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shown in that induction of the philosophic Aspasia, addressed to Xenophon and his wife, as related by Æschines, à disciple of Socrates. Having composed this induction for the purpose of producing a reconciliation between them, Aspasia thus concludes it :- For when once you shall be persuaded that neither a worthier man nor a more delightful woman exists upon earth, then, most undoubtedly, will each of you seek most anxiously to repossess that which you esteem the best of its kind—thou to be husband to the most perfect of women, she to be wife to the most excellent of men.'
“Holy indeed,' and more than philosophic, is this sentiment of hers,– worthy, in truth, to be the offspring, not of mere philosophy, but of wisdom herself. Holy is the error, and blessed the illusion, through which a perfect affection may keep the matrimonial bond unbroken, by purity of heart yet more than of person.”
By the old Greek mythologists, Hebe was fabled to be the presiding deity of youth-the ever-blooming wine-bearer to all the gods. She was usually represented as a young virgin, crowned with flowers and arrayed in a variegated garment.
WOMANLY VIRTUES. WE have asserted the equality of the sexes. We demand the union of their interests. Let it not be thought that we desire a confusion of duties: though we exclaim against the offensive cant of male employments and female proprieties. It is absurd for either man or woman to attempt that for which either he or she is unqualified, under whatever sex, or name, the attempted duty may be classed; but it is far more absurd to classify the duties of humanity in the prejudiced spirit of partial experience. Do away with the artificial restrictions which prevent free action, which cripple Nature. She will grow straight out of her irons.
Are there no womanly deeds worth chronicling? Have we not read of the Royal Wife* who sucked the poison from her husband's wound, saving his life at the risk of her own-a noble image of the womanly love that sucks the poison out of the wounded life of man? Shall we forget Her who fed her prisoned father from her own breast; or Her, that noble mother of patriotism, who, when she saw her dead son borne upon his shield, rejoiced that he had well served his country? The high-souled and outraged Boadicea—is not her name worth a place in history? The Saviour of France, Joan of Arc, the glorious peasant-girl; and her worthy sister, the Maid of Saragossaare these but dim lights in the galaxy of Fame? Was not Cleopatra Queen of Men, the Mistress of the Cæsars? The imperial Zenobía; England's Empress, the master-politician, the sagacious Elizabeth—verily, wise and noble men, such men as Longinus and Walter Raleigh, have knelt to these. Modest Men! whose self-esteem does not insist that Truth shall fall down and worship the clay-footed image it has set up—which of you is greater than these?" Oh lend your name to the echoing of eternity, for the scroll of History holds a forged record, and Fame is hungering for truth! Will it be urged that these noble ones were exceptions? Well, and was not Napoleo an exception? Heaven be thanked, therefore, albeit his evil genius has done the world good service. There are not many Shaksperes. The world has
• Eleanor, Queen of Edward I.
more continents than epic poems. And were all men wise as Lucretius and lovely as the Divinest Shelley, they would owe something to woman's nurture. Cato died not more nobly than the heroic French woman, who, on the scaffold, asked for a pen, that she might“ write the strange thoughts that were rising in her;" and the name of Angelina Grimke, the fearless abolitionist, the zealous friend of the American slave, who has not quailed under the blows of hatred or at the savage menaces of contumely and death, shall be written on the world's heart above even that of the world-honoured Washington, the patriot and, alas! the slave-holder.
And “there is no power in woman;" "her capacities are limited”:—by man's arbitrary restrictions. Blame not the chained eagle if it soar not heavenward. We have certainly no record of a Great Epic Poem written by a Woman, it may be that a woman could not write a first-rate tragedy. She may do
The life of a clear-souled woman is in itself a poem; the history of her passion and the fearful wrestling of Love and Doom is the most solemn tragedy. Which is greater—the Original or the Image; the Incarnate Divinity or the grandest scriptural revelation of Beauty? Surely the performance shall out-value the conception.
We have no intention of drawing up a Table of Duties. We desire to teach; we dare to lecture. But we recommend no rules to be learned by rote. We would expel the Dogmatists and in their place enthrone the better Divines, the addressers of the heart. Learn, from the Sacred Writings of the Poets—the Greater Prophets—what all of womankind may hope to be!
BEAUTIFUL PORTRAITURES OF WOMEN.
BY THE GREAT ENGLISH POETS.
• Madame Roland.
She was so charitable and so piteous,
A," And after—“Amor vincit omnia."(11) (PARTIALLY MODERNISED FROM THE) Prologue to the Canterbury Tales.
Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log.
You look wearily.
Miranda :-O my father,
Admir'd Miranda !
I do not know
Nor can imagination form a shape, (4) Bread made of the finest flour. (5) Rod. (6) A neck-kerchief. (7) Plaited.
(8) Undergrown. (9) Trimmed. (10) Bright. (11) “Love conquers all things."
Besides yourself, to like of: But I prattle
Fer. I am, in my condition,
I am a fool,
Wherefore weep you ?
will or no. Fer.
My mistress, dearest,
My husband then?
hand. Mira. And mine, with my heart in 't.
The Tempest: Act 11, Scene 1.
Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye,
and, to consummate all,
Paradise Lost: Books IV and vill.