ingly the impress of a master hand. It is the last speech of Desdemona in the horrible scene of her murder. Æmilia, her attendant, hears her dying voice, and, beginning to suspect there has been foul play, exclaims, "O, who hath done This deed ?" "Nobody; I myself; farewell: Commend me to my kind lord; O, farewell!" is answered by the wretched victim. Who can read these lines without acknowledging the writer's profound and intimate acquaintance with the heart of woman? First, Desdemona answers "Nobody," from the impulse of a sudden desire to clear her husband from suspicion; but immediately recollecting that this will not be sufficient, she adds, "I myself;" and then to complete the wholeto give the climax to her faithfulness and devotion, she continues, “Commend me to my kind lord"-to that very lord whose hand was just unloosed from its fatal hold, and who stood beside her neither penitent nor triumphant, but literally stupified with. the magnitude and the horror of the deed which yet he had not the power to behold as a crime. Another instance of a gentler and more pleasing character, occurs in Wallenstein, as translated by Coleridge, where the princess, after the death of Max, claims the tenderest office of friendship from her faithful companion. reproaches her for not remembering that there is now "but one place in the world." Lord Byron has in many instances proved both his talent and his taste, by giving us the true poetry of woman's character in a few touching words. I shall select one remarkable for its simplicity and pathos. It occurs in Cain, after the perpetration of the first murder, where the fratricide has received the malediction of one parent, and been driven out by the other. Adah, whose character is beautifully and justly drawn throughout, remains with him after the others have departed, and addresses him in these words: ADAH. "Cain! thou hast heard we must go forth. I am ready, CAIN. "Leave me! ADAH. "Why all have left thee. CAIN. "And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not fear To dwell with one who hath done this? ADAH. "I fear Nothing except to leave thee, much as 1 Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. There can be no stronger bond to a firm and faithful woman, than that “all have left” the object of her love. Adah feels this, and Besides which she offers no other reason. utters no reproach; enough has already been said, and like a pure spirit descending upon earth for purposes of love and mercy, she stoops with her husband beneath his degradation, and though confessedly shrinking from the fatal deed, meekly and reverentially places it solely between him "and the great God." In order to define with greater precision what it is that constitutes the poetry of woman's character, we must enter yet more closely into her individual feelings, and for this purpose it is necessary to trace her experience through the different stages of ex istence, in which we behold her as a girl, a maiden, a wife, a mother, and an old wo man. Time passes, and the impulse of affection mingles with the dawn of reason. Her intellects are limited to the regular routine of It is difficult to say which is least impor- education, while her passions are left free: tant in the scale of human beings—a little girl and thus her feelings become matured, while or an old woman; but certainly the former in- | her talents remain in the bondage of infanspires us with a kind of tenderness, which is cy. If the page of history is held up before rarely, too rarely, bestowed upon the latter. her, she sees it not as it is, but in the vivid So long as the sphere of her childish enjoy-colouring of her own imagination. She will ments is unassailed by affliction, especially not learn the truth, because it accords not by that heaviest of all domestic calamities, with her aspiring hopes, and ardent wishes, the loss of a kind and judicious mother, the which have already taken precedence of her existence of a young girl is happy as it is knowledge. She cannot listen to the lore of innocent. With her, day after day dances past ages, because she is busy combating on in the perpetual sunshine of domestic present disappointments, and just beginning love, and night only comes to remind her of to feel that her efforts are in vain; for the the shelter of the maternal wing. Directed voice of experience, louder that that of inby the impulse of her feelings towards those struction, rises above the light carolling of duties which are to be her portion in after joy, and will be heard. Her buoyant spirit life, she tends her flowers, cherishes her pet repelled, as easily as it is attracted, mounts lamb, or nurses the wounded bird; and true in exultation, or sinks in despair, and occuto the dictates of nature, devotes her feeble pies with its alternations of pain and pleasure, strength, her earnest thoughts, and her ar- those hours which ought to be devoted to dent wishes to the happiness of others. If the cultivation of the intellectual powers. from the mal-administration of domestic dis- Thrown by her natural dependence upon the cipline she should become selfish, her sole esteem and affection of those around her, gratification continues to be derived from woman learns to regard the smile of approsurrounding things, and she never seeks it bation as the charmed spell by which the in the centre of her own bosom, but remains gates of happiness are opened; and to look dependent still. It may be, that she is some- for the frown of contempt as the signal of her times unreasonable in requiring more than darkest doom. Trembling between these she bestows, but the perfect abandonment two extremes, there can be no wonder that with which she throws herself upon the good she should study every means to attain the will and generosity of others, ought at least one, and avoid the other: and this is what to claim their protection, if it fails to ensure the world calls vanity; while it is in fact an their esteem. ardent, and in some measure a laudable deBut let us suppose any of the dark visita-sire to do, and to be, that which is most tions of sin and sorrow to fall upon the do- agreeable to others, purely because it is mestic scene. It is then that the rosy girl is gratifying, not to herself but to them; and called in from her play, to watch and wait, an involuntary shrinking from all which can to bear the harsh rebuke, to know the inno- repel, disgust, or in any way offend, because cent wish denied, to sympathize with the un- to be the source of dissatisfaction, to give told grief, to cultivate a premature acquaint- pain, or to excite uneasiness, is most abhorance with the outward signs of inward wo, rent to the natural delicacy and generosity and to feel what it is to have the cherub of her own mind. wings of childhood burdened with the cares of age. Perhaps the maternal voice is hushed, and the hand that used to smooth her nightly pillow cold in the grave. Who then is left to pity the little mourner, as silently, and unobserved, she passes on through life, seeking for what the whole world is too poor to bestow-a second mother? It is on the verge of womanhood that we see the female character in its greatest variety and beauty; while the rich colouring of fresh-born fancy, the warm gush of genuine feeling, and the high aspirations of ambitious youth, are yet unsubdued by the tyranny of custom, or forced back into the bursting heart by the cold hand of expe rience. Woman, fresh as it were from the garden of Eden, while the loveliness of her first creation is still lingering around her, blended with the melancholy symbols of her fall, in her character and attributes, her beauty, her tenderness, and her liability to danger and suffering, is all that the poet can desire to inspire his happiest lays. It is in this stage of her existence, while love, her most insidious enemy, folding his rosy wings, lies shrouded at the bottom of her heart, ready to rush forth on his impetuous flight towards the highest point of happiness, or the lowest depth of wo, that woman lays hold of friendship as her greatest solace and support. Her mind is agitated with a world of indefinite thoughts and feelings which she is unable to communicate, because she does not understand them. While they are confined within her own bosom, she feels like one burdened with an immense and incalculable load, and therefore, she seeks the society of those, whose sympathy, arising from a similarity of feeling, supplies the want of a common medium of communication. Ardently desiring to find in her friend all those qualities which she most admires, and prone by nature to believe whatever she desires, she pauses not to enquire whether the choice she makes is not rather the result of her own necessities, than a tribute justly paid to virtue; and thus the two friends similarly circumstanced, and mutually in need of each other, trust most implicitly to the strength and durability of their attachment: and happy is it for those to whom experience does not teach the emptiness of what the world calls friendship. I do not say the worthlessness, because that cannot be worthless, which supplies us with enjoyment for the present, and wisdom for the future. them, and therefore they can no longer reray us for the expenditure of time, and thought, and affection, which in their original ardour they required. We have other objects in pursuit, different aims, and hopes, and wishes. We have become more concentrated in our feelings, and therefore have less disposition to give out the love that once flowed in a tide too rapid and impetuous to be restrained. But let us pause, and ask, have we found anything to compare in the genuine and heartfelt happiness it affords, with the social hours of unguarded confidence-the truth-the tears-the affections which belonged to the friendships of our early youth? I am far from from asserting that we may not have friends-true and zealous friends friends who would protect our reputation as their own, through every stage of life; but they are for the most part such, as having lost their enthusiasm, are become keenly observant of our faults, and strict to correct them, rather than tender and faithful confiders in our virtue: such as, wearied with our peculiarities, vainly endeavour to make us submit to the common rule, and finding their endeavours ineffectual, grown niggardly in their charitable allowance for our deviations; not such as looked kindly on our foibles, because they made a part of us, and felt if we were better, that they could not love us more: such as freely enter into our views and feelings, when in full accordance with their own established notions of what is praiseworthy and prudent; not such as are the last to step forward and tell us we have been in error, purely because they would be the last to give us pain. Such friends as these we should do wisely to keep along with us even to the end of life-they are in fact the only true friends, because they are true to our best interests: but, oli! they are not like the friends who loved us in our Nor let the world be quarrelled with because its friendships do not always last. Formed out of the warm feelings of youth-early youth! feelings which it would be impossible to carry on with us through life, it is but reasonable that we should lose our friendships as we journey onwards, or that retaining them, their character and mode of exhibition should be wholly changed; because we cease in some measure to feel the want of To return to woman in her girlish days. How beautifully has our own fair poetess. whose lays, mournful as they are musical remind us of the fabled melody of the dying swan, described the particular yearning of the heart with which the experienced observer regards the tender years of woman. Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a true heart of hope, though hope be vain! Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, Aud, Oh! to love through all things - therefore pray" Trace her experience to the next stage of her existence, and woman is more poetical still; because so long as her youth and beauty inspire admiration-so long as there is any thing to be gained by her favour, she is subjected to the deceitful flatteries of man, whom she is naturally desirous to please, not only as her superior, guide, and friend, but as he holds the reins of government, and can therefore deprive her of all or most of her pleasures. As a girl, she was deceived only by her own heart, she is now deceived by the general aspect of society. Way is made for her to walk forth as a queen, and when suppliants bow before her, no wonder that they should assume the dignity of one, and learn to love the sceptre placed for a moment of mockery in her feeble hand. Trusting and sincere herself, she dreams not of falsehood, and when told that she is beautiful, she looks in the mirror and believes it true. Finding that beauty is the only sure title to the admiration of that sex, which it is her wish and her interest to please, she values her personal charms as her richest dower; and if she smiles not from the fullness of a glad heart, but because smiles are lovely, frowns to produce effect, or sighs to excite a momentary interest, it is because she has learned in her intercourse with society that she must be personally lovely to be beloved, and personally interesting to avoid contempt. When we think of the falsehood practised towards women, at that season of life when their minds are most capable of receiving impressions, and when their intellectual powers, just arriving at maturity, are most liable to serious and important bias, we can only wonder that there should be any substantial virtue found amongst them. But as there is a time to sleep, and a time to awake, so there comes to almost all women, a time when their eyes are opened to the truth-when their beauty charms not, and their step is heard without a welcomewhen they tune the harp without an audience, and speak unanswered—when they smile without imparting happiness, and frown without exciting alarm-when others step forward to receive the adulation once offered to them, while they are thrust down from their imaginary thrones, by the very hands which supported them in their ascent. Compelled to descend, though sometimes gradually, from the state of ideal exaltation to which she has been raised, womanweak woman, catches at every slender hold that may break her fall. To the last voice that speaks flatteringly, she listens with an avidity which subjects her to the ridicule of the world; while to the last kind hand that is held out to her, she clings with a despairing energy, an ardent gratitude, which permit her not to perceive its unworthiness. Hence follow the absurdities for which she is more blamed than pitied, and the rash sacrifice of herself, for which she meets with little mercy from the world. But the censor of woman should be a woman herself, to know what it is to have lived in that vortex of falsehood, flattery, and dissipation, which surrounds a young and beautiful female; and then to pass away into the sullen calm of neglect to have basked in the warm and genial atmosphere of real or pretended affection; and then to "bide the pelting of the pitiless storm," with which envy never fails to assail her whose capability of loving has outlived her charmist0 have listened to the voice of adulation, breathing her praises like a perpetual concert all around her; and then to hear nothing but the cold dull language of truth, exaggerated into harshness, or sharpened. into reproof-to have lived a charmed life, under the fascination of man's love, in the very centre of all that constitutes ideal happiness, ministered to on every hand, and feeding, like the butterfly, upon the flowers of life, without a wish ungratified, a thought untold, or a tear unpitied; and then upon the world's bleak desert to stand alone! I repeat, that the censor of woman should be a woman herself—a woman who has been sonal information, by the unanimous opinion admired, and then neglected. We have here spoken only of women whose personal charms recommend them to general admiration, because it is of these alone that the poet delights to sing; yet such is the influence of personal admiration in checking the growth of moral and intellectual beauty, and engendering selfishness and vanity, that we are inclined to believe the deep pathos of the feminine heart is to be found in the greatest perfection concealed behind the countenance that has seldom attracted the public gaze. It is in such hearts, whose best offerings are rarely estimated according to their real value, that disinterested affection, in all its natural warmth, lives and burns for the benefit of the suffering or the beloved; that enthusiasm and zeal, tempered down by humility, are ever ready for the performance of the arduous duties of life; and that ambition, if it exists at all, is directed to the attainment and diffusion of more lasting happiness than mere beauty can afford. In the capacity of a wife we next observe the character of woman, and it is here, if ever, that she learns the truth-learns what is in her own heart, and what are her duties to herself and others. Not that she learns all this through the gentle instrumentality of affection, but by the moral process of experience, which if less congenial to her taste, is more forcible in its convictions, and more lasting in its effects. In assuming this new title, woman is generally removed to a new, and often to a distant sphere, where she has to take her stand in society upon common ground. None within the circle to which she is at once admitted, know precisely what she has been, and therefore every eye is open to see what she is. All the little caprices, and peculiarities, nurtured up with her bodily growth in the bosom of her own family, not only forgiven there, but in- | dulged from the fond consideration that "it was always her way," or, "that she was always thus," now stand forth for the full discussion, and impartial inspection of the many, who, seeing no just reason why such should have been her way, and no plausible pretext for her being always thus, soon contrive means to convince her, if not by per of society, that the more entirely she lays aside such peculiarities of character, the more she will be respected and valued. Nor is this all. She has perhaps a stronger corrective within her own household. Her husband begins to see with the eyes of the world. His vision no longer dazzled by her beauty, or his judgment cheated by her caresses, he involuntarily, and often without sufficient delicacy, points out faults which he neither saw, nor believed her capable of possessing before. "Why did I marry?" is the question which every woman, not previously disciplined, asks of herself under such circumstances, "why did I marry, if not to be loved and cherished as I was in my father's house?" Such are her words, for she has not yet learned to understand her own heart; but she means in fact, "why did I marry, if not to be flattered and admired as in the days of courtship, when the competition for my favour excited unremitting assiduity in all who sought to win it, and who, because they knew my vanity and weakness, sought to win it by these means alone?" The answer is an obvious onebecause it is not good for us to go deluded to our graves, and therefore merciful means have been designed, as various as appropriate to compel us to open our reluctant eyes upon the truth; and woman as a wife, does open her eyes at last, from the dream in which her senses have been lulled, while with the tide of conviction, as it rushes in upon her newly-awakened mind, come serious thoughts, and earnest calculations, and deeper anxieties; with higher hopes, and nobler aims, and better regulated affections to counterbalance them. As a mother we next behold woman in her holiest character-as the nurse of innocence-as the cherisher of the first principles of mind-as the guardian of an immortal being who will write upon the records of eternity how faithfully she has fulfilled her trust. And let it be observed that, in assuming this new and important office, she does not necessarily lose any of the charms which have beautified her character before. She can still be tender, lovely, delicate, refined, and cheerful, as when a girl; devoted to the happiness of those around her, affec |