if sounded by a mutual friend, let your want of reciprocal feelings be
very apparent.

You may, however, be taken entirely by surprise, because there are men
who are so secret in these matters that they do not let even the object
of their affections suspect their preference, until they suddenly
declare themselves lovers and suitors. In such a case as that, you will
need all your presence of mind, or the hesitation produced by surprise
may give rise to false hopes. If you have any doubt upon the matter, you
may fairly ask time to consider of it, on the grounds of your never
having thought of the gentleman in the light of a lover before; but, if
you are resolved against the suit, endeavor to make your answer so
decided as to finish the affair at once. Inexperienced girls sometimes
feel so much the pain they are inflicting, that they use phrases which
feed a lover's hopes; but this is mistaken tenderness; your answer
should be as decided as it is courteous.

Whenever an offer is made in writing, you should reply to it as soon as
possible; and, having in this case none of the embarrassment of a
personal interview, you can make such a careful selection of words as
will best convey your meaning. If the person is estimable, you should
express your sense of his merit, and your gratitude for his preference,
in strong terms; and put your refusal of his hand on the score of your
not feeling for him that peculiar preference necessary to the union he
seeks. This makes a refusal as little painful as possible, and soothes
the feelings you are obliged to wound. The gentleman's letter should be
returned in your reply, and your lips should be closed upon the subject
for ever afterwards. It is his secret, and you have no right to tell it
to any one; but, if your parents are your confidential friends on all
other occasions, he will not blame you for telling them.

Never think the less of a man because he has been refused, even if it be
by a lady whom you do not highly value. It is nothing to his
disadvantage. In exercising their prerogative of making the first
advances, the wisest will occasionally make great mistakes, and the best
will often be drawn into an affair of this sort against their better
judgment, and both are but too happy if they escape with only the pain
of being refused. So far from its being any reason for not accepting a
wise and good man when he offers himself to you, it should only
increase your thankfulness to the overruling providence of God, which
reserved him for you, through whose instrumentality he is still free to
choose.

There is no sure remedy for disappointed affection but vital religion;
that giving of the heart to God which enables a disciple to say, "Whom
have I in heaven but Thee, and there is none on earth that I desire in
comparison of Thee." The cure for a wounded heart, which piety affords,
is so complete, that it makes it possible for the tenderest and most
constant natures to love again. When a character is thus disciplined and
matured, its sympathies will be called forth only by superior minds;
and, if a kindred spirit presents itself as a partner for life, and is
accepted, the union is likely to be such as to make the lady rejoice
that her former predilection was overruled.




MARRIAGE.


Some young persons indulge a fastidiousness of feeling in relation to
this subject, as though it were indelicate to speak of it. Others make
it the principal subject of their thoughts and conversation; yet they
seem to think it must never be mentioned but in jest. Both these
extremes should be avoided. Marriage is an ordinance of God, and
therefore a proper subject of thought and discussion, with reference to
personal duty. It is a matter of great importance, having a direct
bearing upon the glory of God and the happiness of individuals. It
should, therefore, never be approached with levity. But, as it requires
no more attention than what is necessary in order to understand present
duty, it would be foolish to make it a subject of constant thought, and
silly to make it a common topic of conversation. It is a matter which
should be weighed deliberately and seriously by every young person. It
was ordained by the Lord at the creation, as suited to the state of man
as a social being, and necessary to the design for which he was created.
There is a sweetness and comfort in the bosom of one's own family which
can be enjoyed no where else. In early life this is supplied by our
youthful companions, who feel in unison with us. But as a person who
remains single, advances in life, the friends of his youth form new
attachments, in which he is incapable of participating. Their feelings
undergo a change, of which he knows nothing. He is gradually left alone.
No heart beats in unison with his own. His social feelings wither for
want of an object. As he feels not in unison with those around him, his
habits also become peculiar, and perhaps repulsive, so that his company
is not desired; hence arises the whimsical attachments of such persons
to domestic animals, or to other objects that can be enjoyed in
solitude. As the dreary winter of age advances, the solitude of this
condition becomes still more chilling. Nothing but that sweet
resignation to the will of God, which religion gives, under all
circumstances, can render such a situation tolerable. But religion does
not annihilate the social affections; it only regulates them. It is
evident, then, by a lawful and proper exercise of these affections, both
our happiness and usefulness may be greatly increased.

On the other hand, do not consider marriage as _absolutely essential_.
Although it is an ordinance of God, yet he has not absolutely enjoined
it upon all. You _may_, therefore, be in the way of duty while
neglecting it. And the apostle Paul intimates that there may be, with
those who enter this state, a greater tendency of heart toward earthly
objects. There is also an increase of care. "The unmarried woman careth
for the things of the Lord, that she may be holy, both in body and
spirit; but she that is married, careth for the things of the world,
how she may please her husband." But much more has been made of this
than the apostle intended. It has been greatly perverted and abused by
the church of Rome. It must be observed that, in the same chapter, he
advises that "every man have his own wife and every woman her own
husband." And, whatever may be our condition in life, if we seek it with
earnestness and perseverance, God will give us grace sufficient for the
day. But, he says, though it is no sin to marry, nevertheless, "such
shall have trouble in the flesh." It is undoubtedly true that the
enjoyments of conjugal life have their corresponding difficulties and
trials; and if these are enhanced by an unhappy connection, the
situation is insufferable. For this reason, I would have you avoid the
conclusion that marriage is indispensable to happiness. Single life is
certainly to be preferred to a connection with a person who will
diminish instead of increase your happiness. However, the remark of the
apostle, "such shall have trouble in the flesh," doubtless had reference
chiefly to the peculiar troubles of the times, when Christians were
exposed to persecutions, the loss of goods, and even of life itself, for
Christ's sake; the trials of which would be much greater in married than
in single life.




MARRIAGE HYMN.


Not for the summer hour alone,
When skies resplendent shine,
And youth and pleasure fill the throne,
Our hearts and hands we join;

But for those stern and wintry days
Of sorrow, pain, and fear,
When Heaven's wise discipline doth make
Our earthly journey drear.

Not for this span of life alone,
Which like a blast doth fly,
And, as the transient flower of grass,
Just blossom--droop, and die;

But for a being without end,
This vow of love we take;
Grant us, O God! one home at last,
For our Redeemer's sake.




FEMALE INFLUENCE.


Writers of fiction have not unfrequently selected this topic as the
theme for poetry and romance; they have extolled woman as the being
whose eloquence was to soften all the asperities of man, and polish the
naturally rugged surface of his character; charming away his sternness
by her grace; refining his coarseness by her elegance and purity; and
offering in her smiles a reward sufficient to compensate for the hazards
of any enterprise. But while the self-complacency and vanity of many of
our sex have been nourished by such idle praise, how few have been
awakened to a just sense of the deep responsibility which rests upon us,
for the faithful improvement of this talent, and our consequent
accountability for its neglect or perversion!

It were not a little amusing, if it were not so melancholy, to listen to
the reasoning employed by many ladies, in evading any charges of
non-improvement of this trust. She who perhaps but a moment before may
have listened with the utmost self-complacency to the flattering strains
of the poet, who had invested her sex with every charm calculated to
render them ministering angels to ruder and sterner man, no sooner finds
herself addressed as the possessor of a talent, implying
responsibility, and imposing self-exertion and self-denial in its
exercise, than she instantly disclaims, with capricious diffidence, all
pretensions to influence over others. But we cannot avert accountability
by disclaiming its existence; neither will the disavowal of the
possession of a talent alter the constitution of our nature, which God
has so formed and so fitted to produce impressions in, and receive them
from, kindred minds, that it is impossible for us to _exist_ without
exerting a continual and daily influence over others; either of a
pernicious or salutary character.

"Woman," to use the words of an accomplished living writer, "has been
sent on a higher mission than man; it may be a more arduous, a more
difficult one. It is to manifest and bring to a full development certain
attributes which belong, it is true, to our common nature, but which,
owing to man's peculiar relation to the external world, he could not so
well bring to perfection. Man is sent forth to subdue the earth, to
obtain command over the elements, to form political communities; and to
him, therefore, belong the more hardy and austere virtues; and as they
are made subservient to the relief of our physical wants, and as their
results are more obvious to the senses, it is not surprising that they
have acquired in his eyes an importance which does not in strictness
belong to them. But humility, meekness, gentleness, love, are also
important attributes of our nature, and it would present a sad and
melancholy aspect without them. But let us ask, will man, with his
present characteristic propensities, thrown much more than woman, by his
immediate duties, upon material things; obliged to be conversant with
objects of sense, and exposed to the rude conflicts which this leads to;
will he bring out these virtues in their _full_ beauty and strength? We
think not--even with the assistance which religion promises. These
principles, with many others linked with them, have been placed more
particularly in the keeping of woman; her social condition being
evidently more favorable to their full development."

Let us ever remember that every aggregate number, however great, is
composed of units; and of course, were _each_ American female but
faithful to her God, to her family, and to her country, then would a
mighty, sanctified influence go forth through the wide extent of our
beloved land, diffusing moral health and vigor through every part, and
strengthening it for the endurance of greater trials than have as yet
menaced its existence. A spirit of insubordination and rebellion to
lawful authority pervades our land; and where are these foes effectually
to be checked, if not at their fountain head--in the nursery? Oh! if
every American mother had but labored faithfully in that sacred
inclosure, from the period of our revolutionary struggle, by teaching
her children the great lesson of practical obedience to parental
authority; then would submission to constituted authority, as well as to
the will of God, have been far more prevalent in our land, and the
whole aspect of her affairs would have been widely different.

How much more honorable to woman is such a position, than that in which
some modern reformers have endeavored to place her, or rather _force_
her. Instead of seeking hopelessly, and in direct opposition to the
delicacy of her sex, to obtain for her political privileges; instead of
bringing her forward as the competitor of man in the public arena; we
would mark out for her a sphere of duty that is widely different. In the
domestic circle, "her station should be at man's side, to comfort, to
encourage, to assist;" while, in the Christian temple, we would assign
her an ennobling, but a feminine part,--to be the guardian of the sacred
and spiritual fire, which is ever to be kept alive in its purity and
brilliancy on the altar of God. She should be the vestal virgin in the
Christian temple--the priestess, as it were, of a shrine more hallowed
and honorable than that of Delphos.




A DIFFICULT QUESTION.


I remember, many years ago, to have occupied the corner of a
window-seat, in a small but very elegant house in Montague-square,
during a morning visit--more interesting than such visits usually are,
because there was something to talk about. The ladies who met, had each
a child, I believe an only girl, just of the age when mothers begin to
ask every body, and tell every body, how their children are to be
educated. The daughter of the house, the little Jemima, was sitting by
my side; a delicate little creature, with something very remarkable in
her expression. The broad projecting brow seemed too heavy for its
underwork; and by its depression, gave a look of sadness to the
countenance, till excited animation raised the eye, beaming vivacity and
strength. The sallow paleness of the complexion was so entirely in
unison with the features, and the stiff dark locks which surrounded
them, it was difficult to say whether it was, or was not, improved by
the color that came and went every time she was looked at or spoken of.
I was, on this occasion, a very attentive listener: for, being not yet a
woman, it was very essential to me to learn what sort of a one I had
better be; and many, indeed, were my counter-resolutions, as the
following debate proceeded:

"You are going to send your daughter to school I hear?" said Mrs. A.,
after some discourse of other matters.

Mrs. W. replied, "Really, I have not quite determined; I scarcely know
what to do for the best. I am only anxious that she should grow up like
other girls; for of all things in the world, I have the greatest horror
of a woman of talent. I had never thought to part from her, and am still
averse to sending her from home; but she is so excessively fond of
books, I can get her to do nothing else but learn; she is as grave and
sensible as a little woman. I think, if she were among other girls, she
would perhaps get fond of play, and be more like a child. I wish her to
grow up a quiet, domestic girl, and not too fond of learning. I mean her
to be accomplished; but, at present, I cannot make her distinguish one
tune from another."

Mrs. A. answered, "Indeed! we differ much in this respect. I am
determined to make Fanny a superior woman, whatever it may cost me. Her
father is of the same mind; he has a perfect horror of silly,
empty-headed women; all our family are literary; Fanny will have little
fortune, but we can afford to give her every advantage in her education,
the best portion we can leave her. I would rather see her distinguished
for talents, than for birth or riches. We have acted upon this intention
from her birth. She already reads well, but I am sorry to say she hates
it, and never will open a book unless she is obliged; she shows no taste
for any thing but making doll's clothes and spinning a top."

At this moment a hearty laugh from little Fanny, who had set herself to
play behind the curtain, drew my attention towards her. She was twice as
big as my companion on the window-seat, though but a few months older;
her broad, flat face, showed like the moon in its zenith, set in thin,
silky hair: and with eyes as pretty as they could be, expressing neither
thought nor feeling, but abundance of mirth and good-humor. The coloring
of her cheek was beautiful; but one wished it gone sometimes, were it
only for the pleasure of seeing it come again. The increasing
seriousness of the conversation recalled my attention.

"I am surprised," Mrs. W. was saying, "at your wishes on the subject. I
am persuaded a woman of great talent is neither so happy, so useful, nor
so much beloved, as one or more ordinary powers."

"I should like to know why you think this," rejoined her friend; "it
appears to me she should be much more so."

"My view of it is this," Mrs. W. replied: "a woman's sphere of
usefulness, of happiness, and of affection, is a domestic circle; and
even beyond it, all her task of life is to please and to be useful."

"In this we are quite agreed," said Mrs. A.; "but, since we are well set
for an argument, let us have a little method in it. You would have your
child useful, happy, and beloved, and so would I; but you think the
means to this end, is to leave her mind uncultivated, narrow, and empty,
and consequently weak."

"This, is not my meaning," replied Mrs. W.; "there are many steps
between stupidity and talent, ignorance and learning. I will suppose my
child what I wish her to be, about as much taught as women in general,
who are esteemed clever, well-mannered, and well-accomplished. I think
it is all that can contribute to her happiness. If her mind is occupied,
as you will say, with little things, those little things are sufficient
to its enjoyment, and much more likely to be within her reach than the
greater matters that fill greater minds. My less accomplished character
will enjoy herself where your superior woman would go to sleep, or
hopelessly wish she might. In short, she will find fellowship and
reciprocation in every little mind she meets with, while yours is left
to pine in the solitude of her own greatness."

At the close of this speech, I felt quite determined that I would not be
such a woman.

Mrs. A. rejoined, "You have left my genius in a doleful condition,
though I question whether you will persuade her to come down. I will
admit, however, for I am afraid I must, that the woman of talent is less
likely to find reciprocation, or to receive enjoyment from ordinary
people and ordinary circumstances; but then she is like the camel that
traverses the desert safely where others perish, because it carries its
sustenance in its own bosom. I never remember to have heard a really
sensible and cultivated woman complain of _ennui_, under any
circumstances--no small balance on the side of enjoyment positive, is
misery escaped. But, to leave jesting, admitting that the woman of more
elevated mind derives less pleasure from the adventitious circumstances
that surround her, from what money can purchase, and a tranquil mind
enjoy, and activity gather, of the passing flowers of life--she has
enjoyments, independent of them, in the treasures of her own intellect.
Where she finds reciprocation, it is a delight of which the measure
compensates the rareness; and where she finds nothing else to enjoy, she
can herself. And when the peopled walks of life become a wilderness; and
the assiduities of friendship rest unclaimed; and sensible
gratifications are withered before the blight of poverty; and the foot
is too weary, and the eye is too dim, to go after what no one remembers
to bring; still are her resources untouched. Poverty cannot diminish her
revenue, or friendlessness leave her unaccompanied, or privation of
every external incitement consign her to the void of unoccupied powers.
She will traverse the desert, for her store is with her; and if, as you
have suggested, she be doomed to supply others what no one pays her
back, there is One who has said, 'It is more blessed to give than to
receive.'"

At this point of the discussion, I made up my mind to be a very sensible
woman.

Mrs. W. resumed: "You will allow, of course, that selfish enjoyment is
not the object of existence; and I think, on the score of usefulness, I
shall carry my poor, dependent house-wife, far above yours. And for this
very reason: The duties which Providence has assigned to woman, do not
require extraordinary intellect. She can manage her husband's household,
and economize his substance; and if she cannot entertain his friends
with her talents, she can at least give them a welcome; and be his nurse
in sickness, and his watchful companion in health, if not capable of
sharing his more intellectual occupations. She can be the support and
comfort of her parents in the decline of life, or of her children in
their helplessness, according as her situation may be. And out of her
house she may be the benefactress and example of a whole neighborhood;
she may comfort the afflicted, and clothe and feed the poor, and visit
the sick, and advise the ignorant; while, by the domestic industry, and
peaceful, unaspiring habits, with which she plods, as you may please to
call it, through the duties of her station, whether higher or lower, she
is a perpetual example to those beneath her, to like sober assiduity in
their own, and to her children's children to follow in the path in which
she leads them. She may be superintending the household occupations, or
actually performing them; giving employment by her wealth to others'
ingenuity, or supplying the want of it by her own, according as her
station is, but still she will make many happy.

"I am not so prejudiced as to say that your woman of talent will refuse
these duties; of course, if she have principle, she will not. But
literary pursuits must at least divide her attention, if not unfit her
altogether for the tasks the order of Providence has assigned her; she
will distaste such duties, if she does not refuse them; while the
distance at which her attainments place her from ordinary minds, forbid
all attempts to imitate or follow her."

"You have drawn a picture," answered Mrs. A., "which would convert half
the world, if they were not of your mind already, as I believe they are.
It is a picture so beautiful, I would not blot it with the shadow of my
finger. I concede that talent is not necessary to usefulness, and a
woman may fulfill every duty of her station without it. But our question
is of comparative usefulness; and there I have something to say. It is
an axiom that knowledge is power; and, if it is, the greater the
knowledge, the greater should be the power of doing good. To men,
superior intelligence gives power to dispose, control, and govern the
fortunes of others. To women, it gives influence over their minds. The
greater knowledge which she has acquired of the human heart, gives her
access to it in all its subtleties; while her acknowledged superiority
secures that deference to her counsels, which weakness ever pays to
strength.

"If the circumstances of her condition require it, I believe the greater
will suffice the less, and she will fulfill equally well the duties you
have enumerated; shedding as bright a light upon her household, as if
it bounded her horizon. Nay, more, there may be minds in her household
that need the reciprocation of an equal mind, or the support of a
superior one; there may be spirits in her family that will receive from
the influence of intellect, what they would not from simple and good
intention. There may be other wants in her neighborhood than hunger and
nakedness, and other defaulters than the ignorant and the poor. Whether
she writes, speaks, or acts, the effect is not bounded by time, nor
limited by space. That is worth telling of her, and is repeated from
mouth to mouth, which, in an ordinary person, none would notice. Her
acknowledged superiority gives her a title, as well as a capacity to
speak, where others must be silent, and carry counsel and consolation
where commoner characters might not intrude.

"The mass of human misery, and human need, and human corruption, is not
confined to the poor, the simple minded, and the child. The husband's
and the parent's cares are not confined to their external commodities,
nor the children's to the well-being of their physical estate. The mind
that could illumine its own solitude, can cheer another's destitution;
the strength that can support itself, can stay another's falling; the
wealth may be unlocked, and supply another's poverty. Those who in
prosperity seek amusement from superior talent, will seek it in
difficulty or advice, and in adversity for support."

Here I made up my mind to have a great deal of intellect.

"If I granted your position on the subject of utility," said Mrs. W., "I
am afraid I should prove the world very ungrateful by the remainder of
my argument; which goes, you know, to prove the woman of distinguished
talent less beloved than those who walk the ordinary paths of female
duty. I must take the risk, however; for, of all women in the world,
your women of genius are those I love the least; and I believe, just or
unjust, it is a very common feeling. We are not disposed to love our
superiors in any thing; but least of all, in intellect; one has always
the feeling of playing an equal game, without being sure that no
advantage will be taken of your simplicity. A woman who has the
reputation of talent, is, in this respect, the most unfortunate being on
earth. She stands in society, like a European before a horde of savages,
vainly endeavoring to signify his good intentions. If he approaches
them, they run away; if he recedes, they send their arrows after him.
Every one is afraid to address her, lest they expose to her penetration
their own deficiencies. If she talks, she is supposed to display her
powers; if she holds her tongue, it is attributed to contempt for the
company. I know that talent is often combined with every amiable
quality, and renders the character really the more lovely; but not
therefore the more beloved. It would, if known; but it seldom is known,
because seldom approached near enough to be examined.

"The simple-minded fear what they do not understand; the double-minded
envy what they cannot reach. For my good, simple housewife, every body
loves her who knows her; and nobody, who does not know her, troubles
themselves about her. But place a woman on an eminence, and every body
thinks they are obliged to like or dislike her; and, being too tenacious
to do the one without good reason, they do the other without any reason
at all. Before we can love each other, there must be sympathy,
assimilation, and, if not equality, at least such an approach to it as
may enable us to understand each other. When any one is much superior to
us, our humility shrinks from the proffers of her love, and our pride
revolts from offering her our own. Real talent is always modest, and
fears often to make advances towards affection, lest it should seem, in
doing so, to presume upon itself; but, having rarely the credit of
timidity, this caution is attributable to pride. Your superior woman,
therefore, will not be generally known or beloved by her own sex, among
whom she may have many admirers, but few equals.

"I say nothing of marriage, because I am not speculating upon it for my
child, as upon the chances of a well-played game; but it is certain that
the greater number of men are not highly intellectual, and therefore
could not wisely choose a highly intellectual wife, lest they place
themselves in the condition in which a husband should not be--of mental
inferiority."

"Mrs. W.," answered her friend, "I am aware this is your strongest post;
but I must not give ground without a battle. A great deal I shall yield
you. I shall give up quantity, and stand upon the value of the
remainder. Be it granted, then, that of any twenty people assembled in
society, every one of whom will pronounce your common-place woman to be
very amiable, very good, and very pleasing, ten shall pronounce my
friend too intellectual for their taste, eight shall find her not so
clever as they expected, and, of the other two, one at least shall not
be sure whether they like her or not. Be it granted that, of every five
ladies assembled to gossip freely, and tell out their small cares and
feelings to the sympathizing kindness of your friend, four shall become
silent as wax-work on the entrance of mine. And be it granted that, of
any ten gentlemen to whom yours would be a very proper wife, not more
than one could wisely propose himself to mine. But have I therefore lost
the field? Perhaps she would tell you no; the two in twenty, the one in
five or ten, are of more value, in her estimation, than all the number
else.

"Things are not apt to be valued by their abundance. On the jeweler's
stall, many a brilliant trinket will disappear, ere the high-priced gem
be asked for; but is it, therefore, the less valued, or the less cared
for? When beloved at all, she is loved permanently; for, in the lapse of
time, that withers the charm of beauty, and blights the simplicity of
youth, her ornaments grow but the brighter for wearing. In proportion
to the depth of the intellect, I believe, is the depth of every thing;
feelings, affections, pleasures, pains, or whatever else the enlarged
capacity conceives. It is difficult perhaps for an inferior mind to
estimate what a superior mind enjoys in the reciprocation of affection.
Attachment, with ordinary persons, is enjoyed to-day, and regretted
to-morrow, and the next day replaced and forgotten; but with these it
never can be forgotten, because it can never be replaced."

As the argument, thus terminated, converted neither party, it is
needless to say it left me in suspense. Mrs. W. was still determined her
child should not be a superior woman. Mrs. A. was still resolved her
child should be, at all ventures; and I was still undetermined whether I
would endeavor to be a learned woman or not. The little Fanny laughed
aloud, opened her large round eyes, and shouted, "So I will, mamma!" The
little Jemima colored to the ends of her fingers, and lowered still
farther the lashes that veiled her eyes.




EASILY DECIDED.


I was walking with some friends in a retired part of the country. It had
rained for fourteen days before, and I believed it rained then; but
there was a belief among the ladies of that country that it is better to
walk in all weather. The lane was wide enough to pass in file, with
chilly droppings from the boughs above, and rude re-action of the briers
beneath. The clay upon our shoes showed a troublesome affinity to the
clay upon the road. Umbrellas we could not hold up because of the wind.
But it was better to walk than stay at home, so at least my companions
assured me, for exercise and an appetite. After pursuing them, with
hopeless assiduity, for more than a mile, without sight of egress or
sign of termination, finding I had already enough of the one, and
doubting how far the other might be off, I lagged behind, and began to
think how I might amuse myself till their return.

By one of those fortunate incidents, which they tell me never happen to
any body but a listener, I heard the sound of voices over the hedge.
This was delightful. In this occupation I forgot both mud and rain,
exercise and appetite. The hedge was too thick to see through, and all
that appeared above it was a low chimney, from which I concluded it
concealed a cottage garden.

"What in the name of wonder, James, can you be doing?" said a voice,
significant of neither youth nor gentleness.

"I war'nt ye know what I am about," said another, more rudely than
unkindly.

"I'm not sure of that," rejoined the first; "you've been hacking and
hewing at them trees this four hours, and I do not see, for my part, as
you're like to mend them."

"Why, mother," said the lad, "you see we have but two trees in all the
garden, and I've been thinking they'd match better if they were alike;
so I've tied up to a pole the boughs of the gooseberry-bush, that used
to spread themselves about the ground, to make it look more like this
thorn; and now I'm going to cut down the thorn to make it look more like
the gooseberry-bush."

"And what's the good of that?" rejoined the mother; "has not the tree
sheltered us many a stormy night, when the wind would have beaten the
old casement about our ears? and many a scorching noon-tide, hasn't your
father eaten his dinner in its shade? And now, to be sure, because you
are the master, you think you can mend it!"

"We shall see," said the youth, renewing his strokes. "It's no use as it
is; I dare say you'd like to see it bear gooseberries."

"No use!" exclaimed the mother; "don't the birds go to roost on the
branches, and the poultry get shelter under it from the rain? and after
all your cutting, I don't see as you're likely to turn a thorn-tree into
a gooseberry-bush!"

"I don't see why I should not," replied the sage artificer, with a tone
of reflectiveness; "the leaf is near about the same, and there are
thorns on both; if I make that taller and this shorter, and they grow
the same shape, I don't suppose you know why one should bear
gooseberries any more than the other, as wise as you are."

"Why, to be sure, James," the old woman answered, in a moderate voice,
"I can't say that I do; but I have lived almost through my threescore
years and ten, and I have never heard of gooseberries growing on a
thorn."

"Haven't you, though?" said James; "but then I have, or something pretty
much like it; for I saw the gardener, over yonder, cutting off the head
of a young pear-tree, and he told me he was going to make it bear
apples."

"Well," said the mother, seemingly reconciled, "I know nothing of your
new-fangled ways. I only know it was the finest thorn in the parish;
but, to be sure, now they are more match-like and regular."

I left a story half told. This may seem to be another, but it is in fact
the same. James, in the Sussex-lane, and my friends in Montague-square,
were engaged in the same task, and the result of the one would pretty
fairly measure the successes of the other; both were contravening the
order of nature, and pursuing their own purpose, without consulting the
appointments of Providence.

Fanny was a girl of common understanding; such indeed as suitable
cultivation might have matured into simple good sense; but from which
her parents' scheme of education could produce nothing but pretension
that could not be supported, and an affectation of what could never be
attained. Conscious of the want of all perceptible talent in her child,
Mrs. A. from the first told the stories of talent opening late, and the
untimely blighting of premature intellect; and, to the last, maintained
the omnipotence of cultivation.

On every new proof of the smallness of her mind, another science was
added to enlarge it. Languages, dead and living, were to be to her the
keys of knowledge; but they unlocked nothing to Fanny but their own
grammars and vocabularies, which she learned assiduously, without so
much as wondering what they meant. The more dull she proved, the more
earnestly she was plied. She was sent to school to try the spur of
emulation; and brought home again for the advantage of more exclusive
attention. And, as still the progress lagged, all feminine employ and
childlike recreations were prohibited, to gain more time for study. It
cannot be said that Fannny's health was injured by the over action of
her mind; for, having none, it could not be easily acted upon; but, by
perpetual dronish application, and sacrifice of all external things for
the furtherance of this scheme of mental cultivation, her physical
energies were suppressed, and she became heavy, awkward, and inactive.

Fanny had no pleasure in reading, but she had a pride in having read;
and listened, with no small satisfaction, to her mother's detail of the
authors she was conversant with; beyond her age, and, as some untalented
ventured to suggest, not always suited to her years of innocence. The
arcana of their pages were safe, however, and quite guiltless of her
mind's corruption. Fanny never thought, whatever she might read; what
was in the book, was nothing to her; all her business was to _have_ read
it. Meantime, while the powers he had not were solicited in vain, the
talents she had were neglected and suppressed. Her good-humored
enjoyment of ordinary things, her real taste for domestic arrangement,
and open simplicity of heart, were derided as vulgar and unintellectual.
Her talent for music was thought not worth cultivating; time could not
be spared. Some little capacity she had for drawing, as an imitative
art, was baffled by the determination to teach it her scientifically,
thus rendering it as impossible as every thing else. In short--for why
need I prolong my sketch?--Fanny was prepared by nature to be the _beau
ideal_ of Mrs. W.'s amiable woman.

Constitutionally active and benevolent, judicious culture might have
made her sensible, and, in common life, intelligent, pleasing, useful,
happy. Nay, I need only refer to the picture of my former paper, to say
what Fanny, well educated, was calculated to become. But this was what
her parents were determined she should not be; and they spent twenty
years, and no small amount of cash, to make her a woman of superior mind
and distinguished literary attainments.

I saw the result; for I saw Fanny at twenty, the most unlovely, useless,
and unhappy being I ever met with. The very docility of a mind, not
strong enough to choose its own part, and resist the influence of
circumstances, hastened forward the catastrophe. She had learned to
think herself what she could not be, and to despise what in reality she
was; she could not otherwise than do so, for she had been imbued with it
from her cradle.

She was accustomed from her infancy to intellectual society; kept up to
listen, when she should have been in bed; she counted the spots on the
carpet, heard nothing that was said, and prided herself on being one of
such company. A little later, she was encouraged to talk to every body,
and give her opinion upon every thing, in order to improve and exercise
her mind. Her mind remained unexercised, because she talked without
thinking; but she learned to chatter, to repeat other people's opinions,
and fancy her own were of immense importance.

She was unlovely, because she sought only to please by means she had
not, and to please those who were quite beyond her reach; others she had
been accustomed to neglect as unfit for her companionship. She was
useless, because what she might have done well, she was unaccustomed to
do at all, and what she attempted, she was incapable of. And she was
unhappy, because all her natural tastes had been thwarted, and her
natural feelings suppressed; and of her acquired habits and
high-sounding pursuits she had no capacity for enjoyment. Her love of
classic and scientific lore, her delight in libraries, and museums, and
choice intellects, and literary circles, was a fiction; they gratified
nothing but her vanity. Her small, narrow, weak, and dependent mind, was
a reality, and placed her within reach of mortification and
disappointment, from the merest and meanest trifles.

Jemima--my little friend Jemima--I lived to see her a woman too. From
her infancy she had never evinced the tastes and feelings of a child.
Intense reflection, keen and impatient sensibility and an unlimited
desire to know, marked her from the earliest years as a very
extraordinary child; dislike to the plays and exercises of childhood
made her unpleasing to her companions, and, to superficial observers,
melancholy; but this was amply contradicted by the eager vivacity of her
intellect and feeling, when called forth by things beyond the usual
compass of her age. Every thing in Jemima gave promise of extraordinary
talent and distinguished character. This her parents saw, and were
determined to counteract. They had made up their minds what a woman
should be, and were determined Jemima should be nothing else. Every
thing calculated to call forth her powers was kept out of her way, and
childish occupations forced on her in their stead. The favorite maxim
was, to occupy her mind with common things; she was made to romp, and to
dance and to play; to read story books, and make dolls' clothes. Her
physical powers were thus occupied; but where was her mind the while?
Feeding itself with fancies, for want of truths; drawing false
conclusions, forming wrong judgments, and brooding over its own
mistakes, for want of a judicious occupation of its activities.

Another maxim was, to keep Jemima ignorant of her own capacity, lest she
should set up for a genius, and be undomesticated. She was told she had