Part 6

'Tis hard that in our pilgrimage below, In all the storms and trials of the heart, A friend, the only balm to sooth our woe, That from that friend we should be forced to part, Proud Ocean, thou hast borne a brother o'er Thy heaving bosom to another strand; Tho' not unfriended was the distant shore, Still, still, it was a strange and foreign land.

My brother--if my heart could but disclose Its warmest wish, it is with thee to be. My brother--if the fondest feeling glows Within my bosom, it still points to thee. My brother--does thy heart in transport hear The name of friends, of country, and of home? My brother--does thy soul these things revere, As once in early days untaught to roam?

My brother--does a hope thy breast inflame, To clasp those dear loved objects to thy heart? I fear the charm has faded from their name, The bliss forgot, that it could once impart: No, no--upon thy heart are deep portray'd The home, the friends that thou hast left behind; 'Tis not in time's destructive power to fade Those generous feelings from a noble mind.

J. M. C. D.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DISSERTATION

On the Characteristic Differences between the Sexes, and on the Position and Influence of Woman in Society.

No. III.

_Resignation--Fortitude_.

In my first number I described woman as modest and timid, and man as bold and courageous, and endeavored to explain the causes of this characteristic difference between them. In the same number, however, I showed that so strong are the humane feelings of woman, so powerful are her kindly sympathies, that under peculiar circumstances she will sometimes conquer all the weaknesses of her nature, triumph over all opposing obstacles, and finally carry consolation and relief to man, when overwhelmed by misfortunes of so appalling a character as even to intimidate the hardier sex, and keep them at a distance. In my last I pointed out the religious differences between the sexes together with their causes, and the subject naturally invites me to compare them together in relation to their _fortitude and resignation_ under calamities and misfortunes.

I think there can be no doubt that woman is generally more resigned than man under any very severe infliction which cannot be avoided. Her calm resignation under the severest strokes of fortune, has been the theme of eulogy for the poet, and the puzzle for the philosopher, from the earliest times to the present. She who in her "hours of ease" is so timid, so shrinking, so fearful of even a shadow, has always been found in the dark hour of adversity to bear up with more fortitude and resignation against the tide of woe than man. This character belongs to woman even in the most savage state. She supports, in that state, misfortunes both physical and moral with more resignation than man. Ask, says Gisborne in his "Duties of Woman," among barbarians in the ancient and the modern world who is the best daughter and wife, and the answer is "she who bears with superior perseverance the vicissitudes of the seasons, the fervor of the sun, the dews of night." In fine, she who is most resigned and meek under the heavy and intolerable burthen which is ever placed upon her.

Physicians tell us that woman supports sickness, pain and suffering, much better than man. We are told that in the great earthquake in Calabria, in 1783, which destroyed 40,000 persons, there was a very noted difference between the men and women in regard to their resignation. The very bodies of the sexes dug from the ruins marked the difference in this respect between them--those of the women exhibited calmness and resignation in the hour of death--their arms were generally found hanging by their sides, or calmly folded over their breasts; all struggle seemed to have ceased before death, and they quietly submitted to their fate. Not so with the men. Their bodies when dug from the ruins exhibited a mortal struggle to the last--a leg thrust out here, an arm protruded there, and the whole body thrown into an agonizing contortion, but too clearly marked the fearful conflict which endured till the moment of dissolution, and the great reluctance with which they let go their hold on life.

Let us then inquire into the causes of this difference between the sexes, and we shall find them to spring out of circumstances already pointed out and explained. I shall therefore be very brief on this point.

I have already said that woman is physically weaker and consequently less capable of laborious and constant exertion than man. The latter, therefore, occupies the front station, whilst the former takes possession of the back ground in the picture of human society. The former is more self reliant, more bold, more confident and active--the latter more modest, more timid, more dependent and passive. Man depends on his activity, his energy and his strength, for the mastery of all around him. Woman depends on her modesty, grace, beauty, in fine upon her fascinations to command those energies which she finds not within herself. _Activity_ is eminently the character of the one, _passivity_ of the other. Now I have already pointed out the effect of this dependence of woman on her feelings of devotion and religion. A similar effect is produced on her resignation when visited by some remediless calamity. Her weakness and dependence, at an early period of her life admonish her of the hopelessness of all conflicts with the mightier powers around her. When visited by any great misfortune, therefore, whether the work of nature or of man, she is more resigned and patient under her suffering, whilst man in the vain confidence of his powers is disposed to battle and struggle with fate even to the last.

Her religion, her superior devotional feelings, have likewise a mighty influence in the production of that calm resignation which woman so often exhibits amid the storms and calamities of this world. She has a more abiding and implicit faith in the protection of heaven--her trust, her reliance is greater; and whether she be overtaken by calamity upon the land, or on the sea, she at once throws herself into the arms of the divinity and quietly awaits the result. Man is like the mariner aboard the ship--he must be always on the alert--he must trim the sails, watch the midnight blast, and steer the ship on her way over the rolling billows. Woman is like the passenger in the vessel. She is carried forward by powers that are not hers, by energies that she is unable to control. When then the tempest comes, and the sea is lashed into the mountain wave--while every sailor is on the deck at his post, battling against the storm, she is calm and quiet within--she knows full well that all her efforts will be in vain--she therefore looks to heaven for aid and protection: she trusts in God whose arm alone is mighty, and able to save, and in the full devotion of a confiding and trusting heart, she can truly exclaim:

"Secure I rest upon the wave For thou, my God, hast power to save, I know thou wilt not slight my call, For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rock'd in the cradle of the deep."[1]

There is certainly nothing which contrasts so beautifully with the restless activity and feverish impatience of man, as the calm and subdued countenance of woman in the hour of resignation, amid the stern powers that are at work around her. How beautiful, how transcendently lovely does the Thekla of Schiller's Wallenstein appear in the camp surrounded by soldiers encased in iron. I borrow from the graphic pen of M. B. Constant. "Sa voix si douce au travers le bruit des armes, sa form delicate au milieu des hommes tout couverts de fer, la pureté de son âme opposée a leurs calculs avides, son calm celeste qui contraste avec leurs agitations, remplissent le spectateur d'une emotion constante et melancholique, telle que ne la fait ressentir nulle tragedie ordinaire."

[Footnote 1: These beautiful lines are taken from the Ocean Hymn, published in the 10th number of the Messenger, from the pen of Mrs. Emma Willard.]

Again, I have already explained how it happens that woman is capable of suffering more than man in silence, without wearing even such an aspect of countenance as may betray the internal agony. For the same reason, of course, she has more resignation and fortitude.

Lastly, her physical organization renders her much more liable than man to constitutional derangements, to periodical sickness, and physical infirmities of all descriptions. Disease gradually inures the mind to resignation and patience, and at last teaches us to bear with fortitude all the ills we have. "We seldom," says Bulwer, "find men of great animal health and power, possessed of much delicacy of mind. That impetuous and reckless buoyancy of spirit which mostly accompanies a hardy and iron frame, is not made to enter into the infirmities of others;" and he might well have added, is not made to bear its own infirmities and calamities with resignation and fortitude, when at last overtaken by them. It is well, perhaps, in the order of nature, that we should be afflicted sometimes. It improves all our sensibilities, and strengthens our patience and resignation, to have our thoughts occasionally directed to

"The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave, The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm."

"Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco," is the noble motto which disease and infirmity have written on the heart of many a female.

Having thus cursorily pointed out the causes of the superiority of woman in regard to the resignation and fortitude with which she bears misfortune, I cannot refrain from indulgence in a few remarks on the admirable adaptation of the sexes to each other in this particular. There is nothing more grateful to the feeling of piety, than to be able to trace out in the works of nature, such adaptations as not only mark the intelligence and unity of divinity, but proclaim in language as clear as revelation itself, his unbounded benevolence and goodness. It is this superior resignation and fortitude of woman, which so well befits her to be the comfort and support of man in the hour of remediless misfortune. Man is necessarily an active, restless, energetic, impatient being. This character is generated by the functions which he has to discharge in this world. He must not too soon retire from the conflict. He must not bear too calmly and quietly, the misfortunes and ills of this life. He must arouse himself, and be in action. He must oppose and conquer all the obstacles around him. In the beautiful language of one of the ancients, "he must remember that nature has not intended him for a lowspirited or ignoble being, but brought him into life in the midst of this vast universe, as before a multitude assembled at some heroic solemnity, that he might be a spectator of all her magnificence, and a candidate for the high prize of glory." Under these circumstances resignation and patience could not, perhaps ought not to have been prominent traits in his character. Woman, however, moves in a different sphere, and acquires, of course, a different character. Her resignation and fortitude not only supports herself but man likewise, amid the calamities of the world. "As the vine," says Irving, "which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifled by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity, winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart."

It is in the conjugal state where all the kind and humane attributes of woman are augmented and softened by the mighty influence of human love, that we most frequently behold her supporting and cheering her partner, when visited by the rough blasts of adversity; and sometimes, when all hope on this side the grave has fled, when his doom is fixed, and disease or the execution of the law is quickly to hurry him into another world, we find woman still his dearest solace, sometimes encouraging him by examples which mark so much devotion, so much self-sacrifice, as frequently to rise into the region of the moral sublime. It is well known that the stoic religion of the ancients justified suicide, when the individual, after a due consideration of all the circumstances, came to the conclusion that he had fulfilled all his more glorious destinies on earth. Hence it was frequently considered a duty incumbent on man to put an end to his existence, when calamity and misfortune seemed to mark him out as a nuisance on earth. Hence, too, according to Dr. Smith, this religion may be considered as "the noblest death-song ever sung by man." We must go back then, to antiquity, when this religion was prevalent, and of course when suicide was justified, to see what woman is capable of doing to console or encourage her husband in the midst of his calamities.

Pliny the younger, tells us of a neighbor, in the humbler walks of life, who was visited by a loathsome, painful disease, of an incurable character. Himself and wife came to the conclusion that it would be better for him to end his existence; and in order that she might encourage him to execute this resolve, she determined to die with him. The death which she chose, was truly characteristic of that devoted affection which she had so constantly felt for him whilst alive. She was bound in his arms, and in this condition they precipitated themselves from a window into the sea beneath. Montaigne seems to have been particularly struck with this act of heroism on the part of a female who was of an humble and obscure family, and remarks, that "even amongst that condition of people, it is no very new thing to see some examples of uncommon good nature."

----"Extrema per illos Justitia excedens terris vestigia facit."

Seneca, the philosopher and tutor of Nero, was condemned to death by his pupil, in the decline of life, after having married Pompeia Paulina, a young and noble Roman lady, who loved and was loved devotedly by him. She too, in the plenitude of her grief and affection, nobly determined to die with her husband, and thus to encourage him by her example, quietly but firmly to bear the last struggle of humanity. She, however, was saved, after having opened her veins, by the emissaries of Nero, who feared the effect which this act of self-immolation might produce on the excitable populace of Rome.

Plutarch, in one of his most interesting Dialogues, makes Daphneus assert that there is something divine in the love of woman, and compares it to the sun that animates all nature. He places the greatest felicity in conjugal love, and gives us as an exemplification, the very interesting tale of the adventures of Eppopina, which passed before the eyes of Plutarch, as he was at that time living in the house of Vespasian. Sabinus, the husband of Eppopina, being vanquished by the troops of the Emperor Vespasian, concealed himself in a deep cavern between Franche Compté and Champagne. The unbounded affection of Eppopina and her untiring researches, soon enabled her to find the hiding place of him who commanded all the affections of her heart. She determined to be the consoler and the comforter of her husband, who was buried from the world. She accordingly shut herself up with him, attended on him in that dark cavern for many years, and bore children whilst there; and all this she encountered for his sake. When brought before Vespasian, who was astonished at her heroism and fortitude, she said to him, "I have lived more happily under ground, than thou in the light of the sun, and in the enjoyment of power."

But one of the most celebrated examples on record, of the ardent desire of woman to console and encourage her husband in the dismal hour of despair, is furnished by Arria, the wife of Cecina Pætus. This Pætus, after the defeat by the troops of the Emperor Claudius of the army of Scribonianus, whose party he had espoused, was condemned to death by the same emperor. It was the custom under the emperors, to leave condemned individuals to terminate their existence themselves, provided they could have the resolution to do it. Pætus wavered and hesitated. The dreadful struggle which it cost him, made a deeper impression upon the devoted and tender heart of Arria than even the sentence of death had inflicted. After caressing and encouraging him by the most tender offices to nerve himself to the act, she took the poniard which he wore by his side, and exclaiming, "Pætus, do thus!" she plunged it into her own bosom; then drawing it from the reeking wound, she presented the dagger to her husband "with this noble, generous, and immortal saying:" _Pæte non dolet!_ "Pætus, it is not painful!"[2]

[Footnote 2: This death has afforded Martial the subject of one of his most elegant epigrams, which has been thus rendered:

"When to her husband Arria gave the sword, Which from her chaste, her bleeding breast she drew, She said, 'My Pætus, this I do not feel; But, oh! the wound that must be made by you!' She could no more--but on her Pætus still, She fix'd her feeble, her expiring eyes; And when she saw him raise the pointed steel, She sunk--and seem'd to say, 'Now Arria dies!'"]

Such instances as these we do not find in modern times, because the introduction of a more humane and rational religion, together with juster and more philosophical notions upon the subject of morality, have taught us that under no circumstances short of _absolute necessity_, can suicide be justified. But we are not to infer that woman is not as kind, as tender now as in the days of antiquity, when her religious creed did not forbid suicide. What, for example, can show more kind solicitude, more tender anxiety about the last moments of a condemned husband, than the letter written by Lady Jane Grey to her husband Lord Guilford Dudley, a short time previous to his execution, when she herself at the same time was lying under a sentence of condemnation. "Do not let us meet, Guilford," she says, "we must see each other no more, until we are united in a better world. We must forget our joys so sweet, our loves so tender and so happy. You must now devote yourself to none but serious thoughts. No more love, no more happiness here upon earth! We must now think of nothing but death! Remember, my Guilford, that the people are waiting for you, to see how a man can die. Show no weakness as you approach the scaffold; your fortitude would be overcome perhaps, were you to see me. You could not quit your poor Jane without tears; and tears and weakness must be left to us women. Adieu, my Guilford adieu! be a man--be firm at the last hour--let me be proud of you." Well then might Guilford die like a hero, when he had such a wife to encourage and be proud of him. And who was this tender, kind, consoling wife, in the hour of death? Her political history is known to all. Almost forced for a moment to wear the crown of England, she incurred the guilt of treason, was condemned to death at the very time when she forgets herself in trying to impart resignation and fortitude to her husband, and was executed a few days afterwards. She is described as having been lovely beyond measure. Her features were beautifully regular, and her large and mild eyes were the reflection of a pure and virtuous soul, peaceful and unambitious. Yet even she could forget blood and royalty, and all the weakness of her own nature, and the terrors of her own execution, to impart moral courage and resignation to a husband about to die.

Many most affecting instances of the same kind might be cited from the French revolution; but my limits will permit me to adduce no more. I hope then, all my readers are ready to acknowledge the justice of the celebrated eulogy which the Duke de Lioncourt passed upon the merits of woman in this particular--a eulogy whose justice and truth his condition and career in life, seem to have well befitted his head to comprehend and his heart to feel. "Their friendship," says he, "is inviolable, their fidelity unshaken, their courage invincible. They are intimidated by no difficulty, and bid defiance to dangers. Amiable woman! while man desponds, she animates him with new hopes. When he is sick, she ministers unto him; when in distress, she comforts him, bids him live, and makes him in love with himself. And well can she sooth and comfort him: she is all patience, she is all fortitude. The endearments of her smiles, the melting accents of her voice, and her bewitching softness, beguile him of his sorrows, and make his prison a palace." Enough has been said to prove the admirable adaptation of the sexes to each other in the particular under discussion, and to show what a kind ministering angel woman can become in the dark hour of adversity.