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but the assertion is only true to a very limited extent. It has been cut down half a dozen times, and its principal destruction was effected by the French themselves, for the purpose of forming palisades at the period alluded to. Have they not, moreover, in the very heart of this classical metropolis fountains of the Elephant, of the Ñaiad, of Bacchus, and of the Devil; Barriers of Battle, Mount Parnassus, and Hell; a Hospital of Scipio, a Pantheon, Odeon, Gymnasium, Olympic Circus, a Cosmographic Saloon, besides Turkish Gardens, gardens of the Delta, and Tivoli? Not only have they triumphal Arches and Columns, but a single Coffee-House of a thousand Columns, which is at the same time a low shabby room with a fine lady in the bar, and a few pillars against the walls. May not the traveller who pays attention to their gaudy signs, encounter in the single street of St. Honoré, the Guardian Angel, the Symbol of Peace, the Palm of Victory, the Triumph of Trajan, the Blush of Aurora, and the Pharos of Leander ?— Even the Christian names of the rabble are pagan and poetical. The writer being in want of a maid-servant received applications from a Zoe, a Rosalie, an Adrienne, two Augustines, one Anastasie, and one Adele; the latter of whom, by way of summing up her qualifications, declared that she was of a disposition altogether sweet and amiable; knew how to touch the piano a little, and could sing songs for the amusement of children. The French of all ranks, and under all circumstances, are just as fond of grandiloquence and altisonant phrases as they were in the time of Sterne. Boileau's maxim that " one would rather tolerate, generally speaking, a low or common thought, expressed in noble words, than a noble thought expressed in mean language," has not been lost upon them; for it was exactly adapted to the pride of a people who could more easily obtain the command of a thousand sounding words than of a single fine idea.

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"But what so pure which envious tongues will spare?

Some wicked wits have libelled all the fair."

"On me when dunces are satiric,

I take it for a panegyric."



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ANACREON, being asked why he addressed all his hymns to women and none to the gods, answered,- "Because women are my deities;" and the ladies were, no doubt, mightily indebted to him and similar voluptuaries who set them up in their houses, as certain barbarous nations did their Lares and Lemures, for playthings and ornaments, to be deified when their owners were in good luck and good humour, and vilipended and trodden under foot in every access of passion or reverse of fortune. Little flattering as is such praise, it is still observable that the ancient writers seldom abused the sex "in good set terms,' or carried their vituperation beyond the excusable limits of raillery and a joke. Socrates vented only witticisms against Xantippe: Xenarchus, the comic poet, in noticing that none but the male grasshoppers sing, exclaims, “How happy are they in having dumb wives!" and Eubulus, another old Grecian jester, after mentioning the atrocities of Medea, Clytemnestra, and Phædra, says it is but fair that he should proceed to enumerate the virtuous heroines, when he suddenly stops short, wickedly pretending that he cannot recollect a single one. Among the Romans we know that Juvenal dedicated his sixth Satire to the abuse of the fair sex, but his worst charge only accuses them of being as bad as the men; and if we are to infer that the licentiousness of his own life was at all equal to the grossness of his language, we may safely presume that his female acquaintance were not among the most favourable specimens of the race. The unnatural state of Monachism has been the bitter fountain whence has flowed most of the still more unnatural abuse of women; the dark ages have supplied all the great luminaries of Misogyny, who have ransacked their imaginations to supply reasons for perverted religion, and excuses for violated humanity. Valerius's letters to Rufinus, the golden book of Theophrastus, and Saint Jerome's Exhortations to Celibacy, have furnished all authors, from the Romance of the Rose downwards, with materials for this unmanly warfare,—so narrow is the basis on which are grounded all the sorry jests, shallow arguments, and pitiful scandals of ribalds and lampooners; and so easy is it to obtain a reputation for that species of wit, which, as Johnson says of scriptural parody, "a good man detests for its immorality, and a clever one despises for its facility."

Chaucer's Wife of Bath, Merchant's Tale, &c. all borrowed from the abovementioned sources, were little more than good-humoured though gross caricatures; Boileau, whose tenth Satire is a more bitter denunciation, should have recollected, that he was naturally as well as professionally compelled to celibacy, and might have consulted his friend Fontenelle upon the Fable of the Fox and the Grapes: it was perhaps to be expected that the melancholy Dr. Young, who undervalued hu

man nature and happiness, should have levelled his shafts against the masterpiece of one and the dispenser of the other-Woman!-but what shall we say to the contemporary satirists, Pope and Swift, each of whom, after trifling with and inveigling the affections of two accomplished ladies, who sacrificed every thing to the promotion of their happiness, slunk back from marriage, or, if married, were not only mean and cowardly enough to conceal it, but ungrateful enough to publish heartless libels against the whole sex? Let this be always recollected when any one ventures the hacknied quotations from Pope,-" Every woman is at heart a rake"-" Most women have no characters at all" "The love of pleasure and the love of sway:" with other citations equally just and novel. As to Swift, he can luckily be seldom quoted in decent company; yet even he could confess that the grossness and degeneracy of conversation observable in his time were mainly attributable to the exclusion of women from society. Conscious that this self-spotting calumny is somewhat like spitting against the wind, later writers have generally had the good sense to avoid putting themselves in the way of its recoil; and if a living author delight to vent his spleen agaist the sex in general, and his wife in particular, he may plead in his defence that which I believe might be adduced by all similar libellers

"Forgiveness to the injured doth belong,

They never pardon who commit the wrong."

Nor be it forgotten that such men may be only exemplifying the fable of the Painter and the Lion, for it is easier to traduce fifty women than practise one virtue.

"Women want the ways

To praise their deeds, but men want deeds to praise."

I do not merely admire women as the most beautiful objects of creation, or love them as the sole sources of happiness, but I reverence them as the redeeming glories of humanity, the sanctuaries of the virtues, the pledges and antepast of those perfect qualities of the head and heart, combined with attractive external charms, which, by their union, almost exalt them into the angelic character. Taxation and luxury, and struggles for existence, have made us such a cold, selfish, plodding nation, that we should be base indeed, were it not for the disinterestedness and enthusiasm of our females, whose romance even is necessary to qualify the painful reality of our existence. And yet, from the first moment when I began to reflect, I have always thanked God that I was not born a woman, deeming them the bestowers rather than enjoyers of happiness-the flower-crowned victims offered up to the human lord of the Creation.

Passing over the early period of her life, which, however, is one of perpetual restraint and unvaried subjection to the most self-denying forms and observances, we will suppose a female to have attained a fitting age for that great and paramount end of her being-marriage. Men have a thousand objects in life-the professions, glory, ambition, the arts, authorship, advancement, and money-getting, in all their ramifications, each sufficient to absorb their minds and supply substitutes

in case of primary failure; but if a woman succeed not in the one sole hope of her hazardous career, she is utterly lost to all the purposes of exertion or happiness, the past has been all thrown away, and the future presents nothing but cheerless desolation. Love is only a luxury to men, but it may be termed a necessary to women, both by the constitution of society and the decrees of nature, for she has endowed them with superior susceptibility and overflowing affections, which, if they be not provided with a vent, perpetually corrode and gnaw the heart. And what are her feelings and chances in this fearful lottery? A constant sense of degradation, in being compelled to make her whole life a game, a manoeuvre, a speculation; while she is haunted with the fear and shame of ultimate failure. And how alarmingly must the number of these involuntary nuns increase with the yearly augmenting distress of taxed, and luxurious, and expensive England, where the moral restraint of Malthus, while it inflicts no privations upon the man, condemns the female to an utter blighting of the soul, aggravated, perhaps, by dependency or want. Blistered be the tongue that can ridicule, and paralysed the hand that can libel those victims of an artificial and unnatural system who have been unfeelingly taunted as Old Maids. Well could I excuse them, if, in the bitterness of sickened hope and the idleness of unjoyous solitude, they were even prone to exercise a vigilant censorship over the peccadilloes of their more fortunate rivals; but I repel the charge, and can safely affirm that some of the most amiable, kind-hearted, liberal women I have ever known were in this calumniated class.

One chance of "single blessedness" is still reserved for these Celibates. Their affections, unclaimed upon earth, sometimes seek a recipient in the skies ;-responding to the manifestations of divine love which they see on every side of them, they draw down religious lightning direct from Heaven, while men seek conductors, which only guide it towards the earth. The devotion of the former, as it is founded upon feeling, may be uninquiring and have a tendency to enthusiasm, but it will be cheerful and happy, because emanating from the heart; the latter approach this subject with their heads-a process which not unfrequently makes them sceptics, or bigots, or hypocrites.

But let us suppose the happier case of a young woman, who, from her beauty or fortune, is sure to receive offers-that is to say, who will attract fools or sharpers, and be taken as a necessary appendage of her face or her purse. Even here, how little selection is allowed to her-she may reject one, perhaps two, but if the third be merely free from positive objections, prudence urges his acceptance, relations second prudence, and she marries a man because he affords her no good excuse for hating him. The Circassians of Europe have little more choice than their namesakes of Asia. "The happy pair" begin by committing a great mistake-they withdraw themselves from the world to spend the honeymoon together; familiarity produces its usual effects, they see too much of one another at first, and the results are exhaustion and ennui. She who marries an Idler, who will hang upon her society till he is wearied, and then seek recreation elsewhere, has not so many chances of happiness, as the woman whose husband is compelled to tear himself from her company for his duties, and gladly returns to it for his enjoyments.

A man's love generally diminishes after marriage, while a woman's increases; both of which results might have been anticipated, for that appetite, either of person or purse, which the Bridegroom too often dignifies with the name of love, disappears with enjoyment; while the Bride, whose affections were perhaps little interested at first, finds them imperceptibly kindled by a sense of duty, by the consciousness of her dependence, and the gratifications and novelty which her total change of life invariably presents at the outset. Awakening from this trance, she has leisure to discover that she has made over to her lord and master, strictly and truly so designated, not only all her present possessions, but all her future expectations, all that she may even earn by her talents:-she has not become his servant, for servants, if ill used, may depart, and try to better themselves elsewhere, but his serf, his slave, his white negro, whom, according to Judge Buller, (himself a married man) he may correct with a stick of the same thickness as his thumb, whatever may be its dimensions. We hear of rosy fetters, the silken chains of love, the soft yoke of Hymen-but who is to bear the soul-grinding bondage of dislike, contempt, hatred? How is a woman to avoid these feelings if she be maltreated and insulted; and how is she to redress her wrongs? The laws, made by the men, and therefore flagrantly in their own favour, provide no remedy: if she use her sole weapon, the tongue, she is proclaimed a scold, a shrew, and reminded of the ducking-stool; if she make his own house uncomfortable to her husband, every body's else is open to him; he may violate his marriage vow, and is still a marvellous proper gentleman; he may associate with profligates, and his friends exclaim-" Poor man! he has been driven to this by a bad wife!" If the deserted and injured woman meantime seek relief from her sorrows in the most innocent recreation, Spite, with its Argus eyes, keeps watch upon her door, and Calumny dogs her footsteps, hissing at her with its thousand tongues, and spitting out lies and poison from every one. Let no man choose me for umpire in a conjugal dispute. I need not ask who is the delinquent-my heart has decided against him by anticipation.

Such, I shall be told, is the result of uncongenial unions; but it is a mistake to suppose that men seek congeniality in their wives. In friends who are to share their sports and pursuits; to accompany them in shooting, hunting, fishing; to talk politics or religion over a bottle; they naturally select similarity of tastes; but women are to do nothing of all this, they are chosen for their domestic duties, and as these are perfectly distinct from the man's, he looks out for contrast rather than uniformity. Hence the male horror of Bluestockings, the sneer with which every blockhead exclaims "Our wives read Milton and our daughters plays!" the alacrity with which he assumes that such learned ladies must necessarily "make sloppy tea, and wear their shoes down at heel;" and the convincing self-applause with which he quotes the trite epigram


Though Artemisia talks by fits

Of councils, fathers, classics, wits,

Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke," &c.

Let us imagine, not a patient stock-fish, like Griselda, but an accomplished woman, paired, not matched," with " a sullen silent sot,

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