pitiful as a woman; and yet, when angry, shrieking, railing,
hysterical as a woman. The physical distaste for meat and fermented
liquors, coupled with the hankering after physical horrors, are
especially feminine. The nature of a woman looks out of that wild,
beautiful, girlish face--the nature: but not the spirit; not


The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill.


The lawlessness of the man, with the sensibility of the woman. . . .
Alas for him! He, too, might have discovered what Byron did; for
were not his errors avenged upon him within, more terribly even than
without? His cries are like the wails of a child, inarticulate,
peevish, irrational; and yet his pain fills his whole being, blackens
the very face of nature to him: but he will not confess himself in
the wrong. Once only, if we recollect rightly, the truth flashes
across him for a moment, and the clouds of selfish sorrow:


Alas, I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within, nor calm around;
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned.


"Nor"--alas for the spiritual bathos, which follows that short gleam
of healthy feeling, and coming to himself--