“No such thing, sir,” replies Corulea Scribbler, who is so very superior that she is momentarily expected to regenerate society singlehanded, “no such thing, sir! I know what the author means: he justly considers woman as a—that is, as the concentrated essence of mind; nothing low, base, earthy—but—in fact—definitions should be terse—you’ll excuse my mathematical tastes, but—ahem!—three terms at Queen’s College, and that dear Professor Baa-lamb! naturally produce a logical habit of thought—you require a perfect woman.”
“No, madam, I am not so unreasonable.”
“I mean, you require a definition of a perfect woman; here you have it then—the maximum of mind united to the minimum of matter; or, to speak poetically, a ‘thing all soul.’” And having thus given her opinion, Miss Corulea, who measures barely five feet, and is as thin as a lath, shakes her straw-coloured ringlets and subsides into the Sixth Book of Euclid.
But neither the red-jacket nor the blue-stocking, albeit each the type of a not unnumerous class, has exactly answered our question as we would wish it replied to. We do not agree with Charley Leicester in considering woman an angel; first, because our ideas with regard to angels are excessively vague and undefined, wings and white drapery being the only marked features which we have as yet succeeded in realising; and secondly, because, to verify the resemblance, woman should be faultless, and we have never yet met with one who had not some fascinating little sin left to show that she was not too good for this world. Our notion of a woman, in the best sense of the word, is a being fitted to be a helpmeet for man; and this would lead us into another disquisition, which we will dismiss summarily by stating that we mean a man worthy of the name, not an ape in a red-coat like Ensign Downylip, or an owl in a sad-coloured one like Professor Baalamb, but a man whom it would not be mere satire to call a lord of the creation. A helpmeet for such an one as this should possess a clear, acute intellect, or she would be unable to comprehend his aspirations after the good, and true, and beautiful—the efforts of his fallen nature to regain somewhat of its original rank in the scale of created beings. She should have a faithful, loving heart, that when, foiled in his worldly career, his spirit is dark within him, and in the bitterness of his soul he confesses that “the good that he would he does not, but the evil he would not, that he does,” her affection may prove to him that in her love he has one inestimable blessing yet remaining, of which death alone can deprive him, and then only for a season; for, availing herself of the fitting moment with the delicate tact which is one of the brightest instincts of a loving woman’s heart, she can offer him the only true consolation, by urging him to renew his Christian warfare in the hope that together they may attain the reward of their high calling, a reward so glorious that the mind of man is impotent to conceive its nature. But to be able to do this she must herself have realised, by the power of faith, the blessedness of things unseen, and with this requisite, without which all other excellencies are valueless, we conclude our definition of “woman as she should be.”
Such an one was Rose Arundel, and countless others are there who, if not sinless as the radiant messengers of heaven, are yet doing angels’ work by many a fireside which their presence cheers and blesses. Happy is the man who possesses in a wife or sister such a household fairy; and if some there be who bear alone the burden of life—whose joys are few, for we rejoice not in solitude—let those whose lot is brighter forgive the clouded brow or the cynical word that at times attests the weariness of a soul on which the sunlight of affection seldom beams.
No particular alteration was observable in Mrs. Arundel, who seemed to possess the enviable faculty of never growing older, and who remained just as gay and sparkling as when at sixteen she had enslaved the fancy rather than the heart of Captain Arundel.
“My dear Lewis,” she exclaimed, after having asked a hundred questions in a breath regarding the internal economy of General Grant’s family, the affray with the poachers, Charles Leicester’s wedding, and every other event, grave or otherwise, which occurred to her active and versatile mind, “my dear Lewis, what an original your friend Frere is! excessively kind and good-natured, but so very odd. He volunteered to come and meet us at the coach-office, which I considered quite a work of supererogation; but Rose had imbibed such a mistrust of London and its inhabitants, whom she expected to eat her up bodily, I believe, that she persuaded me to accept his offer. Well, when the coach arrived I looked about, but nobody did I see who at all coincided with my preconceived ideas of Mr. Frere, and I began to think he would prove faithless, when I descried an individual in a vile hat and an old, rough greatcoat perched on a pile of luggage, with a cotton umbrella between his knees, reading some dirty little book, in which he appeared completely immersed. He took not the slightest notice of the bustle and confusion going on around him, and would, I believe, have sat there until now, if a porter, carrying a heavy trunk, had not all but fallen over him; upon which he started up, and for the first time perceiving the coach, exclaimed, ‘By Jove, there’s the very thing I am waiting for!’ then shouldering his umbrella, he advanced to the window, and thrusting in his great head, growled out, ‘Are any of you Miss Arundel?’ Rose answered the question, for I was so taken by surprise that I was dying with laughter. As soon as he had ascertained our identity, he continued, ‘Well, then I should say the sooner you’re out of this the better. I’ll call a cab.’ The moment it drew up he flung open the door, and exclaiming, ‘Now, come along,’ he caught hold of Rose as if she’d been a carpetbag, dragged her out, and pushed her by main force into the cab.”
“Oh, mamma,” interrupted Rose apologetically, “you really colour the matter too highly. Mr. Frere was as kind as possible. He was a little rough, certainly, and seemed to think I must be as helpless as a child; but I dare say he’s not accustomed to act as squire to dames.”
“Indeed he’s not,” resumed Mrs. Arundel. “But I was determined he shouldn’t paw me about like a bale of goods, so I rested my hand on a porter’s shoulder and sprang from the coach into the cab while he was stooping to pick up his wretched umbrella; and finely astonished he looked, too, when he discovered what I had done. Then he dragged down all the luggage, just as he had done Rose, and tried to put two trunks that did not belong to us on the cab, only I raved at him till I obliged him to relinquish them. Of course I was forced to offer him a seat in the cab, but he coolly replied, ‘No, thank ye; there are too many bandboxes—the squares of their bases occupy the entire area. I’ll sit beside cabby.’ And to my horror he scrambled up to the driving-seat, and taking the dirty book out of his pocket, was speedily absorbed in its contents; and in this state we actually drove up to Lady Lombard’s door. I could have beaten the man, I was so angry with him. And yet, with it all, the creature is a gentleman.”
“Indeed he is,” returned Lewis, “a thorough gentleman in mind, though from the extent to which he is engrossed by his literary and scientific pursuits, and from the fact of living so much alone, he has not the manners of society. But Frere is a very first-rate man; his is no ordinary intellect.”