sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the
traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is
hopeless--for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.

To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter
pangs; it wounds some feelings of tenderness--it blasts some
prospects of felicity; but he is an active being--he may
dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may
plunge into the tide of pleasure; or, if the scene of
disappointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift
his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the
morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at
rest."

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and meditative
life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings;
and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she
look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if
unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has
been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.

How many bright eyes grow dim--how many soft cheeks grow
pale--how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can
tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! As the dove will
clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that
is preying on its vitals--so is it the nature of woman, to hide
from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a
delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate,
she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she
buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower