ling each unhallowed desire, shedding a holy light on the sins and sorrows and shadows of earth, fitting man for beauty and blessedness above. Nor exactly as Mrs. Ellis has drawn them, necessary appendages to a domestic establishment, as essential in their way to the complete happiness of their lord and master, man, as a cook, or a groom; amiable young creatures, intended to work man's worsted slippers, mend his gloves, put buttons on his shirt, and strings to his collars, to smile when he is cross, sing when he is tired, and sit still when it pleases his magnanimous will. But to women as they are, man's toy and delight, and plague, and wonder, and joy-to women as they are, whom the Hebrew Solomon, in the far distant ages that are gone, found a mockery, a delusion, and a snare; whom Horace found in his day, "Varium et semper mutabile." Of whom Terence thus spoke "Nosti mulierum ingenium, Nolunt ubi velis-ubi nolis cupiunt ultro." Of whom that old cynic, Diogenes, said things yet more ungallant, so much so indeed, that we do not care to quote the original Greek; and of whom even Scott, the poet pre-eminently of chivalry and romance, was compelled by his sense of truth to confess that they were Far from us, be the wicked presumption to depict woman as she might be, "That faultless monster, whom the world ne'er saw ;" whose every grace is exerted but for man's lasting good; by whom he is cheered in adversity, upheld in temptation, in weakness made strong; but woman by whom, in his young days, he is plunged into every extravagance; for whose sake he wears expensive boots, scented pocket-handkerchiefs, gets in debt, neglects business or study, as the case may be, goes out when his mother is not aware of the fact, and sorely vexes the paternal bosom. Such is our humble aim, nor will we shrink from the discharge of our duty, whatever terrors may beset our path. Calm and philosophical here, in our lone retreat, the frowns or smiles of no modern Delilah can influence us in the least. Women as they are, shall be our theme. "In such a cause who can be neuter? And see how I will drain th' pewter." Women, as we see them buying silk dresses at Swan and Edgar's, French kid gloves at Houbigant's, blazing from the dress circle of the theatre, studying the charms of Bondstreet, or taking their constitutional airing in Hyde Park. And lovely do they look in their studied simplicity, and artful artlessness. In vain does the painter seek to catch the beauty that the living form alone can express. Not Titian, nor Etty, skilful as he is in sketching female forms of every variety of loveliness, can represent on canvass what many often gaze on with delight. Nor can sculpture, though it may hand down to the admiration of the world, who have looked at it with eager eyes, a Venus de Medici, transfer to stone the grace and fascination met with in the fair of every civilized race; for beauty and barbarism-beauty resulting from intelligence and moral feeling-cannot coexist. No, in vain are the efforts of art, transcendant though they be. We exclaim, as Byron sang with truth and power "I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal." Women as they are, then, are divided by Mr. Alexander Walker into three classesthe locomotive, the nutritive, and the intellectual. To one or other of these classifications do most of them belong. The first class consist of such as the great Frederick would have desired for his guards. To the second belong the dumpy women, who, we believe, merely because Byron wanted a rhyme, and so lugged them into Don Juan, have been most unjustly abused. We feel bound, in common politeness, to come to their rescue. In times past, for we-like sweet Sir Andrew -were adored once, we have loved more than one such. They grow upon acquaintance. Your heart is not taken by storm, as is sometimes done by the Venuses of the locomotive order; nevertheless, we do incline towards them ourselves. They grow around you, and you wake, and find yourself unwittingly in love. They are wonderfully vigorous, too, in their way, and he must be indeed a novice who cannot see passion dancing in their dark eyes, or nestling beneath a brow of seeming tranquillity and peace. Neutrality they abhor. In love or in war they generally take a decided part. This, at any rate, in these monotonous days, is a refreshing fact; long may they live and love, say we. The last are the blues; they, we rejoice to say, in spite of such dread names as Mrs. Somerville, and Harriet Martineau, and other strong-minded women, can never be, comparatively speaking, a very numerous tribe. It is not true, certainly, that woman was formed "To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer;" but it is equally true, that she is not fitted to contend with man for superiority in science or in lettered lore. With a brain smaller, and a vital system more developed, than that I |