondents they have in 
 Paris ! What a humorous and yet clear account we 
 have before us, now, of the Thiers game ! We have 
 traced Guizot through every day with the utmost dis- 
 tinctness, and see him perfectly in the sick-room. Now, 
 here is Thiers, playing with his chess-men, Jesuits, &c. 
 A hundred clumsy English or American papers could 
 
COURRIER DES ETATS UNIS. 277 
 
 not make the present crisis in Paris so clear as we see it 
 in the glass of these nimble Frenchmen. 
 
 Certainly it is with newspaper-writing as with food ; 
 the English and Americans have as good appetites, but 
 do not, and never will, know so well how to cook as the 
 French. The Parisian correspondent of the ^'Sclwellpost^^ 
 also makes himself merry with the play of M. Thiers. 
 Both speak with some feeling of the impressive utter- 
 ance of Lamartine in the late debates. The Jesuits 
 stand their ground, but there is a wave advancing which 
 will not fail to wash away what ought to go, — nor are 
 its roarings, however much in advance of the wave itself, 
 to be misinterpreted by intelligent ears. The world is 
 raising its sleepy lids, and soon no organization can 
 exist which from its very nature interferes in any way 
 with the good of the whole. 
 
 In Germany the terrors of the authorities are more and 
 more directed against the communists. They are very 
 anxious to know what communism really is, or means. 
 They have almost forgotten, says the correspondent, the 
 repression of the Jews, and like objects, in this new terror. 
 Meanwhile, the llussian Emperor has issued an edict, 
 commanding the Polish Jews, ^ both men and women, to 
 lay aside their national garb. He hopes thus to mingle 
 them with the rest of the mass he moves. It will be 
 seen whether such work can be done by beginning upon 
 the outward man. 
 
 The Paris correspondent of the '•^Courrier^^^ who gives 
 an account of amusements, has always many sprightly 
 passages illustrative of the temper of the times. Horse- 
 24 ' 
 
278 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 races are now the fashion, in which he rejoices, as being 
 likelj to give to France good horses of her own. A 
 famous lottery is on the point of coming oflf. — to give an 
 organ to the Church of St. Eustache. — on which it does 
 not require a v^rj high tone of morals to be severe. A 
 public exhibition has been made of the splendid array of 
 prizes, including every article of luxury, from jewels 
 and cashmere shawls down to artificial flowers. 
 
 A nobleman, president of the Horticultural Society, 
 had given an entertainment, in which the part of the dif- 
 ferent flowers was acted by beautiful women, that of fruit 
 and vegetables by distinguished men. Such an amuse- 
 ment would admit of much light grace and wit, which 
 may still be found in France, if anywhere in the world. 
 
 There is also an amusing story of the stir caused 
 among the French political leaders by the visit of a noble- 
 man of one of the great English families, to Paris. " He 
 had had several audiences, previous to his departure from 
 London, of Queen Victoria ; he received a despatch daily 
 from the English court. But in reply to all overtures 
 made to induce him to open his mission, he preserved a 
 gloomy silence. All attentions, all signs of willing con- 
 fidence, are lavished on him in vain. France is troubled. 
 ^ Has England,' thought she, ' a secret from us, while we 
 have none from her ? ' She was on the point of invent- 
 ing one, when, lo ! the secret mission turns out to be the 
 preparation of a ball-dress, with whose elegance, fresh 
 from Parisian genius, her Britannic majesty wished to 
 dazzle and surprise her native realm." 
 
 'T is a pity Americans cannot learn the grax5e which 
 
COURRIER DES ETATS TJNIS. 279 
 
 decks these trifling jests with so much prettiness. Till 
 we can import something of that, we have no right to 
 rejoice in French fashions and French wines. Such a 
 nervous, driving nation as we are, ought to learn to B.y 
 along gracefully, on the light, fantastic toe. Can we not 
 learn something of the English beside the knife and fork 
 conventionalities which, with them, express a certain 
 solidity of fortune and resolve ? Can we not get from 
 the French something beside their worst novels ? 
 
" COURRIER DES ETATS UNIS." 
 
 OUR PROTEGEE, QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 The Courrier laughs, though with features somewhat 
 too disturbed for a graceful laugh, at a notice, published 
 a few days since in the Trihmie^ of one of its jests Avhich 
 scandalized the American editor. It does not content 
 itself with a slight notice, but puts forth a manifesto, in 
 formidably large type, in reply. 
 
 With regard to the jest itself, we must remark that 
 Mr. Greeley saw this only in a translation, where it had 
 lost whatever of light and graceful in its manner excused 
 a piece of raillery very coarse in its substance. We will 
 admit that, had he seen it as it originally stood, connected 
 with other items in the playful chronicle of Pierre Du- 
 rand, it would have impressed him differently. 
 
 But the cause of irritation in the Courrier^ and of the 
 sharp repartees of its manifesto, is, probably, what was 
 said of the influence among us of " French literature 
 and French morals," to which the " organ of the French- 
 American population " felt called on to make a spirited 
 reply, and has done so with less of wit and courtesy than 
 could have been expected from the organ of a people who, 
 whatever may be their faults, are at least acknowledged 
 in wit and courtesy preeminent. We hope that the French 
 who comelo~us~will not become, in these respects, Ameri- 
 
COURRIER DES ETATS UNIS. 281 
 
 canized, and substitute the easy sneer, and use of such 
 terms as "ridiculous," "virtuous misanthropy," &c., for 
 the graceful and poignant raillery of their native land, 
 which tickles even where it wounds. 
 
 "VYe may say, in reply to the Courrier^ that if Fourier- 
 ism "recoils towards a state of nature," it arises largely 
 from the fact that its author lived in a country where the 
 natural relations are, if not more cruelly, at least more 
 lightly violated, than in any other of the civilized world. 
 
 i The marriage of convention has done its natural office in 
 sapping the morals of France, till breach of the marriage 
 vow has become one of the chief topics of its daily wit, 
 one of the acknowledged traits of its manners, and a 
 favorite — in these modern times we might say the 
 favorite — subject of its works of fiction. From the time 
 of Moliere, himself an agonized sufferer behind his comic 
 mask from the infidelities of a wife he was not able to 
 
 vcease to love, through memoirs, novels, dramas, and the 
 volleyed squibs of the press, one fact stares us in the 
 face as one of so common occurrence, that men, if they 
 have not ceased to suffer in heart and morals from its 
 poisonous action, have yet learned to bear with a shrug 
 and a careless laugh that marks its frequency. Under- 
 stand, we do not say that the French are the most deeply 
 stained with vice of all nations. We do not think them 
 so. There are others where there is as much, but there 
 is none where it is so openly acknowledged in literature, 
 and therefore there is none whose literature alone is so 
 likely to deprave inexperienced minds, by familiarizing 
 them with wickedness before they have known the lure 
 24* 
 
282 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 and the shock of passion. And we believe that this is 
 the very worst way for youth to be misled, since the 
 miasma thus pervades the whole man, and he is corrupted 
 in head and heart at once, without one strengthening 
 effort at resistance. 
 
 Were it necessary, we might substantiate what we say 
 by quoting from the Courrier within the last fortnight, 
 jokes and stories such as are not to be found so fre- 
 quently in the prints of any other nation. There is the 
 story of the girl Adelaide, which, at another time, we 
 mean to quote, for its terrible pathos. There is a man 
 on trial for the murder of his wife, of whom the witnesses 
 say, " he was so fond of her you would never have known 
 she was his wife ! " Here is one, only yesterday, where 
 a man kills a woman to whom he was married by his 
 relatives at eighteen, she being much older, and disagree- 
 able to him, but their properties matching. After twelve 
 years' marriage, he can no longer support the yoke, and 
 kills both her and her father, and "his only regret is 
 that he cannot kill all who had anything to do with the 
 match.'' 
 
 Either infidelity or such crimes are the natural result 
 of marriages made as they are in France, by agreement 
 between the friends, without choice of the parties. It is 
 this horrible system, and not a native incapacity for pure 
 and permanent relations, that leads to such results. j 
 
 We must observe, en passant, that this man was the 
 father of five children by this hated woman — a wickedness 
 not peculiar to France or any nation, and which cannot 
 fail to do its work of filling the world with sickly, weak, 
 
COURRIER DES ETATS UXIS. 283 
 
 or depraved beings, who have reason to curse their brutal 
 father that he does not murder them as well as their 
 wretched mother, — who, more unhappy than the victim 
 of seduction, is made the slave of sense in the name of 
 religion and law. 
 
 The last steamer brinors us news of the diso-race of 
 
 o o 
 
 Victor Hugo, one of the most celebrated of the literary 
 men of France, and but lately created one of her peers. 
 The affair, however, is to be publicly " hushed up.'' 
 
 But we need not cite many instances to prove, what is 
 known to the whole world, that these wrongs are, if not 
 more frequent, at least more lightly treated by the 
 French, in literature and discourse, than by any nation 
 of Europe. This being the case, can an American, anx- 
 ious that his country should receive, as her only safe- 
 guard from endless temptations, good moral instruction 
 and mental food, be otherwise than grieved at the pro- 
 miscuous introduction amonoj us of their writinors ? 
 
 We know that there are in France good men, pure books, 
 true wit. But there is an immensity that is bad, and 
 more hurtful to our farmers, clerks and country milliners, 
 than to those to whose tastes it was originally addressed. — - 
 as the small-pox is most fatal among the wild men of the 
 woods, — and this, from the unprincipled cupidity of pub- 
 lishers, is broad-cast recklessly over all the land we had 
 hoped would become a healthy asylum for those before 
 crippled and tainted by hereditary abuses. This cannot 
 be prevented ; we can only make head against it, and 
 show that there is really another way of thinking and 
 living, — ay, and another voice for it in the world. We 
 
284 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 are naturally on the alert, and if we sometimes start too 
 quickly, tli^t is better than to play " Le noir Faine- 
 ant'' — (The Black Sluggard) . 
 
 We are displeased at the unfeeling manner in which 
 the Cour7'ler speaks of those whom he calls our models. 
 He did not misunderstand us^ and some things he says 
 on this subject deserve and suggest a retort that would 
 be bitter. But we forbear, because it would injure the 
 innocent with the guilty. The Conrrier ranks the editor 
 of the Trihune among '' the men who have undertaken 
 an ineffectual struggle against the perversities of this 
 lower world." By ineffectual we presume he means 
 that it has never succeeded in exiling evil from this lower 
 world. We are proud to be ranked among the band of 
 those who at least, in the ever-memorable words of Scrip- 
 ture, have '^ done what they could " for this purpose. 
 To this band belong all good men of all countries, and 
 France has contributed no small contingent of those 
 whose purpose was noble, whose lives were healthy, and 
 w^hose minds, even in their lightest moods, pure. We 
 are better pleased to act as sutler or pursuivant of this 
 band, whose strife the Courrier thinks so impuissante, 
 than to reap the rewards of efficiency on the other side. 
 There is not too much of this salt, in proportion to the 
 whole mass that needs to be salted, nor are " occasional 
 accesses of virtuous misanthropy " the worst of maladies 
 in a world that affords such abundant occasion for it. 
 
 In fine, we disclaim all prejudice against the French 
 nation. We feel assured that all, or almost all, impartial 
 minds will acquiese in what we say as to the tone of lax 
 
COTJRRIER DES ETATS UNIS. 285 
 
 morality, in reference to marriage, so common in their 
 literature. We do not like it, in joke or in earnest ; 
 neither are we of those to whom vice " loses most of its 
 deformity by losing all its grossness." If there be 
 a deep and ulcerated wound, we think the more " the 
 richly-embroidered veil " is torn away the better. Such 
 a deep social wound exists in France ; we wish its cure, 
 as we wish the health of all nations and of all men ; so 
 far indeed would we " recoil towards a state of nature." 
 We believe that nature wills marriage and parentage to be 
 kept sacred. The fact of their not being so is to us not a 
 pleasant subject of jest ; and we should really pity the first 
 lady of England for injury here, though she be a queen ; 
 while the ladies of the French court, or of Parisian so- 
 ciety, if they willingly lend themselves to be the subject 
 of this style of jest, or find it agreeable when made, must 
 be to us the cause both of pity and disgust. We are nol 
 unaware of the great and beautiful qualities native to the 
 French — of their chivalry, their sweetness of temper, their j 
 rapid, brilliant and abundant genius. We would wish to- 
 see these qualities restored to their native lustre, and not 
 receive the base alloy which has long stained the virgin- 
 ity of the gold. 
 
ON BOOKS OP TRAYEL.=^ 
 
 ^ * ^ * ^ -^ ^MONG those we have, 
 the bestj as to observation of particulars and lively 
 expression, are by women. Thej are generally ill 
 prepared as regards previous culture, and their scope is 
 necessarily narrower than that of men, but their tact and 
 quickness help them a great deal. You can see their 
 minds grow by what they feed on, when they travel. 
 There are many books of travel, by women, that are, at 
 least, entertaining, and contain some penetrating and just 
 observations. There has, however, been none since 
 Lady Mary Wortley Montague, with as much talent, 
 liveliness, and preparation to observe in various ways, as 
 she had. 
 
 * It need not be said, probably, that Margaret Fuller did not think 
 the fact that books of travel by women have generally been piquant 
 and lively rather than discriminating and instructive, a result of 
 their nature, and therefore unavoidable ; on the contrary, she regarded 
 woman as naturally more penetrating than man, and the fact that in 
 journeying she would see more of home-life than he, would give her 
 a great advantage, — but she did believe woman needed a wider oul- 
 tifre, and then she would not fail to excel in writing books of travels. 
 The merits now in such works she considered striking and due to 
 woman's natural quickness and availing herself of all her facilities, 
 and any deficiencies simply proved the need of a broader education. — 
 [Edit.] 
 
BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 287 
 
 A good article appeared lately in one of the English 
 periodicals, headed by a long list of travels by women. 
 It was easy to observe that the personality of the writer 
 was the most obvious thing in each and all of these 
 books, and that, even in the best of them, you travelled 
 with the writer as a charming or amusing companion, 
 rather than as an accomplished or instructed guide. 
 
REVIEW OF "MEMOIRS AND ESSAYS, BY 
 MRS. JAMESON." 
 
 Mrs. Jameson appejtrs to be growing more and more 
 desperately modest, if we may judge from the motto : 
 
 •' What if the little rain should say, 
 ' So small a drop as I 
 Can ne'er refresh the thirsty plain, — 
 I'll tarry in the sky ? ' " 
 
 and other superstitious doubts and disclaimers proffered 
 in the course of the volume. We thought the time had 
 gone hj when it was necessary to plead '' request of 
 friends " for printing, and that it was understood now-a- 
 dajs that, from the facility of getting thoughts into 
 print, literature has become not merely an archive for the 
 preservation of great thoughts, but a means of general 
 communication between all classes of minds, and all 
 grades of culture. 
 
 If writers write much that is good, and write it well, 
 they are read much and long ; if the reverse, people 
 simply pass them by, and go in search of what is more 
 interesting. There needs be no great fuss about publish- 
 ing or not publishing. Those who forbear may rather 
 be considered the vain ones, who wish to be distinguished 
 
MRS. JAMESON. 289 
 
 among the crowd. Especially this extreme modesty looks 
 superfluous in a person who knows her thoughts have 
 been received with interest for ten or twelve years back. 
 We do not like this from Mrs. Jameson, because Ave think 
 she would be amazed if others spoke of her as this little 
 humble flower, doubtful whether it ought to raise its head 
 to the light. She should leave such aftectations to her 
 aunts ; they were the fashion in their day. 
 
 It is very true, however, that she should 7iot have pub- 
 lished the very first paragraph in her book, which pre- 
 sents an inaccuracy and shallowness of thought quite 
 amazing in a person of her fine perceptions, talent and 
 culture. We allude to the contrast she attempts to estab- 
 lish between Raphael and Titian, in placing mind in con- 
 tradistinction to beauty, as if beauty were merely physi- 
 cal. Of course she means no such thing ; but the passage 
 means this or nothing, and, as an opening to a paper on 
 art, is indeed reprehensible and fallacious. 
 
 The rest of this paper, called the House of Titian, is 
 full of pleasant chat, though some of the judgments — that 
 passed on Canaletti's pictures, for instance — are opposed 
 to those of persons of the purest taste ; and in other re- 
 spects, such as in speaking of the railroad to Venice, Mrs. 
 Jameson is much less wise than those over whom she 
 assumes superiority. The railroad will destroy Venice ; 
 the two things cannot coexist : and those who do not look 
 upon that wondrous dream in this age, will, probably, find 
 only vestiges of its existence. 
 
 The picture of Adelaide Kemble is very pretty, though 
 there is an attempt of a sort too common with Mrs. 
 25 
 
 OF THR ^^^O!^ 
 
290 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Jameson to make more of the subject than it deserves. 
 Adelaide Kemble was not the true artist, or she could not 
 so sDon or so lightly have stept into another sphere. It 
 is enough to paint her as a lovely woman, and a woman- 
 genius. The true artist cannot forswear his vocation ; 
 Heaven does not permit it ; the attempt makes him too 
 unhappy, nor will he form ties with those who can con- 
 sent to such sacrilege. Adelaide Kemble loved art, but 
 was not truly an artist. 
 
 The '-Xanthian Marbles," and ''Washington AUston," 
 are very pleasing papers. The most interesting part, 
 however, are the sentences copied from Mr. Allston. 
 These have his chaste, superior tone. We copy some of 
 them. 
 
 " What light is in the natural world, such is fame in 
 the intellectual, — both requiring an atmosphere in order 
 to become perceptible. Hence the fame of Michel Angelo 
 is to some minds a nonentity ; even as the Sun itself 
 would be invisible in vacuo ^ 
 
 (A very pregnant statement, containing the true reason 
 why " no man is a hero to his valet de chambre.") 
 
 " Fame does not depend on the will of any man ; but 
 reputation may be given and taken away ; for fame is the 
 sympathy of kindred intellects, and sympathy is not a 
 subject of willing ; while reputation, having its source in 
 the popular voice, is a sentence which may be altered or 
 suppressed at pleasure. Reputation, being essentially 
 contemporaneous, is always at the mercy of the envious 
 and ignorant. But Fame, whose very birth is posthu- 
 mous, and which is only known to exist by the echoes of 
 
MRS. JAMESON. 291 
 
 its footsteps through congenial minds, can neither be in- 
 creased nor diminished by any degree of wilfuLaess."' 
 
 •'An original mind is rarely understood until it has 
 been reflected from some half-dozen congenial with it ; so 
 averse are men to admitting the true in an unusual form ; 
 while any novelty, how^ever fantastic, however false, is 
 greedily swallowed. Nor is this to be wondered at, for all 
 truth demands a response, and few people care to think ^ 
 yet they must have something to supply the place of 
 thought. Every mind would appear original if every 
 man had the power of projecting his own into the minds 
 of others." 
 
 " All effort at originality must end either in the quaint 
 or monstrous ; for no man knows himself as an original ; 
 he can only believe it on the report of others to whom he 
 is made known, as he is by the projecting power before 
 spoken of" 
 
 " There is an essential meanness in wishing to get the 
 better of any one. The only competition worthy of a 
 wise man is with himself" 
 
 " Reverence is an ennobling sentiment ; it is felt to be 
 degrading only by the vulgar mind, which would escape 
 the sense of its own littleness by elevating itself into the 
 antagonist of what is above it." 
 
 "He that has no pleasure in looking up is not fit to 
 look down ; of such minds are the mannerists in art, and 
 in the world — the tyrants of all sorts." 
 
 " Make no man your idol ; for the best man must have 
 faults, and his faults will naturally become yours, in addi- 
 tion to your own. This is as true in art as in morals." 
 
292 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ''The Devil s heartiest laugh is at a detracting witti- 
 cism. Hence the phrase ' devilish good ' has sometimes a 
 literal meaning." 
 
 "Woman's Mission and Woman's Position" is an ex- 
 cellent paper, in which plain truths are spoken with an 
 honorable straight-forwardness, and a great deal of good 
 feeling. We despise the woman who, knowing such 
 facts, is afraid to speak of them ; yet we honoj- one, too, 
 who does the plain right thing, for she exposes herself to 
 the assaults of vulgarity, in a way painful to a person who 
 has not strength to find shelter and repose in her motives. 
 We -recommend this paper to the consideration of all 
 those, the unthinking, wilfully unseeing million, who are 
 in the habit of talking of " Woman's sphere," as if it 
 really were, at present, for the majority, one of protec- 
 tion, and the gentle offices of home. The rhetorical 
 gentlemen and silken dames, who, quite forgetting their 
 washerwomen, their seamstresses, and the poor hirelings 
 for the sensual pleasures of Man, that jostle them daily in 
 the streets, talk as if women need be fitted for no other 
 chance than that of growing like cherished flowers in the 
 garden of domestic love, are requested to look at this 
 paper, in which the state of women, both in the manufac- 
 turing and agricultural districts of England, is exposed 
 with eloquence, and just inferences drawn. 
 
 " This, then, is what I mean when I speak of the 
 anomalous condition of women in these days. I would 
 point out, as a primary source of incalculable mischief, the 
 contradiction between her assumed and her real position ; 
 between what is called her proper sphere by the laws of 
 
MRS. JAMESON. 293 
 
 God and Nature, and what has become her real sphere by 
 the laws of necessity, and through the complex relations 
 of artificial existence. In the strong language of Carljle, 
 I would say that ' Here is a lie standing up in the midst 
 of society.' I would say ' Down with it, even to the 
 ground ; ' for while this perplexing and barbarous anom- 
 aly exists, fretting like an ulcer at the very heart of 
 society, all new specifics and palliatives are in vain. The 
 question must be settled one way or another ; either let 
 the man in all the relations of life be held the natural 
 guardian of the woman, constrained to fulfil that trust, 
 responsible in society for her well-being and her mainten- 
 ance ; or, if she be liable to be thrust from the sanctuary 
 of home, to provide for herself through the exercise of 
 such faculties as God has given her, let her at least have 
 fair play ; let it not be avowed in the same breath that 
 protection is necessary to her, and that it is refused her ; 
 and while we send her forth into the desert, and bind the 
 burthen on her back, and put the stafi" in her hand, let 
 not her steps be beset, her limbs fettered, and her eyes 
 blindfolded." Amen. 
 
 The sixth and last of these papers, on, the relative 
 social position of "mothers and governesses," exhibits in 
 true and full colors a state of things in England, beside 
 which the custom in some parts of China of drowning 
 female infants looks mild, generous, and refined ; — an 
 accursed state of things, beneath whose influence nothing 
 can, and nothing ought to thrive. Though this paper, of 
 which we have not patience to speak further at this 
 moment, is valuable from putting the facts into due relief, 
 25* 
 
294 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 it is very inferior to the other, and shows the want of 
 thoroughness and depth in Mrs. Jameson's intellect. She 
 has taste, feeling and knowledge, but she cannot think 
 out a subject thoroughly, and is unconsciously tainted and 
 hampered by conventionalities. Her advice to the gov- 
 ernesses reads like a piece of irony, but we believe it was 
 not meant as such. Advise them to be burnt at the stake 
 at once, rather than submit to this slow process of petri- 
 faction. She is as bad as the Reports of the " Society for 
 the relief of distressed and dilapidated Governesses." We 
 have no more patience. We must go to England our- 
 selves, and see these victims under the water torture. Till 
 then, a Dieu ! 
 
WOMAN'S INFLUENCE OVER THE INSANE. 
 
 In refef ence to what is said of entrusting an infant to 
 the insane, we must relate a little tale which touched the 
 heart in childhood from the eloquent lips of the mother. 
 
 The minister of the village had a son of such uncommon 
 powers that the slender means on which the large family 
 lived were strained to the utmost to send him to college. 
 The boy prized the means of study as only those under 
 such circumstances know how to prize them ; indeed. far 
 beyond their real worth ; since, by excessive study, pro- 
 longed often at the expense of sleep, he made himself 
 insane. 
 
 All may conceive the feelings of the family when their 
 star returned to them again, shorn of its beams i their 
 pride, their hard-earned hope, sunk to a thing so hopeless, 
 so helpless, that there could be none so poor to do him rev- 
 erence. But they loved him, and did what the ignorance 
 of the time permitted. There was little provision then for 
 the treatment of such cases, and what there was was of a 
 kind that they shrunk from resorting to, if it could be 
 avoided. They kept him at home, giving him, during 
 the first months, the freedom of the house ; but on his 
 making an attempt to kill his father, and confessing after- 
 wards that hi3 old veneration had, as is so often the case 
 
296 MISCEI-LANIES. 
 
 in these affections, reacted morbidly to its opposite, so 
 that he never saw a once-loved parent turn his back 
 without thinking how he could rush upon him and do him 
 an injury, they felt obliged to use harsher measures, and 
 chained him to a post in one room of the house. 
 
 There, so restrained, without exercise or proper medi- 
 cine, the fever of insanity came upon him in its wildest 
 form. He raved, shrieked, struck about him, and tore 
 off all the raiment that was put upon him. 
 
 One of his sisters, named Lucy, whom he had most 
 loved when well, had now power to soothe him. He 
 would listen to her voice, and give way to a milder mood 
 when she talked or sang. But this favorite sister mar- 
 ried, went to her new home, and the maniac beoame 
 wilder, more violent than ever. 
 
 After two or three years, she returned, bringing with 
 her an infant. She went into the room where the naked, 
 blaspheming, raging object was confined. He knew her 
 instantly, and felt joy at seeing her. 
 
 ^' But, Lucy," said he, suddenly, " is that your baby 
 you have in your arms ? Give it to me, I want to hold 
 it ! " 
 
 A pang of dread and suspicion shot through the young 
 mother's heart, — she turned pale and faint. Her brother 
 was not at that moment so mad that he could not under- 
 stand her fears. 
 
 '' Lucy," said he, " do you suppose I would hurt your 
 child?''* 
 
 His sister had strength of mind and of heart ; she could 
 not resist the appeal, and hastily placed the child in his 
 
THE INSANE. 297 
 
 arms. Poor fellow ! he held it awhile, stroked its little 
 face, and melted into tears, the first he had shed since his 
 insanity. 
 
 For some time after that he was better, and probably, 
 had he been under such intelligent care as may be had at 
 present, the crisis might have been followed up, and a 
 favorable direction given to his disease. But the subject 
 was not understood then, and, having once fallen mad, he 
 was doomed to live and die a madman. 
 
THE DEAP AND DUMB.* 
 
 It has been remarked of the deaf and dumb that 
 they have, frequently, a purity and religious fervor of 
 expression, as if they were kept in a better state by 
 remaining ignorant of a large portion of the wicked 
 and mean things that fly from tongue to tongue in 
 common society. No less observable is an uncommon 
 vivacity of eye when the thoughts have once been 
 awakened, which seems to say that the mind only 
 vindicates its powers the more, from being necessarily 
 more introverted than with others. 
 
 This fact and the unusual education of the whole 
 person, especially the hands, from the habit of using 
 the language of signs, must ever make the society of 
 the deaf and dumb deeply interesting to those who 
 are capable of thought and observation. They pre- 
 sent, indeed, the most interesting subject for the study 
 of the metaphysician and philologist, and we are sur- 
 prised that no more use has been made of it. The 
 single fact that they think in signs, not words, opens vol- 
 umes of speculation. 
 
 Their minds come to ours with the freshness of for- 
 eigners, while, at the same time, by community of 
 
 * Twenty-Seventh Annual Report and Documents of the New York 
 Institution for the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb, to the Legislature 
 of the State of New York. 
 
MISCELLANIES. 299 
 
 many circumstances in climate, constitution, etc., we 
 may establish an intimate connection with them, and 
 win the full benefit of their impressions as we cannot 
 from a foreigner. 
 
 It is obvious how favorable this state of the deaf 
 and dumb must be to the original poetic elements of 
 language, to the use of likenesses or images, and the 
 direct expression of simple feelings. Their style is 
 naturally a ballad style, and reveals secrets that 
 seemed lost with the cradle of humanity. We have 
 never seen any book more significant in this way tlian 
 a little English collection of prayers by deaf and 
 dumb boys at a private school founded by some lady, 
 who represented to them, as the saints Theresa, Rosa- 
 lia, and Cecilia do to the Catholic, the ideal of all 
 that is peculiarly lovely and excellent in woman. 
 The description of moods of mind by these boys, the 
 correspondences discerned between their own lives 
 and the forms of nature, the swelling lyric sweetness 
 with which their aspirations are expressed, belong to 
 the highest, simplest state of poesy. 
 
 It is from considerations like these that we look 
 with deep interest on this important institution, no 
 less than from joy at goodness and justice manifested 
 towards a portion of our race less favored by nature 
 than the rest. But, indeed, in this view, we cannot 
 be too grateful to see so many relieved from the tor- 
 tures of suspicion and the phantoms of doubt which 
 beset the uneducated deaf mute. 
 
 The following letter from a young deaf and dumb 
 child may be deemed by some too childish for so grave 
 a place as this ; but we must give it as an instance 
 
300 THE DEAF AND DUMB. 
 
 of how much pure happiness may be afforded by a lit- 
 tle act of thoughtful kindness. We should, for our 
 own part, prefer being the giver of the ' sweet kitten ' 
 to almost any office in the gift of the State of New 
 York. Blessed be the charities of daily life ! These 
 little flowers have, indeed, a chance to bloom and 
 bless ; they lie too low to be destroyed by the sudden 
 blast that cuts sheer off the tops of the loftiest trees. 
 None so poor that he cannot bring cheer to the for- 
 saken, for a rush candle is more cheering even than a 
 star to the benighted wanderer ; and none so power- 
 less that he cannot confer on a childish heart a kingly 
 gift of unalloyed felicity such as is portrayed in these 
 lines : — 
 
 " The Kitten. — Some years ago, on Sunday, my 
 brother, and sister-in-law, and myself went to our 
 friends to visit them. My sister-in-law's parents gave 
 me a pretty kitten. I was very glad. They and my- 
 self staid till six o'clock. They and myself came to 
 home in the wagon. I sat on a little bench with the 
 kitten, which slept on my lap. At night they and 
 myself arrived at home. I carried my sweet kitten, 
 and walked through the gate, while I thought that I 
 would take care good of my kitten. Then I opened 
 my father's door, entered, and saw my brother. He 
 asked me is the kitten yours ? I answered yes, it is 
 mine. Sometimes I told my sister that she bring me 
 some milk. She brought me some milk in the saucer. 
 I put it on the floor, and the kitten would not come 
 to drink milk, because it was very afraid. I was 
 sorry. The next day I carried the kitten to my 
 brotlier's house. He took care of my sweet kitten." 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Our festivals come rather too near together, since we 
 have so few of them ; — Thanksgiving, Chri&^mas-day, 
 New-Years'-day, and then none again till July. We know 
 not but these four, with the addition of a " day set apart 
 for fasting and prayer," might answer the purposes of 
 rest and edification as well as a calendar full of saints' 
 days, if they were observed in a better spirit. But, 
 Thanksgiving is devoted to good dinners ; Christmas and 
 New- Years' days to making presents and compliments ; 
 Fast-day to playing at cricket and other games, and the 
 Fourth of July to boasting of the past, rather than to plans 
 how to deserve its benefits and secure its fruits. 
 
 We value means of marking time by appointed days, 
 because man, on one side of his nature so ardent and 
 aspiring, is on the other so indolent and slippery a being, 
 that he needs incessant admonitions to redeem the time. 
 Time flows on steadily, whether he regards it or not 
 yet, unless he keep time^ there is no music in that flow. 
 The sands drop with inevitable speed ; yet each waits long 
 enough to receive, if it be ready, the intellectual touch 
 that should turn it to a sand of gold. 
 
 Time, says the Grecian fable, is the parent of Power. 
 Power is the father of Genius and Wisdom. Time, then, 
 is grandfather of the noblest of -the human family ; and 
 26 
 
302 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 we must respect the aged sire whom we see on the fron- 
 tispiece of the almanacs, and believe his scjthe was 
 meant to mow down harvests ripened for an immortal 
 use. 
 
 Yet the best provision made by the mind of society at 
 large for these admonitions soon loses its efficacy, and 
 requires that individual earnestness, individual piety, 
 should continually reinforce the most beautiful form. 
 The world has never seen arrangements which might more 
 naturally offer good suggestions than those of the Church 
 of Kome. The founders of that church stood very near 
 a history radiant at every page with divine light. All 
 their rites and ceremonial days illustrate facts of an 
 universal interest. But the life with which piety first, 
 and afterwards the genius of great artists, invested these 
 symbols, waned at last, except to a thoughtful few. Rev- 
 erence was forgotten in the multitude of genuflexions; 
 the rosary became a string of beads rather than a series 
 of religious meditations; and the "glorious company of 
 saints and martyrs " were not regarded so much as the 
 teachers of heavenly truth, as intercessors to obtain for 
 their votaries the temporal gifts they craved. 
 
 Yet we regret that some of those symbols had not been 
 more reverenced by Protestants, as the possible occasion 
 of good thoughts, and, among others, we regret that the 
 day set apart to commemorate the birth of Jesus should 
 have been stript, even by those who observe it, of many 
 impressive and touching accessories. 
 
 If ever there was an occasion on which the arts could 
 become all but omnipotent in the service of a holy thought, 
 
CHRISTMAS. 303 
 
 it is this of the birth of the child Jesus. In the palmy 
 days of the Catholic religion they may \e said to have 
 wrought miracles in its behalf; and in cur colder time, 
 when we rather reflect that light from a different point of 
 view than transport ourselves into it, who, that has an eye 
 ^nd ear faithful to the soul, is not conscious of inexhaust- 
 ible benefits from some of the works by which sublime 
 geniuses have expressed their ideas? — in the adorations 
 of the Magi and the Shepherds, in the Virgin with the 
 infant Jesus, or that work which expresses what Chris- 
 tendom at large has not begun to realize, — that work 
 which makes us conscious, as we listen, why the soul of 
 man was thought worthy and able to upbear a cross of 
 such dreadful weight, — the Messiah of Handel. 
 
 Christmas would seem to be the day peculiarly sacred 
 to children ; and something of this feeling is beginning to 
 show itself among us, though rather from German influ- 
 ence than of native growth. The ever-green tree is often 
 reared for the children on Christmas evening, and its 
 branches cluster with little tokens that may, at least, give 
 them a sense that the world is rich, and that there are 
 some in it who care to bless them. It is a charming sight 
 to see their glistening eyes, and well worth much trouble 
 in preparing the Christmas-tree. 
 
 Yet, on this occasion, as on all others, we should like to 
 see pleasure offered to them in a form less selfish than it 
 is. When shall we read of banquets prepared for the 
 halt, the lame, and the blind, on the day that is said to 
 have brought their friend into the world ? When will 
 children be taught to ask all the cold and i^aggc i little 
 
304 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ones "whom they have seen during the daj wistfully gazing 
 at the shop-windows, to share the joys of Christmas-eve ? 
 
 We borrow the Christmas-tree from Germany ; might 
 we but borrow with it that feeling which pervades all 
 their stories, about the influence of the Christ-child, and 
 has, I doubt not (for the spirit of literature is always, 
 though refined, the essence of popular life), pervaded the 
 conduct of children there. 
 
 We will mention two of these as happily expressive of 
 different sides of the desirable character. One is a legend 
 of the saint Hermann Joseph. The legend runs that this 
 saint, v/hen a little boy, passed daily by a niche where 
 was an image of the Virgin and Child, and delighted there 
 to pay his devotions. His heart was so drawn towards 
 the holy child that one day, having received what seemed 
 to him a gift truly precious, a beautiful red and yellow 
 apple, he ventured to offer it, with his prayer. To his 
 unspeakable delight the child put forth his hand and took 
 the apple. After that day, never was a gift bestowed 
 upon the little Hermann, that was not carried to the 
 same place. He needed nothing for himself, but dedi- 
 cated all his childish goods to the altar. 
 
 After a while he was in trouble. His father, who 
 was a poor man, found it necessary to take him from 
 school, and bind him to a trade. He communicated his 
 woes to his friends of the niche, and the Virgin comforted 
 him like a mother, and bestowed on him money, by means 
 of which he rose to be a learned and tender Shepherd of 
 men. 
 
 Another still more touching story is that of the holy 
 
CHRISTMAS. 305 
 
 Rupert. Rupert was the only child of a princely house, 
 and had something to give besides apples. But his 
 generosity and human love were such that, as a child, he 
 could never see poor children suffering without despoiling 
 himself of all he had with him in their behalf His 
 mother was, at first, displeased with this ; but when he 
 replied, " They are thy children too,"' her reproofs yielded 
 to tears. 
 
 One time, when he had given away his coat to a poor 
 child, he got wearied and belated on his homeward way. 
 He lay down a while and fell asleep. Then he dreamed 
 that he was on a river-shore, and saw a mild and noble 
 old man bathing many children. After he had plunged 
 them into the water, he would place them on a beautiful 
 island, where they looked white and glorious as little 
 angels. Rupert was seized with a strong desire to join 
 them, and beoj^ed the old man to bathe him also in the 
 stream. But he was answered, "It is not yet time." 
 Just then a rainbow spanned the island, and in its arch 
 was enthroned the child Jesus, dressed in a coat that 
 Rupert knew to be his own. And the child said to the 
 others, "See this coat; it is one which my brother 
 Rupert has just sent to me. He has given us many gifts 
 from his love ; shall we not ask him to join us here? " 
 And they shouted a musical " Yes ! " and Rupert started 
 out of his dream. But he had lain too long on the damp 
 bank of the river without his coat, and cold and fever 
 soon sent him to join the band of his brothers in their 
 home. 
 
 These are legends, superstitious, you will say. But, 
 26* 
 
306 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in casting aside the shell, have we retained the kernel ? 
 The image of the child Jesus is not seen in the open 
 street. Does his heart find other means to express itself 
 there? Protestantism does not mean, we suppose, to 
 deaden the spirit in excluding the fonn. 
 
 The thought of Jesus, as a child, has great weight 
 with children who have learned to think of him at all. 
 In thinking of him they form an image of all that the 
 morning of a pure and fervent life should be and bring. 
 
 In former days I knew a boy-artist whose genius, at 
 that time, showed high promise. He was not more than 
 fourteen years old — a pale, slight boy, with a beaming 
 eye. The hopes and sympathy of friends, gained by his 
 talent, had furnished him with a studio and orders for 
 some pictures. He had picked up from the streets a boy, 
 still younger and poorer than himself, to take care of the 
 room and prepare his colors, and the two boys were as 
 content in their relation as Michael Angelo with his Ur- 
 bino. If you went there, you found exposed to view 
 many pretty pictures — " A Girl with a Dove," " The 
 Guitar-player," and such subjects as are commonly sup- 
 posed to interest at his age. But, hid in a corner, and 
 never shown, unless to the beggar-page or some most con- 
 fidential friend, was the real object of his love and pride, 
 the slowly-growing work of secret hours. The suDJect 
 of this picture was Christ teaching the Doctors. And in 
 those doctors he had expressed all he had already observed 
 of the pedantry and shallow conceit of those in whom 
 mature years have not unfolded the soul : and in the 
 child, all he felt that early youth should be and seek, 
 
CHRISTMAS. 307 
 
 though, alas! his own feet failed him on the difficult 
 road. This one record of the youth of Jesus, had, at 
 least, been much to his mind. 
 
 In earlier days the little saints thought they best imi- 
 tated the Emanuel by giving apples and cents ; but we 
 inow not why, in our age, that esteems itself so much 
 enlightened, they should not become also the givers of 
 spiritual gifts. We see in them, continually, impulses 
 that only require a good direction to effect infinite good. 
 See the little girls at work for foreign missions ; that is 
 not useless ; they devote the time to a purpose that is 
 not selfish ; the horizon of their thoughts is extended. 
 But they are perfectly capable of becoming home-mis- 
 sionaries as well. The principle of stewardship would 
 make them so. 
 
 I have seen a little girl of thirteen, who had much ser- 
 vice, too, to do for a hard-working mother, in the midst 
 of a circle of poor children whom she gathered daily to 
 a morning school. She took them from the door-steps 
 and the gutters ; she washed their faces and hands ; she 
 taught them to read and sew, and told them stories that 
 had delighted her own infancy. In her face, though in 
 feature and complexion plain, was something already of a 
 Madonna sweetness, and it had no way eclipsed the gayety 
 of childhood. 
 
 I have seen a boy, scarce older, brought up for some 
 time with the sons of laborers, who, so soon as he found 
 himself possessed of superior advantages, thought not of 
 surpassing others, but of excelling that he might be able 
 to impart ; and he was able to do it. If the other bovs 
 
308 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 had less leisure, and could pay for less instruction, they 
 did not suffer by it. He could not be happy unless they 
 also could enjoy Milton, and pass from nature to natural 
 philosophy. He performed, though in a childish way, 
 and in no Grecian garb, the part of Apollo amidst the 
 herdsmen of Admetus. 
 
 The cause of education would be indefinitely furthered 
 if, in addition to formal means, there were but this prin- 
 ciple awakened in the hearts of the young, that what 
 they have they must bestow. All are not natural instruc- 
 tors, but a large proportion are; and those who do pos- 
 sess such a talent are the best possible teachers to those 
 a little younger than themselves. Many have more 
 patience with the difficulties they have lately left behind, 
 and enjoy their power of assisting more than those fur- 
 ther removed in age and knowledge do. 
 
 Then the intercourse may be far more congenial and 
 profitable than where the teacher receives for hire all 
 sorts of pupils as they are sent him by their guardians. 
 Here he need only choose those who have a predisposi- 
 tion for what he is best able to teach ; and, as I would 
 have the so-called higher instruction as much diffused in 
 this way as the lower, there would be a chance jf awak- 
 ening all the power that now lies latent. 
 
 If a girl, for instance, who has only a passable talent 
 for music, but who, from the advantage of social position, 
 has been able to gain thorough instruction, felt it her 
 duty to teach whomsoever she knew that had a talent 
 without money td cultivate it, the good is obvious. 
 
 Those who are learning, receive an immediate benefit 
 
CHRISTMAS. 309 
 
 by the effort to rearrange and interpret what thej learn ; 
 so the use of this justice would be two-fold. 
 
 Some efforts are made here and there ; nay, sometimes 
 there are those/ who can say they have returned usury 
 for every gift of fate ; and would others make the same 
 experiments, they might find Utopia not so far off as 
 the children of this world, wise in securing their own 
 selfish ease, would persuade us it must always be. 
 
 We have hinted what sort of Christmas-box we would 
 wish for the children ; it must be one as full, as that of 
 the Christ-child must be, of the pieces of silver that 
 were lost and are found. But Christmas with its peculiar 
 associations has deep interest for men and women no less. 
 At that time thus celebrated, a pure woman saw in her 
 child what the Son of man should be as a child of God. 
 She anticipated for him a life of glory to God, peace 
 and good- will towards men. In any young mother's heart, 
 who has any purity of heart, the same feelings arise. 
 But most of these mothers carelessly let them go without 
 obeying their instructions. If they did not, we should 
 see- other children, other men than now throng our 
 streets. The boy could not invariably disappoint the 
 mother, the man the wife, who steadily demanded of 
 him such a career. 
 
 And Man looks upon Woman, in this relation, always 
 as he should. Does he see in her a holy mother, worthy 
 to guard the infancy of an immortal soul? Then she 
 assumes in his eyes those traits which the Romish church 
 loved to revere in Mary. Frivolity, base appetite, con- 
 tempt, are exorcised, and Man and Woman appear again, 
 
310 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in unprofaned connection, as brother and sister, children 
 and servants of one Divine Love, and pilgrims to a com- 
 mon aim. 
 
 Were all this right in the private sphere, the public 
 would soon right itself also, and the nations of Christen- 
 dom might join in a celebration such as "Kings and 
 Prophets waited for," and so many martyrs died to achieve, 
 of Christ-mass. 
 
CHILDREN'S BOOKS. 
 
 There is no branch of literature that better deserves 
 cultivation, and none that so little obtains it from worthy 
 hands, as this of Children's Books. It requires a pecu- 
 liar development of the genius and sympathies, rare 
 among men of factitious life, who are not men enough to 
 revive with force and beauty the thoughts and scenes of 
 childhood. 
 
 It is all idle to talk baby-talk, and give shallow 
 accounts of deep things, thinking thereby to interest the 
 child. He does not like to be too much puzzled ; but it 
 is simplicity he wants, not silliness. We fancy their 
 angels, who are always waiting in the courts of our 
 Father, smile somewhat sadly on the ignorance of those 
 who would feed them on milk and water too long, and 
 think it would be quite as well to give them a stone. 
 
 There is too much amongst us of the French way of 
 palming oiF false accounts of things on children, "to do 
 them good," and showing nature to them in a magic 
 lantern "purified for the use of childhood," and telling 
 stories of sweet little girls and brave little boys, — 0, all 
 so good, or so bad ! and above all, so little^ and every- 
 thinor about them so little ! Children accustomed to 
 move in full-sized apartments, and converse with full- 
 grown men and women, do not need so much of this 
 
312 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 babj-house style in their literature. Tbey like, or 
 would like if they could get them, better things much 
 more. They like the Arabian Nights^ and Pilgrim^ s 
 Progress^ and BanyanJs Emblems^ and Shakspeare^ 
 and the Iliad and Odyssey^ — at least, they used to 
 like them ; and if they do not now, it is because their 
 taste has been injured by so many sugar-plums. The 
 books that were written in the childhood of nations 
 suit an uncorrupted childhood now. They are simple, 
 picturesque, robust. Their moral is not forced, nor is 
 the truth veiled with a well-meant but sure-to-fail hy- 
 pocrisy. Sometimes they are not moral at all, — only 
 free plays of the fancy and intellect. These, also, the 
 child needs, just as the infant needs to stretch its limbs, 
 and grasp at objects it cannot hold. We have become 
 so fond of the moral, that we forget the nature in which 
 it must find its root ; so fond of instruction, that we for- 
 get development. 
 
 Where ballads, legends, fairy-tales, are moral, the 
 morality is heart-felt ; if instructive, it is from the healthy 
 common sense of mankind, and not for the convenience 
 of nursery rule, nor the '' peace of schools and families." 
 
 0, that winter, freezing, snow-laden winter, which 
 ushered in our eighth birthday ! There, in the lonely 
 farm-house, the day's work done, and the bright wood- 
 fire all in a glow, we were peimitted to slide back the 
 panel of the cupboard in the wall, — most fascinating object 
 still in our eyes, with which no stateliest alcoved library 
 can vie, — and there saw, neatly ranged on its two shelves, 
 not — praised be our natal star ! — Peter Parley^ nor a 
 
children's books. 313 
 
 History of the Good Little Boy who never took anything 
 that did not belong to him ; but the Spectator^ Telem- 
 achus, Goldsmith' s Animated Nature^ and the Iliad. 
 
 Forms of gods and heroes more distinctly seen, and 
 with eyes of nearer love then than now ! — our true 
 uncle, Sir Roger de Coverley, and ye, fair realms of 
 Nature's history, whose pictures we tormented all grown 
 persons to illustrate with more knowledge, still more, — 
 how we bless the chance that gave to us your great real- 
 ities, which life has daily helped us, helps us still, to 
 interpret, instead of thin and baseless fictions that would 
 all this time have hampered us, though with only cob- 
 webs ! 
 
 Children need some childish talk, some childish play, 
 some childish books. But they also need, and need 
 more, difificulties to overcome, and a sense of the vast 
 mysteries which the progress of their intelligence shall 
 aid them to unravel. This sense is naturally their 
 delight, as it is their religion, and it must not be dulled 
 by premature explanations or subterfuges of any kind. 
 There has been too much of this lately. 
 
 Miss Edgeworth is an excellent writer for children. 
 She is a child herself, as she writes, nursed anew by her 
 own genius. It is not by imitating, but by reproducing 
 childhood, that the writer becomes its companion. Then, 
 indeed, we have something especially good, for, 
 
 *• Like wine, well-kept and long, 
 Heady, nor harsh, nor strong. 
 With each succeeding year is quaffed, 
 A richer, purer, mellower draught." 
 
 27 
 
514 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Miss Edgeworth's grown people live naturally with the 
 children ; thej do not talk to them continually about 
 angels or flowers, but about the things that interest 
 themselves. They do not force them forward, nor keep 
 them back. The relations are simple and honorable ; all 
 ages in the family seem at home under one roof and 
 sheltered by one care. 
 
 The Juveyiile Miscellany, formerly published by Mrs. 
 Child, was much and deservedly esteemed by children. 
 It was a healthy, cheerful, natural and entertaining com- 
 panion to them. 
 
 We should censure too monotonously tender a manner 
 in what is written for children, and too constant an atten- 
 tion to moral mfluence. We should prefer a larger pro- 
 portion of the facts of natural or human history, and that 
 they should speak for themselves. 
 
 * * * :^ * * 
 
WOMAN IN POVERTY. 
 
 Woman, even less than Man, is what she should be as 
 a whole. She is not that self-centred being, full of pro- 
 found intuitions, angelic love, and flowing poesy, that 
 she should be. Yet there are circumstances in which the 
 native force and purity of her being teach her how to 
 conquer where the restless impatience of Man brings 
 defeat, and leaves him crushed and bleeding on the field. 
 
 Images rise to mind of calm strength, of gentle wis- 
 dom learning from every turn of adverse fate, — of youth- 
 ful tenderness and faith undimmed to the close of life, 
 which redeem humanity and make the heart glow with 
 fresh courage as we write. They are mostly from 
 obscure corners and very private walks. There was noth- 
 ing shining, nothing of an obvious and sounding heroism 
 to make their conduct doubtful, by tainting their motives 
 with vanity. Unknown they lived, untrumpeted they 
 died. Many hearts were warmed and fed by them, but 
 perhaps no mind but our own ever consciously took 
 account of their virtues. 
 
 Had Art but the power adequately to tell their simple 
 virtues, and to cast upon them the light which, shining 
 through those marked and faded faces, foretold the glo- 
 ries of a second spring ! The tears of holy emotion 
 
316 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 which fell from those ejes have seemed to us pearls 
 beyond all price ; or rather, whose price will be paid 
 only when, beyond the grave, they enter those better 
 spheres in whose faith they felt and acted here. 
 
 From this private gallery we will, for the present, 
 bring forth but one picture. That of a Black Nun was 
 wont to fetter the eyes of visitors in the royal galleries 
 of France, and my Sister of Mercy, too, is of that com- 
 plexion. The old woman was recommended as a laun- 
 dress by my friend, who had long prized her. I was im- 
 mediately struck with the dignity and propriety of her 
 manner. In the depth of winter she brought herself the 
 heavy baskets through the slippery streets ; and, when I 
 asked her why she did not employ some younger person 
 to do what was so entirely disproportioned to her strength, 
 simply said, '' she lived alone, and could not afford to 
 hire an errand-boy." "It was hard for her ? " " No, she 
 w^as fortunate in being able to get work at her age, when 
 others could do it better. Her friends were very good to 
 procure it for her." '• Had she a comfortable home ? " 
 " Tolerably so, — she should not need one long." '' Was 
 that a thought of joy to her? " " Yes, for she hoped to 
 see again the husband and children from whom she had 
 long been separated." 
 
 Thus much in answer to the questions, but at other 
 times the little she said was on general topics. It was 
 not from her that I learnt how the great idea of Duty 
 had held her upright through a life of incessant toil, sor- 
 row, bereavement ; and that not only she had remained 
 upright, but that her character had been constantly pro- 
 
WOMEN IN POVERTY. 317 
 
 gressive. Her latest act had been to take home a poor 
 sick girl who had no home of her own, and could not 
 bear the idea of dying in a hospital, and maintain and 
 nurse her through the last weeks of her life. " Her eye- 
 sight was failing, and she should not be able to work 
 much longer, — but, then, God would provide. Some- 
 body ought to see to the poor, motherless girl." 
 
 It was not merely the greatness of the act, for one in 
 such circumstances, but the quiet matter-of-course way 
 in which it was done, that showed the habitual tone of 
 the mind, and made us feel that life could hardly do 
 more for a human being than to make him or her the 
 somebody that is daily so deeply needed, to represent the 
 right, to do the plain right thing. 
 
 " God will provide." Yes, it is the poor who feel 
 themselves near to the God of love. Though he slay 
 them, still do they trust him. 
 
 " I hope," said I to a poor apple- woman, who had 
 been drawn on to disclose a tale of distress that, almost 
 in the mere hearing, made me weary of life, " I hope I 
 may yet see you in a happier condition." " With God's 
 help," she replied, with a smile that Raphael would have 
 delighted to transfer to his canvas ; a Mozart, to strains 
 of angelic sweetness. All her life she had seemed an 
 outcast child ; still she leaned upon a Father's love. 
 
 The dignity of a state like this may vary its form in 
 more or less richness and beauty of detail, but here is the 
 focus of what makes life valuable. It is this spirit which 
 makes poverty the best servant to the ideal of human 
 nature. I am content with this type, and will only 
 27* 
 
318 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 quote, in addition, a ballad I found in a foreign periodi- 
 cal, translated from Chamisso, and which forcibly recalled 
 my own laundress as an equally admirable sample of the 
 same class, the Ideal Poor, which we need for our con- 
 solation, so long as there must be real poverty. 
 
 "THE OLD WASHERWOMAN. 
 
 ** Among yon lines her hands have laden, 
 
 A laundress with white hair appears, 
 wAlert as many a youthful maiden, 
 
 Spite of her five-and-seventy years ; 
 Bravely she won those white hairs, still 
 
 Eating the bread hard toil obtained her, 
 And laboring truly to fulfil 
 
 The duties to which God ordained her. 
 
 " Once she was young and full of gladness. 
 
 She loved and hoped, — was wooed and won ; 
 Then came the matron's cares, — the sadness 
 
 No loving heart on earth may shun. 
 Three babes she bore her mate ; she prayed 
 
 Beside his sick-bed, — he was taken ; 
 She saw him in the church-yard laid. 
 
 Yet kept her faith and hope unshaken. 
 
 •' The task her little ones of feeding 
 
 She met unfaltering from thiat hour ; 
 She taught them thrift and honest breeding. 
 
 Her virtues were their worldly dower. 
 To seek employment, one by one. 
 
 Forth with her blessing they departed. 
 And she was in the world alone — 
 
 Alone and old, but still high-hearted. 
 
 " With frugal forethought, self-denying. 
 She gathered coin, and flax she bought. 
 
WOMEN IN POVERTY. 319 
 
 And many a night her spindle plying. 
 
 Good store of fine-spun thread she wrought. 
 
 The thread was fashioned in the loom ; 
 She brought it home, and calmly seated 
 
 To work, with not a thought of gloom. 
 Her decent grave-clothes she completed. 
 
 •' She looks on them with fond elation ; 
 
 They are her wealth, her treasure rare. 
 Her age's pride and consolation. 
 
 Hoarded with all a miser's care. 
 She dons the sark each Sabbath day. 
 
 To hear the Word that faileth never ; 
 Well-pleased she lays it then away 
 
 Till she shall sleep in it forever ! 
 
 *' Would that my spirit witness bore me 
 
 That, like this woman, I had done 
 The work my Master put before me 
 
 Duly from mom till set of sun ' 
 Would that life's cup had been by me 
 
 Quaffed in such wise and happy measure. 
 And that I too might finally 
 
 Look on my shroud with such meek pleasure ! " 
 
 Such are the noble of the earth. They do not repine, 
 they do not chafe, even in the inmost heart. They 
 feel that, whatever else may be denied or withdrawn, 
 there remains the better part, which cannot be taken 
 from them. This line exactly expresses the woman I 
 knew: — 
 
 *' Alone and old, but still high-hearted.'* 
 
 Will any, poor or rich, fail to feel that the children 
 of such a parent were rich when 
 
 *• Her virtues were their worldly dower " ? 
 
3 20 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Will any fail to bow the heart in assent to the aspira- 
 tion, 
 
 " Would that my spirit witness bore me 
 That, like this woman, I had done 
 The work my Maker put before me 
 Duly from morn till set of sun " ? 
 
 May not that suffice to any man's ambition ? 
 
[PerLaps one of the most perplexing problems which beset Woman 
 in her domestic sphere relates to the proper care and influence which 
 she should exert over the domestic aids she employs. As these are, 
 and long must be, taken chiefly from one nation, the following pages 
 treating of the Irish Character, and the true relation between Em- 
 ployer and Employed, can hardly fail to be of interest. They contain, 
 too, some considerations which Woman as well as Man is too much in 
 danger of overlooking, and which seem, even more than when first 
 urged, to be timely in this reactionary to-day. — Ed ] 
 
 THE IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 In one of the eloquent passages quoted in the '' Trib- 
 une " of Wednesday, under the head, " Spirit of the 
 Irish Press," we find these words : 
 
 " Domestic love, almost morbid from external suffer- 
 ing, prevents him (the Irishman) from becoming a fanatic 
 and a misanthrope, and reconciles him to life." 
 
 This recalled to our mind the many touching instances 
 known to us of such traits among the Irish we have seen 
 here. We have known instances of morbidness like this. 
 A girl sent ''home," after she was well established her- 
 self, for a young brother, of whom she was particularly 
 fond. He came, and shortly after died. She was so 
 overcome by his loss that she took poison. The great 
 poet of serious England says, and we believe it to be his 
 serious thought though laughingly said, "Men have 
 died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love." 
 
322 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Whether or not death may follow from the loss of a lover 
 or child, we believe that among no people but the Irish 
 would it be upon the loss of a young brother. 
 
 Another poor young woman, in the flower of her 
 youth, denied herself, not only every pleasure, but almost 
 the necessaries of life to save the sum she thought ought 
 lo be hers before sending to Ireland for a widowed 
 mother. Just as she was on the point of doing so she 
 heard that her mother had died fifteen months before. 
 The keenness and persistence of her grief defy description. 
 With a delicacy of feeling which showed the native poetry 
 of the Irish mind, she dwelt, most of all, upon the thought 
 that while she was working, and pinching, and dreaming 
 of happiness with her mother, it was indeed but a dream, 
 and that cherished parent lay still and cold beneath the 
 ground. She felt fully the cruel cheat of Fate. '• Och ! 
 and she was dead all those times I was thinking of her ! " 
 was the deepest note of her lament. 
 
 They are able, however, to make the sacrifice of even 
 these intense family affections in a worthy cause. We 
 knew a woman who postponed sending for her only child, 
 whom she had left in Ireland, for years, while she main- 
 tained a sick friend who had no one else to help her. 
 
 The poetry of which I have spoken shows itself even 
 here, where they are separated from old romantic associa- 
 tions, and begin the new life in the New World by doing 
 all its drudgery. We know flights of poetry repeated 
 to us by those present at their wakes, — passages of 
 natural eloquence, from the lamentations for the dead, 
 
THE miSH CHARACTER. 323 
 
 more bejiutiful than those recorded in the annals of Brit- 
 tany or Roumelia. 
 
 It is the same genius, so exquisitely mournful, tender, 
 and glowing, too, with the finest enthusiasm, that makes 
 their national music, in these respects, the finest in the 
 world. It is the music of the harp ; its tones are deep 
 and thrilling. It is the harp so beautifully described in 
 " The Harp of Tara's Halls," a song whose simple pathos 
 is unsurpassed. A feeling was never more adequately 
 embodied. 
 
 It is the genius which will enable Emmet's appeal to 
 draw tears from the remotest generations, however much 
 they may be strangers to the circumstances which called 
 it forth. It is the genius which beamed in chivalrous 
 loveliness through each act of Lord Edward Fitzcrerald, 
 — the genius which, ripened by English culture, favored 
 by suitable occasions, has shed such glory on the land 
 which has done all it could to quench it on the parent 
 hearth. 
 
 When we consider all the fire which glows so untam- 
 ably in Irish veins, the character of her people, consider- 
 ing the circumstances, almost miraculous in its goodness, 
 we cannot forbear, notwithstanding all the temporary ills 
 they aid in here, to give them a welcome to our shores. 
 Those ills we need not enumerate ; they are known to 
 all, and we rank among them, what others would not, 
 that by their ready service to do all the hard work, they 
 make it easier for the rest of the population to grow 
 efieminate, and help the country to grow too fast. 
 Bit that is her destiny, to grow too fast : there is no use 
 
824 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 talking against it. Their extreme ignorance, their blind 
 devotion to their priesthood, their pliancy in the hands 
 of demagogues, threaten continuance of these ills ^ yet, 
 on the other hand, we must regard them as most valua- 
 ble elements in the new race. They are looked upon 
 with contempt for their want of aptitude in learning new 
 things ; their ready and ingenious lying ; their eye-ser- 
 vice. These are the faults of an oppressed race, which 
 must require the aid of better circumstances through two 
 or three generations to eradicate. Their virtues are their 
 own ; they are many, genuine, and deeply-rooted. Can 
 an impartial observer fail to admire their truth to domes- 
 tic ties, their power of generous bounty, and more 
 generous gratitude, their indefatigable good-humor (for* 
 ages of wrong which have driven them to so many acts 
 of desperation, could never sour their blood at its source), 
 their ready wit, their elasticity of nature ? They are 
 fundamentally one of the best nations of the world. 
 Would they were welcomed here, not to work merely, 
 but to intelligent sympathy, and efforts, both patient and 
 ardent, for the education of their children ! No sympathy 
 could be better deserved, no eflforts wiselier timed. Future 
 Burkes and Currans would know how to give thanks 
 for them, and Fitzgeralds rise upon the soil — which 
 boasts the magnolia with its kingly stature and majestical 
 white blossoms, — to the same lofty and pure beauty. 
 Will you not believe it, merely because that bog-bred 
 youth you placed in the mud-hole tells you lies, and 
 drinks to cheer himself in those endless diggings ? -You 
 are short-sighted, my friend : you do not look to the 
 
THE IRISH CHARACTER. 325 
 
 future ; you will not turn your head to see what may 
 have been the influences of the past. You have not 
 examined your own breast to see whether the moniton 
 there has not commanded you to do your part to coun- 
 teract these influences ; and yet the Irishman appeals to 
 you, eye to eye. He is very personal himself, — he 
 expects a personal interest from you. Nothing has been 
 able to destroy this hope, which was the fruit of his 
 nature. We were much touched by O'Connell's direct 
 appeal to the queen, as "Lady!" But she did not 
 listen, — and we fear few ladies and gentlemen will till 
 the progress of Destiny compels them. 
 28 
 
THE IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 Since the publication of a short notice under this head 
 in the '' Tribune^'' ^ several persons have expressed to us 
 that their feelings were awakened on the subject, espe- 
 cially as to their intercourse with the lower Irish. Most 
 persons have an opportunity of becoming acquainted, if 
 they will, with the lower classes of Irish, as they are so 
 much employed among us in domestic service, and other 
 kinds of labor. 
 
 We feel, say these persons, the justice of what has 
 been said as to the duty and importance of improving 
 these people. We have sometimes tried ; but the want 
 of real gratitude which, in them, is associated with such 
 warm and wordy expressions of regard, with their incor- 
 rigible habits of falsehood and evasion, have baffled and 
 discouraged us. You say their children ought to be 
 educated ; but how can this be effected when the all but 
 omnipotent sway of the Catholic religion and the exam- 
 ple of parents are both opposed to the formation of such 
 views and habits as we think desirable to the citizen of 
 the New World ? 
 
 We answer first with regard to those who have grown 
 up in another land, and who, soon after ariiving here, 
 are engaged in our service. 
 
THE IRISH CHARACTER. 327 
 
 First, as to ingratitude. We cannot but sadlj smile 
 on the remarks we hear so often on this subject. 
 
 Just Heaven ! — and to us how liberal ! which has 
 given those who speak thus an unfettered existence, free 
 from religious or political oppression ; which has given 
 them the education of intellectual and refined intercourse 
 with men to develop those talents which make them 
 rich in thoughts and enjoyment, perhaps in money, too, 
 certainly rich in comparison with the poor immigrants 
 they employ, — what is thought in thy clear light of 
 those who expect in e^c^ange for a few shillings spent in 
 presents or .jnedicines, a few kind words, a little casual 
 thought or care, such a mighty payment of gratitude? 
 Gratitud.e ! Under the weight of old feudalism their 
 minds were padlocked by habit against the light ; they 
 might be grateful then, for they thought their lords were 
 as gods, of another frame and spirit than theirs, and that 
 they had no right to have the same hopes and wants, 
 scarcely to suffer from the same maladies, with those 
 creatures of silk, and velvet, and cloth of gold. Then, 
 the crumbs which fell from the rich man's table might 
 be received with gratitude, and, if any but the dogs came 
 to tend the beggar's sores, such might be received as 
 angels. But the institutions which sustained such ideas 
 have fallen to pieces. It is understood, even in Europe, 
 that 
 
 " The rank is but the guinea's stamp. 
 The man 's the gowd for a' that, 
 A man 's a man for a' that.'* 
 
 And being such, has a claim on this earth for some- 
 
328 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 thing better than the nettles of which the French peas- 
 antry made their soup, and with which the persecuted 
 Irish, "under hiding," turned to green the lips white 
 before with famine. 
 
 And if this begins to be understood in Europe, can 
 you suppose it is not by those who, hearing that America 
 opens a mother's arms with the cry, " All men are born 
 free and equal," rush to her bosom to be consoled for 
 centuries of woe, for their ignorance, their hereditary 
 degradation, their long memories of black bread and 
 stripes ? However little else they may understand, 
 believe they understand well this much. Such inequal- 
 ities of privilege, among men all born of one blood, 
 should not exist. They darkly feel that those to whom 
 much has been given owe to the Master an account of 
 stewardship. They know now that your gift is but a 
 small portion of their right. 
 
 And you, giver ! how did you give ? With religious 
 joy, as one who knows that he who loves God cannot fail 
 to love his neighbor as himself ? with joy and freedom, as 
 one who feels that it is the highest happiness of gift to us 
 that we have something to give again ? Didst thou put 
 thyself into the position of the poor man, and do for him 
 what thou wouldst have had one who was able to do for 
 thee ? Or, with affability and condescending sweetness, 
 made easy by internal delight at thine own wondrous vir- 
 tue, didst thou give five dollars to balance five hundred 
 spent on thyself? Did you say, " James, I shall expect 
 you to do right in everything, and to attend to my con- 
 cerns as I should myself ; and, at the end of the quarter, 
 
THE IRISH CH^IRACTER. 329 
 
 I will give you my old clothes and a new pocket-handker- 
 chief, besides seeing that your mother is provided with 
 fuel against Christmas ? " 
 
 Line upon line, and precept upon precept, the tender 
 parent expects from the teacher to whom he confides his 
 child ; vigilance unwearied, day and night, through long 
 years. But he expects the raw Irish girl or boy to cor- 
 rect, at a single exhortation, the habit of deceiving those 
 above them, w^hich the expectation of being tyrannized 
 over has rooted in their race for ages. If we look fairly 
 into the history of their people, and the circumstances 
 under which their own youth was trained, we cannot 
 expect that anything short of the most steadfast patience 
 and love can enlighten them as to the beauty and value of 
 implicit truth, and, having done so, fortify and refine them 
 in the practice of it. 
 
 This we admit at the outset : First, You must be pre- 
 pared for a religious and patient treatment of these people, 
 not merely z/weducated, but ^//-educated ; a treatment far 
 more religious and patient than is demanded by your own 
 children, if they were born and bred under circumstances 
 at all favorable. 
 
 Second, Dismiss from your minds all thought of grat- 
 itude. Do what you do for them for God's sake, and as 
 a debt to humanity — interest to the common creditor upon 
 principal left in your care. Then insensibility, forgetful- 
 ness, or relapse, will not discourage you, and you will 
 welcome proofs of genuine attachment to yourself chiefly 
 as tokens that your charge has risen into a higher state of 
 thought *\nd feeling, so as to be enabled to value the bene- 
 28* 
 
330 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 fits conferred through you. Could we begin so, there 
 would be hope of our really becoming the instructors and 
 guardians of this swarm of souls which come from their 
 regions of torment to us, hoping, at least, the benefits of 
 purgatory. 
 
 The influence of the Catholic priesthood must continue 
 very great till there is a complete transfusion of character 
 in the minds of their charge. But as the Irishman, or 
 any other foreigner, becomes Americanized, he will demand 
 a new form of religion to suit his new wants. The priest, 
 too, will have to learn the duties of an American citizen ; 
 he will live less and less for the church, and more for the 
 people, till at last, if there be Catholicism still, it will be 
 under Protestant influences, as begins to be the case in 
 Germany. It will be, not Roman, but American Cathol- 
 icism ; a form of worship which relies much, perhaps, on 
 external means and the authority of the clergy, — for such 
 will always be the case with religion while there are 
 crowds of men still living an external life, and who have 
 not learned to make full use of their own faculties, — but 
 where a belief in the benefits of confession and the power 
 of the church, as church, to bind and loose, atone for or 
 decide upon sin. with similar corruptions, must vanish in 
 the free and searching air of a new era. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Between employer and employed there is not sufficient 
 pains taken on the part of the former to establish a 
 mutual understanding. People meet, in the relations of 
 master and servant, who have lived in two different worlds. 
 In this respect we are much worse situated than the same 
 
THE IRISH CHARACTER. 331 
 
 parties have been in Europe. There is less previous 
 acquaintance between the upper and lower classes. (We 
 must, though unwillingly, use these terms to designate 
 the state of things as at present existing.) Meals are 
 taken separately ; work is seldom shared ; there is very 
 little to bring the parties together, except sometimes the 
 farmer works with his hired Irish laborer in the fields, 
 or the mother keeps the nurse-maid of her baby in the 
 room with her. 
 
 In this state of things the chances for instruction, 
 which come every day of themselves where parties share 
 a common life instead of its results merely, do not occur. 
 Neither is there opportunity to administer instruction 
 in the best manner, nor to understand when and where it 
 is needed. 
 
 The farmer who works with his men in the field, the 
 farmer's wife who attends with her women to the churn 
 and the oven, may, with ease, be true father and mother 
 to all who are in their employ, and enjoy health of con- 
 science in the relation, secure that, if they find cause for 
 blame, it is not from faults induced by their own negli- 
 gence. The merchant who is from home all day, the lady 
 receiving visitors or working slippers in her nicely-fur- 
 nished parlor, cannot be quite so sure that their demands, 
 or the duties involved in them, are clearly understood, nor 
 estimate the temptations to prevarication. 
 
 It is shocking to think to what falsehoods human beings 
 like ourselves will resort, to excuse a love of amusement, 
 to hide ill-health, while they see us indulging freely in 
 the one, yielding lightly to the other ; and yet we have, 
 
332 MISCELLAOTES. 
 
 or ought to have, far more resources in either temptation 
 than they. For us it is hard to resist, to give up going 
 to the places where we should meet our most interesting 
 companions, or do our work with an aching brow. But 
 we have not people over us w^hose careless, hastj anger 
 drives us to seek excuses for our failures ; if so, perhaps, 
 — perhaps ; who knows ? — we, the better-educated, rig- 
 idly, immaculately true as we are at present, might tell 
 falsehoods. Perhaps we might, if things were given us 
 to do which we had never seen done, if we were sur- 
 rounded by new arrangements in the nature of which no 
 one instructed us. All this we must think of before we 
 can be of much use. 
 
 We have spoken of the nursery-maid as the hired 
 domestic with whom her mistress, or even the master, is 
 likely to become acquainted. But, only a day or two 
 since, we saw, what we see so often, a nursery-maid with 
 the family to which she belonged, in a public conveyance. 
 They were having a pleasant time ; but in it she had no 
 part, except to hold a hot, heavy baby, and receive fre- 
 quent admonitions to keep it comfortable. No inquiry 
 was made as to Jier comfort ; no entertaining remark, no 
 information of interest as to the places we passed, was 
 addressed to her. Had she been in that way with that 
 family ten years she might have known them well 
 enough, for their characters lay only too bare to a care- 
 leas scrutiny ; but her joys, her sorrows, her few thoughts, 
 her almost buried capacities, would have been as unknown 
 to them, and they as little likely to benefit her, as the 
 Emperor of China. 
 
THE IRISH CHARACTER. 333 
 
 Let the employer place the employed first in good 
 physical circumstances, so as to promote the formation of 
 different habits from those of the Irish hovel, or illicit 
 still-house. Having thus induced feelings of self-respect, 
 he has opened the door for a new set of notions. Then 
 let him become acquainted with the family circumstances 
 and history of his new pupil. He has now got some 
 ground on which to stand for intercourse. Let instruc- 
 tion follow for the mind, not merely by having the 
 youngest daughter set, now and then, copies in the 
 , writing-book, or by hearing read aloud a few verses in 
 the Bible, but by putting good books in their way, if able 
 to read, and by intelligent conversation when there is a 
 chance, — the master with the man who is driving him, 
 the lady with the woman who is making her bed. 
 Explain to them the relations of objects around them ; 
 teach them to compare the old with the new life. If you 
 show a better way than theirs of doing work, teach them, 
 too, why li is better. Thus w^ill the mind be prepared 
 by development for a moral reformation ; there will be 
 some soil fitted to receive the seed. 
 
 When the time is come, — and will you think a poor, 
 uneducated person, in whose mind the sense of right and 
 wrong is confused, the sense of honor blunted, easier of 
 access than one refined and thoughtful ? Surely you will 
 not, if you yourself are refined and thoughtful, but rather 
 that the case requires far more care in the choice of a 
 favorable opportunity, — when, then, the good time is 
 come, perhaps it will be best to do what you do in a way 
 that will make a permanent impression. Show the Irish- 
 
334 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 man that a vice not indigenous to his nation — for the 
 rich and noble who are not so tempted are chivalrous to 
 an uncommon degree in their openness, hold sincerity, and 
 adherence to their word — has crept over and become 
 deeply rooted in the poorer people from the long oppres- 
 sions they have undergone. Show them what efforts and 
 care will be needed to wash out the taint. Offer your 
 aid, as a faithful friend, to watch their lapses, and refine 
 their sense of truth. You will not speak in vain. If 
 they never mend, if habit is too powerful, still, their 
 nobler nature will not have been addressed in vain. They 
 will not forget the counsels they have not strength to 
 follow, and the benefits will be seen in their children or 
 children's children. 
 
 Many say, " Well, suppose we do all this ; what then? 
 They are so fond of change, they will leave us." What 
 then ? Why, let them go and carry the good seed else- 
 where. Will you be as selfish and short-sighted as those 
 who never plant trees to shade a hired house, lest some 
 one else should be blest by their shade ? 
 
 It is a simple duty we ask you to engage in ; it is, also, 
 a great patriotic work. You are asked to engage in the 
 great work of mutual education, which must be for this 
 country the system of mutual insurance. 
 
 We have some hints upon this subject, drawn from the 
 experience of the wise and good, some encouragement to 
 offer from that experience, that the fruits of a wise plant- 
 ing sometimes ripen sooner than we could dare to expect. 
 But this must be for another day. 
 
 One word as to this love of change. We hear people 
 
THE IRISH CHARACTER. 335 
 
 blaming it in their servants, who can and do go to Niag- 
 ara, to the South, to the Springs, to Europe, to the sea- 
 side ; in short, who are always on the move whenever 
 thej feel the need of variety to reanimate mind, health, 
 or spirits. Change of place, as to family employment, is 
 the only way domestics have of " seeing life " — the only 
 way immigrants have of getting thoroughly acquainted 
 with the new society into which they have entered. How 
 natural that they should incline to it ! Once more ; put 
 yourself in their places, and then judge them gently from 
 your own, if you would be just to them, if you would be 
 of any use. • 
 
EDUCATE MEN AND WOMEN AS SOULS. 
 
 Had Christendom but been true to its standard, while 
 accommodating its modes of operation to the calls of suc- 
 cessive times, Woman would now have not only equal 
 'power with Man, — for of that omnipotent nature will 
 never suffer her to be defrauded, — but a chartered 
 power, too fullj recognized to be abused, f Indeed, all 
 / j that is wanting is, that Man should prove his own freedom 
 bj making her free. / Let him abandon conventional 
 restriction, as a vestige of that Oriental barbarity which 
 confined Woman to a seraglio. Let him trust her en- 
 tirely, and give her every privilege already acquired for 
 himself, — elective franchise, tenure of property, liberty 
 to speak in public assemblies, &c. 
 
 Nature has pointed out her ordinary sphere by the 
 circumstances of her physical existence. She cannot 
 wander far. If here and there the gods send their 
 missives through women as through men, let them speak 
 without remonstrance. In no age have men been able 
 wholly to hinder them. A Deborah must ahvays be a 
 spiritual mother in Israel. A Corinna may be excluded 
 from the Olympic games, yet all men will hear her song, 
 and a Pindar sit at her feet. It is Man's fault that there 
 ever were Aspasias and Ninons. These exquisite forms 
 were intended for the shrines of virtue. 
 
MEN AND WOMEN AS SOULS. 337 
 
 Neither need men fear to lose their domestic deities. 
 Woman is born for love, and it is impossible to turn her 
 from seeking it. Men should deserve her love as an in- 
 heritance, rather than seize and guard it like a prey. 
 Were they noble, they would strive rather not to be loved 
 too much, and to turn her from idolatry to the true, the 
 only Love. Then, children of one Father, they could 
 not err nor misconceive one another. 
 
 Society is now so complex, that it is no longer possible 
 to educate Woman merely as Woman ; the tasks which 
 come to her hand are so various, and so large a proportion 
 of^vomen are thrown entirely upon their own resources, 
 (l admit that this is not their state of perfect development ; 
 but it seems as if Heaven, having so long issued its edict 
 in poetry and religion without securing intelligent obedi- 
 ence, now commanded the world in prose to take a high 
 and rational view. The lesson reads to me thus : — 
 / Sex, like rank, wealthy beauty^ or talent, is but an 
 accidetft of 'I>irth. As you would not educate a soul to be 
 an aristocrat, so do not to be a woman. J A general regard 
 to her usual sphere is dictated in the economy of nature. 
 You need never enforce these provisions rigorously. 
 Acltilles had long plied the distaff as a princess ; yet, at 
 first sight of a sword, he seized it. So with Woman ; one 
 hour of love would teach her more of her proper relations 
 than all your formulas and conventions. , Express your 
 views, men, of what you seek in women ; thus best do 
 you give them laws. Learn, women, what you should 
 demand of men ; thus only can they become themselves. 
 Turn both from the contemplation of what is merely phe- 
 29 
 
338 • MISCELLANIES. 
 
 nomenal in your existence, to your permanent life as 
 souls. Man, do not prescribe how the Divine shall dis- 
 play itself in Woman. Woman, do not expect to see all 
 of God in Man. Fellow-pilgrims and helpmeets are ye, 
 Apollo and Diana, twins of one heavenly birth, both 
 beneficent, and both armed. Man, fear not to yield to 
 Woman's hand both the quiver and the lyre ; for if her 
 urn be filled with light, she will use both to the glory of 
 God. There is but one doctrine for ye both, and that is 
 the doctrine of the soul. 
 
PART III 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM JOURNALS AND LETTERS. 
 
[The following extract from Margaret's Journal will be read with a 
 degree of melancholy interest when connected with the eventful end of 
 her eventful life. It was written many years before her journey to 
 Europe, and rings in our ears now almost with the tones of prophecy. 
 — Ed.] 
 
 I LIKE to listen to the soliloquies of a bright child. 
 In this microcosm the philosophical observer may trace 
 the natural progression of the mind of mankind. I often 
 
 silently observe L , with this view. He is generally 
 
 imitative and dramatic; the day-school, the singing- 
 school or the evening party, are acted out with admirable 
 variety in the humors of the scene, and great discrimina- 
 tion of character in its broader features. What is chiefly 
 remarkable is his unconsciousness of his mental processes, 
 and how thoughts it would be impossible for nim to recall 
 spring up in his mind like flowers and weeds in the soil. 
 But to-night he was truly in a state of lyrical inspiration, 
 his eyes flashing, hi& face glowing, and his whole compo- 
 sition chanted out in an almost metrical form. He began 
 by mourning the death of a certain Harriet whom he had 
 let go to foreign parts, and who had died at sea. He 
 described her as having "blue, sparkling eyes, and a 
 sweet smile," and lamented that he could never kiss her 
 cold lips again This part, which he continued for some 
 29* 
 
342 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 time, was in prolonged cadences, and a low, mournful 
 tone, with a frequently recurring burden of "0, my 
 Harriet, shall I never see thee more ! " 
 
 EXTRACT FROM JOURNAL. 
 
 '' tT -Tt TV -JV ^ 3^ 
 
 It is so true that a woman may be in love with a 
 woman, and a man with a man. It is pleasant to be sure 
 of it, because it is undoubtedly the same love that we 
 shall feel when we are angels, when we ascend to the only 
 fit place for the Mignons, where 
 
 '• Sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Weib.'* 
 
 It is regulated by the same law as that of love between 
 persons of different sexes, only it is purely intellectual 
 and spiritual, unprofaned by any mixture of lower in- 
 stincts, undisturbed by any need of consulting temporal 
 interests ; its law is the desire of the spirit to realize a 
 whole, which makes it seek in another being that which 
 it finds not in itself. 
 
 Thus the beautiful seek the strong ; the mute seek the 
 eloquent ; the butterfly settles on the dark flower. Why 
 did Socrates so love Alcibiades? Why did Kcirner so 
 love Schneider? How natural is the love of Wallen- 
 stein for Max, that of Madame de Stael for de Recamier, 
 
 mine for ! I loved — '- — for a time with as much 
 
 passion as I was then strong enough to feel. Her face was. 
 always gleaming before me ; her voice was echoing in my 
 ear ; all poetic thoughts clustered round the dear image. 
 
EXTRACT FROM JOURNAL. 343 
 
 This Icve vfas for me a key which unlocked many a 
 treasure which I still possess ; it was the carhuncle (em- 
 blematic gem ! ) which cast light into many of the darkest 
 corners of human nature. She loved me, too, though 
 not so much, because her nature was "less high, less 
 grave, less large, less deep ; " but she loved more tenderly, 
 less passionately. She loved me, for I well remember 
 her suffering when she first could feel my faults, and 
 knew one part of the exquisite veil rent away — how she 
 wished to stay apart and weep the whole day. 
 
 These thoughts were suggested by a large engraving 
 representing Madame Recamier in her boudoir. I have 
 so often thought over the intimacy between her and 
 Madame de Stael. 
 
 Madame Recamier is half-reclining on a sofa ; she is 
 clad in white drapery, which clings very gracefully to 
 her round, but elegantly-slender form ; her beautiful neck 
 and arms are bare ; her hair knotted up so as to show 
 the contour of her truly-feminine head to great advantage. 
 A book lies carelessly on her lap ; one hand yet holds 
 it at the place where she left off reading ; her lovely face 
 is turned towards us ; she appears to muse on what she 
 has been reading. When we see a woman in a picture 
 with a book, she seems to be doing precisely that for 
 which she was born ; the book gives such an expression 
 of purity to the female figure. A large window, partially 
 veiled by a white curtain, gives a view of a city at some 
 little distance. On one side stand the harp and piano ; 
 there are just books enough for a lady's boudoir. There 
 is no picture, except one of De Recamier herself, as 
 
344 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Corinne. This is absurd ; but the absurdity is interest- 
 ing, as recalling the connection. You imagine her to 
 have been reading one of De Stael's books, and to be 
 now pondering what those brilliant words of her gifted 
 friend can mean. 
 
 Everything in the room is in keeping. Nothing ap- 
 pears to have been put there because other people have 
 it ; but there is nothing w^hich shows a taste more noble 
 and refined than you would expect from the fair French- 
 T^oman. All is elegant, modern, in harmony with the 
 delicate habits and superficial culture which you would 
 look for in its occupant. 
 
 TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 Sept. 5, 1837. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ik If I stay in Providence, and more money 
 is wanting than can otherwise be furnished, I will take a 
 private class, which is ready for me, and by which, even 
 if I reduced my terms to suit the place, I can earn the 
 
 four hundred dollars that will need. If I do not 
 
 stay, I will let her have my portion of our income, with 
 her own, or even capital which I have a right to take up, 
 and come into this or some other economical place, and 
 live at the cheapest rate. It will not be even a sacrifice 
 to me to do so, for I am weary of society, and long for 
 the opportunity for solitary concentration of thought. I 
 know what I say ; if I live, you may rely upon me. 
 
 God be with you, my dear mother ! I am sure he 
 will prosper the doings of so excellent a woman if you 
 
LETTER TO M. 345 
 
 •will only keep your mind calm and be firm. Trust 
 your daugliter too. I feel increasing trust in mine own 
 good mind. We will take good care of the children and 
 of one another. Never fear to trouble me with your 
 perplexities. I can never be so situated that I do not 
 earnestly wish to know them. Besides, things do not 
 trouble me as they did, for I feel within myself the 
 power to aid, to serve. 
 
 Most afiectionately, 
 
 Your daughter, M. 
 
 PART OF LETTER TO M. 
 
 Providence, Oct 7, 1838. 
 
 * * * For yourself, dear , you have attained 
 
 an important age. No plan is desirable for you which is 
 to be pursued with precision. The world, the events of 
 every day, which no one can predict, are to be your 
 teachers, and you must, in some degree, give yourself 
 up, and submit to be led captive, if you would learn 
 from them. Principle must be at the helm, but thought 
 must shift its direction with the winds and waves. 
 
 Happy as you are thus far in worthy friends, you are 
 not in much danger of rash intimacies or great errors. I 
 think, upon the whole, quite highly of your judgment 
 about people and conduct ; for, though your first feelings 
 are often extravagant, they are soon balanced. 
 
 I do not know ct ler faults in you beside that want of 
 retirement of mind which I have before spoken of. If 
 M and A want too much seclusion, and are too 
 
346 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 severe in their views of life and man, I think you are too 
 little bO. There is nothing so fatal to the finer faculties 
 as too ready or too extended a publicity. There is some 
 danger lest there be no real religion in the heart which 
 craves too much of daily sympathy. Through your 
 mind the stream of life has coursed with such rapidity 
 that it has often swept away the seed or loosened the 
 roots of the young plants before they had ripened any 
 fruit. 
 
 I should think writing would be very good for you. 
 A journal of your life, and analyses of your thoughts, 
 would teach you how to generalize, and give firmness to 
 your conclusions. Do not write down merely that 
 things are beautiful, or the reverse ; but what they are, 
 and why they are beautiful or otherwise ; and show these 
 papers, at least at present, to nobody. Be your own 
 judge and your own helper. Do not go too soon to any 
 one with your difiiculties, but try to clear them up for 
 yourself 
 
 I think the course of reading you have fallen upon, of 
 late, will be better for you than such books as you for- 
 merly read, addressed rather to the taste and imagina- 
 tion than the judgment. The love of beauty has rather 
 an undue development in your mind. See now what it 
 is, and what it has been. Leave for a time the Ideal, 
 and return to the Real. 
 
 I should think two or three hours a day would be 
 quite enough^ at present, for you to give to books. Now 
 learn buying and selling, keeping the house, directing 
 the servants ; all that will bring you worlds of wisdom 
 
TO HER BROTHER. 347 
 
 if you keep it subordinate to the one grand aim of per- 
 fecting the whole being. And let your self-respect for- 
 bid you to do imperfectly anything that you do at all. 
 
 I always feel ashamed when I write with this air of 
 wisdom ; but you will see, by my hints, what I mean. 
 Your mind wants depth and precision ; your character 
 condensation. Keep your high aim steadily in view ; life 
 
 will open the path to reach it. I think , 9?en if 
 
 she be in excess, is an excellent friend for you ; her char- 
 acter seems to have what yours wants, whether she has or 
 has not found the right way. 
 
 Providenccy Feb. 19, 1838 
 
 My dear a. : 
 
 * :^ * * * 
 
 I wish you could see the journals of two dear littlo 
 girls, eleven years old, in my school. They love one 
 another like Bessie Bell and Mary Gray in the ballad. 
 They are just of a size, both lively as birds, affectionate, 
 gentle, ambitious in good works and knowledge. They 
 encourage one another constantly to do right ; they are 
 rivals, but never jealous of one another. One has the 
 quicker intellect, the other is the prettier. I have never 
 had occasion to find fault with either, and the forward- 
 ness of their minds has induced me to take both into my 
 reading-class, where they are associated with girls many 
 years their elders. Particular pains do they take with 
 
348 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 their journals. These are written daily, in a beautiful, 
 fair, round hand, well-composed, showing attention, and 
 memory well-trained, with many pleasing sallies of play- 
 fulness, and some very interesting thoughts. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Jamaica Plain, Dec. 20, 1840. 
 
 * * * * About your school I do not think I could 
 give you much advice which would be of value, unless I 
 could know your position more in detail. The most im- 
 portant rule is. in all relations with our fellow-creatures, 
 never forget that, if they are imperfect persons, they are 
 immortal souls, and treat them as you would wish to be 
 treated by the light of that thought. 
 
 As to the application of means, abstain from punish- 
 ment as much as possible, and use encouragement as far 
 as you can without flattery. But be even more careful 
 as to strict truth in this regard, towards children, than to 
 persons of your own age ; for, to the child, the parent 
 or teacher is the representative of justice ; and as that 
 of life is severe, an education which, in any degree, 
 excites vanity, is the very worst preparation for that 
 general and crowded school. 
 
 I doubt not you will teach grammar well, as I saw 
 you aimed at principles in your practice. 
 
 In geography, try to make pictures of the scenes, that 
 they may be present to their imaginations, and the nobler 
 faculties be brought into action, as well as memory. 
 
TO HER BROTHER. 349 
 
 In history, try to study and paint the characters of 
 great inea ; they best interpret the leadings of events 
 amid the nations. 
 
 I am pleased with your way of speaking of both people 
 and pupils ; your view seems from the right point. Yet 
 beware of over great pleasure in being popular, or even 
 beloved. As far as an amiable disposition and powers 
 of entertainment make you so, it is a happiness ; but if 
 there is one grain of plausibility, it is poison. 
 
 But I will not play Mentor too much, lest I make you 
 averse to write to your very affectionate sister, M. 
 
 I ENTIRELY agree in what you say of tuition and intui- 
 tion ; .the two must act and react upon one another, to 
 make a man, to form a mind. Drudgery is as necessary, 
 to call out the treasures of the mind, as harrowing and 
 planting those of the earth. And besides, the growths 
 of literature and art are as much nature as the trees in 
 Concord woods ; but nature idealized and perfected. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1841. 
 
 I TAKE great pleasure in that feeling of the living pres- 
 ence of beauty in nature which your letters show. But 
 you, who have now lived long enough to see some of my 
 prophecies fulfilled, will not deny, though you may not 
 SO 
 
350 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 yet Relieve the truth of my words when I say you go to 
 an extreme in your denunciations of cities and the social 
 institutions. These are a growth also, and, as well as 
 the diseases which come upon them, under the control of 
 the one spirit as much as the great tree on which the 
 insects prey, and in whose bark the busy bird has made 
 many a wound. 
 
 When we get the proper perspective of these things we 
 shall find man, however artificial, still a part of nature. 
 Meanwhile, let us trust ; and while it is the soul's duty 
 ever to bear witness to the best it knows, let us not be 
 hasty to conclude that in what suits us not there can be 
 no good. Let us be sure there must be eventual good, 
 could we but see far enough to discern it. In maintain- 
 ing perfect truth to ourselves and choosing that mode of 
 being which suits us, we had best leave others alone as 
 much as may be. You prefer the country, and I doubt 
 not it is on the whole a better condition of life to live 
 there ; but at the country party you have mentioned 
 you saw that no circumstances will keep people from 
 being frivolous. One may be gossipping, and vulgar, 
 and idle in the country, — earnest, noble and wise, in 
 the city. Nature cannot be kept from us while there is 
 a sky above, with so much as one star to remind us of 
 prayer in the silent night. 
 
 As I walked home this evening at sunset, over the 
 Mill-Dam, towards the city, I saw very distinctly that 
 the city also is a bed in God's garden. More of this 
 some other time. 
 
TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 351 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 Concord, May 2, 1837. 
 
 My Dear : I am passing happy here, except that I 
 am not well, — so unwell that I fear I must go home and 
 ask my good mother to let me rest and vegetate beneath 
 her sunny kindness for a while. The excitement of con- 
 versation prevents my sleeping. The drive here with 
 
 Mr. E was delightful. Dear Nature and Time, so 
 
 often calumniated, will take excellent care of us if we will 
 let them. The wisdom lies in schooling the heart not to 
 expect too much. I did that good thing when I came 
 here, and I am rich. On Sunday I drove to Watertown 
 with the author of " Nature." The trees were still bare, 
 but the little birds care not for that ; they revel, and 
 carol, and wildly tell their hopes, while the gentle, 
 '' voluble " south wind plays with the dry leaves, and 
 the pine-trees sigh with their soul-like sounds for June. 
 It was beauteous ; and care and routine fled away, and 1 
 was as if they had never been, except that I vaguely 
 ■whispered to myself that all had been well with me. 
 
 T^ T^ TV TV -TV 'TV 
 
 The baby here is beautiful. He looks like his father, 
 and smiles so sweetly on all hearty, good people. I 
 play with him a good deal, and he comes so natural, 
 after Dante and other poets. 
 
 Ever faithfully your friend. 
 
352 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1837. 
 
 My BELOVED Child : I was very glad to get your 
 note. Do not think you must only write to your friends 
 when you can tell them you are happy ; they will not 
 misunderstand you in the dark hour, nor think you for- 
 saken^ if cast down. Though your letter of Wednesday 
 was very sweet to me, yet I knew it could not last as it 
 was then. These hours of heavenly, heroic strength 
 leave us, but they come again : their memory is with us 
 amid after-trials, and gives us a foretaste of that era 
 when the steadfast soul shall be the only reality. 
 
 My dearest, you must suffer, but you will always be 
 growing stronger, and with every trial nobly met, you 
 will feel a growing assurance that nobleness is not a 
 mere sentiment with you. I sympathize deeply in your 
 anxiety about your mother ; yet I cannot but remember 
 the bootless fear and agitation about my mother, and 
 how strangely our destinies were guided. Take refuge 
 in prayer when you are most troubled ; the door of the 
 sanctuary will never be shut against you. I send you a 
 paper which is very sacred to me. Bless Heaven that 
 your heart is awakened to sacred duties before any kind 
 of gentle ministering has become impossible, before any 
 relation has been broken.^* 
 
 * It has always been my de«h'e to find appropriate time and place to 
 correct an erroneous impression which has gained currency in regard 
 to my father,' and which does injustice to his memory. That impres- 
 sion is that he was exceedingly stern and exacting in the parental 
 relation, and especially in regard to my sister ; that he forbid or 
 
LINES. 353 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN MARCH, 1836. 
 
 " I will not leave you comfortless." 
 
 0, Friend divine ! this promise dear 
 Falls sweetly on the weary ear ! 
 Often, in hours of sickening pain, 
 It soothes me to thy rest again. 
 
 frowned upon her sports ; — excluded her from intercourse with other 
 children when she, a child, needed such companionship, and required 
 her to bend almost unceasingly over her books. This impression has, 
 certainly in part, arisen from an autobiographical sketch, never written 
 for publication nor intended for a literal or complete statement of her 
 father's educational method, or the relation which existed between 
 them, which was most loving and true on both sides. While the 
 narrative is true, it is not the all she would have said, and, therefore, 
 taken alone, conveys an impression which misleads those who did not 
 know our father well. Perhaps no better opportimity or place than 
 this may ever arise to correct this impression so far as it is wrong. It 
 is true that my father had a very high standard of scholarship, and 
 did expect conformity to it in his children. He was not stern toward 
 them. 
 
 It is doubtless true, also, that he did not perfectly comprehend the 
 rare mind of his daughter, or see for some years that she required no 
 stimulating to intellectual effort, as do most children, but rather the 
 reverse. But how many fathers are there who would have understood 
 at once such a child as Margaret Fuller was, or would have done even 
 as wisely as he ? And how long is it since a wiser era has dawned upon 
 the world (its light not yet fully welcomed), in which attention first to 
 physical development to the exclusion of the mental, is an axiom in edu- 
 cation ? Was it so deemed forty years ago ? Nor has it been considered 
 that so gifted a child would naturally, as she did, seek the companion- 
 ship of those older than herself, and not of children who had little in 
 unison with her. She needed, doubtless, to be urged into the usual 
 sports of children, and the company of those of her own age ; if n<d 
 
 30* 
 
854 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 Might I a true disciple be, 
 Following thy footsteps faithfully, 
 Then should I still the succor prove 
 Of him who gave his life for love. 
 
 When this fond heart would vainly beat 
 For bliss that ne'er on earth we meet. 
 For perfect sympathy of soul, 
 From those such heavy laws control ; 
 
 When, roused from passion's ecstasy, 
 I see the dreams that filled it fly. 
 Amid my bitter tears and sighs 
 Those gentle words before me rise. 
 
 urged to enter these she was never excluded from either. She needed 
 to be kept from books for a period, or to be led to those of a lighter 
 cast than such as she read, and which usually task the thoughts 
 of mature men. This simply was not done, and the error arose from 
 no lack of tenderness, or consideration, from no lack of the wisdom of 
 those times, but from the simple fact that the laws of physiology as 
 connected with those of mind were not understood then as now, nor 
 was attention so much directed to physical culture as of the primary 
 importance it is now regarded. Our father was indeed exact and 
 strict with himself and others ; but none has ever been more devoted to 
 his children than he, or more painstaking with their education, nor 
 more fondly loved them ; and in later life they have ever been more 
 and more impressed with the conviction of his fidelity and wisdom. 
 That Margaret venerated her father, and that his love was returned, is 
 abundantly evidenced in her poem which accompanies this letter. This, 
 too, was not written for the public eye, but it is too noble a tribute, 
 too honorable both to father and daughter, to be suppressed. I trust 
 that none, passing from one extreme to the other, will infer from the 
 natural self-reproach and upbraiding because of short-comings, felt by 
 every true mind when an honored and loved parent departs, that she 
 lacked fidelity in the relation of daughter. She agreed not always 
 with his views and methods, but this diversity of mind never afiected 
 their mutual respect and love. — [Ed.] 
 
LINES. 855 
 
 With aching brows and feverish brain 
 The founts of intellect I drain, 
 And con with over-anxious thought 
 What poets sung and heroes wrought. 
 
 Enchanted with their deeds and lays, 
 I with like gems would deck my days ; 
 No fires creative in me burn, 
 And, humbled, I to Thee return ; 
 
 When blackest clouds around me rolled 
 
 Of scepticism drear and cold. 
 
 When love, and hope, and joy and pride, 
 
 Forsook a spirit deeply tried ; 
 
 • 
 My reason wavered in that hour, 
 
 Prayer, too impatient, lost its power ; 
 
 From thy benignity a ray 
 
 I caught, and found the perfect day. 
 
 A head revered in dust was laid ; 
 For the first time I watched my dead ; 
 The widow's sobs were checked in vain. 
 And childhood's tears poured down like rain. 
 
 In awe I gaze on that dear face, 
 In sorrow, years gone by retrace. 
 When, nearest duties most forgot, 
 I might have blessed, and did it not ! 
 
 Ignorant, his wisdom I reproved, 
 Heedless, passed by what most he loved, 
 Knew not a life like his to prize. 
 Of ceaseless toil and sacrifice. 
 
 No tears can now that hushed heart move, 
 No cares display a daughter's love, 
 
856 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 The fair occasion lost, no more 
 
 Can thoughts more just to thee restore. 
 
 What can I do ? And how atone 
 For all I 've done, and left undone ? 
 Tearful I search the parting words 
 Which the beloved John records. 
 
 " Not comfortless ! " I dry my eyes, 
 My duties clear before me rise, — 
 Before thou think'st of taste or pride, 
 See home-affections satisfied ! 
 
 Be not with generous thoughts content, 
 But on well-doing constant bent : 
 • When self seems dear, self-seeking fair, 
 Remember this sad hour in prayer ! 
 
 Though all thou wishest fly thy touch, 
 Much can one do who loveth much. 
 More of thy spirit, Jesus give, 
 Not comfortless, though sad, to live. 
 
 And yet not sad, if I can know 
 To copy Him who here below 
 Sought but to do his Father's will, 
 Though from such sweet composure still 
 
 My heart be far. Wilt thou not aid 
 One whose best hopes on thee are stayed ? 
 Breathe into me thy perfect love, 
 And guide me to thy rest above ! 
 
 * * # Mr. Keats, Emma's father, is dead. To 
 me this brings unusual sorrow, though I have never yet 
 
TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 357 
 
 Been him ; but I thought of him as one of the very few 
 persons known to me by reputation, whose acquaintance 
 might enrich me. BQs character was a sufficient answer 
 to the doubt, whether a merchant can be a man of honor. 
 He was, like your father, a man all whose virtues had 
 stood the test. He was no word-hero. 
 
 * ^ ^ ^ 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 Providence, June 16, 1837. 
 
 My dear : I pray you, amid all your duties, 
 
 to keep some hours to yourself Do not let my example 
 lead you into excessive exertions. I pay (Tear for 
 extravagance of this sort ; five years ago I had no idea 
 of the languor and want of animal spirits which torment 
 me now. Animal spirits are not to be despised. An 
 earnest mind and seeking heart will not often be 
 troubled by despondency; but unless the blood can 
 dance at proper times, the lighter passages of life lose all 
 their refreshment and suggestion. 
 
 I wish you and had been here last Saturday. 
 
 Our school-house was dedicated, and Mr. Emerson made 
 the address ; it was a noble appeal in behalf of the best 
 interests of culture, and seemingly here was fit occasion. 
 The building was beautiful, and furnished with an even 
 elegant propriety. 
 
 I am at perfect liberty to do what I please, and there are 
 apparently the best dispositions, if not the best prepara- 
 tion, on the part of the hundied and fifty young minds 
 with whom I am to be brought in contact. 
 
358 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 I sigh for the country ; trees, birds and flowers, assure 
 me that June is here, but I must walk through streets 
 many and long, to get sight of any expanse of green. I 
 had no fine weather while at home, though the quiet and 
 rest were delightful to me ; the sun did not shine once 
 really warmly, nor did the apple-trees put on their "blos- 
 soms until the very day I came away. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Although the sweet, still watches of the night 
 Find me all lonely now, yet the delight 
 Hath not quite gone, which from thy presence flows. 
 The love, the joy that in thy bosom glows, 
 Lingers to cheer thy friend. From thy fresh dawn 
 Some golden exhalations have I drawn 
 To make less dim my dusty noon. Thy tones 
 Are with me still ; some plaintive as the moans 
 Of Dryads, when their native groves must fall, 
 Some wildly wailing, like the clarion-call 
 On battle-field, strewn with the noble dead. 
 Some in soft romance, like the echoes bred 
 In the most secret groves of Arcady ; 
 Yet all, wild, sad, or soft, how steeped in poesy ! 
 Provideme, April, 1838. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Providence, Oct. 21, 1838. 
 * * :* ^ I AM reminded by what you say, of an 
 era in my own existence ; it is seven years bygone. For 
 
TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 359 
 
 bitter months a heavy weight had been pressing on me, — • 
 the weight of deceived friendship. I could not be much 
 alone, — a great burden of family cares pressed upon me ; 
 I was in the midst of society, and obliged to act my part 
 there as well as I could. At that time I took up the 
 study of German, and my progress was like the rebound 
 of a string pressed almost to bursting. My mind being 
 then in the highest state of action, heightened, by intel- 
 lectual appreciation, every pang; and imagination, by 
 prophetic power, gave to the painfiil present all the 
 weight of as painful a future. 
 
 At this time I never had any consolation, except in 
 long solitary walks, and my meditations then were so far 
 aloof from common life,' that on my return my fall was 
 like that of the eagle, which the sportsman's hand calls 
 bleeding from his lofty flight, to stain the earth with his 
 blood. 
 
 In such hours we feel so noble, so full of love and 
 bounty, that we cannot conceive how any pain should 
 have been needed to teach us. It then seems we are so 
 born for good, that such means of leading us to it were 
 wholly unnecessary. But I have lived to know that the 
 secret of all things is pain, and that nature travaileth 
 most painfully with her noblest product. I was not with- 
 out hours of deep spiritual insight, and consciousness of 
 the inheritance of vast powers. I touched the secret of 
 the universe, and by that touch was invested with talis- 
 manic power which has never left me, though it some- 
 times lies dormant for a long time. 
 
 One day lives always in my memory ; one chastest, 
 
 TH^ 
 
360 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 lieavenliest day of communion with the soul of things. 
 It was Thanksgiving-day. I was free to be alone ; in the 
 meditative woods, by the choked-up fountain, I passed its 
 hours, each of which contained ages of thought and emo- 
 tion. I saw, then, how idle were my griefs ; that I had 
 acquired the thought of each object which had been taken 
 from me ; that more extended personal relations would 
 only have given me pleasures which then seemed not 
 worth my care, and which would surely have dimmed my 
 sense of the spiritual meaning of all which had passed. 
 I felt how true it was that nothing in any being which 
 was fit for me, could long be kept from me ; and that, if 
 separation could be, real intimacy had never been. All 
 the films seemed to drop from my existence, and I was 
 sure that I should never starve in this desert world, but 
 that manna would drop from Heaven, if I would but rise 
 with every rising sun to gather it. 
 
 In the evening I went to the church-yard ; the moon 
 sailed above the rosy clouds, — the crescent moon rose 
 above the heavenward-pointing spire. At that hour a 
 vision came upon my soul, whose final scene last month 
 interpreted. The rosy clouds of illusion are all vanished ; 
 the moon has waxed to full. May my life be a church, 
 full of devout thoughts and solemn music. I pray thus, 
 my dearest child ! '' Our Father ! let not the heaviest 
 shower be spared ; let not the gardener forbear his knife 
 till the fair, hopeful tree of existence be brought to its 
 fullest blossom and fruit ! " 
 
TO THE SAME. 361 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Jamaica Plairiy June, 1839. 
 
 * * * I HAVE had a pleasant visit at Naliant, 
 but was no sooner there than the air braced me so 
 violently as to drive all the blood to my head. I had 
 headache two of the three days we were there, and yet I 
 enjoyed my stay very much. We had the rocks and 
 piazzas to ourselves, and were on sufficiently good terms 
 not to destroy, if we could not enhance, one another's 
 pleasure. 
 
 The first night we had a stoi-m, and the wind roared 
 and wailed" round the house that Ossianic poetry of 
 which you hear so many strains. Next day was clear 
 jmd brilliant, with a high north-west wind. I went out 
 about six o'clock, and had a two hours' scramble before 
 breakfast. I do not like to sit still in this air, which 
 exasperates all my nervous feelings ; but when I can ex- 
 haust myself in climbing, I feel delightfully, — the eye is 
 so sharpened, and the mind so full of thought. The 
 outlines of all objects, the rocks, the distant sails, even 
 the rippling of the ocean, were so sharp that they seemed 
 to press themselves into the brain. When I see a natural 
 scene by such a light it stays in my memory always as 
 a picture ; on milder days it influences me more in the 
 way of reverie. After breakfast, we walked on the 
 beaclies. It was quite low tide, no waves, and the fine 
 sand eddying wildly about. I came home with that 
 frenzied headache which you are so unlucky as to know, 
 covered my head with wet tOAvels, and went to bed. After 
 31 
 
362 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 (liuiier I was better, and we went to the Spou:jig-horn. 
 
 C was perched close to the fissure, far above me^ 
 
 and, in a pale green dress, she looked like the njmpL 
 of the place. I lay down on a rock, low in the water, 
 where I could hear the twin harmonies of the sucking of 
 the w&ter into the spout, and the washing of the surge 
 on the foot of the rock. I never passed a more delight- 
 ful afternoon. Clouds of pearl and amber were slowly 
 drifting across the sky, or resting a while to dream, like 
 me, near the water. Opposite me, at considerable dis- 
 tance, was a line of rock, along which the billows of the 
 advancing tide chased one another, and leaped up exult- 
 ingly as they were about to break. That night we had 
 a sunset of the gorgeous, autumnal kind, and in the 
 evening very brilliant moonlight ; but the air was so cold 
 I could enjoy it but a few minutes. Next day, which 
 was warm and soft, I was out on the rocks all day. In 
 the afternoon I was out alone, and had an admirable 
 place, a cleft between two vast towers of rock with 
 turret-shaped tops. I got on a ledge of rock at their 
 foot, where I could lie and let the waves wash up around 
 me, and look up at the proud turrets rising into the 
 prismatic light. This evening was very fine ; all the sky 
 covered with crowding clouds, profound, but not sullen 
 of mood, the moon wading, the stars peeping, the wind 
 sighing very softly. We lay on the high rocks and lis- 
 tened to the plashing of the waves. The next day was 
 good, but the keen light was too much for my eyes and 
 brain ; and, though I am glad to have been there, I am as 
 glad to get back to our garlanded rocks, and richly-green 
 
TO THE SAME. 363 
 
 fields and groves. I wish you could come to me now ; 
 we have such wealth of roses. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Jamaica Plains Aug.y 1839. 
 *:***! RETURNED home well, full of earnest- 
 ness ; yet, I know not why, with the sullen, boding sky 
 came a mood of sadness, nay, of gloom, black as Hades, 
 which I have vainly striven to fend off by work, by exer- 
 cise, by high memories. Very glad was I of a painful 
 piece of intelligence, which came the same day with your 
 letter, to bring me an excuse for tears. That was a black 
 Friday, both above and within. What demon resists our 
 good angel, and seems at such times to have the mastery ? 
 Ovi\.j seems ^ I say to myself; it is but the sickness of 
 the immortal soul, and shall by-and-by be cast aside 
 like a film. I think this is the great step of our life, — 
 to change the nature of our self-reliance. We find that 
 the will cannot conquer circumstances, and that our tem- 
 poral nature must vary its hue here with the food that is 
 given it. Only out of mulberry leaves will the silk-wonn 
 Bpin its thread fine and durable. The mode of our exist- 
 ence is not in our own power; but behind it is the 
 immutable essence that cannot be tarnished ; and to hold 
 fast to this conviction, to live as far as possible by its 
 lidit, cannot be denied us if we elect this kind of self- 
 trust. Yet is sickness wearisome ; and I rejoice to say 
 that my demon seems to have been frightened away by 
 
 < 
 
864 MISCELLA:i^IE3. 
 
 this day's sun. But, conscious of these diseases of the 
 mind, believe that I can sympathize with a friend when 
 subject to the same. Do not fail to go and stay with 
 
 ; few live so penetrating and yet so kind, so 
 
 true, so sensitive. She is the spirit of love as well as of 
 intellect. * * * * 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 My BELOVED Child : I confess I was much disap- 
 pointed when I first received your letter this evening. I 
 have been quite ill for two or three days, and looked for- 
 ward to your presence as a restorative. But think not I 
 would have had you act differently ; far better is it for 
 me to have my child faithful to duty than even to have 
 her with me. Such was the lesson I taught her in a 
 better hour. I am abashed to think how often lately I 
 have found excuses for indolence in the weakness of my 
 body; while now, after solitary communion with my 
 better nature, I feel it was weakness of mind, weak fear 
 of depression and conflict. But the Father of our spirits 
 will not long permit a heart fit for worship 
 
 to seek 
 
 From weak recoils, exemptions weak, 
 
 After false gods to go astray. 
 
 Deck altars vile with garlands gay," etc. 
 
 His voice has reached me ; and I trust the postpone- 
 ment of your visit will give me space to nerve myself to 
 what strength I should, so that, when we do meet, I shall 
 rejoice that you did not come to help or soothe me ; for I 
 
R. 365 
 
 shall have helped and soothed mjself. Indeed, I would 
 not so willinglj that you should see mj short-comings as 
 know that they exist. Pray that I may never lose sight 
 of my vocation ; that I may not make ill-health a plea . 
 for sloth and cowardice; pray that, whenever I do, I 
 may be punished more swiftly than this time, by a sad- 
 ness as deep as now. 
 
 Cambridge, August 5, 1842. 
 My dear R. : I want to hear how you enjoyed your 
 journey, and what you think of the world as surveyed 
 from mountain-tops. I enjoy exceedingly staying among 
 the mountains. I am satisfied with reading these bolder 
 lines in the manuscript of Nature. Merely gentle and 
 winning scenes are not enough for me. I wish my lot 
 had been cast amid the sources of the streams, where the 
 voice of the hidden torrent is heard by night, where the 
 eagle soars, and the thunder resounds in long peals from 
 side to side ; where the grasp of a more powerful emotion 
 has rent asunder the rocks, and the long purple shadows 
 fall like a broad wing upon the valley. All places, like 
 all persons, I know, have beauty; but only in some 
 scenes, and with some people, can I expand and feel my- 
 self at home. I feel all this the more for having passed 
 my earlier life in such a place as Cambridgeport. There 
 I had nothing except the little flower-garden behind the 
 house, and the elms before the door. I used to long and 
 sigh for beautiful places such as I read of There was 
 31* 
 
866 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 not one ^alk foi' me, except over the bridge. I liked 
 that very much, — the river, and the city glittering in 
 sunset, and the lovely undulating line all round, and the 
 light smokes, seen in some weather. 
 
 LETTER TO THE SAME. 
 
 Milwaukie, July 29, 1843. 
 
 Dear R. : * * * Daily I thought of you during my 
 visit to the Rock-river territory. It is only five years 
 since the poor Indians have been dispossessed of this 
 region of sumptuous loveliness, such as can hardly be 
 paralleled in the world. No wonder they poured out 
 their blood freely before they would go. On one island, 
 belonging to a Mr. H., with whom we stayed, are still to 
 be found their "caches" for secreting provisions, — the 
 wooden troughs in which they pounded their corn, the 
 marks of their tomahawks upon felled trees. When he 
 first came, he found the body of an Indian woman, in a 
 canoe, elevated on high poles, with all her ornaments on. 
 This island is a spot, where Nature seems to have ex- 
 hausted her invention in crowding it with all kinds of 
 growths, from the richest trees down to the most delicate 
 plants. It divides the river which there sweeps along in 
 clear and glittering current, between noble parks, richest 
 green la^vN ns, pictured rocks crowned with old hemlocks, 
 or smooth bluffs, three hundred feet high, the most beau- 
 tiful of all; Two of these, — the Eagle's Nest, and the 
 Deer's Walk, still the resort of the grand and beautiful 
 creature from which they are named, — were the scene of 
 
TO MISS R. 367 
 
 8)me of the happiest hours of my life. I had no idea, 
 from verbal description, of the beauty of these bluffs, nor 
 can I hope to give any to others. They lie so magnifi- 
 cently bathed in sunlight, they touch the heavens with so 
 sharp and fair a line. This is one of the finest parts of 
 the river; but it seems beautiful enough to fill any 
 heart and eye all along its course, nowhere broken or 
 injured by the hand of man. And there, I thought, if 
 we two could live, and you could have a farm which 
 would not cost a twentieth part the labor of a New Eng- 
 land farm, and would pay twenty times as much for the 
 labor, and have our books and our pens and a little boat 
 on the river, how happy we might be for four or five 
 years, — at least, as happy as Fate permits mortals to be 
 For we, I think, are congenial, and if I could hope per- 
 manent peace on the earth, I might hope it with you. 
 
 You will be glad to hear that I feel overpaid for 
 coming here. Much is my life enriched by the images 
 of the great Niagara, of the vast lakes, of the heavenly 
 sweetness of the prairie scenes, and, above all, by the 
 heavenly region where I would so gladly have lived. My 
 health, too, is materially benefited. I hope to come back 
 better fitted for toil and care, as well as with beauteous 
 memories to sustain me in them. 
 
 Affectionately always, &c. 
 
 TO MISS R. 
 
 Chicago t August 4, 1843. 
 
 I HAVE hoped from time to time, dear , that I should 
 
 receive a few lines from you, apprizing me how you are 
 
868 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 this summer, but a letter from Mrs. F lately comes 
 
 to tell me that you are not better, but, at least when at 
 Saratoga, worse. 
 
 So wa-iting is of course fatiguing, and I must not ex- 
 pect letters any more. To that I could make up my 
 mind if I could hear that you were well again. I fear, 
 if your malady disturbs you as much as it did, it must 
 wear on your strength very much, and it seems in itself 
 dangerous. However, it is good to think that your 
 composure is such that disease can only do its legitimate 
 work, and not undermine two ways, — the body with its 
 pains, and the body through the mind with thoughts and 
 fears of pains. 
 
 I should have written to you long ago except that I 
 find little to communicate this summer, and little inclina- 
 tion to communicate that little ; so what letters I have 
 sent, have been chiefly to beg some from my friends. I 
 have had home-sickness sometimes here, as do children foi 
 the home where they are even little indulged, in the 
 boarding-school where they are only tolerated. This has 
 been in the town, where I have felt the want of compan- 
 ionship, because the dissipation of fatigue, or expecting 
 soon to move again, has prevented my employing my- 
 self for myself ; and yet there was nothing well worth 
 looking at without. When in the country I have enjoyed 
 myself highly, and my health has improved day by day. 
 The characters of persons are brought out by the little 
 wants and adventures of country life as you see it in this 
 region ; so that each one awakens a healthy interest ; and 
 the same persons who, if I saw them at these hotels, 
 
TO MISS R. 369 
 
 would no i have a .vord to say that could fix the attention, 
 become most pleasing companions; their topics are before 
 them, and they take the hint*. You feel so grateful, too, 
 for the hospitality of the log-cabin ; such gratitude as the 
 hospitality of the rich, however generous, cannot inspire ; 
 for these wait on you with their domestics and money, 
 and give of their superfluity only ; but here the Master 
 gives you his bed, his horse, his lamp, his grain from the 
 field, his all, in short ; and you see that he enjoys doing 
 so thoroughly, and takes no thought for the morrow ; so 
 that you seem in fields full of lilies perfumed with pure 
 kindness ; and feel, verily, that Solomon in all his glory 
 could not have entertauied you so much to the purpose. 
 Travelling, too, through the wide green woods and prai- 
 ries, gives a feeling both of luxury and repose that the 
 sight of highly-cultivated country never can. There seems 
 to be room enough for labor to pause and man to fold 
 his arms and gaze, forgetting poverty, and care, and the 
 thousand walls and fences that in the cultivated region 
 must be built and daily repaired both for mind and body. 
 Nature seems to have poured forth her riches so without 
 calculation, merely to mark the fulness of her joy ; to 
 swell in larger strains the hymn, " the one Spirit doeth 
 all things well, for its life is love." 
 
 I will not ask you to write to me now, as I shall so 
 soon be at home. Probably, too, I shall reserve a visit to 
 
 B for another summer ; I have been so much a rover 
 
 that when once on the road I shall wish to hasten home. 
 
 Ever yours, M, 
 
370 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Cambridge^ January 21, 1844. 
 
 My DEAR : I am anxious to get a letter, telling me 
 
 how jou fare this winter in the cottage. Your neighbors 
 who come this way do not give very favorable accounts 
 of your looks ; and, if you are well enough, I should like 
 to see a few of those firm, well-shaped characters from 
 your own hand. Is there no chance of your coming to 
 Boston all this winter ? I had hoped to see you for a 
 few hours at least. 
 
 I wrote you one letter while at the West ; I know not 
 if it was ever received ; it was sent by a private opportu- 
 nity, one of those '-traps to catch the unwary," as they 
 have been called. It was no great loss, if lost. I did 
 not feel like writing letters while travelling. It took all 
 my strength of mind to keep moving and to receive so 
 many new impressions. Surely I never had so clear an 
 idea before of the capacity to bless, of mere Earthy 
 when fresh from the original breath of the creative 
 spirit. To have this impression, one must see large tracts 
 of wild country, where the traces of man's inventions are 
 too few and slight to break the harmony of the first 
 design. It will not be so, long, even where I have been 
 now ; in three or four years those vast flowery plains will 
 be broken up for tillage, — those shapely groves converted 
 into logs and boards. I wished I could have kept on now, 
 for two or three years, while yet the first spell rested on 
 the scene. I feel raucli refreshed, even by this brief 
 intimacy with Nature, in an aspect of large and unbroken 
 lineaments. 
 
TO MISS B. 371 
 
 I came home with a treasure of :>right pictures and 
 suggestions, and seemingly well. But my strength, 
 which had been sustained by a free, careless life m the 
 open air, has yielded to the chills of winter, and a very 
 little work, with an ease that is not encouraging. How- 
 ever, I have had the influenza, and that has been about as 
 bad as fever to everybody. Noiv I am pretty well, but 
 much writing does not agree with me. 
 
 * ^ * I -vvish you were near enough for me to go 
 in and see you now and then. I know that, sick or well, 
 you are always serene, and sufficient to yourself; but now 
 you are so much shut up, it might animate existence 
 agreeably to hear some things I might have to tell. * * * 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 * * * 1844. 
 
 JuST as I was beginning to visit the institutions here, 
 of a remedial and benevolent kind, I was stopped by 
 influenza. So soon as I am quite well I shall resume 
 the survey. I do not expect to do much, practically, for 
 the suffering, but having such an organ of expression as 
 the Tribune^ any suggestions that are well grounded 
 may be of use. I have always felt great interest for 
 those women who are trampled in the mud to gratify the 
 brute appetites of men, and I wished I might be brought, 
 naturally, into contact with them. Now I am so, and I 
 think I shall have much that is interesting to tell you 
 when we meet. 
 
 I go on very moderately, for my strength is not 
 great; but I am now connected with a person who ia 
 
372 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 anxious I should not overtask it. I hope tc do more for 
 the paper bj-and-bj. At present, besides the time I 
 spend in looking round and examining my new field, I 
 am publishing a volume, of which you wi.l receive a 
 copy, called "Woman in the Nineteenth Century." A 
 part of my available time is spent in attending to it as it 
 goes through the press ; for, really, the work seems but^ 
 half done when your book is loritten. I like being here ; 
 the streams of life flow free, and I learn much. I feel 
 so far satisfied as to have laid my plans to stay a year 
 
 and a half, if not longer, and to have told Mr. G 
 
 that I probably shall do so. That is long enough for a 
 mortal to look forward, and not too long, as I must look 
 forward in order to get what I want from Europe. 
 
 Mr. Greeley is a man of genuine excellence, honorable, 
 benevolent, of an uncorrupted disposition, and of great 
 abilities. In modes of life and manners he is the man 
 of the people, and of the American people. * ^ ^ 
 
 I rejoice to hear that your situation is improved. I 
 hope to pass a day or two with you next summer, if you 
 can receive me when I can come. I want to hear from 
 you now and then, if it be only a line to let me know the 
 
 state of your health. Love to Miss G , and tell her 
 
 I have the cologne-bottle on my mantle-piece now. I 
 sent home for all the little gifts I had from friends, that 
 my room might look more homelike. My window com- 
 mands a most beautiful view, for we are quite out of the 
 town, in a lovely place on the East River. I like this, as 
 I can be in tOAvn when I will, and here have much retire- 
 ment. You were right in supposing my signature is the 
 star. Ever affectionately yours. 
 
TO HER BROTHER, R. 373 
 
 TO HER BROTHER, R. 
 
 Fishldll-Landing^JSTov 23, 1844. 
 
 Dear R : 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 The seven weeks of proposed abode here draw to a 
 close, and have brought what is rarest, — fruition, of the 
 sort proposed from them. I have been here all the time, 
 except that three weeks since I went down to New York, 
 
 and with visited the prison at Sing-Sing. On 
 
 Saturday we went up to Sing- Sing in a little way-boat, 
 thus seeing that side of the river to much greater advan- 
 tage than we can in the mammoth boats. We arrived in 
 resplendent moonlight, by which we might have supposed 
 the prisons palaces, if we had not known too well what 
 was within. 
 
 On Sunday addressed the male convicts in a 
 
 strain of most noble and pathetic eloquence. They lis- 
 tened with earnest attention ; many were moved to tears, 
 — some. I doubt not, to a better life. I never felt such 
 sympathy with an audience ; — as I looked over that sea 
 of faces marked with the traces of every ill, I felt that 
 at least heavenly truth would not be kept out by self- 
 complacency and a dependence on good appearances. 
 
 I talked with a circle of women, and they showed the 
 natural aptitude of the sex for refinement. These 
 women — some black, and all from the lowest haunts of 
 vice — showed a sensibility and a sense of propriety 
 which would not have disgraced any place. 
 
 Returning, we had a fine storm on the river, clearing 
 up with strong winds. 
 32 
 
374 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 TO HER BROTHER, A. B. F. 
 
 Ro7ne, Jan. 20, 1849. 
 
 My DEAR A. : Your letter and mother's gave me th3 
 first account of your illness. Some letters were lost dur- 
 ing the summer, I do not know how. It did seem very 
 hard upon you to have that illness just after your 
 settlement ; hut it is to be hoped we shall some time know 
 a good reason for all that seems so strange. I trust you 
 are now becoming fortified in your health, and if this 
 could only be, feel as if things would go well with you 
 in this difficult world. I trust you are on the threshold 
 of an honorable and sometimes happy career. From 
 many pains, many dark hours, let none of the progeny 
 of Eve hope to escape ! * =^ * * 
 
 Meantime, I hope to find you in your home, and make 
 you a good visit there. Your invitation is sweet in its 
 tone, and rouses a vision of summer woods and New Eng- 
 land Sunday-morning bells. 
 
 It seems to me that mother is at last truly in her 
 sphere, living with one of her children. Watch over her 
 carefully, and don't let her do too much. Her spirit is 
 only all too willing, — but the flesh is weak, and her life 
 so precious to us all ! * * * * 
 
 TO MAZZINL 
 
 ** Al Cittadino Reppresentante del Popolo Romano." 
 
 Rome, March 3, 1849. 
 Dear Mazzini : Though knowing you occupied by 
 the most important affairs, I again feel impelled to write 
 
TO MAzzmi. 875 
 
 a few lines. What emboldens me is the persuasion that 
 the best friends, in point of sympathy and intelligence, — 
 the only friends of a man of ideas and of marked charac- 
 ter, — must be women. You have your mother ; no 
 doubt you have others, perhaps many. Of that I know 
 nothing ; only I like to offer also my tribute of affection. 
 
 When I think that only two years ago you thought 
 of coming into Italy with us in disguise, it seems very 
 glorious that you are about to enter republican Rome as 
 a Roman citizen. It seems almost the most sublime and 
 poetical fact of history. Yet, even in the first thrill of 
 joy, I felt "he will think his work but beginning, 
 now." 
 
 When I read from your hand these words, " H lunge 
 esilio teste ricominciato, la vita non confortata, fuorche 
 d'affetti lontani e contesi, e la speranza lungamente pro- 
 trata,, e il desiderio che comincia a farmi si supremo, di 
 dormire finalmente in pace, da che non ho potuto, vivere 
 in terra mia," — when I read these words they made me 
 weep bitterly, and I thought of them always with a 
 great pang at the heart. But it is not so, dear Mazzini, 
 — you do not return to sleep under the sod of Italy, but 
 to see your thought springing up all over the soil. The 
 gardeners seem to me, in point of instinctive wisdom or 
 deep thought, mostly incompetent to the care of the 
 garden ; but an idea like this will be able to make use 
 of any implements. The necessity, it is to be hoped, will 
 educate the men, by making them work. It is not this, 
 I believe, which still keeps your heart so melancholy ; 
 for I seem to read the same melancholy in your answer 
 
376 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 to the Roman assembly. You speak of "few and late 
 years," but some full ones still remain. A century is 
 not needed, nor should the same man, in the same form 
 of thought, work too long on an age. He would mould 
 and bind it too much to himself Better for him to die 
 and return incarnated to give the same truth on yet 
 another side. Jesus of Nazareth died young ; but had he 
 not spoken and acted as much truth as the world could 
 bear in his time ? A frailty, a perpetual short-coming, 
 motion in a curve-line, seems the destiny of this earth. 
 
 The excuse awaits us elsewhere ; there must be one, 
 — for it is true, as said Goethe, "care is taken that the 
 tree grow not up into the heavens." Men like you, 
 appointed ministers, must not be less earnest in their 
 work ; yet to the greatest, the day, the moment is all 
 their kingdom. God takes care of the increase. 
 
 Farewell ! For your sake I could wish at this mo- 
 ment to be an Italian and a man of action ; but though 
 I am an American^ I am not even a woman of action ; 
 so the best I can do is to pray w^ith the whole heai't, 
 " Heaven bless dear Mazzini ! — cheer his heart, and 
 give him worthy helpers to carry out his holy purposes." 
 
 TO MR. AND MRS. SPRING. 
 
 Florence, Dec. 12, 1849. 
 Bear M. and R. : ^ * * Your letter, dear 
 R., was written in your noblest and most womanly spirit. 
 I thank you warmly foi your sympathy about my little 
 
TO MR. AND MRS. SPRING. 377 
 
 boj. What he is to me, even jou can hardly dream ; 
 you that have three, in whom the natural thirst of the 
 heart was earlier satisfied, can scarcely know what my 
 one ewe -lamb is to me. That he may live, that I may 
 find bread for him, that I may not spoil him by over- 
 weening love, that I may grow daily better for his sake, 
 are the ever-recurring thoughts, — say prayers, — that 
 give their hue to all the current of my life. 
 
 But, in answer to what you say, that it is still better to 
 give the world a living soul than a portion of my life in a 
 printed book, it is true ; and yet, of my book I could know 
 whether it would be of some worth or not : of my child, 
 I must wait to see what his worth will be. I play with 
 him, my ever-growing mystery ! but from the solemnity 
 of the thoughts he brings is refuge only in God. Was I 
 worthy to be parent of a soul, with its eternal, immense 
 capacity for weal and woe ? " God be merciful to me a 
 sinner ! " comes so naturally to a mother's heart ! 
 ******* 
 
 What you say about the Peace way is deeply true ; if 
 any one see clearly how to work in that way, let him, in 
 God's name ! Only, if he abstain from fighting against 
 giant wrongs, let him be sure he is really and ardently 
 at work undermining them, or, better still, sustaining the 
 rights that are to supplant them. Meanwhile, I am not 
 sure that I can keep my hands free from blood. Cobden 
 is good ; but if he had stood in Kossuth's place, would he 
 not have drawn his sword against the Austrian ? You, 
 could you let a Croat insult your wife, carry off your son 
 to be an Austrian serf, and leave your daughter bleeding 
 32* 
 
378 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 in the dust ? Yet it is true that while Moses slew the 
 Egyptian, Christ stood still to be spit upon ; and it is 
 true that death to man could do him no harm. You have 
 the truth, you have the right, but could you act up to it in 
 all circumstances ? Stifled under the Roman priesthood, 
 would you not have thrown it off with all your force ? 
 Would you have waited unknown centuries, hoping for 
 the moment when you could see another method? 
 
 Yet the agonies of that baptism of blood I feel, how 
 deeply! in the golden June days of Rome. Consistent 
 no way, I felt I should have shrunk back, — I could not 
 have had it shed. Christ did not have to see his dear 
 ones pass the dark river ; he could go alone, however, in 
 prophetic spirit. No doubt he foresaw the crusades. 
 
 In answer to what you say of , I wish the little 
 
 effort I made for him had been wiselier applied. Yet 
 these are not the things one regrets. It does not do to 
 calculate too closely with the affectionate human impulse. 
 We must be content to make many mistakes, or we 
 should move too slowly to help our brothers much. 
 
 Florence, Jan. 8, 1850. 
 My deak R, : * * * * The way in which you speak 
 of my marriage is such as I expected from you. Now 
 that we have once exchanged words on these important 
 changes in our lives, it matters little to write letters, so 
 much has happened, and the changes are too great to be 
 
879 
 
 made clear in wri:ing. It would not be worth while to 
 keep the family thinking of me. I cannot fix precisely the 
 period of my return, though at present it seems to me 
 probable we may make the voyage in May or June. At 
 first we should wish to go and make a little visit to mother. 
 I should take counsel with various friends before fixing 
 myself in any place ; see what openings there are for me, 
 &c. I cannot judge at all before I am personally in the 
 United States, and wish to engage myself no way. Should 
 I finally decide on the neighborhood of New York, I 
 should see you all, often. I wish, however, to live with 
 mother, if possible. We will discuss it on all sides when 
 I come. Climate is one thing I must think of The 
 change from the Roman winter to that of New England 
 might be very trying for Ossoli. In New York he would 
 see Italians often, hear his native tongue, and feel less 
 exiled. If we had our affairs in New York and lived in 
 the neighboring country, we could find places as quiet as 
 
 C , more beautiful, and from which access to a city 
 
 would be as easy by means of steam. 
 
 On the other hand, my family and most cherished 
 friends are in New England. I shall weigh all advan- 
 tages at the time, and choose as may then seem best. 
 
 I feel also the great responsibility about a child, and 
 the mixture of solemn feeling with the joy its sweet ways 
 and caresses give ; yet this is only different in degree, 
 not in kind, from what we should feel in other relations. 
 We may more or less impede or brighten the destiny of 
 all with whom we come in contact. Much as the child 
 lies in our power, still God and Nature are there, fur- 
 
380 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 nishing a thousand masters to correct our erroneous, and 
 fill up our imperfect, teachings. I feel impelled to try 
 for good, for the sake of my child, most powerfully ; but 
 if 1 fail, I trust help will be tendered to him from some 
 other quarter. I do not wish to trouble myself more 
 than is inevitable, or lose the simple, innocent pleasure 
 of watching his growth from day to day, by thinking of 
 his future. At present my care of him is to keep him 
 pure, in body and mind, to give for body and mind simple 
 nutriment when he requires it, and to play with him. 
 Now he learns, playing, as we all shall when we enter a 
 higher existence. With him my intercourse thus far has 
 been precious, and if I do not well for him^ he at least 
 has taught me a great deal. 
 
 I may say of Ossoli, it would be difficult to help lik- 
 ing him, so sweet is his disposition, so disinterested with- 
 out effort, so simply wise his daily conduct, so harmoni- 
 ous his whole nature. And he is a perfectly unconscious 
 character, and never dreams that he does well. He is 
 studying English, but makes little progress. For a good 
 while you may not be able to talk freely with him, but 
 you will like showing him your favorite haunts, — he is 
 so happy in nature, so sweet in tranquil places. 
 
 TO 
 
 What a difference it makes to come home to a child ! 
 How it fills up all the gaps of life just in the way that 
 is most consoling, most refreshing ! Formerly I used to 
 feel sad at that hour ; the day had not been nobly spent. 
 
TO MR. AND MRS. S. 881 
 
 — I had not done my duty to myself or others, and I 
 felt 8) lonely i Now I never feel lonely ; for, even if my 
 little boy dies, our souls will remain eternally united. 
 And I feel infinite hope for him, — hope that he will 
 serve God and man more loyally than I have done : and 
 seeing how full he is of life, how much he can afford 
 to throw away, I feel the inexhaustibleness of nature, 
 and console myself for my own incapacities. 
 
 Madame Arconati is near me. We have had some 
 hours of great content together, but in the last weeks 
 her only child has been dangerously ill. I have no 
 other acquaintance except in the American circle, and 
 should not care to make any unless singularly desirable ; 
 for I want all my time for the care of my child, for my 
 walks, and visits to objects of art, in which again I can 
 find pleasure, and in the evening fc* study and writing. 
 Ossoli is forming some taste for books ; he is also studying 
 English; he learns of Horace Sumner, to whom he 
 teaches Italian in turn. 
 
 TO MR. AND MRS. S. 
 
 Florence, Feb. 5, 1850. 
 
 My dear M. and R. : You have no doubt ere this 
 received a letter written, I think, in December, but I 
 must suddenly write again to thank you for the New- 
 Year's letter. It was a sweet impulse that led you all 
 to write together, and had its full reward in the pleasure 
 you gave. I have said as little as possible about Ossoli 
 and our relation, wishing my old friends to form their 
 
382 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 own impressions naturally, when they see us together. 
 I have faith that all who ever knew me will feel that I 
 have become somewhat milder, kinder, and more worthy 
 to serve all who need, for my new relations. I have ex- 
 pected that those who have cared for me chiefly for my 
 activity of intellect, would not care for him ; but that 
 those in whom the moral nature predominates would 
 gradually learn to love and admire him, and see what a 
 treasure his affection must be to me. But even that 
 would be only gradually ; for it is by acts, not by words, 
 that one so simple, true, delicate and retiring, can be 
 known. For me, while some of my friends have thought 
 me exacting, I may say Ossoli has always outgone my 
 expectations in the disinterestedness, the uncompromising 
 bounty, of his every act. 
 
 He was the same to his father as to me. His affec- 
 tions are few, but profound, and thoroughly acted out. 
 His permanent affections are few, but his heart is always 
 open to the humble, suffering, heavy-laden. His mind 
 has little habitual action, except in a simple, natural 
 poetry, that one not very intimate with him would never 
 know anything about. But once opened to a great impulse, 
 as it was to the hope of freeing his country, it rises to the 
 height of the occasion, and stays there. His enthusiasm 
 is quiet, but unsleeping. He is very unlike most Ital- 
 ians, but very unlike most Americans, too. I do not 
 expect all who cared for me to care for him, nor is it of 
 importance to him that they should. He is wholly with- 
 out vanity. He is too truly the gentleman not to be 
 respected by all persons of refinement. For the rest, if 
 
TO MR. AND MRS. S. 383 
 
 my life is free, and not too much troubled, if he can 
 enjoy his domestic affections, and fulfil his duties in his 
 own way, he will be content. Can we find this much for 
 ourselves in bustling America the next t^ree or four 
 years ? I know not, but think we shall come and try. 
 I wish much to see you all, and exchange the kiss of 
 peace. There will, I trust, be peace within, if not with- 
 out. I thank you most warmly for your gift. Be 
 assured it will turn to great profit. I have learned to 
 be a great adept in economy, by looking at my little 
 boy. I cannot bear to spend a cent for fear he may 
 come to want. I understand now how the family-men 
 get so mean, and shall have to begin soon to pray 
 against that danger. My little Nino, as we call him 
 for house and pet name, is in perfect health. I wash, 
 and dress, and sew for him ; and think I see a great 
 deal of promise in his little ways, and shall know him 
 better for doing all for him, though it is fatiguing and 
 inconvenient at times. He is very gay and laughing, 
 sometimes violent, — for he is come to the age when he 
 wants everything in his own hands, — but, on the whole, 
 sweet as yet, and very fond of me. He often calls me to 
 kiss him. He says, "kiss," in preference to the Italian 
 word bacio. I do not cherish sanguine visions about 
 him, but try to do my best by him, and enjoy the pres- 
 ent moment. 
 
 It w^as a nice account you gave of Miss Bremer. She 
 found some " neighbors" as good as her own. You say 
 
 she was much pleased by ; could she kr ow her, 
 
 she might enrich the world with a portrait as full of 
 
384 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 little delicate traits as any in her gallery, and of a higher 
 class than any in which she has been successful. I would 
 
 give much that a competent person should paint . 
 
 It is a shame she should die and leave the world no 
 copy. 
 
 to mr. cassj charge d'affaires des etats unis 
 d'ambrique. 
 
 Florence, May 2, 1850. 
 
 Dear Mr. Cass : I shall most probably leave Flor- 
 ence and Italy the 8th or 10th of this month, and am 
 not willing to depart without saying adieu to yourself. 
 I wanted to write the 30th of April, but a succession of 
 petty interruptions prevented. That was the day I saw 
 you first, and the day the French first assailed Rome. 
 What a crowded day that was ! I had been to visit 
 Ossoli. in the morning, in the garden of the Vatican. 
 Just after my return you entered. I then went to the 
 hospital, and there passed the night amid the groans of 
 many suffering and some dying men. What a strange 
 first of May it was, as I walked the streets of Rome by 
 the early sunlight of the next day ! Those were to me 
 grand and impassioned hours. Deep sorrow followed, — 
 many embarrassments, many pains ! Let me once more, 
 at parting, thank you for the sympathy you showed me 
 amid many of these. A thousand years might pass, and 
 you would find it unforgotten by me. 
 
 I leave Italy with profound regret, and with only a 
 vague hope of returning. I could have lived here 
 
TO . 885 
 
 always, full of bright visions, and expanding in my 
 faculties, had destiny permitted. May you be happy 
 who remain here ! It would be well worth while to be 
 happy in Italy ! 
 
 I had hoped to enjoy some of the last days, but the 
 weather has been steadily bad since you left Florence. 
 Since the 4th of April we have not had a fine day, and 
 all our little plans for visits to favorite spots and beauti- 
 ful objects, from which we have long been separated, have 
 been marred ! 
 
 I sail in the barque Elizabeth for New York. She is 
 laden with marble and rags — a very appropriate com- 
 panionship for wares of Italy ! She carries Powers' 
 statue of Calhoun. Adieu ,! Remember that we look to 
 you to keep up the dignity of our country. Many im- 
 portant occasions are now likely to offer for the American 
 (I wish I could write the Columbian) man to advocate, 
 — more, to represent the cause of Truth and Freedom in 
 the face of their foes. Remember me as their lover, 
 and your friend, M. 0. 
 
 TO . 
 
 Florence, April 16, 1850. 
 * * * There is a bark at Leghorn, highly spoken 
 of, which sails at the end of this month, and we shall 
 very likely take that. I find it imperatively necessary to 
 go to the United States to make arrangements that may 
 free me from care. Shall I be more fortunate if I go in 
 person ? I do not know. I am ill adapted to push my 
 33 
 
386 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 claims and pretensions ; but, at least, it «rill not be such 
 slow work as passing from disappointment to disappoint- 
 ment here, where I wait upon the post-office, and must 
 wait two or three months, to know the fate of any propo- 
 
 V sition. 
 
 / I go home prepared to expect all that is painful and 
 difficult. It will be a consolation to see my dear mother ; 
 and my dear brother E., whom I have not seen for ten 
 years, is coming to New England this summer. On that 
 account I wish to go this year. 
 
 T^ -TT -7^ *jv ^ ^ 
 
 May 10. — My head is full of boxes, bundles, phials 
 of medicine, and pots of jelly. I never thought much 
 about a journey for myself, except to try and return all 
 the things, books especially, which I had been borrowing ; 
 but about my child I feel anxious lest I should not take 
 what is necessary for his health and comfort on so long a 
 voyage, where omissions are irreparable. The unpro- 
 pitious, rainy weather delays us now from day to day, as 
 our ship, the Elizabeth, — (look out for news of ship- 
 wreck !) cannot finish taking in her cargo till come one 
 or two good days. 
 
 I leave Italy with most sad and unsatisfied heart, — 
 hoping, indeed, to return, but fearing that may not be 
 permitted in my " cross-biased " life, till strength of 
 feeling and keenness of perception be less than during 
 these bygone rich, if troubled, years. 
 
 I can say least to those whom 1 prize most. I ^m so 
 sad and weary, leaving Italy, that I seem paralyzed. 
 
TO . 387 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 Ship Elizabeth, off Gibraltar, June 3, 1850. 
 
 My dear M : You will, I trust, long ere receiv- 
 ing this, have read my letter from Florence, enclosing one 
 to my mother, informing her under what circumstances I \ 
 
 had drawn on you through , and mentioning how I 
 
 I wished the bill to be met in case of any accident to me / 
 on my homeward course. That course, as respects ' 
 weather, has been thus far not unpleasant ; but the dis- 
 aster that has befallen us is such as I never dreamed of. 
 I had taken passage with Captain Hasty — one who seemed 
 to me one of the best and most high-minded of our 
 American men. He showed the kindest interest in us. 
 His wife, an excellent woman, was with him. I thought, 
 during the voyage, if safe and my child well, to have as 
 much respite from care and pain as sea-sickness would 
 permit. But scarcely was that enemy in some measure 
 quelled, when the captain fell sick. At first his disease 
 presented the appearance of nervous fever. I was with 
 him a great deal ; indeed, whenever I could relieve his 
 wife from a ministry softened by great love and the 
 courage of womanly heroism. The last days were truly 
 terrible with disgusts and fatigues ; for he died, we sup- 
 pose, — no physician has been allowed to come on board 
 to see the body, — of confluent small-pox. I have seen, 
 since we parted, great suffering, but nothing physical to 
 be compared to this, where the once fair and expressive 
 mould of man is thus lost in corruption before life has 
 fled. He died yesterday morning, and was buried in deep 
 
388 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 water, the American Consul's barge towing out one from 
 this ship which bore the body, about six o'clock. It was 
 Sunday. A divinely calm, glowing afternoon had suc- 
 ceeded a morning of bleak, cold wind. You cannot think 
 how beautiful the whole thing was : — the decent array and 
 sad reverence of the sailors ; the many ships with their 
 banners flying ; the stern pillar of Hercules all bathed 
 in roseate vapor ; the little white sails diving into the 
 blue depths with that solemn spoil of the good man, so 
 still, when he had been so agonized and gasping as the 
 last sun stooped. Yes, it was beautiful ; but how dear a 
 price we pay for the poems of this world ! We shall 
 now be in quarantine a week ; no person permitted to 
 come on board until it be seen whether disease break out 
 in other cases. I have no good reason to think it will 
 not ; yet I do not feel afraid. Ossoli has had it ; so he 
 is safe. The baby is, of course, subject to injury. In 
 the earlier days, before I suspected small-pox, I carried 
 him twice into the sick-room, at the request of the 
 captain, who was becoming fond of him. He laughed 
 and pointed ; he did not discern danger, but only thought 
 it odd to see the old friend there in bed. It is vain by 
 prudence to seek to evade the stern assaults of destiny. 
 I submit. Should all end well, we shall be in New 
 York later than I expected ; but keep a look-out. Should 
 we arrive safely, I should like to see a friendly face. 
 Commend me to my dear friends ; arid, with most affec- 
 tionate wishes that joy and peace may continue to dwell 
 in your house, adieu, and love as you can, 
 
 Your friend, Maegaket. 
 
LETTER FROM HON. LEWIS CASS, JR. 389 
 
 LETTER FROM HON. LEWIS CASS, JR., UNITED STATES 
 
 CHARGE d'affaires AT ROME, TO MRS. E. K. CHAN- 
 
 NING. 
 
 Legation des Etnts Unis d'Ameyiquef 
 Rome, May 10, 1851. 
 
 Madame : I beg leave to acknowledge the receipt of 
 your letter of the — ult., and to express my regret that 
 the weak state of my eyesight has prevented me from 
 giving it an earlier reply. 
 
 In compliance with your request, I have the honor to 
 state, succinctly, the circumstances connected with my 
 acquaintance with the late Madame Ossoli, your deceased 
 sister, during her residence in Rome. 
 
 In the month of April, 1849, Rome, as you are no 
 doubt aware, was placed in a state of siege by the 
 approach of the French army. It was filled at that 
 time with exiles and fugitives who had been contending 
 for years, from Milan in the north to Palermo in the 
 south, for the republican cause ; and when the gates were 
 closed, it was computed that there were, of Italians alone, 
 thirteen thousand refugees within the walls of the city. 
 all of whom had been expelled from adjacent states, till 
 Rome became their last rallying-point, and, to many, their 
 final resting-place. Among these was to be seen every 
 variety of age, sentiment, and condition, — striplings and 
 blanched heads; wild, visionary enthusiasts; grave, he- 
 roic men, who, in the struggle for freedom, had ventured 
 all, and lost all ; nobles and beggars ; bandits, felons and 
 brigands. Great excitement naturally existed ; and, in 
 the general apprehension which pervaded all classes, that 
 83* 
 
390 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 acts of personal violence and outrage would soon be com- 
 mitted, the foreign residents, especially, found themselves 
 placed in an alarming situation. 
 
 On the 30th of April the first engagement took place 
 between the French and Roman troops, and in a few days 
 subsequently I visited several of my countrymen, at their 
 request, to concert measures for their safety. Hearing, 
 on that occasion, and for the first time, of Miss Fuller's 
 presence in Rome, and of her solitary mode of life, I 
 ventured to call upon her, and offer my services in any 
 manner that might conduce to her comfort and security. 
 She received me with much kindness, and thus an ac- 
 quaintance commenced. Her residence on the Piazzi 
 Barberini beinor considered an insecure abode, she re- 
 moved to the Casa Dies, which was occupied by several 
 American families. 
 
 In the engagements which succeeded between the 
 Roman and French troops, the wounded of the former 
 were brought into the city, and disposed throughout the 
 difierent hospitals, w^hich were under the superintendence 
 of several ladies of high rank, who had formed themselves 
 into associations, the better to ensure care and attention 
 to those unfortunate men. Miss Fuller took an active 
 part in this noble work ; and the greater portion of her 
 time, during the entire siege, was passed in the hospital 
 of the Trinity of the Pilgrims, which was placed under 
 her direction, in attendance upon its inmates. 
 
 The weather was intensely hot ; her health was feeble 
 and delicate ; the dead and dying were around her in 
 every stage of pain and horror ; but she never shrank 
 
LETTER FROM LEWIS CASS, JR. 891 
 
 from the duty she had assumed. Her heart and soul 
 were in the cause for which these men had fought, and 
 all was done that Woman could do to comfort them in 
 their sufferings. I have seen the eyes of the dying, 
 as she moved among them, extended on opposite beds, 
 meet in commendation of her universal kindness ; and the 
 friends of those who then passed away may derive conso- 
 lation from the assurance that nothing of tenderness and 
 attention was wanting to soothe their last moments. And 
 I have heard many of those who recovered speak with all 
 the passionate fervor of the Italian nature, of her whose 
 sympathy and compassion, throughout their long illness, 
 fulfilled all the offices of love and affection. Mazzini, the 
 chief of the Triumvirate, who, better than any man in 
 Rome, knew her worth, often expressed to me his ad- 
 miration of her high character ; and the Princess Bel- 
 giojoso, to whom was assigned the charge of the Papal 
 Palace, on the Quirinal, which was converted on this 
 occasion into a hospital, was enthusiastic in her praise. 
 And in a letter which I received not long since from this 
 lady, who was gaining the bread of an exile by teaching 
 languages in Constantinople, she alludes with much feeling 
 to the support afforded by Miss Fuller to the republican 
 party in Italy. Here, in Rome, she is still spoken of in 
 terms of regard and endearment, and the announcement 
 of her death was received with a degree of sorrow not 
 often bestowed upon a foreigner, especially one of a differ- 
 ent faith. 
 
 On the 29th of June, the bombardment from the 
 French camp was very heavy, shells and grenades fall- 
 
892 MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ing in every part of the city. In the afternoon of the 
 30th, I received a brief note from Miss Fuller, requesting 
 me to call at her residence. I did so without delay, and 
 found her lying on a sofa, pale and trembling, evidently 
 much exhausted. She informed me that she had sent for 
 me to place in my hand a packet of important papers, 
 which she wished me to keep for the present, and, in the 
 event of her death, to transmit it to her friends in the 
 United States. She then stated that she was married to 
 Marquis Ossoli, who was in command of a battery on the 
 Pincian Hill, — that being the highest and most exposed 
 position in Rome, and directly in the line of bombs from 
 the French camp. It was not to be expected, she said, 
 that he could escape the dangers of another night, 
 such as the last ; and therefore it was her intention to 
 remain with him, and share his fate. At the Ave Maria, 
 she added, he would come for her, and they would pro- 
 ceed together to his post. The packet which she placed 
 in my possession, contained, she said, the certificates of 
 her marriage, and of the birth and baptism of her child. 
 After a few words more, I took my departure, the hour 
 she named having nearly arrived. At the porter's lodge 
 I met the Marquis Ossoli, and a few moments afterward 
 I saw them walking toward the Pincian Hill. 
 
 Happily, the cannonading was not renewed that night, 
 and at dawn of day she returned to her apartments, with 
 her husband by her side. On that day the French 
 army entered Rome, and, the gates being opened, Madame 
 Ossoli, accompanied by the Marquis, immediately pro- 
 ceeded to Rieti, where she had left her child in the charge 
 
JE. 393 
 
 of a confidential nurse, formerly in the service of the 
 Ossoli family. 
 
 She remained, as you are no doubt aware, some months 
 at Rieti, whence she removed to Florence, where she 
 resided until her ill-fated departure for the United States. 
 During this period I received several letters from her, all 
 of which, though reluctant to part with them, I enclose 
 to your address in compliance with your request. 
 I am, Madame, very respectfully. 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 Lewis Cass, Jr. 
 
\ 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 A. 
 
 Apparition of the goddess Isis to her votary, from Apuleius. 
 
 " Scarcely had I closed my eyes, when, behold (I saw in a 
 dream), a divine form emerging from the middle of the sea, and 
 raising a countenance venerable even to the gods themselves. 
 Afterward, the whole of the most splendid image seemed to stand 
 before me, having gradually shaken oflf the sea. I will endeavor 
 to explain to you its admirable form, if the poverty of human 
 language will but afford me the power of an appropriate narra- 
 tion ; or if the divinity itself, of the most luminous form, will 
 supply me with a liberal abundance of fluent diction. In the 
 first place, then, her most copious and long hairs, being gradually 
 intorted, and promiscuously scattered on her divine neck, were 
 softly defluous. A multiform crown, consisting of various flowers, 
 bound the sublime summit of her head. And in the middle of 
 the crown, just on her forehead, there was a smooth orb, resem- 
 bling a mirror, or rather a white refulgent light, which indicated 
 that she was the moon. Vipers, rising up after the manner of 
 furrows, environed the crown on the right hand and on the left, 
 and Cerealian ears of corn were also extended from above. Her 
 garment was of many colors, and woven from the finest flax, and 
 was at one time lucid with a white splendor, at another yellow, 
 from the flower of crocus, and at another flaming with a rosy 
 redness. Bat that which most excessively dazzled my sight, was 
 a very black robe, fulgid with a dark splendor, and which, 
 spreading round and passing under her right side, and ascending 
 to her left shoulder, there rose protuberant, like the centre of a 
 34 
 
398 APPENDIX. 
 
 shield, the dependent part of her robe falling in many folds, and 
 having small knots of fringe, gracefully flowing in its extremities. 
 Glittering stars were dispersed through the embroidered border 
 of the robe, and through the whole of its surface, and the full 
 moon, shining in the middle of the stars, breathed forth flaming 
 fires. A crown, wholly consisting of flowers and fruits of every 
 kind, adhered with indivisible connection to the border of con- 
 spicuous robe, in all its undulating motions. 
 
 " What she carried in her hands also consisted of things of a 
 very difi'erent nature. Her right hand bore a brazen rattle, 
 through the narrow lamina of which, bent like a belt, certain 
 rods passing, produced a sharp triple sound through the vibrating 
 motion of her arm. An oblong vessel, in the shape of a boat, 
 depended from her left hand, on the handle of which, in that 
 part which was conspicuous, an asp raised its erect head and 
 largely swelling neck. And shoes, woven from the leaves of the 
 victorious palm-tree, covered her immortal feet. Such, and so 
 great a goddess, breathing the fragrant odor of the shores of 
 Arabia the happy, deigned thus to address me." 
 
 The foreign English of the translator, Thomas Taylor, gives 
 this description the air of being itself a part of the mysteries. 
 But its majestic beauty requires no formal initiation to be en- 
 joyed. 
 
 B. 
 
 I GIVE this in the original, as it does not bear translation. 
 Those who read Italian will judge whether it is not a perfect 
 description of a perfect woman. 
 
 LODI E PREGHIERE A MARIA. 
 
 Vergine bella che di sol vestita, 
 Coronata di stelle, al somrao Sole 
 
 Piacesti si, che'n te sua luce ascose ; 
 Amor mi spinge a dir di te parole : 
 
 Ma non so 'ncominciar senza tu' aita, 
 £ di Colui che amando in te si pose. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 Invoco lei che ben sempre rispose, 
 Chi la chiamo con fede. 
 
 Vergine, s'a mercede 
 Miseria extrema dell' smane cose 
 
 Giammai tivolse, al mio prego t'inchina : 
 Soccorri alia mia guerra ; 
 
 Bench' i' sia terra, e tu del ciel Regina. 
 
 Vergine saggia, e del bel numero una 
 Delle beate vergini prudenti ; 
 
 Anzi la prima, e con piu chiara lamp* ; 
 saldo scudo dell' afflitte gente 
 
 Contra colpi di Morte e di Fortuna, 
 Sotto' 1 qual si trionfa, non pur scampa : 
 
 refrigerio alcieco ardor ch' avvampa 
 Qui fra mortali sciocchi, 
 
 Vergine, que' begli occhi 
 Che vider tristi la spietata stampa 
 
 Ne' dolci membri del tuo caro figlio, 
 Volgi al mio dubbio stato ; 
 
 Che sconsigliato a te vien per consiglio. 
 
 Vergine pura, d'ogni parte intera, 
 Del tuo parto gentil figliuola e madre ; 
 
 Che allumi questa vita, e I'altra adorni ; 
 Per te il tuo Figlio e quel del sommo Padre, 
 
 finestra del ciel lucente altera, 
 Venne a salvarne in su gli estremi giomi, 
 
 E fra tutt' i terreni altri soggiomi 
 Sola tu fusti eletta, 
 
 Vergine benedetta ; 
 Che '1 pianto d' Eva in allegrezza tomi' ; 
 
 Fammi ; che puoi ; della sua grazia degnOf 
 Senza fine o beata, 
 
 Gia coronata nel superno regno. 
 
 Vergine santa d'ogni grazia plena ; 
 Che per vera e altissima umiltate 
 
 Salisti al ciel, onde miei preghi ascolti ; 
 Tu partoristi il fonte di pietate, 
 
 E di giustizia il Sol, che rasserena 
 
 399 
 
400 APPENDIX. 
 
 II secol pien d'errori oscuri e folti : 
 
 Tre dolci e eari nomi ha' in te raccolti, 
 " Madre, Figliuola, e Sposa ; 
 
 Vergine gloriosa. 
 Donna del Re die nostri lacci ha sciolti, 
 
 E fatto '1 mondo libero e felice ; 
 Nelle cui sante piaghe 
 
 Prego ch'appaghe il cor, vera beatrice. 
 
 Vergine sola al mondo senza esempio, 
 Che '1 ciel di tue bellezze innamorasti, 
 
 Cui ne prima fu sirail, ne seconda ; 
 Santi pensieri, atti pietosi e casti 
 
 Al vero Dio sacrato, e vivo tempio 
 Fecero in tua virginita feconda. 
 
 Per te puo la mia vita esser gioconda ; 
 S' a' tuoi preghi, o Maria 
 
 Vergine dolce, e pia, 
 Ove '1 fallo abbondo, la grazia abbonda. 
 
 Con le ginocchia della mente inchine 
 Prego che sia mia scorta ; 
 
 E la mia torta via drizzi a buon fine. 
 
 Vergine chiara, e stabile in eterno, 
 Di questo tempestoso mare stella ; 
 
 D'ogni fedel nocchier fidata gui da ; 
 Pon mente in che terribile procella 
 
 I mi ritrovo sol senza governo, 
 Ed ho gia' da vicin I'ulti me strida : 
 
 Ma pur' in te I'anima mia si fida ; 
 Peccatrice ; i' nol nego, 
 
 Vergine : ma te prego 
 Che '1 tuo nemico del mia mal non rida : 
 
 Ricorditi che fece il peccar nostro 
 Prender Dio, per scamparne, 
 
 Umana came al tuo virginal christro. 
 
 Vergine, quante lagrime ho gia sparte, 
 Quante lusinghe, e quanti preghi indarno. 
 
 Pur per mia pena, e per mio grave danno ! 
 Da poi ch' i nacqui in su la riva d'Arno ; 
 
APPENDIX. 401 
 
 Cercando or questa ed or quell altra parte, 
 Non e stata mia vita altro cli' aifanno. 
 
 Mortal bellezza, atti, e parole m' hanno 
 Tutta ingombrata Palma. 
 
 Vergine sacra, ed alma, 
 Non tardar ; ch' i' non forse all' ultim 'ann, 
 
 I di miei piu correnti che saetta, 
 f ra miserie e peccati 
 
 Sonsen andati, e sol Morte n'aspetta. 
 
 Vergine, tale e terra, e posto ha in doglia 
 Lo mio cor ; che vivendo in pianto il tenne ; 
 
 E di mille miei mali un non sapea ; 
 E per saperlo, pur quel che n'avvenne, 
 
 Fora avvenuto : ch' ogni altra sua voglia 
 Era a me morte, ed a lei fama rea 
 
 Or tu, donna del ciel, tu nostra Dea, 
 Se dir lice, e conviensi ; 
 
 Vergine d'alti sensi, 
 Tu vedi il tutto ; e quel che non potea 
 
 Far altri, e nulla a e la tua gran virtute ; 
 Pon fine al mio dolore ; 
 
 Ch'a te onore ed a me fia salute. 
 
 Vergine, in cui ho tutta mia speranza 
 Che possi e vogli al gran bisogno aitarme ; 
 
 Non mi lasciare in su I'estremo passo : 
 Non guardar me, ma chi degno crearme ; 
 
 No'l mio valor, ma I'alta sua sembianza ; 
 Che in me ti mova a curar d'uorm si basso. 
 
 Medusa, e Terror mio io han fatto un sasso 
 D'umor vano stillante ; 
 
 Vergine, tu di sante 
 Lagrime, e pie adempi '1 mio cor lasso ; 
 
 Ch' almen I'ultimo pianto sia divoto, 
 Senza terrestro limo ; 
 
 Come fu'l primo non d'insania voto. 
 
 Vergine umana, e nemica d'orgoglio, 
 Del comune principio amor t'induca ; 
 
 Miserere d'un cor contrite umile ; 
 Che se poca mortal terra caduca 
 
 34* 
 
402 APPENDIX. 
 
 Amar con si mirabil fede soglio ; 
 Che devro far di te cosa gentile ? 
 
 Se dal mio stato assai misero, e vile 
 Per le tue man resurgo, 
 
 Vergine ; e' sacro, e purgo 
 Al tuo nome e pens ieri e'ngegno, e stile ; 
 
 La lingua, e'l cor, le lagrime, e i sospiri, 
 Scorgimi al miglior guado ; 
 
 E prendi in grado i cangiati desiri. 
 
 II di s appressa, e non pote esser lunge ; 
 Si corre il tempo, e vola, 
 
 Vergine unica, e sola ; 
 E'l cor' or conscienza, or morte punge. 
 Raccommandami al tuo Figliuol, verace 
 
 Uomo, e verace Dio ; 
 Ch accolga 1 mio spirto ultimo in pace. 
 
 As the Scandinavian represented Frigga the Earth, or World- 
 mother, knowing all things, yet never herself revealing them, 
 though ready to be called to counsel by the gods, it represents 
 her in action, decked vfith jewels and gorgeously attended. But, 
 says the Mythos, when she ascended the throne of Odin, her con- 
 sort (Haaven), she left with mortals her friend, the Goddess of 
 Sympathy, to protect them in her absence. 
 
 Since, Sympathy goes about to do good. Especially she devotes 
 herself to the most valiant and the most oppressed. She consoles 
 the gods in some degree even for the death of their darling Baldur. 
 Among the heavenly powers she has no consort. 
 
 0. 
 THE WEDDING OF THE LADY THERESA. 
 
 FROM LOCKHABT'S SPANISH BALLADS. 
 
 'T WAS when the fifth Alphonso in Leon held his sway. 
 King Abdalla of Toledo an embassy did send ; 
 
 He asked his sister for a wife, and in an evil day 
 Alphonso sent her, for he feared Abdalla to oflfend ; 
 
APPE2TDIX. 403 
 
 He fearad to move his anger, for many times before 
 He had received in danger much succor from the Moor. 
 
 Sad heart had fair Theresa, when she their paction knew ; 
 
 With streaming tears she heard them tell she 'mong the Moors 
 must go ; 
 That she, a Christian damsel, a Christian firm and true. 
 
 Must wed a Moorish husband, it well might cause her woe ; 
 But all her tears and all her prayers they are of small avail ; 
 
 At length she for her fate prepares, a victim sad and pale. 
 
 The king hath sent his sister to fair Toledo town, 
 
 "Where then the Moor Abdalla his royal state did keep ; 
 
 "When she drew near, the Moslem from his golden throne came down, 
 And courteously received her, and bade her cease to weep ; 
 
 "With loving words he pressed her to come his bower within ; 
 
 With kisses he caressed her, but still she feared the sin. 
 
 ** Sir King, Sir King, I pray thee," — 't was thus Theresa spake, — 
 *' I pray thee, have compassion, and do to me no wrong ; 
 
 For sleep with thee I may not, unless the vows I break. 
 Whereby I to the holy church of Christ my Lord belong ; 
 
 For thou hast sworn to serve Mahoun, and if this thing should be. 
 
 The curse of God it must bring down upon thy realm and thee. 
 
 ** The angel of Christ Jesu, to whom my heavenly Lord 
 Hath given my soul in keeping, is ever by my side ; 
 
 If thou dost me dishonor, he will unsheathe his sword. 
 And smite thy body fiercely, at the crying of thy bride ; 
 
 Invisible he standeth ; his sword like fiery flame 
 
 Will penetrate thy bosom the hour that sees my shame." 
 
 The Moslem heard her with a smile ; the earnest words she said 
 He took for bashful maiden's wile, and drew her to his bower . 
 
 In vain Theresa prayed and strove, — she pressed Abdalla's bed. 
 Perforce received his kiss of love, and lost her maiden flower. 
 
 A woeful woman there she lay, a loving lord beside. 
 
 And earnestly to God did pray her succor to provide. 
 
 The angel of Christ Jesu her sore complaint did hear, 
 
 And plucked his heavenly weapon from out his sheath unseen : 
 
 He waved the brand in his right hand, and to the King came near. 
 And drew the point o'er limb and joint, beside the weeping Queen : 
 
404 APPENDIX. 
 
 A mortal weakness from the stroke upon the King did fall ; 
 
 He could not stand when daylight broke, but on his knees must crawl. 
 
 Abdalla shuddered inly, when he this sickness felt, 
 And called upon his barons, his pillow to come nigh ; 
 
 •• Rise up," he said, " my liegemen," as round his bed they knelt, 
 '* And take this Christian lady, else certainly I die ; 
 
 Let gold be in your girdles, and precious stones beside. 
 
 And swiftly ride to Leon, and render up my bride." 
 
 When they were come to Leon Theresa would not go 
 Into her brother's dwelling, where her maiden years were spent ; 
 
 But o'er her downcast visage a white veil she did throw. 
 And to the ancient nunnery of Las Huelgaswent. 
 
 There, long, from worldly eyes retired, a holy life she led ; 
 
 There she, an aged saint, expired ; there sleeps she with the dead. 
 
 D. 
 
 The following extract from Spinoza is worthy of attention, as 
 expressing the view which a man of the largest intellectual scope 
 may take of Woman, if that part of his life to which her influ- 
 ence appeals has been left unawakened. He was a man of the 
 largest intellect, of unsurpassed reasoning powers ; yet he makes 
 a statement false to history, for we well know how often men and 
 women have ruled together without diflficulty, and one in which 
 very few men even at the present day — I mean men who are 
 thinkers, like him — would acquiesce. 
 
 I have put in contrast with it three expressions of the latest 
 literature. 
 
 First, from the poems of W. E. Channing, a poem called 
 " Reverence," equally remarkable for the deep wisdom of its 
 thought and the beauty of its utterance, and containing as fine a 
 description of one class of women as exists in literature. 
 
 In contrast with this picture of Woman, the happy Goddess of 
 Beauty, the wife, the friend, " the summer queen," I add one 
 by the author of " Festus," of a woman of the muse, the sybil 
 kind, which seems painted from living experience. 
 
APPENDIX. 405 
 
 And, thirdly, I subjoin Eugene Sue's description of a wicked but 
 able -woman of the practical sort, and appeal to all readers 
 ■whether a species that admits of three such varieties is so easily to 
 be classed away, or kept within prescribed limits, as Spinoza, and 
 those who think like him, believe. 
 
 SPINOZA. TRACTATUS POLITICI DE DEMO GRATIA. 
 CAPUT XI. 
 
 Perhaps some one will here ask, whether the supremacy of 
 Man over Woman is attributable to nature or custom ? Since, if 
 it be human institutions alone to which this fact is owing, there 
 is no reason why we should exclude women from a share in gov- 
 ernment. Experience most plainly teaches that it is Woman's 
 weakness which places her under the authority of Man. It has 
 nowhere happened that men and women ruled together ; but 
 wherever men and women are found, the world over, there we see 
 the men ruling and the women ruled, and in this order of things 
 men and women live together in peace and harmony. The Ama- 
 zons, it is true, are reputed formerly to have held the reins of 
 government, but they drove men from their dominions ; the male 
 of their offspring they invariably destroyed, permitting their 
 daughters alone to live. Now, if women were by nature upon an 
 equality with men, if they equalled men in fortitude, in genius 
 (qualities which give to men might, and consequently right) , it 
 surely would be the case, that, among the numerous and diverse na- 
 tions of the earth, some would be found where both sexes ruled 
 conjointly, and others where the men were ruled by the women, 
 and so educated as to be mentally inferior ; and since this state 
 of things nowhere exists, it is perfectly fair to infer that the 
 rights of women are not equal to those of men ; but that women 
 must be subordinate, and therefore cannot have an equal, far less 
 a superior place in the government. If, too, we consider the pas- 
 sions of men — how the love men feel towards women is seldom 
 anything but lust and impulse, and much less a reverence for 
 qualities of soul than an admiration of physical beauty ; observ- 
 ing, too, the jealousy of lovers, and other things of the same 
 character— we shall see at a glance that it would be, in the high- 
 
406 APPENDIX. 
 
 est degree, detrimental to peace and harmony, for men and women 
 to possess an equal share in government. 
 
 REVERENCE. 
 
 As an ancestral heritage revere 
 AH learning, and all thought. The painter's fame 
 Is thine, whate'er thy lot, who honorest grace. 
 Ajid need enough in this low time, when they. 
 Who seek to captivate the fleeting notes 
 Of heaven's sweet beauty, must despair almost. 
 So heavy and obdurate show the hearts 
 Of their companions. Honor kindly then 
 Those who bear up in their so generous arms 
 The beautiful ideas of matchless forms ; 
 For were these not portrayed, our human fate, — 
 Which is to be all high, majestical. 
 To grow to goodness with each coming age. 
 Till virtue leap and sing for joy to see 
 So noble, virtuous men, — would brief decay ; 
 And the green, festering slime, oblivious, haunt 
 About our common fate. 0, honor them ! 
 
 But what to all true eyes has chiefest charm. 
 
 And what to every breast where beats a heart 
 
 Framed to one beautiful emotion, — to 
 
 One sweet and natural feeling, lends a grace 
 
 To all the tedious walks of common life. 
 
 This is fair Woman, — Woman, whose applause 
 
 Each poet sings, — Woman the beautiful. 
 
 Not that her fairest brow, or gentlest form. 
 
 Charm us to tears ; not that the smoothest cheek. 
 
 Wherever rosy tints have made their home. 
 
 So rivet us on her ; but that she is 
 
 The subtle, delicate grace, — the inward grace. 
 
 For words too excellent ; the noble, true. 
 
 The majesty of earth ; the summer queen ; 
 
 In whose conceptions nothing but what 's great 
 
 Has any right. And, ! her love for him. 
 
 Who doer but his small part in honoring her ; 
 
 Discharging a sweet ofl&ce, sweeter none. 
 
APPENDIX. 407 
 
 Mother and child, friend, counsel and repose ; 
 
 Naught matches with her, naught has leave with her 
 
 To highest human praise. Farewell to him 
 
 Who reverences not with an excess 
 
 Of faith the beauteous sex ; all barren he 
 
 Shall live a living death of mockery. 
 
 Ah ! had but words the power, what could we say 
 
 Of Woman ! We, rude men of violent phrase. 
 
 Harsh action, even in repose inwardly harsh ; 
 
 Whose lives walk blustering on high stilts, removed 
 
 From all the purely gracious influence 
 
 Of mother earth. To single from the host 
 
 Of angel forms one only, and to her 
 
 Devote our deepest heart and deepest mind. 
 
 Seems almost contradiction. Unto her 
 
 We owe our greatest blessings, hours of cheer. 
 
 Gay smiles, and sudden tears, and more than these 
 
 A sure perpetual love. Regard her as 
 
 She walks along the vast still earth ; and see ! 
 
 Before her flies a laughing troop of joys. 
 
 And by her side treads old experience. 
 
 With never-failing voice admonitory ; 
 
 The gentle, though infallible, kind advice. 
 
 The watchful care, the fine regardfulness. 
 
 Whatever mates with what we hope to find. 
 
 All consummate in her — the summer queen. 
 
 To call past ages better than what now 
 
 Man is enacting on life's crowded stage. 
 
 Cannot improve our worth ; and for the world 
 
 Blue is the sky as ever, and the stars 
 
 Kindle their crystal flames at soft fallen eve 
 
 With the same purest lustre that the east 
 
 Worshipped. The river gently flows through fields 
 
 Where the broad-leaved corn spreads out, and loads 
 
 Its ear as when the Indian tilled the soU. 
 
 The dark green pine, — green in the winter's cold, — 
 
 Still whispers meaning emblems, as of old ; 
 
 The cricket chirps, and the sweet eager birds 
 
 In the sad woods crowd their thick melodies ; 
 
 But yet, to common eyes, life's poetry 
 
408 APPENDIX. 
 
 Something has faded, and the cause of this 
 
 May be that Man, no longer at the shrine 
 
 Of Woman, kneeling with true reverence, 
 
 In spite of field, wood, river, stars and sea. 
 
 Goes most disconsolate. A babble now, 
 
 A huge and wind-swelled babble, fills the place 
 
 Of that great adoration which of old 
 
 Man had for Woman. In these days no more 
 
 Is love the pith and marrow of Man's fate. 
 
 Thou who in early years feelest awake 
 
 To finest impulses from nature's breath, 
 
 And in thy walk hearest such sounds of truth 
 
 As on the common ear strike without heed. 
 
 Beware of men around thee ! Men are foul 
 
 With avarice, ambition and deceit ; 
 
 The worst of all, ambition. This is life. 
 
 Spent in a feverish chase for selfish ends. 
 
 Which has no virtue to redeem its toil. 
 
 But one long, stagnant hope to raise the self. 
 
 The miser's life to this seems sweet and fair ; 
 
 Better to pile the glittering coin, than seek 
 
 To overtop our brothers and our loves. 
 
 Merit in this ? Where lies it, though thy name 
 
 Ring over distant lands, meeting the wind 
 
 Even on the extremest verge of the wide world ? 
 
 Merit in this ? Better be hurled abroad 
 
 On the vast whirling tide, than, in thyself 
 
 Concentred, feed upon thy own applause. 
 
 Thee shall the good man yield no reverence ; 
 
 But, while the idle, dissolute crowd are loud 
 
 In voice to send thee flattery, shall rejoice 
 
 That he has 'scaped thy fatal doom, and known 
 
 How humble faith in the good soul of things 
 
 Provides amplest enjoyment. 0, my brother 
 
 If the Past's counsel any honor claim 
 
 From thee, go read the history of those 
 
 Who a like path have trod, and see a fate 
 
 Wretched with fears, changing like leaves at noon. 
 
 When the new wind sings in the white birch wood. 
 
 Learn from the simple child the rule of life. 
 
 And from the moTements of the unconscious tribes 
 
APPENDIX. 40S| 
 
 Of animal nature, those that bend the wing 
 
 Or cleave the azure tide, content to be, 
 
 "What the great frame provides, — freedom and grace. 
 
 Thee, simple child, do the swift winds obey, 
 
 And the white waterfalls with their bold leaps 
 
 Follow thy movements. Tenderly the light 
 
 Thea watches, girding with a zone of radiance. 
 
 And all the swinging herbs love thy soft steps. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF ANGELA, FROM " FESTUS." 
 
 I LOVED her for that she was beautiful. 
 
 And that to me she seemed to be all nature 
 
 And all varieties of things in one ; 
 
 Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise 
 
 All light and laughter in the morning ; fear 
 
 No petty customs nor appearances. 
 
 But think what others only dreamed about ; 
 
 And say what others did but think ; and do 
 
 What others would but say ; and glory in 
 
 What others dared but do ; it was these which won me ; 
 
 And that she never schooled within her breast 
 
 One thought or feeling, but gave holiday 
 
 To all ; that she told me all her woes, 
 
 And wrongs, and ills ; and so she made them mine 
 
 In the communion of love ; and we 
 
 Grew like each other, for we loved each other ; 
 
 She, mild and generous as the sun in spring ; 
 
 And I, like earth, all budding out with love. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The beautiful are never desolate ; 
 For some one alway loves them ; God or man ; 
 K man abandons, God himself takes them ; 
 And thus it was. She whom I once loved died ; 
 The lightning loathes its cloud ; the soul its clay. 
 Can I forget the hand I took in mine. 
 Pale as pale violets ; that eye, where nind 
 And matter met alike divine ? — ah, no ! 
 May God that moment judge me when I do ! 
 
 ! she was fair ; her nature once all spring 
 And deadly beauty, like a maiden swerd, 
 
 35 
 
410 APPENDIX. 
 
 Startlingly beautiful. I see her now ! 
 Wherever thou art thy soul is in my mind ; 
 Thy shadow hourly lengthens o'er my brain 
 And peoples all its pictures with thyself ; 
 Gone, not forgotten ; passed, not lost ; thou wilt shine 
 • In heaven like a bright spot in the sun ! 
 She said she wished to die, and so she died, 
 For, cloudlike, she poured out her love, which was 
 Her life, to freshen this parched heart. It was thus ; 
 I said we were to part, but she said nothing ; 
 There was no discord ; it was music ceased. 
 Life's thrilling, bursting, bounding joy. She sate, 
 Like a house-god, her hands fixed on her knee. 
 And her dark hair lay loose and long behind her. 
 Through which her wild bright eye flashed like a flint ; 
 She spake not, moved not, but she looked the more. 
 As if her eye were action, speech, and feeling. 
 I felt it all, and came and knelt beside her. 
 The electric touch solved both our souls together ; 
 Then came the feeling which unmakes, undoes ; 
 Which tears the sea-like soul up by the roots. 
 And lashes it in scorn against the skies. 
 
 ***** 
 It is the saddest and the sorest sight. 
 One's own love weeping. But why call on God ? 
 But that the feeling of the boundless bounds 
 All feeling ; as the welkin does the world ; 
 It is this which ones us with the whole and God. 
 Then first we wept ; then closed and clung together ; 
 And my heart shook this building of my breast 
 Like a live engine booming up and down : 
 She fell upon me like a snow-wreath thawing. 
 Never were bliss and beauty, love and woe. 
 Ravelled and twined together into madness. 
 As in that one wild hour to which all else 
 The past is but a picture. That alone 
 Is real, and forever there in front. 
 
 • * « * * 
 
 * * * After that I left her. 
 And only saw her once again alive. 
 
APPENDIX. 411 
 
 " Mother Saint Perpetua, the superior of the convent, was a 
 tall woman, of about forty years, dressed in dark gray serge, with 
 a long rosary hanging at her girdle. A white mob-cap, with a 
 long black veil, surrounded her thin, wan face with its narrow, 
 hooded border, A great number of deep, transverse wrinkles 
 ploughed her brow, which resembled yellowish ivory in color and 
 substance. Her keen and prominent nose was curved like the 
 hooked beak of a bird of prey ; her black eye was piercing and 
 sagacious ; her face was at once intelligent, firm, and cold. 
 
 " For comprehending and managing the material interests of 
 the society. Mother Saint Perpetua could have vied with the 
 shrewdest and most wily lawyer. When women are possessed of 
 what is called business talent, and when they apply thereto the 
 sharpness of perception, the indefatigable perseverance, the pru- 
 dent dissimulation, and, above all, the correctness and rapidity of 
 judgment at first sight, which are peculiar to them, they arrive at 
 prodigious results. 
 
 " To Mother Saint Perpetua, a woman of a strong and solid 
 head, the vast moneyed business of the society was but child's 
 play. None better than she understood how to buy depreciated 
 properties, to raise them to their original value, and sell them to 
 advantage ; the average purchase of rents, the fluctuations of ex- 
 change, and the current prices of shares in all the leading specu- 
 lations, were perfectly familiar to her. Never had she directed 
 her agents to make a single false speculation, when it had been 
 the question how to invest funds, with which good souls were 
 constantly endowing the society of Saint Mary. She had estab- 
 lished in the house a degree of order, of discipline, and, above all, 
 of economy, that were indeed remarkable ; the constant aim of 
 all her exertions being, not to enrich herself, but the community 
 over which she presided ; fiDr the spirit of association, when it is 
 directed to an object of collective selfishness, gives to corporations 
 all the faults and vices of individuals." 
 
 E. 
 
 The following is an extract from a letter addressed to me by 
 one of the monks of the nineteenth century. A part I have 
 
412 APPENDIX. 
 
 omitted, because it does not express my own view, unless with 
 qualifications which I could not make, except by full discussion 
 of the subject. 
 
 " Woman in the Nineteenth Century should be a pure, chaste, 
 holy being. 
 
 ** This state of being in Woman is no more attained by the ex- 
 pansion of her intellectual capacity, than by the augmentation of 
 her physical force. 
 
 " Neither is it attained by the increase or refinement of her love 
 for Man, or for any object whatever, or for all objects collectively ; 
 but 
 
 " This state of being is attained by the reference of all her pow- 
 ers and all her actions to the source of Universal Love, whose 
 constant requisition is a pure, chaste and holy life. 
 
 " So long as Woman looks to Man (or to society) for that which 
 she needs, she will remain in an indigent state, for he himself is 
 indigent of it, and as much needs it as she does. 
 
 " So long as this indigence continues, all unions or relations 
 constructed between Man and Woman are constructed in indi- 
 gence, and can produce only indigent results or unhappy conse- 
 quences. 
 
 " The unions now constructing, as well as those in which the 
 parties constructing them were generated, being based on self- 
 delight, or lust, can lead to no more happiness in the twentieth 
 than is found in the nineteenth century. 
 
 *' It is not amended institutions, it is not improved education, it 
 is not another selection of individuals for union, that can melio- 
 rate the sad result, but the basis of the union must be changed. 
 
 " If in the natural order Woman and Man would adhere strictly 
 to physiological or natural laws, in physical chastity, a most 
 beautiful amendment of the human race, and human condition, 
 would in a few generations adorn the world. 
 
 " Still, it belongs to Woman in the spiritual order, to devote her- 
 self wholly to her eternal husband, and become the Free Bride of 
 the One who alone can elevate her to her true position, and recon- 
 struct her \ pure, chaste, and holy being." 
 
APPENDIX. 413 
 
 F. 
 
 I liAVE mislaid an extract from " The Memoirs of an American 
 Lady," which I wished to use on this subject, but its import is, 
 briefly, this : 
 
 Observing of how little consequence the Indian women are in 
 youth, and how much in age, because in that trying life, good 
 counsel and sagacity are more prized than charms, Mrs. Grant 
 expresses a wish that reformers would take a hint from observa- 
 tion of this circumstance. 
 
 In another place she says : *' The misfortune of our sex is, that 
 young women are not regarded as the material from which old 
 women must be made." 
 
 I quote from memory, but believe the weight of the remark is 
 retained. 
 
 Euripides. Sophocles. 
 
 As many allusions are made in the foregoing pages to char- 
 a:;ters of women drawn by the Greek dramatists, which may not 
 ije familiar to the majority of readers, I have borrowed from the 
 papers of Miranda some notes upon them. I trust the girlish 
 tone of apostrophizing rapture may be excused. Miranda was 
 very young at the time of writing, compared with her present 
 mental age. Now, she would express the same feelings, but in a 
 worthier garb — if she expressed them at all. 
 
 Iphigenia ! Antigone !, you were worthy to live ! We are 
 fallen on evil times, my sisters ; our feelings have been checked ; 
 our thoughts questioned ; our forms dwarfed and defaced by a 
 bad nurture. Yet hearts like yours are in our breasts, living, if 
 unawakened ; and our minds are capable of the same resolves. 
 You we understand at once ; those who stare upon us pertly in 
 the street, we cannot — could never understand. 
 
 You knew heroes, maidens, and your fathers were kings of 
 men. You believed in your country and the gods of your coun- 
 try. A great occasion was given to each, whereby to test her 
 character. 
 
 35* 
 
414 APPENDIX. 
 
 You did not love on earth ; for the poets wished to show us 
 the force of Woman's nature, virgin and unbiased. Vou were 
 women ; not wives, or lovers, or mothers. Those are great names, 
 but we are glad to see you in untouched flower. 
 
 Were brothers so dear, then, Antigone? We have no brothers. 
 We see no men into whose lives we dare look steadfastly, or to 
 whose destinies we look forward confidently. We care not for 
 their urns ; what inscription could we put upon them ? They 
 live for petty successes, or to win daily the bread of the day. No 
 spark of kingly fire flashes from their eyes. 
 
 None ! are there none ? 
 
 It is a base speech to say it. Yes ! there are some such ; we 
 have sometimes caught their glances. But rarely have they been 
 rocked in the same cradle as we, and they do not look upon ua 
 much ; for the time is not yet come. 
 
 Thou art so grand and simple ! we need not follow thee ; thou 
 dost not need our love. 
 
 But, sweetest Iphigenia ! who knew thee, as to me thou art 
 known ? I was not born in vain, if only for the heavenly tears I 
 have shed with thee. She will be grateful for them. I have 
 understood her wholly, as a friend should ; better than she under- 
 stood herself 
 
 With what artless art the narrative rises to the crisis ! The 
 conflicts in Agamemnon's mind, and the imputations of Menelaus, 
 give us, at once, the full image of him, strong in will and pride, 
 weak in virtue, weak in the noble powers of the mind that depend 
 on imagination. He suffers, yet it requires the presence of his 
 daughter to make him feel the full horror of what he is to do. 
 
 ** Ah me ! that breast, those cheeks, those golden tresses ! " 
 
 It is her beauty, not her misery, that makes the pathos. This 
 is noble. And then, too, the injustice of the gods, that she, this 
 creature of unblemished loveliness, must perish for the sake of a 
 worthless woman. Even Menelaus feels it the moment he recov- 
 ers from his wrath. 
 
 *' What hath she to do. 
 The virgin daughter, with my Helena ! 
 
 * * Its former reasonings now 
 
 My soul foregoes. * * * ♦ 
 
APPENDIX. , 415 
 
 For it is not just 
 That thou shouldst groan, while my affairs go pleasantly, 
 That those of thy house should die, and mine see the light.'* 
 
 Indeed, the overwhelmed aspect of the king of men might -well 
 move him. 
 
 ** Men. Brother, give me to take thy right hand. 
 
 Aga. I give it, /or the victory is thine, and I am vf retched. 
 I am, indeed, ashamed to drop the tear. 
 And not to drop the tear I am ashamed." 
 
 How beautifully is Iphigenia introduced ; beaming more and 
 more softly on us with every touch of description ! After Clytem- 
 nestra has given Orestes (then an infant) out of the chariot, she 
 
 " Ye females, in your arms 
 Receive her, for she is of tender age. 
 Sit here by my feet, my child. 
 By thy mother, Iphigenia, and show 
 These strangers how I am blessed in thee, 
 And here address thee to thy father. 
 Iphi. 0, mother ! should I run, wouldst thou be angry ? 
 And embrace my father heart to heart ? " 
 
 "With the same sweet, timid trust she prefers the request to 
 himself, and, as he holds her in his arms, he seems as noble as 
 Guido's Archangel ; as if he never could sink below the trust of 
 such a being ! 
 
 The Achilles, in the first scene, is fine. A true Greek hero ; 
 not too good ; all flushed with the pride of youth, but capable of 
 godlike impulses. At first, he thinks only of his own wounded 
 pride (when he finds Iphigenia has been decoyed to Aulis under 
 the pretext of becoming his wife) ; but the grief of the queen 
 soon makes him superior to his arrogant chafings. How well ho 
 
 says, 
 
 *'Far as a young man may, I will repress 
 So great a wrong ! " 
 
 By seeing him here, we understand why he, not Hector, was 
 the hero of the Iliad. The beautiful moral nature of Hector waa 
 early developed by close domestic ties, and the cause of his coun- 
 
416 APPENDIX. 
 
 try. Except in a purer simplicity of speech and manner, he 
 might be a modern and a Christian. But Achilles is cast in the 
 largest and most vigorous mould of the earlier day. His nature 
 is one of the richest capabilities, and therefore less quickly unfolds 
 its meaning. The impression it makes at the early period is only 
 of power and pride ; running as fleetly with his armor on as with 
 it off; but sparks of pure lustre are struck, at moments, from the 
 mass of ore. Of this sort is his refusal to see the beautiful vir- 
 gin he has promised to protect. None of the Grecians must have 
 the right to doubt his motives. How wise and prudent, too, the 
 advice he gives as to the queen's conduct ! Be will not show him- 
 self unless needed. His pride is the farthest possible remote from 
 vanity. His thoughts are as free as any in our own time. 
 
 *• The prophet ? what is he ? a man 
 
 Who speaks, 'mong many falsehoods, but few truths. 
 Whene'er chance leads him to speak true ; when false, 
 The prophet is no more." 
 
 Had Agamemnon possessed like clearness of sight, the virgin 
 would not have perished, but Greece would have had no religion 
 and no national existence. 
 
 When, in the interview with Agamemnon, the queen begins her 
 speech, in the true matrimonial style, dignified though her ges- 
 ture be, and true all she says, w^e feel that truth, thus sauced 
 with taunts, will not touch his heart, nor turn him from his pur- 
 pose. But when Iphigenia begins her exquisite speech, as with 
 the breathings of a lute, — 
 
 *' Had I, my father, the persuasive voice 
 Of Orpheus, &c. 
 , Compel me not 
 
 What is beneath to view. I was the first 
 To call thee father ; me thou first didst call 
 Thy child. I was the first that on thy knees 
 Fondly caressed thee, and from thee received 
 The fond caress. This was thy speech to me : — 
 * Shall I, my child, e'er see thee in some house 
 Of splendor, happy in thy husband, live 
 And flourish, as becomes my dignity ? ' 
 
APPENDIX. . 417 
 
 My speech to thee was, leaning 'gainst thy cheek, 
 (Which with my hand I now caress) : ' And what 
 Shall I then do for thee ? Shall I receive 
 My father when grown old, and in my house 
 Cheer him with each fond ofi&ce, to repay 
 The careful nurture which he gave my youth ? ' 
 These 'vords are in my memory deep impressed ; 
 Thou hast forgot them, and will kill thy child." 
 
 Then she adjures him by all the sacred ties, and dwells pa- 
 thetically on the circumstance which had struck even Menelaus. 
 
 *' If Paris be enamored of his bride. 
 His Helen, — what concerns it me ? and how 
 Comes he to my destruction ? 
 
 Look upon me ; 
 Give me a smile, give me a kiss, my father ; 
 That, if my words persuade thee not, in death 
 I may have this memorial of thy love." 
 
 Never have the names of father and daughter been uttered vdth 
 a holier tenderness than by Euripides, as in this most lovely pas- 
 sage, or in the '* Supplicants," after the voluntary death of 
 Evaine. Iphis says : 
 
 ** What shall this wretch now do ? Should I return 
 To my own house ? — sad desolation there 
 I shall behold, to sink my soul with grief. 
 Or go I to the house of Capaneus ? 
 That was delightful to me, when I found 
 My daughter there ; but she is there no more. 
 Oft would she kiss my cheek, with fond caress 
 Oft soothe me. To a father, waxing old. 
 Nothing is dearer than a daughter ! Sons 
 Have spirits of higher pitch, but less inclined 
 To sweet, endearing fondness. Lead me then,. 
 Instantly lead me to my house ; consign 
 My wretched age to darkness, there to pine 
 And waste away. 
 
 Old age. 
 Struggling with many griefe, 0, how I hate thee ! '* 
 
418 ^ APPENDIX. 
 
 But io return to Iphigenia, — how infinitely melting is her 
 appeal tt) Orestes, whom she holds in her robe ! 
 
 *' My brother, small assistance canst thou give 
 Thy friends ; yet for thy sister with thy tears 
 Implore thy father that she may not die. 
 Even infants have a sense of ills ; and see. 
 My father ! silent though he be, he sues 
 To thee. Be gentle to me ; on my life 
 Have pity. Thy two children by this beard 
 Entreat thee, thy dear children ; one is yet 
 An infant, one to riper years arrived." 
 
 The mention of Orestes, then an infant, though slight, is of a 
 domestic charm that prepares the mind to feel the tragedy of his 
 after lot. When the queen says, 
 
 *' Dost thou sleep, 
 My son ? The rolling chariot hath subdued thee ; 
 Wake to thy sister's marriage happily," 
 
 we understand the horror of the doom which makes this cher- 
 ished child a parricide. And so, when Iphigenia takes leave of 
 him after her fate is by herself accepted, — 
 
 " Iphi. To manhood train Orestes. 
 Cly. Embrace him, for thou ne'er shalt see him more. 
 Iphi. (To Orestes.) Far as thou couldst, thou didst assist thy 
 friends," — 
 
 we know not how to blame the guilt of the maddened wife and 
 mother. In her last meeting with Agamemnon, as in her pre- 
 vious expostulations and anguish, we see that a straw may turn 
 the balance, and make her his deadliest foe. Just then, came the 
 suit of iEgisthus, — then, when every feeling was uprooted or 
 lacerated i;|j her heart. 
 
 Iphigenia's moving address has no further effect than to make 
 her father turn at bay and brave this terrible crisis. He goes out, 
 firm in resolve ; and she and her mother abandon themselves to a 
 natural grief. 
 
APPENDIX. 419 
 
 Hitherto nothing has been seen in Iphigenia, except the young 
 girl, weak, delicate, full of feeling, and beautiful as a sunbeam on 
 the full, green tree. But, in the next scene, the first impulse of 
 that passion which makes and unmakes us, though unconfessed 
 oven to herself, though hopeless and unreturned, raises her at 
 once into the heroic woman, worthy of the goddess who demands 
 her. 
 
 Achilles appears to defend her, whom all others clamorously 
 seek to deliver to the murderous knife. She sees him, and, fired 
 with thoughts unknown before, devotes herself at once for the 
 country which has given birth to such a man. 
 
 "To be too fond of life 
 Becomes not me ; nor for myself alone, 
 But to all Greece, a blessing didst thou bear me. 
 Shall thousands, when their country 's injured, lift 
 Their shields ? shall thousands grasp the oar and dare. 
 Advancing bravely 'gainst the foe, to die 
 For Greece ? And shall my life, my single life, 
 Obstruct all this ? Would this be just ? What word 
 Can we reply ? Nay more, it is not right 
 That he with all the Grecians should contest 
 In fight, should die, and for a woman. No ! 
 More than a thousand women is one man 
 Worthy to see the light of day. 
 * * * for Greece I give my life. 
 Slay me ! demolish Troy ! for these shall be 
 Long time my monuments, my children these. 
 My nuptials and my glory." 
 
 This sentiment marks Woman, when she loves enough to feel 
 what a creature of glory and beauty a true Man would be, as 
 much in our own time as that of Euripides. Cooper makes the 
 ' weak Hetty say to her beautiful sister : 
 
 " Of course, I don't compare you with Harry. A handsome 
 man is always far handsomer than any woman." True, it was 
 the sentiment of the age, but it was the first time Iphigenia had 
 felt it. In Agamemnon she saw her father ; to him she could pre- 
 fer her claim. In Achilles she saw a Man, the crown of creation, 
 
420 APPENDIX. 
 
 enough to fill the world with his presence, were all other beings 
 blotted from its spaces.* 
 
 The reply of Achilles is as noble. Here is his bride ; he feels it 
 now, and all his vain vauntings are hushed. 
 
 " Daughter of Agamemnon, highly blest 
 Some god would make me, if I might attain 
 Thy nuptials. Greece in thee I happy deem. 
 And thee in Greece. * * 
 
 * * * in thy thought 
 
 Kevolve this well ; death is a dreadful thing.'*. 
 
 How sweet is her reply, — and then the tender modesty with 
 which she addresses him here and elsewhere as " stranger. ^^ 
 
 " Reflecting not on any, thus I speak : 
 Enough of wars and slaughters from the charms 
 Of Helen rise ; but die not thou for me, 
 Stranger, nor distain thy sword with blood. 
 But let me save my country if I may. 
 Achilles. glorious spirit ! naught have I 'gainst this 
 
 To urge, since such thy will, for what thou sayst 
 
 Is generous. Why should not the truth be spoken? " 
 
 But feeling that human weakness may conquer yet, he goes to 
 wq,it at the altar, resolved to keep his promise of protection 
 thoroughly. 
 
 In the next beautiful scene she shows that a few tears might 
 overwhelm her in his absence. She raises her mother beyond 
 weeping them, yet her soft purity she cannot impart. 
 
 " Iphi. My father, and my husband do not hate : 
 
 Cly. For thy dear sake fierce contests must he bear. 
 
 Iphi. For Greece reluctant me to death he yields ; 
 
 Cly. Basely, with guile unworthy Atreus' son." 
 
 * Men do not often reciprocate this pure love. 
 
 " Her prentice ban' she tried on man. 
 And then she made the lasses o'," 
 
 is a fancy, not a feeling, in their more frequently passionate and 
 strong than noble or tender natures. 
 
APPENDIX. 421 
 
 This is truth incapable of an answer, and Iphigenia attempts 
 none. 
 She begins the hymn which is to sustain her : 
 
 *' Lead me ; mine the glorious fate 
 To o'ertum the Phrygian state.* 
 
 After the sublime flow of lyric heroism, she sudden" y sinks 
 back into the tenderer feeling of her dreadful fate. 
 
 •* my country, where these eyes 
 Opened on Pelasgic skies ! 
 ye virgins, once my pride. 
 In Mycenae who abide ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Why of Perseus, name the town. 
 Which Cyclopean ramparts crown? 
 
 IPHIGENIA. 
 
 Me you reared a beam of light. 
 Freely now I sink in night.'* 
 
 Freely ; as the messenger afterwards recounts it. 
 
 Imperial Agamemnon, when he saw 
 His daughter, as a victim to the grave. 
 Advancing, groaned, and, bursting into tears. 
 Turned from the sight his head, before his eyes. 
 Holding his robe. The virgin near him stood. 
 And thus addressed him : ' Father, I to thee 
 Am present ; for my country, and for all 
 The land of Greece, I freely give myself 
 A victim : to the altar let them lead me. 
 Since such the oracle. If aught on me 
 Depends, be happy, and obtain the prize 
 Of glorious conquest, and revisit safe 
 Your country. Of the Grecians, for this cause. 
 Let no one touch me ; with intrepid spirit 
 Silent will I present my neck.' She spoke. 
 And all that heard revered the noble soul 
 And virtue of the virgin." 
 
 36 
 
422 APPENDIX. 
 
 How quickly had the fair bud bloomed up into its perfection ! 
 Had she lived a thousand years, she could not have surpassed this. 
 Goethe's Iphigenia, the mature Woman, with its myriad delicate 
 traits, never surpasses, scarcely equals, what we know of her in 
 Euripides. 
 
 Can I appreciate this work in a translation ? I think so, im- 
 possible as it may seem to one who can enjoy the thousand melo- 
 dies, and words in exactly the right place, and cadence of the 
 original. They say you can see the Apollo Belvidere in a plaster 
 cast, and I cannot doubt it, so great the benefit conferred on my 
 mind by a transcript thus imperfect. And so with these transla- 
 tions from the Greek. I can divine the original through this veil, 
 as I can see the movements of a spirited horse by those of his 
 coarse grasscloth mufiler. Besides, every translator who feels his 
 subject is inspired, and the divine Aura informs even his stam- 
 mering lips. 
 
 Iphigenia is more like one of the women Shakspeare loved than 
 the others; she is a tender virgin, ennobled and strengthened by 
 sentiment more than intellect ; what they call a Woman par excel- 
 lence. 
 
 Macaria is more like one of Massinger's women. She advances 
 boldly, though with the decorum of her sex and nation : 
 
 ** Macaria. Impute not boldness to me that I come 
 
 Before you, strangers ; this my first request 
 
 I urge ; for silence and a chaste reserve 
 
 Is Woman's genuine praise, and to remain 
 
 Quiet within the house. But I come forth, 
 
 Hearing thy lamentations, lolaus ; 
 
 Though charged with no commission, yet perhaps 
 
 I may be useful." * * 
 
 Her speech when she offers herself as the victim is reasonable, 
 as one might speak to-day. She counts the cost all through. 
 Iphigenia is too timid and delicate to dwell upon the loss of 
 earthly bliss and the due experience of life, even as much as Jeph- 
 tha's daughter did ; but Macaria is explicit, as well befits the 
 daughter of Hercules. 
 
APPENDIX. 423 
 
 ** Should these die, myself 
 Preserved, of prosperous future could I form 
 One cheerful hope ? 
 
 A poor forsaken virgin who would deign 
 To take in marriage? Who would wish for sons 
 From one so wretched ? Better then to die. 
 Than bear such undeserved miseries ; 
 One less illustrious this might more beseem. 
 
 * * * 
 
 I have a soul that unreluctantly 
 Presents itself, and I proclaim aloud 
 That for my brothers and myself I die. 
 I am not fond of life, but think I gain 
 An honorable prize to die with glory." 
 
 Still nobler when lolaus proposes rather that she shall draw 
 lots with her sisters. 
 
 " By lot I will not die, for to such death 
 No thanks are due, or glory — name it not. 
 If you accept me, if my offered life 
 Be grateful to you, willingly I give it 
 For these ; but by constraint I will not die.'* 
 
 Very fine are her parting advice and injunctions to them all : 
 
 ** Farewell ! revered old man, farewell ! and teach 
 These youths in all things to be wise, like thee. 
 Naught will avail them more." 
 
 Macaria has the clear Minerva eye ; Antigone's is deeper and 
 more capable of emotion, but calm ; Iphigenia's glistening, 
 gleaming with angel truth, or dewy as a hidden violet. 
 
 I am sorry that Tennyson, who spoke with such fitness of all 
 the others in his " Dream of fair Women," has not of Iphigenia. 
 Of her alone he has not made a fit picture, but only of the cir- 
 cumstances of the sacrifice. He can never have taken to heart 
 this work of Euripides, yet he was so worthy to feel it. Of Jeph- 
 tha's daught3r he has spoken as he would of Iphigenia, both in 
 her beautiful song, and when 
 
424 APPENDIX. 
 
 *• I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 
 A solemn scorn of ills. 
 
 It comforts me in this one thought to dwell — 
 That I subdued me to my father's will ; 
 
 Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. 
 Sweetens the spirit still. 
 
 Moreover it is written, that my race 
 
 Hewed Ammon, hip and thigh, from Arroer 
 
 Or Arnon unto Minneth. Here her face 
 Glowed as I looked on her. 
 
 She locked her lips ; she left me where I stood ; 
 
 ' Glory to God,' she sang, and past afar, 
 Thridding the sombre boskage of the woods. 
 
 Toward the morning-star." 
 
 In the * Trojan dames " there are fine touches of nature with 
 regard to Cassandra. Hecuba shovrs that mixture of shame and 
 reverence that prose kindred always do, towards the inspired 
 child, the poet, the elected sufferer for the race. 
 
 When the herald announces that she is chosen to be the mis- 
 tress of Agamemnon, Hecuba answers indignant, and betraying 
 the involuntary pride and faith she felt in this daughter. 
 
 ** The virgin of Apollo, whom the God, 
 Radiant with golden locks, allowed to live 
 In her pure vow of maiden chastity ? 
 
 Tal. With love the raptured virgin smote his heart. 
 
 Hec. Cast fx'om thee, my daughter, cast away 
 
 Thy sacred wand ; rend off the honored wreaths. 
 The splendid ornaments that grace thy brows." 
 
 But the moment Cassandra appears, singing wildly her inspired 
 song, Hecuba calls her 
 
 " My frantic child." 
 
 Yet how graceful she is in her tragic phrenzy, the chorus 
 shows — 
 
 *' How sweetly at thy house's ills thou smilest, 
 Chanting what haply thou wilt not show true ! " 
 
APPENDIX. 425 
 
 But if Hecuba dares not trust her highest instinct about her 
 daughter, still less can the vulgar mind of the herald (a man not 
 without tenderness of heart, but with no princely, no poetic 
 blood) abide the wild, prophetic mood which insults his prejudices 
 both as to country and decorums of the sex. Yet Agamemnon, 
 though not a noble man, is of large mould, and could admire this 
 strange beauty which excited distaste in common minds. 
 
 *' Tal What commands respect, and is held high 
 As wise, is nothing better than the mean 
 Of no repute ; for this most potent king 
 Of all the Grecians, the much-honored son 
 Of Atreus, is enamored with his prize. 
 This frantic raver. I am a poor man. 
 Yet would I not receive her to my bed." 
 
 Cassandra answers, with a careless disdain, 
 " This is a busy slave." 
 
 With all the lofty decorum of manners among the ancients, 
 how free was their intercourse, man to man, how full the mutual 
 understanding between prince and " busy slave ! " Not here in 
 adversity only, but in the pomp of power it was so. Kings were 
 approached with ceremonious obeisance, but not hedged round 
 with etiquette ; they could see and know their fellows. 
 
 The Andromache here is just as lovely as that of the Iliad. 
 
 To her child whom they are about to murder, the same that 
 was frightened at the " glittering plume," she says, 
 
 •' Dost thou weep, 
 My son ? Hast thou a sense of thy ill fate ? 
 Why dost thou clasp me with thy hands, why hold 
 My robes, and shelter thee beneath my wings. 
 Like a young bird ? No more my Hector comes. 
 Returning from the tomb ; he grasps no more 
 His glittering spear, bringing protection to thee." 
 
 * * at * * 
 
 * * ♦' 0, soft embrace. 
 And to thy mother dear. 0, fragrant Ireath ! 
 
 36* 
 
426 APPENDIX. 
 
 In vain I swathed thy infant limbs, in vain 
 I gave thee nurture at this breast, and toiled, 
 Wasted with care. If ever, now embrace. 
 Now clasp thy mother ; throw thine ai'ms around 
 My neck, and join thy cheek, thy lips to mine." 
 
 As I look up, I meet the eyes of Beatrice Cenci. Beautiful 
 one ! these v^oes, even, vyere less than thine, yet thou seemest to 
 understand them all. Thy clear, melancholy gaze says, they, at 
 least, had known moments of bliss, and the tender relations of 
 nature had not been broken and polluted from the very first. 
 Yes ! the gradations of woe are all but infinite : only good can be 
 infinite. 
 
 Certainly the Greeks knew more of real home intercourse and 
 more of Woman than the Americans. It is in vain to tell me of 
 outward observances. The poets, the sculptors, always tell the 
 truth. In proportion as a nation is refined, women must have an 
 ascendency. It is the law of nature. 
 
 Beatrice ! thou wert not " fond of life," either, more than 
 those princesses. Thou wert able to cut it down in the full flower 
 of beauty, as an offering to the best known to thee. Thou wert not 
 so happy as to die for thy country or thy brethren, but thou wert 
 worthy of such an occasion. 
 
 In the days of chivalry. Woman was habitually viewed more as 
 an ideal ; but I do not know that she inspired a deeper and more 
 home-felt reverence than Iphigenia in the breast of Achilles, or 
 Macaria in that of her old guardian, lolaus. 
 
 We may, with satisfaction, add to these notes the words to 
 which Haydirhas adapted his magnificent music in " The Crea 
 tion." 
 
 " In native worth and honor clad, with beauty, courage, 
 strength adorned, erect to heaven, and tall, he stands, a Man ! — 
 the lord and king of all ! The large and arched front sublime of 
 wisdom deep declares the seat, and in his eyes with brightness 
 shines the soul, the breath and image of his God. With fondness 
 leans upon his breast the partner for him formed, — a woman 
 fair, and graceful spouse. Her softly smiling virgin looks, of 
 flowery spring the mirror, l)e8peak him love, and joy and bliss." 
 
APPENDIX. 427 
 
 "Whoever has heard this music must have a mental standard as 
 to what Man and Woman should be. Such was marriage in 
 Eden, when " erect to heaven he stood ; " but since, like other 
 institutions, this must be not only reformed, but revived, the fol- 
 lowing lines may be oftered as a picture of something intermediate, 
 — the seed of the future growth : — 
 
 H. 
 
 THE SACRED MARRIAGE. 
 
 And has another's life as large a scope ? 
 It may give due fulfilment to thy hope, 
 And every portal to the unknown may ope. 
 
 If, near this other life, thy inmost feeling 
 Trembles with fateful prescience of revealing 
 The future Deity, time is still concealing ; 
 
 If thou feel thy whole force drawn more and more 
 To launch that other bark on seas without a shore ; 
 And no still secret must be kept in store ; 
 
 If meannesses that dim each temporal deed. 
 
 The dull decay that mars the fleshly weed. 
 
 And flower of love that seems to fall and leave no seed — 
 
 Hide never the full presence from thy sight 
 
 Of mutual aims and tasks, ideals bright. 
 
 Which feed their roots to-day on all this seeming blight. 
 
 Twin stars that mutual circle in the heaven. 
 
 Two parts for spiritual concord given. 
 
 Twin Sabbaths that inlock the Sacred Seven ; 
 
 Still looking to the centre for the cause. 
 Mutual light giving to draw out the powers, 
 And learning all the other groups by cognizance of one another's 
 laws. 
 
 The parent love the wedded love includes ; 
 The one permits the two their mutual moods ; 
 The two each other know, 'mid myriad multitudes ; 
 
428 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 With child-like intellect discerning love. 
 And mutual action energizing love. 
 In myriad forms affiliating love. 
 
 A world whose seasons bloom from pole to pole, 
 A force which knows both starting-point and goal, 
 A Home in Heaven,— the Union in the Soul. 
 
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