"With wings all folded and with silent tongue"—

to brood over dreams of felicity to be enjoyed with him—how overwhelming, how crushing must his treachery be, to her all confiding heart. Her bygone dreams of deep enthralling bliss are all a mockery. Her pride is wounded, her modesty is shocked. For a time she may still affect gaiety; she may travel the routine of apparent pleasure; but the worm is at the heart, and she sinks at last a martyr to her affections. Where one man falls a victim to love, there are perhaps at least ten women. No wonder then she should be more inveterate in her antipathies and animosities when she has once been wronged—when once deceived she rarely forgives.

Taught to conceal, the bursting heart desponds
Over its idol.
And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring,
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet as real
Torture is theirs—what they inflict they feel.

But if the affections of a woman are once fixed on a man,—so absorbing, so overwhelming do they become, that she will forgive the stain which his conduct has inflicted on his own honor; she will forgive him for her own ruin; she will pardon every thing in fine, save the loss of his love for her. For this wrong, and for this alone, will she conceive the most bitter and deadly hatred and revenge. How admirably did Sir Walter Scott understand this trait in woman's love. When in the heart of Mid Lothian, Effie Deans is visited in prison by her sister, who makes mention of the being who had disgraced and ruined her, but who nevertheless loved her and was anxious to save her life, he makes Effie exclaim, in the overflowing and forgiving fulness of her affection, "O Jeannie, if ye wad do good to me at this moment, tell me every word that he said, and whether he was sorry for poor Effie or no." A woman in this situation is sometimes like Antigone in the Oedipus—she may become fond of the very misery which she feels for his sake.

The constraint which is put upon the passion of love in woman, nurses and invigorates it. Fear and modesty mingle inquietude with her love, and double its force. The confession of her affection is of itself a mighty sacrifice; but a woman is then only the more tender for the great sacrifice which she has made. The more the confession has cost her, the more fondly does she love him to whom she has made it. "She attaches herself," says Thomas, "by her sacrifices. Virtuous, she enjoys her denials; guilty, she glories in the favors she bestows. Women therefore, when love is a passion, are more constant than men; but when it is only an appetite they are more libertine. For then they feel no more of those anxieties, those struggles, and that sweet shame which impressed the delicious sentiment so strongly on their hearts." With what facility a Ninon de l'Enclos and a Catherine of Russia would change their lovers, every body knows; theirs was more of an appetite than of an affection and sentiment, and where this is the case, woman's love is more fickle than man's; in every other instance it is more constant and faithful.

I have thought proper, in this dissertation, to speak of the effects produced upon the character of man during the period of courtship and love; and we have seen that the effects in his case are decidedly beneficial. I doubt whether the same may be asserted in all cases with regard to woman. The time which a woman passes between the period of her entrance into society and her marriage, is perhaps the most important and the most perilous of her career. Having led a previous life of retirement and comparative seclusion, unacquainted with the wiles and stratagems of the world—endowed almost always with a vivid imagination and warm feelings, she comes forth into society with buoyant hopes and an animating gaiety, which throw a charm over the whole face of nature, that conceals from view the snares and deceptions of the world. She may then fall a sacrifice to some artful deceiver, and suffer the pangs of disappointment, which I have just been describing.8 Or she may acquire a love of conquest in the wars of Cupid—may become fascinated by the applauses and flattery of the world, until nothing but the incense of adulation can satisfy her perverted vanity. This period, is one, during which, a woman enjoys more fame, more worldly glory, than during any other of her life. It is not to be wondered at then, that she is so frequently seen suppressing her feelings and smothering her affections, in order that she may protract this period of her glory and reputation.9 There is nothing more seducing, more captivating to the vanity and imagination of woman, than to see all hearts enchained, and rendering the willing homage of love and admiration to her graces and accomplishments. But she must beware, lest this delightful devotion implant in the heart a lust for applause and notoriety, at the sacrifice of all the more feminine and lovely virtues. And she must recollect too that the very pain of disappointment, which she is obliged to inflict and to witness from day to day, in her unfortunate lovers, is of itself calculated to weaken and obtund her feelings and sympathies, and to generate coldness and hardness of heart. Metaphysicians tell us that the active feelings are strengthened, but the passive are weakened by too frequent repetition—the frequent sight of beggary, of death, of pain and misery of every description, when it is beyond our power to administer relief, always tends to weaken our sympathy and harden the heart. Now there can be no pain,—no anguish more exquisite, than that which the disappointed lover feels in the melancholy hour of his rejection; and the woman, who witnesses such scenes too frequently, may at last lose the generous sympathies of her nature. Like the man of deep feelings and keen sensibility, who the historian informs us, was at first unwillingly dragged to the amphitheatre to witness the horrid, the revolting combats of the gladiators, she may at last by repetition so conquer the feelings of nature as even to experience a savage delight in the pain and suffering of human sacrifice and human woe.

8 "It is easier for an artful man who is not in love, (says Addison) to persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, and to succeed in his pursuit, than for one who loves with the greatest violence. True love has ten thousand griefs, impatiences and resentments, that render a man unamiable in the eyes of the person whose affection he solicits: besides that, it sinks his figure, gives him fears, apprehensions and poorness of spirit, and often makes him appear ridiculous, where he has a mind to recommend himself."

9 A lively French writer, says Mary Wolstoncraft, asks what business women turned of forty can have in this world.

Before leaving this topic, I beg leave to add one word of advice to the gay and fascinating belle, who is moving forward in her victorious career,—conquering all hearts before her,—until, like the Juan of Moliere, she may wish for other worlds, not for purposes of conquest, like Alexander, but to win the hearts of those that inhabit them. A lady in this situation ought always to be mindful of the great influence which she is exerting on those around her. Her lightest words are treasured up with the fondest zeal, her very defects are sometimes considered as surpassing beauties. A principle advocated by her, no matter how erroneous,—a doctrine advanced, no matter how false, is apt to make an impression, sometimes deep and indelible, on the susceptible hearts of her admirers. She should ever recollect that the cause of virtue and of piety is peculiarly hers; and when she is walking the golden round of her pleasures, shedding her influence on all who approach her, let her be conscious to herself of no word or deed which can injure the sacred cause of morality and religion. We all know the irresistible influence of association. A writer of antiquity said he would rather believe drunkenness no vice, than that Plato could have one. The stuttering of Aristotle and the wry neck of Alexander were admired on the same principle: and Des Cartes, the great philosopher, declared he had a partiality for persons who squinted; and he says that in his endeavor to trace the cause of a taste so whimsical, he at last recollected, that, when a boy, he had been fond of a girl who had that blemish. I have rarely known a very devoted lover who did not love all the peculiarities and even oddities of his mistress. We are all like the Frenchman, whose mistress had a twisted nose, of which the lover used to say, "C'est au moins la plus belle irregularité du monde." Hence, for the very same reason that Dr. Johnson remarks, "if there is any writer whose genius can embellish impropriety, or whose authority can make error venerable, his works are the proper object of criticism,"—would I say, that if there be any being whose opinions and actions form the

"Glass
Wherein the noble youths do dress themselves,"