  As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman: Though she bends him, she obeys him; Though she draws him, yet she follows; Useless each without the other.—Hiawatha. Mrs. Jameson, speaking of the mistaken belief that there are essential masculine and feminine virtues and vices, says it is not the quality itself, but the modification of the quality, which is masculine or feminine; and on the manner or degree in which these are balanced or combined in the individual, depends the perfection of that individual character. As the influences of religion are extended and as civilization advances, those qualities which are now admired as essentially feminine will be considered as essentially human,—such as gentleness, purity, the more unselfish and spiritual sense of duty, and the dominance of the affections over the passions. This is, perhaps, what Buffon, speaking as a naturalist, meant when he said that with the progress of humanity Les races se fÉminisent. The axiom of the Greek philosopher Antisthenes, the disciple of Socrates, The virtue of the man and the woman is the same, Every reader of Wordsworth will recollect the poem entitled The Happy Warrior. It has been quoted as an epitome of every manly, soldierly, and elevated quality. Those who make the experiment of merely substituting the word WOMAN for the word WARRIOR, and changing the feminine for the masculine pronoun, will find that it reads equally well, and from beginning to end is literally as applicable to the one sex as to the other. As thus:— CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WOMAN.Who is the happy woman? Who is she That every woman born should wish to be? It is the generous spirit who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased her childish thought; Whose high endeavors are an inward light, That makes the path before her always bright; Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes her moral being her prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with pain, And fear, and sorrow, miserable train! Turns that necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature’s highest dower; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives; By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is placable,—because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure As tempted more; more able to endure As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. ’Tis she whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, To virtue every triumph that she knows; Who, if she rise to station or command, Rises by open means, and there will stand On honorable terms, or else retire— * * * * * Who comprehends her trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall Like showers of manna, if they come at all; Whose power shed round her, in the common strife Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if she be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a lover; and, attired With sudden brightness, like to one inspired; And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what she foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need! Mrs. Jameson adds that in all these fifty-six lines there is only one line which cannot be feminized in its significance,—that filled up with asterisks, and which is totally at variance with the ideal of a happy woman. It is the line— And in himself possess his own desire. No woman could exist happily or virtuously in such complete independence of all external affections as these words express. “Her desire is to her husband:” this is the sort of subjection prophesied for the daughters of Eve. A woman doomed to exist without this earthly rest for her affections does not “in herself possess her own desire;” she turns towards God; and, if she does not make her life a life of worship, she makes it a life of charity, or she dies a spiritual and a moral death. Is it much better with the man who concentrates his aspirations in himself? THE PRAISE OF WOMEN.An Old English Ballad. Both sexes, give ear to my fancy, While the praise of a woman I sing Confined not to Polly nor Nancy, But alike from the beggar to king. When Adam at first was created, And lord of the universe crowned, His happiness was not completed, Because a help-meet was not found. He had all things that were wanting, Which yield us contentment in life; Both horses and foxes for hunting, Which many love more than a wife. A garden, so planted by nature, Man could not produce in his life; And yet the all-wise Creator Saw that he wanted a wife. Old Adam was cast into slumber, A rib taken out of his side; And when he awoke in a wonder, He beheld his most beautiful bride. With transport he gazÉd upon her,— His happiness now was complete: He praised the all-bountiful Donor, Who thus had provided a mate. She was not taken out of his head, To rule and triumph over man; Nor was she taken out of his heel, To be ruled and trampled upon. But she was taken out of his side, His equal companion to be; And thus they both were united, And man is the top of the tree. Then let not the fair be despisÉd By man, for she’s part of himself; Since woman by Adam was prizÉd More than the whole world full of wealth. For man without woman’s a beggar, Although the whole world he possessed; And the beggar who has a good wife, With more than this world he is blest. PARALLEL OF THE SEXES.There is an admirable partition of qualities between the sexes, which the great Author of being has distributed to each with a wisdom which calls for our admiration. Man is strong,—woman is beautiful. Man is daring and confident,—woman is diffident and unassuming. Man is great in action,—woman, in suffering. Man shines abroad,—woman, at home. Man talks to convince,—woman, to persuade and please. Man has a rugged heart,—woman, a soft and tender one. Man prevents misery,—woman relieves it. Man has science,—woman, taste. Man has judgment,—woman, sensibility. Man is a being of justice,—woman, of mercy. FEMALE SOCIETY.The following remarks come with peculiar force from one of such querulous and unconnubial habits as John Randolph:— You know my opinion of female society: without it we should degenerate into brutes. This observation applies with tenfold force to young men, and those who are in the prime of manhood. For, after a certain time of life, the literary man makes a shift (a poor one, I grant) to do without the society of ladies. To a young man nothing is so important as a spirit of devotion (next to his Creator) to some amiable woman, whose image may occupy his heart and guard it from the pollution that besets it on all sides. A man ought to choose his wife as Mrs. Primrose did her wedding-gown,—for qualities that will “wear well.” One thing at least is true, that, if matrimony has its cares, celibacy has no pleasures. A Newton, or a mere scholar, may find enjoyment in study; a man of literary taste can receive in books a powerful auxiliary; but a man must have a bosom friend, and children around him, to cherish and support the dreariness of old age. WIFE—MISTRESS—LADY.Who marries for love takes a wife; who marries for convenience takes a mistress; who marries from consideration takes a lady. You are loved by your wife, regarded by your mistress, MY MOTHER.That was a thrilling scene in the old chivalric time—the wine circling around the board, and the banquet-hall ringing with sentiment and song—when, the lady of each knightly heart having been pledged by name, St. Leon arose in his turn, and, lifting the sparkling cup on high, said,— “I drink to one Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory is dead; To one whose love for me shall last When lighter passions long have passed, So holy ’tis, and true; To one whose love hath longer dwelt, More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, Than any pledge to you.” Each guest upstarted at the word, And laid his hand upon his sword, With fury-flashing eye; And Stanley said, “We crave the name, Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, Whose love you count so high.” St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood Thus lightly to another,— Then bent his noble head, as though To give that word the reverence due, And gently said, “My Mother!” LETTER TO A BRIDE.The following letter was written by an old friend to a young lady on the eve of her wedding day:— I have sent you a few flowers to adorn the dying moments of your single life. They are the gentlest types of delicate and durable friendship. They spring up by our side when others have deserted it; and they will be found watching over our graves when those who should cherish have forgotten us. It seems that a past, so calm and pure as yours, should expire with a kindred sweetness about it,—that flowers and music, kind friends and earnest words, should consecrate the hour when a sentiment is passing into a sacrament. The three great stages of our being are the birth, the bridal, and the burial. To the first we bring only weakness—for the last we have nothing but dust! But here at the altar, when life joins life, the pair come throbbing up to the holy man, whispering the deep promise that arms each other’s heart, to help on in the life-struggle of care and duty. The beautiful will be there, borrowing new beauty from the scene. The gay and thoughtless, with their flounces and frivolities, will look solemn for once. Youth will come to gaze upon the object of its secret yearnings; and age will totter up to hear the words repeated that to their own lives had given the charm. Some will weep over it as if it were a tomb, and some laugh over it as if it were a joke; but two must stand by it, for it is fate, not fun, this everlasting locking of their lives. And now, can you, who have queened it over so many bending forms, can you come down at last to the frugal diet of a single heart? Hitherto you have been a clock, giving your time to all the world. Now you are a watch, buried in one particular bosom, warming only his breast, marking only his hours, and ticking only to the beat of his heart—where time and feeling shall be in unison, until those lower ties are lost in that higher wedlock, where all hearts are united. Hoping that calm and sunshine may hallow your clasped hands, I sink silently into a signature. ***
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