{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_68068/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_68068","id":"gutenberg_68068","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68068","summary":null,"tags":["Affect (Psychology)","Category: Gender & Sexuality Studies","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Emotions"],"text":"FEMALE AFFECTION.\n\n  BY\n  BASIL MONTAGU.\n\n  LONDON:\n  J. BOHN, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND.\n  MDCCCXLV.\n\n\n\n\n  LONDON:\n\n  WILLIAM STEVENS, PRINTER, BELL YARD,\n  TEMPLE BAR.\n\n\n\n\n  TO HIS DEAR EDITH, FROM HER\n  AFFECTIONATE GRANDFATHER.--B. M.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThere are certain properties of the female mind upon which doubt has\nexisted, and may, possibly, long exist.\n\n1. Women are said to be fond of ornament--an evil against which they\nwere thus warned by St. Paul--\u201cI will that women adorn themselves in\nmodest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety, not with embroidered\nhair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array, but which becometh women\nprofessing godliness, with good works.\u201d\n\n2. Women are said to be fond of gaiety:\n\n  \u201cSome men to business, some to pleasure take,\u201d--\n\nbut the ruling passion of woman is not the love of business.\n\n3. It is said that women act more from impulse than from foresight:\n\n  \u201cMen have many faults, women have only two,--\u201d\n\nof which the want of foresight is one.\n\n4. Women, it is said, are variable:\n\n  ----\u201cVarium et mutabile semper\n  F\u0153mina.\u201d\n\nWomen are fond of intellect, of courage, of virtue; and are capable of\nthe most heroic acts.\n\nSuch are properties of the female mind, upon which doubt may be\nentertained; but there is one property upon which doubt cannot\nexist--it is the nature of woman to be affectionate.\n\n                                                                   B. M.\n\n\n\n\nFEMALE AFFECTION.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PLEASURES OF AFFECTION.\n\nThe pleasures of the affections are Love, Friendship, Gratitude, and\ngeneral Benevolence.\n\n\u201cFor the pleasures of the affections,\u201d says Lord Bacon, \u201cwe must resort\nto the poets, for there affection is on her throne, there we may find\nher painted forth to the life.\u201d\n\nInstead of referring us to the poets, he might, according to his own\nadmonitions, have referred us to the certain mode of discovering truth,\nby observing facts around us, and particularly by observing the nature\nsought, where it is most conspicuous.\n\nIn searching, for any nature, observe it, he says, where it is most\nconspicuous; as, in inquiring into the nature of flame, observe the\nsudden ignition and expansion of gas--these are what he calls \u201c_glaring\ninstances_.\u201d\n\nThe glaring instance of affection is _Female Affection_; there indeed\nshe is on her throne, there we may find her painted forth to the life.\nIt is the nature of woman to be affectionate.\n\n\n\u00a7 I.\n\nFEMALE AFFECTION IN GENERAL.\n\nMUNGO PARK.\n\nWhen stating the miseries to which he was exposed in Africa, Mungo Park\nsays, \u201cI never, when in distress and misery, applied for relief to a\nfemale, without finding pity,--and if she had the power, assistance.\u201d\nAnd he thus mentions one instance,--\u201cI waited,\u201d he says, \u201cmore than\ntwo hours for an opportunity to cross that river, but one of the chief\nmen informed me that I must not presume to cross without the King\u2019s\npermission; he therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to\nwhich he pointed, for the night. I found to my great mortification\nthat no person would admit me into his house;--I was regarded with\nastonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without\nvictuals in the shade of a tree; and the night threatened to be very\nuncomfortable, for the wind rose, and there was great appearance of\na heavy rain; and the wild beasts are so very numerous that I should\nhave been under the necessity of climbing up the tree and resting\namong the branches. About sunset as I was preparing to pass the night\nin this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at\nliberty, a woman, returning from the labours of the field, stopped\nto observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired\ninto my situation, which I briefly explained to her; whereupon, with\nlooks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told\nme to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted a lamp,\nspread a mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the\nnight. Finding that I was hungry, she gave me a very fine fish for my\nsupper; and pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there\nwithout apprehension, she called to the female part of her family,\nwho had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to\nresume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ\nthemselves great part of the night. They lightened their labour by\nsongs; one of which was composed ex-tempore--for I was, myself, the\nsubject of it: it was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining\nin a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive; and the words,\nliterally translated, were these:--\n\n\u201c_The winds roared, and the rains fell,--the poor white man, faint and\nweary, came and sat under our tree,--he has no mother to bring him\nmilk,--no wife to grind his corn._--Chorus--_Let us pity the white\nman,--no mother has he!_\u201d _&c._\n\n\nGRIFFITH.\n\n\u201cOn the northern side of the plain we had just entered, was a large\nencampment of these people. Being in absolute want of milk, I\ndetermined to solicit the assistance of these Turcomans. Approaching\ntheir tents, with gradual step, and apparent indifference, I passed\nseveral, without observing any probability of succeeding: children,\nonly, were to be seen near the spot where I was, and men with their\nflocks, at a certain distance; advancing still farther, I saw a woman,\nat the entrance of a small tent, occupied in domestic employment.\nConvinced that an appeal to the feelings of the female sex, offered\nwith decency, by a man distressed with hunger, would not be rejected, I\nheld out my wooden bowl, and reversing it, made a salutation according\nto the forms of the country. The kind Turcomannee covered her face\nprecipitately, and retired within the tent. I did not advance a step;\nshe saw me unassuming,--my inverted bowl still explained my wants. The\ntimidity of her sex, the usages of her country, and, even the fear of\ndanger, gave way to the benevolence of her heart: she went to the tent\nagain; returned speedily with a bowl of milk, and, advancing towards me\nwith a glance more than half averted, filled my bowl to the brim, and\nvanished.\u201d\n\n\nLEDYARD.\n\n\u201cI never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship to\na woman, whether civilized or savage, without receiving a decent and\nfriendly answer. With man it has often been otherwise,--in wandering\nover the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden,\nfrozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the\nwide-spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet,\nor sick, woman has ever been friendly to me,--and uniformly so; and to\nadd to this virtue, so worthy the appellation of benevolence, these\nactions have been performed in so kind a manner, that if I was dry, I\ndrank the sweet draught,--and if hungry, ate the coarse morsel with a\ndouble relish.\u201d\n\n\nPHARAOH\u2019S DAUGHTER.\n\n\u201cAnd there went a man of the house of Levi, and took to wife a daughter\nof Levi. And the woman conceived, and bare a son: and when she saw him\nthat he was a goodly child, she hid him three months. And when she\ncould not longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and\ndaubed it with slime and with pitch, and put the child therein; and she\nlaid it in the flags by the river\u2019s brink. And his sister stood afar\noff, to wit what would be done to him. And the daughter of Pharaoh came\ndown to the river; and her maidens walked along by the river\u2019s side;\nand when she saw the ark among the flags, she sent her maid to fetch\nit. And when she had opened it, she saw the child: and, behold, the\nbabe wept. And she had compassion on him, and said,--This is one of the\nHebrews\u2019 children. Then said his sister to Pharaoh\u2019s daughter, \u2018Shall I\ngo and call to thee a nurse of the Hebrew women, that she may nurse the\nchild for thee?\u2019 And Pharaoh\u2019s daughter said to her, \u2018Go.\u2019 And the maid\nwent and called the child\u2019s mother. And Pharaoh\u2019s daughter said unto\nher, \u2018Take this child away, and nurse it for me, and I will give thee\nthy wages.\u2019 And the woman took the child, and nursed it.\u201d\n\n\n\u00a7 II.\n\nDIFFERENT FORMS OF FEMALE AFFECTION.\n\nThe nature of female affection may be seen in a variety of forms,--in\nInfancy, in the sweet love of Youth, of a Wife, of a Mother, of a\nDaughter, of a Widow.\n\n\nINFANCY.\n\nThe following is an account which I somewhere read of Nell Gwynn,\nwhen a child:--\u201cMy first love, you must know, was a link-boy,\u201d--\u201cA\n_what_?\u201d--\u201c\u2019Tis true,\u201d said she, \u201cfor all the frightfulness of your\n_what_!--and a very good soul he was, too, poor Dick! and had the\nheart of a gentleman; God knows what has become of him, but when I\nlast saw him he said he would humbly love me to his dying day. He used\nto say that I must have been a lord\u2019s daughter for my beauty, and\nthat I ought to ride in my coach; and he behaved to me as if I did.\nHe, poor boy, would light me and my mother home, when we had sold our\noranges, to our lodgings in Lewknor\u2019s Lane, as if we had been ladies\nof the land. He said he never felt easy for the evening \u2019till he had\nasked me how I did, then he went gaily about his work; and if he saw\nus housed at night, he slept like a prince. I shall never forget when\nhe came flushing and stammering, and drew out of his pocket a pair of\nworsted stockings, which he brought for my naked feet. It was bitter\ncold weather; and I had chilblains, which made me hobble about \u2019till I\ncried,--and what does poor Richard do but work hard like a horse, and\nbuy me these worsted stockings? My mother bade him put them on; and so\nhe did, and his warm tears fell on my chilblains, and he said he should\nbe the happiest lad on earth if the stockings did me any good.\u201d\n\nWhen the Commissioners visited the Penitentiary at Lambeth, where the\nprisoners are punished by solitary confinement, they found in one cell\na little girl, between eleven and twelve years of age. This child must\nhave spent many hours every day in the dark; was poorly clad, and\nscantily fed, and her young limbs were deprived of all the joyous modes\nof playful exercise, so necessary and so pleasant to that age: she\nasked neither for food, nor clothes, nor light, nor liberty,--all she\nwished for was \u201ca little doll, that she might dress and nurse it.\u201d Her\ninnocent and child-like request put an end to this cruel punishment for\nchildren.\n\n\u201cI yesterday took my dear grand-daughter to see Westminster Abbey. She\nis between seven and eight years of age, and is one of the sweetest\nangels that ever existed on earth. It was a bitter cold morning: on\nthe tomb of Mrs. Warren, who was a mother to poor children, there is\na beautiful statue of a poor half-clothed Irish girl, with her little\nnaked baby in her arms;--my dear little child looked up at me, and,\nthrough her tears, earnestly said, \u2018How I _should_ like to nurse that\nlittle baby!\u2019\u201d\n\n\nYOUTH.\n\nOf the influence of love upon youth and inexperience, it can scarcely\nbe necessary to adduce any instances. I must, however, mention one fact\nwhich occurred during the rebellion in \u201945.\n\n\u201cWhen I was a young boy, I had delicate health, and was somewhat of a\npensive and contemplative turn of mind: it was my delight in the long\nsummer evenings, to slip away from my companions, that I might walk in\nthe shade of a venerable wood, my favourite haunt, and listen to the\ncawing of the old rooks, who seemed as fond of this retreat as I was.\n\n\u201cOne evening I sat later than usual, though the distant sound of the\ncathedral clock had more than once warned me to my home. There was a\nstillness in all nature that I was unwilling to disturb by the least\nmotion. From this reverie I was suddenly startled by the sight of a\ntall slender female who was standing by me, looking sorrowfully and\nsteadily in my face. She was dressed in white, from head to foot, in a\nfashion I had never seen before; her garments were unusually long and\nflowing, and rustled as she glided through the low shrubs near me as if\nthey were made of the richest silk. My heart beat as if I was dying,\nand I knew not that I could have stirred from the spot; but she seemed\nso very mild and beautiful, I did not attempt it. Her pale brown hair\nwas braided round her head, but there were some locks that strayed upon\nher neck; altogether she looked like a lovely picture, but not like\na living woman. I closed my eyes forcibly with my hands, and when I\nlooked again she had vanished.\n\n\u201cI cannot exactly say why I did not on my return speak of this\nbeautiful appearance, nor why, with a strange mixture of hope and\nfear, I went again and again to the same spot that I might see her.\nShe always came, and often in the storm and plashing rain, that never\nseemed to touch or to annoy her, looked sweetly at me, and silently\npassed on; and though she was so near to me, that once the wind lifted\nthose light straying locks, and I felt them against my cheek, yet I\nnever could move or speak to her. I fell ill; and when I recovered, my\nmother closely questioned me of the tall lady, of whom, in the height\nof my fever, I had so often spoken.\n\n\u201cI cannot tell you what a weight was taken off my spirits when I learnt\nthat this was no apparition, but a most lovely woman; not young, though\nshe had kept her young looks,--for the grief which had broken her heart\nseemed to have spared her beauty.\n\n\u201cWhen the rebel troops were retreating after their total defeat, a\nyoung officer, in that very wood I was so fond of, unable any longer to\nendure the anguish of his wounds, sunk from his horse, and laid himself\ndown to die. He was found there by the daughter of Sir Henry Robinson,\nand conveyed by a trusty domestic to her father\u2019s mansion. Sir Henry\nwas a loyalist; but the officer\u2019s desperate condition excited his\ncompassion, and his many wounds spoke a language a brave man could not\nmisunderstand. Sir Henry\u2019s daughter with many tears pleaded for him,\nand promised that he should be carefully and secretly attended. And\nwell she kept that promise,--for she waited upon him (her mother being\nlong dead) for many weeks, and anxiously watched for the first opening\nof eyes, that, languid as he was, looked brightly and gratefully\nupon his young nurse. You may fancy, better than I can tell you, as\nhe slowly recovered, all the moments that were spent in reading, and\nlow-voiced singing, and gentle playing on the lute; and how many fresh\nflowers were brought to one whose wounded limbs would not bear him\nto gather them for himself; and how calmly the days glided on in the\nblessedness of returning health, and in that sweet silence so carefully\nenjoined him. I will pass by this, to speak of one day, which, brighter\nand pleasanter than others, did not seem more bright or more lovely\nthan the looks of the young maiden, as she gaily spoke of \u2018a little\nfestival, which (though it must bear an unworthier name) she meant\nreally to give, in honour of her guest\u2019s recovery;\u2019--\u2018and it is time,\nlady,\u2019 said he, \u2018for that guest, so tended and so honoured, to tell you\nhis whole story, and speak to you of one who will help him to thank\nyou--may I ask you, fair lady, to write a little note for me, which,\neven in these times of danger I may find some means to forward?\u2019 To his\nmother, no doubt, she thought, as with light steps and a lighter heart\nshe seated herself by his couch, and smilingly bade him dictate: but,\nwhen he said \u2018_My Dear Wife_,\u2019 and lifted up his eyes to be asked for\nmore, he saw before him a pale statue, that gave him one look of utter\ndespair, and fell (for he had no power to help her) heavily at his\nfeet. Those eyes never truly reflected the pure soul again, or answered\nby answering looks the fond inquiries of her poor old father. She lived\nto be as I saw her,--sweet, and gentle, and delicate always, but reason\nreturned no more. She visited, \u2019till the day of her death, the spot\nwhere she first saw that young soldier, and dressed herself in the very\nclothes he said so well became her.\u201d\n\n\nTHE WOMAN IN WHITE.\n\n\u201cIn walking through a street in London, I saw a crowd of men women and\nchildren hooting and laughing at a woman, who, looking neither to the\nright-hand nor to the left, passed through the midst of them in perfect\nsilence; upon approaching her, I saw that all this derision was caused\nby her dress, which, equally unsuited to the weather and her apparent\nrank in life, was from head to foot entirely _white_,--her bonnet, her\nshawl, her very shoes were _white_; and though all that she wore seemed\nof the coarsest materials, her dress was perfectly clean. As I walked\npast her, I looked stedfastly in her face. She was thin and pale, of a\npleasing countenance, and totally unmoved by the clamour around her. I\nhave since learnt her story:--The young man to whom she was betrothed\ndied on the bridal-day, when she and her companions were dressed to go\nto church: she lost her senses,--and has ever since, to use her own\nwords, been \u2018expecting her bridegroom.\u2019 Neither insult or privation of\nany kind can induce her to change the colour of her dress; she is alike\ninsensible of her bereavement by death, or of the lapse of time,--\u2018she\nis dressed for the bridal, and the bridegroom is at hand.\u2019\u201d\n\nSuch is the nature of Woman\u2019s Love--continuing in imagination, when\nreality is no more:\n\n          \u201cAs once I knew a crazy Moorish maid,\n  Who dressed her in her buried lover\u2019s clothes,\n  And o\u2019er the smooth spring in the mountain\u2019s cleft\n  Hung with her lute, and played the selfsame tune\n  He used to play, and listened to the shadow\n  Herself had made.\u201d--COLERIDGE.\n\nSuch is the tenderness, such the intensity of the love of innocence. It\nhas for ever existed, and will for ever exist,--from Eve, on the first\nday of her creation, to the many whose hearts at this moment beat with\naffection and love:\n\n  \u201cAll thoughts, all passions, all desires,\n  Whatever stirs this mortal frame,\n  All are but ministers of Love,\n  And feed his sacred flame.\u201d\n\n\nWIFE.\n\nLet us now consider affection where it appears in one of its sweetest\nforms,--in the love of a wife,--love, in the strength of which, hoping\nall things, she does not hesitate to quit her father and her mother\nand all dear to her to share the joys and sorrows of her husband. In\nprosperity she delights in his happiness, in sickness she watches over\nhim, feeling more grief than she shows.\n\nA young soldier, thus speaks of the affection of his wife:--\n\n  \u201cFor five campaigns\n    Did my sweet Lucy know\n  Each hardship and each toil\n    We soldiers undergo.\n  Nor ever did she murmur,\n    Or at her fate repine,\n  She thought not of her sorrow,\n    But how to lessen mine:\n  In hunger, or hard marching,\n    Whate\u2019er the ill might be,\n  In her I found a friend,\n    Who ne\u2019er deserted me:\n  And in my tent when wounded,\n    And when I sickening lay,\n  Oft from my brow with trembling hand,\n    She wiped the damps away.\n  And when this heart, my Lucy,\n  Shall cease to beat for thee,\n    Oh! cold, clay cold,\n  Full sure this heart must be.\u201d\n\n\nTHE ROBBER.\n\n\u201cA friend of mine who had long struggled with a dangerous fever,\napproached that crisis on which his life depended, when sleep,\nuninterrupted sleep might ensure his recovery;--his wife, scarcely\ndaring to breathe, sat by him; her servants, worn out by watching,\nhad all left her; it was past midnight,--the room door was open for\nair; she heard in the silence of the night a window thrown open below\nstairs, and soon after footsteps approaching; in a short time, a man\ncame into the room--his face was covered with a black crape: she\ninstantly saw her husband\u2019s danger; she pointed to him, and, pressing\nher finger upon her lip to implore silence, held out to the robber her\npurse and her keys: to her great surprise he took neither; he drew\nback, and left the room,--whether he was alarmed, or struck by this\ncourage of affection cannot now be known; but, without robbing a house\nsanctified by such strength of love--he departed.\u201d\n\n\nSENECA.\n\nHow well did the artist to whom we are indebted for the celebrated\npicture of the Death of Seneca, understand this deep feeling of\nfemale affection! It may be said of Seneca, as he said of a friend,\n\u201cI have applied myself to liberal studies, though both the poverty\nof my condition, and my own reason might rather have put me upon the\nmaking of my fortune. I have given proof, that all minds are capable\nof goodness; and I have illustrated the obscurity of my family by the\neminency of my virtue. I have preserved my faith in all extremities,\nand I have ventured my life for it. I have never spoken one word\ncontrary to my conscience, and I have been more solicitous for my\nfriend, than for myself. I never made any base submissions to any man;\nand I have never done any thing unworthy of a resolute, and of an\nhonest man. My mind is raised so much above all dangers, that I have\nmastered all hazards; and I bless myself in the providence which gave\nme that experiment of my virtue: for it was not fit, methought, that so\ngreat a glory should come cheap. Nay, I did not so much as deliberate,\nwhether good faith should suffer for me, or I for it. I stood my\nground, without laying violent hands upon myself, to escape the rage of\nthe powerful; though under Caligula I saw cruelties, to such a degree,\nthat to be killed outright was accounted a mercy, and yet I persisted\nin my honesty, to show, that I was ready to do more than die for it. My\nmind was never corrupted with gifts; and when the humour of avarice\nwas at the height, I never laid my hand upon any unlawful gain. I\nhave been temperate in my diet; modest in my discourse; courteous and\naffable to my inferiors; and have ever paid a respect and reverence to\nmy betters.\u201d\n\nSuch was the man whom the tyrant murdered. He is represented by\nthe artist, bleeding to death, the punishment to which he was\ncondemned,--his wife stands by and supports him to his last moment;\nsuch is the affection of a wife.\n\n\nDAUGHTER.\n\nTo understand the depth of female affection, as it is manifested in\na daughter\u2019s love, it is necessary rightly to understand a law of\naffection to which as much consideration seems not often to be given as\nits importance demands.\n\nIt is a law, which has been a frequent subject of meditation by\nobservers of the human mind--the law is, that it is the _nature of\naffection to descend, seldom to ascend_.\n\nA few extracts from different authors will explain this law:--\n\n_Du Moulin_, in his excellent little volume upon _Peace and Content_,\nsays, \u201cOf children expect no good, but the satisfaction to have\ndone them good, and to see them do well for themselves. For in this\nrelation, the nature of beneficence is to _descend_, seldom to\n_remount_.\u201d\n\nSo Bishop Taylor, in his _Life of Christ_, when speaking of mothers who\ndo not nurse their own children, says, \u201cAnd if love _descends_ more\nstrongly than it _ascends_, and commonly falls from the parents upon\nthe children in cataracts, and returns back again up to the parents but\nin small dews,--if the child\u2019s affection keeps the same proportions\ntowards such unkind mothers, it will be as little as atoms in the sun,\nand never expresses itself but when the mother needs it not,--that is,\nin the sunshine of a clear fortune.\u201d\n\nSo Fuller says, in his chapter on Moderation, the silken string that\nruns through the pearl chain of all the virtues, \u201cyea as love, doth\n_descend_, and men doat most on their grand-children.\u201d\n\nThe same sentiment, with the reason in which the truth originates, has\nbeen noticed by our poets.\n\nThe sweet poet, Barry Cornwall, says,--\n\n  \u201cThe love of parents, hath a deep still source,\n  And falleth like a flood upon their child.\n  Sometimes the child is grateful, then his love\n  Comes like the spray returning.\u201d\n\nIn Thomson\u2019s \u201cSpring,\u201d the same sentiment, containing the reason of\nthis provision of nature, is beautifully explained. Having described\nthe bird\u2019s nest, and the mother stealing from the barn a straw, \u2019till\n\u201c_soft and warm the habitation grew_,\u201d and having described the little\nbirds in their nest,--\n\n  \u201cOh what passions then,\n  What melting sentiments of kindly care\n  Do the new parents\u2019 seize; away they fly\n  Affectionate, and undesiring bear\n  The most delicious morsel to their young,\n  Which equally distributed, again\n  The search begins.\u201d\n\nAnd when the little birds are able to fly, the poet thus proceeds,--\n\n  \u201cBut now the feather\u2019d youth their former bounds\n  Ardent, disdain, and weighing oft their wings\n  Demand the free possession of the sky:\n  This one glad office more, and then dissolves\n  Parental love at once, now needless grown,--\n  Unlavish wisdom never works in vain.\u201d\n\nHe has expressed the same sentiment in his description of the eagle,--\n\n  \u201cHigh from the summit of a craggy cliff\n  Hung o\u2019er the deep,\n  The royal eagle draws his vigorous young\n  Strong-pounced, and ardent with paternal fire;\n  Now fit to raise a kingdom of their own\n  He drives them from his fort, the tow\u2019ring seat\n  For ages, of his empire: which in peace\n  Unstained he holds, while many a league to sea,\n  He wings his course and preys in distant isles.\u201d\n\nSuch is the nature of affection in general; but in a daughter it is so\npowerful, that it never quits her.\n\nAccording to the old adage--\n\n  \u201cMy son is my son, \u2019till he gets him a wife;\n  My daughter\u2019s my daughter, the whole of her life.\u201d\n\nThe pious excellent Sir Thomas More, Chancellor of England, convinced\nof the unlawfulness of the King\u2019s marriage, resigned the Great Seal,\nand resolved to pass the remainder of his life amidst the charities of\nhome and the consolations of religion.--Erasmus, speaking of his friend\nsays, \u201cthere is not any man living so affectionate to his children; you\nwould say there was in that place Plato\u2019s academy,--I should rather\ncall his house a school or university of Christian religion, for their\nspecial care is piety and virtue.\u201d Upon his refusal to take the oath of\nsupremacy, he was tried for high treason and condemned to be hanged,\ndrawn, and quartered, and his head to be stuck on a pole on London\nbridge. He was executed July 5th, 1535. His body was begged by his\ndaughter Margaret, and deposited in the church of Chelsea; where a\nmonument, with an inscription written by himself had been erected some\ntime before. She found means also to procure his head, after it had\nremained upon London bridge fourteen days: this she carefully preserved\nin a leaden chest, till she conveyed it to Canterbury, and placed it\nunder a chapel adjoining to St. Dunstan\u2019s church in that city; where,\nafter having survived her father sixteen years, she according to her\ndesire was buried in the same vault with her father\u2019s head in her arms.\n\n\nMOTHER.\n\nOf the love of a mother it is scarcely possible to give any adequate\ndescription. All that can be said of Charity, is most true if it be\nsaid of a mother\u2019s love, which hopeth, believeth, endureth all things.\nAs the spirit of God brooded over the creation, while it was yet\nin the womb of the morning,--with such heavenly love does the pure\nspirit of the mother, cherish her infant yet unborn. With silent and\nthankful tears, she hears the first sound of its little voice, and\nstraightway forgets all her pain and travail! When she looks upon\nit, no matter how homely in the eyes of another, she thinks that the\nworld contains nothing fairer. Who can number her prayers for her\ninfant, or her fond anticipations of his future advancement?--she\nremembers that the greatest men have once been helpless children, and\ntrusts that her little helpless child will one day be a great man;\nshe treasures his first words in her heart, and in all his little\nsayings discovers seeds of wisdom and goodness; and if after all, she\nis doomed to find him deformed in limb, or weak in intellect, she\ndwells upon the sweetness of his disposition, and the strength of his\naffections, and clings to him with a warmer love, because others think\nhim crippled and unsightly. If her child grows up, in the fear and\nnurture of God, and is deserving of her love, life has no joy like\nher joy; and should all her care prove fruitless, and the misguided\nyouth make her heart sad, and steep her bread in tears, though all\ndesert him she clings to him to the last: in poverty, in sickness, in\nthe punishment of his crimes--she, is there: the fond mother in the\nloathsome convict-ship,--in the cell of the condemned,--at the foot of\nthe scaffold! All, all, have deserted him,--save He who died for him,\nand she who gave him birth.\n\nSuch is the nature, such the constancy of a mother\u2019s love. It begins\nbefore birth, and continues after death:\n\n          \u201cThere are spun\n  Around the heart such tender ties,\n  That our own children, to our eyes,\n  Are dearer than the sun.\u201d\n\nThere are four forms in which this love is peculiarly conspicuous:\nwhen,\n\n  1st The child is criminal;\n  2nd The child is sick;\n  3rd The child is dying;\n  4th The child is dead.\n\nThis tenderness of a mother\u2019s love when the child is criminal, is\nbeautifully described by Hogarth, in his picture of \u201cIndustry and\nIdleness,\u201d in that aged woman, who is clinging with the fondness of\nhope not quite extinguished, to her brutal vice-hardened son, whom she\nis accompanying to the ship, which is to bear him away from his native\nsoil, of which he has been adjudged unworthy,--in whose shocking face\nevery trace of the human countenance seems obliterated, and a brute\nbeast to be left instead, shocking and repulsive to all but her who\nwatched over it in its cradle before it was so sadly altered; and feels\nit must belong to her while a pulse, by the vindictive laws of his\ncountry, shall be suffered to beat in it.\n\nThere is a melancholy instance in the love of a mother for her child,\nin the Old Bailey Sessions Papers, for the year 1732, in the trial\nof John Waller. It is scarcely possible to conceive a more abandoned\nmiscreant than Waller. He was at last detected and sentenced to the\npillory; the mob seized him and beat him to death. His dead body was\nput into a coach and carried to Newgate. The prisoners refused to\nreceive it; his mother who was in waiting, regardless of the infuriated\nmob, went into the coach, and placing his head in her lap, took away\nthe dead body of her child.\n\nAt this very instant how many mothers are anxiously watching their sick\nchildren--unmindful of their own fatigue, or food, or rest!\n\nIn a storm in the Yarmouth Roads a vessel was wrecked, a young woman\nwas seen clinging to a mast,--she was seen raising her child above\nthe highest wave, in a wild and vain attempt to save it. On the next\nmorning she was drifting to the shore,\n\n              \u201cAnd like a common weed\n  The sea-swell took her hair.\u201d\n\nA fire destroyed a house, in which several lives were lost, among which\na woman and her infant perished. On digging out the ruins, the mother\nwas found burnt to death, but on her knees, holding her infant in a\npail of water.\n\nA few days since when walking to my chambers, I saw a hearse moving\nslowly before me. It stopped at the door of a respectable house; all\nthe windows were closed. A coffin, covered with blue cloth, apparently\nof a child about fourteen was raised into the hearse. I happened to\nlook up; I saw one of the shutters slightly opened, and a female\nlooking anxiously. The hearse moved on. As the procession turned the\ncorner of the street, I had the curiosity, not an idle curiosity, to\nlook back; I saw the same female; she had partly opened the window.\n\n\u201cThe King took the two sons of Rizpath, and the five sons of Michael\nwhom she brought up, and he delivered them into the hands of the\nGibeonites, and they hanged them on the hill before the Lord, and they\nfell all seven together, and were put to death in the days of harvest,\nin the first days in the beginning of barley harvest.\n\n\u201cAnd Rizpath took sackcloth and spread it for herself upon the rock,\nfrom the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of\nheaven,--and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by\nday, nor the beasts of the field by night. Nor did she cease to watch\nthem, until David, touched by this depth of affection, gave them\nburial with the bones of their forefathers.\u201d\n\nSo too we see in every picture of the Crucifixion, the mother standing\nwith patience and resignation at the foot of the cross:\n\n  \u201cShe when Apostles shrank could danger brave,\n  Last at his Cross, and earliest at his Grave.\u201d\n\n\nOLD MAIDS.\n\nSuch is the influence of female affection upon youth: but to youth\nit is not confined. It exists at all times of life wherever woman\nexists. It has been my good fortune to share the friendship of many\nof a very interesting class of persons, I mean _old maids_. They have\ntheir faults, who has not? But I know well, that most of them abound\nwith kindness; which may be seen even by the animals by which they are\nsurrounded, and by their many misdirected enthusiasms.\n\n\u201cThe inclination to goodness,\u201d says Lord Bacon, \u201cis imprinted deeply\nin our nature, insomuch that if it issue not towards men, it will take\nunto other living creatures.\u201d\n\nHarriet Aspin was the youngest of four sisters, who in their childhood\nhad all a prospect of passing through life with every advantage that\nbeauty and fortune can bestow. But destiny ordained it otherwise. The\nextravagance of their father abridged the portion of each, and the\nlittle Harriet had the additional affliction of personal calamities.\nFrom a fall which her nurse occasioned, and concealed, she contracted a\ngreat degree of deformity; and the injuries that her frame had received\nfrom accident, were completed in what her countenance suffered from\nthat cruel distemper, by which beauty was so frequently destroyed,\nbefore the happy introduction of innoculation. Her countenance and\nperson were wretchedly disfigured; but her mind still possessed the\nmost valuable of mental powers, and her heart was embellished by every\ngenerous affection. Her friends were many: but she had passed her\nfortieth year without once hearing the addresses of a single lover;\nyet the fancied whisper of this enchanting passion often vibrated\nin her ear; for, with a solid and brilliant understanding, she was\ndeeply tinctured with this credulous foible. As she advanced towards\nfifty, finding her income very narrow, and her situation unpleasant,\nshe took shelter in the family of her favourite sister, married to a\ngood-natured man of easy fortune, who, though he had several children,\nvery readily allowed his wife to afford an asylum, and administer all\nthe comforts in her power to this unfortunate relation.\n\nThe good deeds of benevolence rarely pass unrewarded. The obliging\ntemper of Harriet, united to infinite wit and vivacity, contributed to\nrestore the declining health of her sister, and enlivened the house,\ninto which she was so kindly admitted. She endeared herself to every\nbranch of it; but her second nephew, whose name is Edward, became her\nprincipal favourite, and returned her partiality with more esteem and\naffection than nephews are used to feel for an old maiden aunt. Indeed,\nthere was a striking similarity in their characters, for they both\npossessed a very uncommon portion of wit, with extreme generosity and\ngood-nature. Harriet had the most perfect penetration into the foibles\nof every character but her own, and had the art of treating them with\nsuch tender and salutary mirth, that she preserved her nephew from\na thousand follies, into which the giddiness of his passions would\notherwise have betrayed him; and, when he was really fallen into some\njuvenile scrape, she never failed to assist him, both with secret\nadvice, and the private aid of such little sums of money as she always\ncontrived to save from her slender income, for the most generous of\npurposes.\n\nIt was almost impossible not to love a maiden aunt of so engaging a\ncharacter; and Edward, whose affections were naturally ardent, loved\nher, indeed, most sincerely; but his penetration discovered her foible,\nand the vivacity of his spirit often tempted him to sport with it.\nHitherto, however, he had done so in the most harmless manner; but a\ncircumstance arose, which fully proved the danger of this ordinary\ndiversion. Edward, being a younger brother, was designed for the\nprofession of physic. He had studied at Edinburgh; and, returning from\nthence to London, had brought with him a medical friend, who was a\nnative of Savoy, and was preparing to settle as a physician at Turin.\nIn the gaiety of his heart, Edward informed his aunt Harriet, that\nhe had provided her with a husband; and he enlarged on the excellent\nqualities of his friend. The Savoyard was extremely polite, and, either\nattracted by the pleasantry of her conversation, or touched with\nmedical pity for the striking infelicity of her distorted frame, he had\npaid particular attention to Miss Aspin; for, being yet under fifty,\nshe had not assumed the title of \u201cMrs.\u201d This particular attention was\nfully sufficient to convince the credulous Harriet, that her nephew\nwas serious; but she was unluckily confirmed in that illusion, by his\nsaying to her one evening, \u201cWell, my dear aunt, my friend is to leave\nEngland on Monday; consider, on your pillow, whether you will pass the\nAlps, to settle with him for life, and let me know your decision before\nthe week expires.\u201d The sportive Edward was very far from supposing,\nthat these idle words could be productive of any fatal event; for\nthe health of his aunt was such, that he considered his proposal of\ncrossing the Alps full as extravagant as if he had proposed to her to\nsettle in the moon: but let youth and vigour remember, that they seldom\ncan form a just estimate of the wishes, the thoughts, and feelings of\ninfirmity!--Poor Harriet had no sooner retired to her chamber, than\nshe entered into a profound debate with a favourite maid, who used to\nsleep in her room, concerning the dangers of crossing the Alps, and\nthe state of her health. In this debate both her heart and her fancy\nplayed the part of very able advocates, and defended a weak cause\nby an astonishing variety of arguments in its favour. They utterly\noverpowered her judgment; but they could not bias the sounder sentence\nof Molly, who was seated on the bench on this occasion. This honest\ngirl, who happened to have a real lover in England, had many motives\nto dissuade her mistress from an extravagant project of settling in\na foreign country; and she uttered as many reasons to poor Harriet\nagainst the passage of the Alps, as were urged to the son of Amilcar\nby his Carthaginian friends, when he first talked of traversing those\ntremendous mountains. The debate was very warm on both sides, and\nsupported through the greatest part of the night. The spirited Harriet\nwas horribly fatigued by the discourse, but utterly unconvinced by the\nforcible arguments of her opponent. She even believed that the journey\nwould prove a remedy for her asthmatic complaints; her desire of a\nmatrimonial establishment was full as efficacious as the vinegar of\nHannibal, and the Alps melted before it. At the dawn of day she had\npositively determined to follow the fortunes of the amiable Savoyard.\nThe peace of mind, which this decision produced, afforded her a short\nslumber; but on waking, she was very far from being refreshed, and\nfound that her unhappy frame had suffered so much from the agitation\nof her spirit, and the want of her usual sleep, that she was unable\nto appear at breakfast. This, however, was a circumstance too common\nto alarm the family; for though her cheerfulness never forsook her,\nyet her little portion of strength was frequently exhausted, and her\nbreath often seemed on the very point of departing from her diminutive\nbody. Towards noon, her sister entered her chamber, to make a kind\nenquiry concerning her health. It was a warm day in spring; yet\nHarriet, who was extremely chilly, had seated herself in a little low\nchair, by the side of a large fire. Her feet were strangely twisted\ntogether; and, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee, she\nsupported her head on her right hand. To the affectionate questions of\nher sister she made no reply; but, starting from her reverie, walked\nwith apparent difficulty across the chamber, and, saying, with a\nfeeble and broken voice, \u201cI can never pass the Alps,\u201d sunk down on the\nside of her bed,--and with one deep sigh, but without any convulsive\nstruggle, expired. Whether the much-injured and defective organs of\nher life were completely worn out by time, or whether the conflict\nof different affections, which had harassed her spirit through the\nnight, really shortened her existence, the all-seeing author of it\ncan alone determine. It is certain, however, that her death, and the\npeculiar circumstances attending it, produced among her relations the\nmost poignant affliction. As she died without one convulsive motion,\nher sister could hardly believe her to be dead; and as this good lady\nhad not attended to the levities of her son Edward, she could not\ncomprehend the last words of Harriet, till her faithful servant gave a\nfull and honest account of the nightly conversation which had passed\nbetween herself and her departed mistress. As her nephew, Edward, was\nmy intimate friend, and I well knew his regard for this singular little\nbeing, I hastened to him the first moment that I heard she was no more.\nI found him under the strongest impression of recent grief, and in the\nmidst of that self-accusation so natural to a generous spirit upon such\nan occasion. I endeavoured to comfort him, by observing, that death,\nwhich ought, perhaps, never to be considered as an evil, might surely\nbe esteemed a blessing to a person, whose unfortunate infirmities\nof body must undoubtedly have been a source of incessant suffering.\n\u201cAlas! my dear friend,\u201d he replied, \u201cboth my heart and my understanding\nrefuse to subscribe to the ideas, by which you so kindly try to console\nme. I allow, indeed, that her frame was unhappy, and her health most\ndelicate; but who had a keener relish of all the genuine pleasures\nwhich belong to a lively and a cultivated mind, and still more, of all\nthose higher delights, which are at once the test and the reward of a\nbenevolent heart? It is true, she had her foibles; but what right had I\nto sport with them?--to me they ought to have been particularly sacred;\nfor she never looked upon mine, but with the most generous indulgence.\u201d\n\u201cPoor Harriet!\u201d he would frequently exclaim,--\u201cPoor aunt Harriet!\u201d\nI have basely abridged thy very weak, but not unjoyous existence,\nby the most unthinking barbarity. I will, however, be tender to thy\nmemory; and I wish that I could warn the world against the dangerous\ncruelty of jesting with the credulity of every being who may resemble\nthee.--_Hayley._\n\n\nTHE WIDOW.\n\n(FROM A VERY OLD TRANSLATION OF BOCCACCIO\u2019S FALCON.)\n\nAmong the multiplicity of his queint discourses I remember he told\nus, that sometime there lived in Florence a young gentleman named\nFrederigo, sonne to Signior Phillippo Alberigo, who was held and\nreputed both for armes and all other actions beseeming a gentleman,\nhardly to have his equal through all Tuscany.\n\nThis Frederigo (as it is no rare matter in yong gentlemen) became\nenamored of a gentlewoman, named Madam Giana, who was esteemed (in\nher time) to be the fairest and most gracious lady in all Florence.\nIn which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many\nsumptuous feasts and banquets, joustes, tilties, tournaments, and all\nother noble actions of armes, beside sending her infinite rich and\ncostly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in lauish\nexpence. Notwithstanding, she being no lesse honest then faire, made no\nreckoning of whatsoeuer he did for her sake, or the least respect of\nhis owne person. So that Frederigo spending thus daily more then his\nmeanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies anyway redounding\nto him, or his faculties (as very easily they might) diminished in\nsuch sort, that he became so poore, as he had nothing left him, but\na small poore farme to liue vpon, the silly reuenewes wherof were\nso meane as scarcely allowed him meat and drink, yet he had a faire\nhawke or faulcon hardly anywhere to be fellowed, so expeditious and\nsure she was of flight. His low ebbe and poverty no way quailing his\nloue to the lady, but rather setting a keener edge thereon: he saw\nthe city life could no longer containe him, where he most coueted to\nabide, and therefore betook himselfe to his poore countrey farme to let\nhis faulcon get him his dinner and supper, patiently supporting his\npenurious estate without suite or meanes making to one for helpe or\nrelief in any such necessity.\n\nWhile thus he continued in this extremity it came to passe, that the\nhusband of Madam Giana fell sicke, and his debility of body being\nsuch, as little or no hope of life remained, he made his last will\nand testament, ordaining thereby that his sonne (already grown to\nindifferent stature) should be heire to all his lands and riches\nwherein he abounded very greatly. Next vnto him, if he chanced to die\nwithout a lawful heire, he substituted his wife whom most dearely he\naffected; and so departed out of this life. Madam Giana being thus left\na widow, as commonly it is the custome of our city dames, during the\nsummer season, she went to a house of her owne in the countrey which\nwas somewhat neare to poore Frederigo\u2019s farme, and where he liued in\nsuch an honest kind of contented pouerty.\n\nHereupon the young gentleman, her sonne, taking great delight in hounds\nand hawkes, grew into familiarity with poor Frederigo, and hauing seene\nmany faire flights of his faulcon, they pleased him so extraordinarily,\nthat he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne: yet durst not moue\nthe motion for her, because he saw how choycely Frederigo esteemed her.\nWithin a short while after, the young gentleman became very sicke,\nwhereat his mother greued exceedingly (as having no more but he, and\ntherefore loved him the more entirely) neuer parting from him either\nnight or day, comforting him so kindly as she could, and demanding if\nhe had a desire to anything, willing him to reueale it and assuring him\nwithall that (if it were within compasse of possibility) he should haue\nit. The youth hearing how many times she had made him these offers,\nand with such vehement protestations of performance, at last thus\nspake:--\n\n\u201cMother (quoth he) if you can do so much for me, as that I may haue\nFrederigo\u2019s faulcon, I am perswaded, that my sicknesse will soone\ncease.\u201d The lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to\nherselfe, and began to consider what she might best doe to compasse\nher sonne\u2019s desire, for well she knew how long a time Frederigo had\nmost louingly kept it, not suffering it euer to be out of his sight.\nMoreouer, shee remembered how earnest in affection he had bene to her,\nneuer thinking himselfe happy but onely when he was in her company,\nwherefore shee entred into this private consultation with her owne\nthoughts: \u201cShall I send, or goe myself in person, to request the\nfaulcon of him, it being the best that euer flew? It is his onely\njewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to\nliue in this world. How farre then voyde of vnderstanding shall I shew\nmyselfe, to rob a gentleman of his sole felicity hauing no other joy\nor comfort left him?\u201d These and the like considerations wheeled about\nher troubled braine, onely in tender care and loue for her sonne,\nperswading herselfe assuredly that the faulcon were her owne, if\nshe would but request it, yet, not knowing whereon it were best to\nresolue, shee returned no answer to her sonne, but sat still in her\nsilent meditations. At the length, loue to the youth, so prevailed\nwith her, that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it\nwhat could) shee would not send for it; but go herselfe in person to\nrequest it, and then returne home againe with it: whereupon thus she\nspake,--\u201cSonne, comfort thyselfe, and let languishing thoughts no\nlonger offend thee, for here I promise thee that the first thing I doe\nto-morrow morning, shall bee my iourney for the faulcon, and assure\nthyselfe that I will bring it with me.\u201d Whereat the youth was so joyed,\nthat he imagined his sicknesse began instantly a little to leaue him\nand promised himself speedy recouery.\n\nSomewhat early the next morning, the lady, in care of her sicke son\u2019s\nhealth, was up and ready betimes, and taking another gentlewoman\nwith her, onely as a morning recreation, shee walked to Frederigo\u2019s\npoore country farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to\nsee her. At the time of her arriuall there, he was (by chance) in a\nsilly garden, on the backe of the house, because (as yet) it was no\nconvenient time for flight: but when he heard Madam Giana was come\nthither and desired to haue some conference with him; as one almost\nconfounded with admiration, in all haste he ran to her, and saluted\nher with most humble reuerence. She in all modest and gracious manner\nrequited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to him: \u201cSignior\nFrederigo, your own best wishes befriend you, I am now come hither to\nrecompence some part of your passed trauailes, which heretofore you\npretended to suffer for my sake, when your love was more, then did\nwell become you to offer, or myselfe to accept. And such is the nature\nof my recompence, that I make myselfe your guest, and mean this day\nto dine with you, as also this gentlewoman, making no doubt of our\nwelcome.\u201d Whereto with lowly reverence, thus he replyed: \u201cMadam, I doe\nnot remembre that euer I sustained any losse or hindrance by you, but\nrather much good, as if I was worth any thing it proceeded from your\ngreat deseruings, and by the service in which I did stand engaged to\nyou. But my present happinesse can no way be equalled,--deriued from\nyour super-abounding gracious fauour, and more than common course of\nkindnesse, vouchsafing of your owne liberall nature,--to come and\nvisit so poore a servant. Oh, that I had as much to spend againe, as\nheretofore riotously I have runne thorow: what a welcome would your\npoore host bestow vpon you, for gracing this homely house with your\ndivine presence!\u201d With these words he conducted her into his house,\nand then into his simple garden, where, hauing no convenient company\nfor her, he said,--\u201cMadam, the poverty of this place is such, that it\naffordeth none fit for your conversation; this poore woman, wife to an\nhonest husbandman, will attend on you, while I (with some speede) shall\nmake ready dinner.\u201d\n\nPoore Frederigo, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe\ngreat,--remembering his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof\nwould now hauve stood him in some stead; yet he had a heart as free\nand forward as euer, not a iotte dejected in his minde, though vtterly\noverthrowne by fortune. Alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that he\nhad nothing wherewith to honour his lady! Up and downe he runnes, one\nwhile this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his disastrous fate,\nlike a man enraged or bereft of his senses; for he had not one penny\nof mony, neither pawne or pledge wherewith to procure any. The time\nhasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure) expresse his\nhonourable respect of the lady. To begge of any his nature denied it;\nand to borrow he could not, because his neighbours were all as needie\nas himselfe.\n\nAt last, looking round about, and seeing his faulcone on her perch,\nwhich he felt to be very plumpe and fat; Being voyde of all other\nhelpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a fowle meete for so\nnoble a lady to feede on, without any further demurring or delay he\npluckt off her neck, and caused the poor woman presently to pull her\nfeathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in a short\ntime she was daintily roasted. Himselfe couered the table, set bread\nand salt on,--and laid the napkins, whereof he had but a few left him.\nGoing then with chearfull lookes into the garden, telling the lady\nthat dinner was ready, and nothing was wanted but her presence; shee,\nand the gentlewoman went in, and being seted at the table, not knowing\nwhat they fed on, the faulcon was all their foode: and Frederigo not a\nlittle ioyfull that his credit was so well saued. When they were risen\nfrom the table and had spent some small time in familiar conference,\nthe lady thought it fit to acquaint him with the reason of her comming\nthither; and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus began:\n\n\u201cFrederigo, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards me (as\nalso my many modest and chaste denials) which (perhaps) you thought\nto sauour of a harsh, cruell, and vn-womanly nature, I make no doubt\nbut you will wonder at my present presumption, when you vnderstand the\noccasion which expressely mooued me to come hither. But if you were\npossessed of children, or euer had any, whereby you might comprehend\nwhat love in nature is due vnto them: then I durst assure my selfe that\nyou would partly hold me excused.\n\n\u201cNow in regard, that you neuer had any, and myselfe (for my part) haue\nbut onely one, I stand not exempt from those lawes which are common to\nother mothers. And being compelled to obey the power of those lawes,\ncontrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason ought to\nmaintaine, I am to request a gift of you, which I am certaine that\nyou doe make most precious account of, as in manly equity you can doe\nno lesse. For fortune hath bin so extreamly adverse to you, that she\nhath robbed you of all other pleasures, allowing you no comfort or\ndelight, but only that poore one, which is your faire faulcone. Of\nwhich bird, my sonne is become so strangely desirous, as if I doe not\nbring it to him at my comming home, I feare so much the extreamity of\nhis sicknesse, as nothing can ensue thereon but the losse of life.\nWherefore, I beseech you, not in regard to the love you have borne me,\nfor therby you stande no way obliged, but in your owne true gentle\nnature (the which hath always declared itselfe ready in you, to do more\nkinde offices generally than any other gentleman that I know), you will\nbe pleased to giue her me, or at least, let me buy her of you. Which if\nyou doe, I shall freely confesse that onely by your means my sonne\u2019s\nlife is saued, and we both shall for ever remaine engaged to you.\u201d\n\nWhen Frederigo had heard the ladies request, which was now quite out\nof his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner, he\nstood like a man dulled in his sences, the teares trickling amain downe\nhis cheekes, and he not able to vtter one word. Which she perceiving\nbegan to conjecture immediately, that these tears and passions\nproceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather to part with\nhis faulcone then any other kinde of manner, which made her ready to\nsay that she would not haue it. Neuerthelesss she did not speake but\nrather tarried to attend his answer; which, after some small respite\nand pause, he returned in this manner:\n\n\u201cMadam, since the houre when first my affection became soly deuoted\nto your seruice, fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to me in many\noccasions, as iustly, and in good reason I may complaine of her:\nyet all seemed light and easie to be indured in comparison of her\npresent malicious contradiction, to my vtter ouerthrow, and perpetual\nmollestation. Considering that you are come hither to my poore house,\nwhich (while I was rich and able) you would not so much as vouchsafe\nto looke on; and now you haue requested a small matter of me wherein\nshe hath also crookedly thwarted me, because she hath disabled me in\nbestowing so mean a gift, as your selfe will confesse when it shall be\nrelated to you in a few words.\n\n\u201cSo soone as I heard that it was your pleasure to dine with me, hauing\nregard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly due vnto\nyou, I thought it a part of my bounden duty to entertaine you with\nsuch exquisite viands as my poore power could any way compasse, and\nfarre beyond respect or welcome to other common and ordinary persons.\nWhereupon remembering my faulcone, which now you aske for, and her\ngoodnesse excelling all other of her kinde, I supposed that she would\nmake a dainty dish for your dyet; and, hauing drest her so well as I\ncould deuise to do, you haue fed heartily on her, and I am proud that I\nhaue so well bestowne her. But perceiuing now that you would haue her\nfor your sicke sonne, it is no mean affliction to me that I am disabled\nof yeelding you contentment which all my lifetime I haue desired to\ndoe.\u201d\n\nTo approve his words, the feathers, feete and beake were brought in;\nand when she saw this, she greatly blamed him for killing so rare a\nfaulcone, to content the appetite of any woman whatsoeuer. Yet she\ncommended his height of spirit which poverty had no power to abase.\nLastly, her hopes being frustrate, for enjoying the faulcone, and\nfearing besides the health of her sonne, she thanked Frederigo for his\nhonorable kindnesse, returning home againe sad and melancholly. Shortly\nafter, her sonne, either greeuing that he could not hauve the faulcone,\nor by extreamity of his disease, chanced to die, leauing his mother a\nmost woeful lady.\n\nAfter so much time was expired, as conveniently might agree with\nsorrow and mourning, her brethren made many motions to her to joyne\nherself in marriage againe, because she was extraordinarily rich and\nas yet but yong in years. Now, although she was well contented neuer\nto be married any more, yet, being continually importuned by them, and\nremembring the honourable honesty of _Frederigo_,--his last poore, yet\nmagnificent dinner, in killing his faulcone for her sake,--she saide to\nher brethren: \u201cThis kinde of widdowed estate doth like me so well, as\nwillingly I would neuer leave it: but seeing you are so earnest for my\nsecond marriage, let me plainly tell you, that I will neuer accept of\nany other husband but onely Frederigo di Alberino.\u201d\n\n\nCONCLUSION.\n\nSuch are facts, from which the nature and strength and delicacy of\naffection may be seen.\n\nDear, dear Woman!--Let me,--indebted as I am to your tenderness and\nlove for every blessing of my life,--let me say, in the words of the\nsweet Northern poet:\n\n  \u201cLong since, this world\u2019s thorny ways\n  Had numbered out my weary days,\n  Had it not been for you.\u201d\n\n\nWilliam Stevens, Printer, Bell Yard, Temple Bar.\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTES:\n\n\n  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.\n\n  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.\n\n  The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is\n    entered into the public domain.","title":"Female affection","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":10327}