Throughout Christendom, the law allows but one wife. Licentiousness abounds in all cities; it is not confined to a class of women avowedly depraved, but sometimes lurks beneath the garb of decency, and even of elegance. In villages there is a better state of things, because the influences of rural life are more pure, and young people generally form marriages of inclination. Even in thrifty Scotland, and phlegmatic Holland, matches of interest are common only among the wealthier classes.
European laws allow widows to marry again, and they very frequently do so, without the slightest imputation of impropriety; but in all nations, she who remains in perpetual widowhood is involuntarily regarded with peculiar respect. In some parts of Illyria and Dalmatia, if the bride or bridegroom have been previously married, but especially if the bride be a widow, the populace follow the wedding party, as they proceed to church, keeping up a continual din with frying-pans and shovels, and loading them with all manner of abuse; sometimes they gather round the house, and make hideous noises all night long, unless the newly married pair purchase exemption by the distribution of wine.
Some degree of blame is everywhere incurred by a widow who marries again within the time prescribed by custom; which is usually one year. Black is the color of European mourning. The queens of France formerly wore white as an emblem of widowhood, and were therefore called reines blanches; but this custom was changed by Anne of Bretagne, who assumed black when Charles the Eighth died. The empress dowagers of Austria never lay aside their mourning, and their apartments are always hung with black. In England, the mourning worn on the death of any of the royal family is purple. The nieces of the pope never wear mourning for any relation.
I believe France is the only country in Europe where women do not inherit the crown. There has been a comparatively greater proportion of good queens, than of good kings. Perhaps it may be that women, distrustful of their own strength, pay more attention to the public voice, and their government thus acquires something of the character of elective monarchies. But independent of this circumstance, illustrious queens have generally purchased celebrity by individual strength of character. In England, nothing was more common than to hear the people talk of king Elizabeth and queen James. Margaret, queen of Denmark and Norway, was called the Semiramis of the North, on account of her capacity to plan and conduct great projects. Spain numbers among her sovereigns no one that can dispute precedence with the virtuous and highly-gifted Isabella of Castile. The annals of Africa furnish no example of a monarch equal to the brave, intelligent, and proud-hearted Zhinga, the negro queen of Angola; and Catherine of Russia bears honorable comparison with Peter the Great. Blanche of Castile evinced great ability in administering the government of France, during the minority of her son; and similar praise is due to Caroline of England, during the absence of her husband.
In the walks of literature, women have gained abundant and enduring laurels; but it cannot be truly said that a Homer, a Shakspeare, a Milton, or a Newton have ever appeared among them. It is somewhat singular that instances of great genius in the fine arts have been more rare among women than any other manifestations of talent. Propertia da Rossi, of Bologna, and the Hon. Mrs. Damer, of England, did indeed gain a considerable degree of distinction as sculptors, and Angelica Kauffman had a high reputation as a painter; but these ladies have had few competitors. Yet in works requiring delicacy, ingenuity, imagination, and taste, women are proverbial for excellence.
When knowledge was confined to a few, and applied principally to the acquisition of languages, which are merely the external forms of thought, men were pedantic, and women were the same; for the correspondence between the character of the sexes is as intimate, as the affections and thoughts of the same individual. In these days, when knowledge is obtained to be applied to use,—when even that pretty and ever-varying toy, the kaleidoscope, is used to furnish new patterns at carpet-manufactories,—female literature is universally more or less practical. Modern female writers are generally known to be women who can make a pudding, embroider a collar, or dance a cotillion, as well as their neighbors. It is no longer deemed a mark of intellect to despise the homelier duties, or lighter graces of the social system. This will, in time, probably make men more liberal with regard to female learning. A writer in the time of Charles the First says, “She that knoweth how to compound a pudding is more desirable than she who skilfully compoundeth a poem. A female poet I mislike at all times.” Within the last century it has been gravely asserted that “chemistry enough to keep the pot boiling, and geography enough to know the location of the different rooms in her house, is learning sufficient for a woman.” Byron, who was too sensual to conceive of a pure and perfect companionship between the sexes, would limit a woman’s library to a Bible and a cookery book. All this is poor philosophy and miserable wit. It is on a par with the dictatorial assertions of the Austrian emperor, that his people will be better subjects, and far more happy, if they are not allowed to learn to read.
One of the most striking characteristics of modern times is the tendency toward a universal dissemination of knowledge in all Protestant communities. It is now a very common thing for women to be well versed in the popular sciences, and to know other languages than their own; and this circumstance, independent of the liberality and sincerity induced by true knowledge, has very perceptibly diminished the tendency to literary affectation. Pedantry is certainly not the vice of modern times; yet the old prejudice still lurks in the minds of men, who ought to be ashamed of it. It is by no means easy to find a man so magnanimous, as to be perfectly willing that a woman should know more than himself, on any subject except dress and cookery.
That women are more fond of ornament than men is probably true; but I doubt whether there is so much difference between the personal vanity of the sexes, as has been imagined. Dandies are a large class, if not a respectable one. No maiden lady was ever more irritable under a sense of personal deformity than were Pope and Byron; and Bonaparte was quite as vain of his small foot, as Madam de Staël of her beautiful arms.
In searching the history of women, the mild, unobtrusive domestic virtues, which constitute their greatest charm, and ought always to be the ground-work of their character, are not found on record. We hear of storms and tempests, and northern lights; but men do not describe the perpetual blessing of sunshine.
The personal bravery evinced by women at all periods excites surprise. We hear scarcely any thing of the Phœnician women, except that they agreed to perish in the flames, if their countrymen lost a certain battle, and that they crowned with flowers the woman who first made that motion in the council. The Moorish women of Spain were full of this fiery spirit. When Boabdil wept at taking a farewell glance of beautiful Granada, his proud-hearted mother said, scornfully, “You do well to weep for it like a woman, since you would not defend it like a man.”