Chapter 4

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

On the Characteristic Differences between the Sexes.NO. II.Religious Differences.

In no respect do we find the characteristical differences between the sexes more marked than in regard to religion; and certainly, we see woman in no attitude more engaging, more interesting or useful, than in the quiet, but graceful performance of her duties to her Maker.

The belief in the providence of some superior being or beings, has ever been a source of obligation to mankind in all ages and countries. Man may be pronounced to be emphatically a religious being. Every where, whether savage or civilized, do we behold him looking to the god or gods of nature, and dreading their punishment, not only in the world to come, but even in this. It is this spirit of devotion which "calls forth the hymn of the infant bard, as well as the anthem of the poet of classic times. It prompts the nursery tale of superstition, as well as the demonstration of the school of philosophy." "If you search the world," says Plutarch, "you may find cities without walls, without letters, without kings, without money; but no one ever saw a city without a deity, without a temple, or without some form of worship;" and Maximus Tyrius, another of the ancients, declares that, "in such a contest, and tumult, and disagreement of opinions on other subjects, you may see this one law and speech acknowledged by common accord, that there is one God, the king and father of all, and many gods, the children of God, and ruling together with him. This the Greek says, and this the Barbarian says; and the inhabitant of the continent, and the islander, and the wise and the unwise."

This universal consent in the operation of a superintending and controlling providence, is one of the most luminous and important facts of our nature. It rests the evidence of natural religion not upon the unsteady basis of argument or reason—not upon the sophisms of philosophers, or the edicts of monarchs, or popes, or councils; but upon the immoveable basis of nature—uponinstinctitself. "There is no era," says Mr. Allison, "so barbarous, in which man has existed, in which traces are not to be seen of the alliance which he has felt between earth and heaven; and amid the wildest as amid the most genial scenes of an uncultivated world, the rude altar of the barbarian every where marks the emotions that swelled in his bosom, when he erected it to the awful or beneficent deities whose imaginary presence it records."

But although there be that within us which leads directly to the contemplation of divinity, and of the retribution which awaits us in another world, yet we are not to conclude that this belief is not strengthened and confirmed by reason and experience. On the contrary, the argument in favor of a God and rewards and punishments hereafter, gains strength, with the increasing age, experience and knowledge of the world. Religion, in the midst of ignorance and barbarism, degenerates into gross superstition and revolting idolatry. By means of reason and knowledge, we are the better enabled to overleap the vast chasm interposed between us and the divine nature; to contemplate, in the detail and in the aggregate, both the minute and the great throughout the universe; to observe their beautiful arrangement and harmony, and the wondrous unity of design in all the parts: a unity which at once prostrates all the absurdities and contradictions of the far famed polytheistical religion of the Greek and the Roman—the fanciful idolatry and star gazing worship of the Chaldean Shepherd, and the Magi of Babylon—or the more fearful, more mysterious, and yet more ridiculous superstition of the Egyptian priests of old, who at a period far back, when time was yet young, and the history of other nations was scarce begun, officiated in those mighty temples upon the banks of the Nile, whose awful ruins, now scattered through the land of Egypt, tell us of the mighty of the earth, who have lived, and strutted, and bustled for a season, but at the appointed hour, have been cut down like the flower of the field. It is this great, this beautiful unity of design, which we see manifested throughout the works of creation, which proclaims the existence of the one indivisible God, "Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in a scale, and the hills in a balance." It is this same unity of design, proclaimed by philosophy and comprehended by reason alone, which so powerfully supports the monotheistic religion of the christian, and sustains that beautiful, humane and generous scheme of salvation foretold by the Jewish prophets of old, and consummated by the sacrifice on Mount Calvary, of the meek and humble Saviour of the world.

Again, when we look abroad to animated creation, and see that man alone has placed within him a principle which guides and directs him, independently of instinct—a principle which, in spite of all the arts of sophistry and self-delusion, tells him in language which cannot be mistaken, that he is responsible for his acts; and when we further see the immense amount of vice and wickedness in this world which does not meet with its deserved punishment here, and virtue failing to receive its reward;—when we behold all this, and reflect, as we cannot fail to do, that the Creator of the world is a God of justice and impartiality, we are at once driven into the belief that there must be a hereafter, where all these things will be equalized. It is when we see the wicked son, the unnatural father, and the fiendish mother—when we peruse the histories of such monsters as Nero, Caligula, Commodus, Louis XI of France, or Richard III of England—of the Tullias, the Messalinas and the Macbeths, that we are forced to acknowledge that there must be aTartarus. Again, we meet with humble virtue and piety in this world, possessed by those who labor and toil through life, sometimes groaning under the oppression of a cruel persecutor, who, bloated with vice, is nevertheless wallowing in apparent luxury and ease, while the victims of his oppression are overwhelmed with every calamity and misfortune "which flesh is heir to"—each one of whom, in the hour of death, may truly say, in the pathetic language of the patriarch of old, "short, but replete with woe has been my day." When we contemplate this, the mind does not rest satisfied, without anelysiumwhere the weary are to be at rest, and the wicked to cease from troubling. "Wherefore do the wicked live, become old—yea, are mighty in power? Is there no reward for the righteous? is there no punishment for the workers of iniquity? is there no God that judgeth in the earth?" It is only the awful retribution of a hereafter which can satisfactorily explain to all

Not only, however, does our belief in the supreme benevolence and justice of the deity, force upon us the conviction of a future state of rewards and punishments; but the very contemplation of the human mind, with its faculties and passions, points us to another world. We have faculties which are capable of ranging beyond the sphere in which we move. We have longings which this world, with all its stores of provisions, cannot satisfy. These faculties and these longings point distinctly to another world. Lord Bacon has truly asserted, that if the child in its mother's womb could reason like a philosopher—could survey its little hands, mouth, eyes, feet, lungs, &c. and perceive that they discharged no adequate functions in the womb, he would, if impressed with the belief of the wisdom and design of creation, come necessarily to the conclusion that this was not the place of his permanent abode—that he was ultimately to be ushered into some other world, where all his physical energies and intellectual powers would be brought into play, and have an ample field to range in. So likewise, if I may use the beautiful language of Dugald Stewart, "When tired and disgusted with this world of imperfections, we delight to contemplate another, where the charms of nature wear an eternal bloom, and where new sources of enjoyment are opened, suited to the vast capacities of the human mind." And thus do we find both instinct and reason contending alike for the truth of the great principles of religion.

With these preliminary remarks, I will now proceed to examine into the differences between the sexes in a religious point of view; and here I may assert at once, without the fear of contradiction, that woman always has been, and is now, in almost every country upon the face of the globe, more religious than man. This difference between the sexes is still more striking under the christian dispensation, than under any other religion perhaps, which has ever existed in the world. In our own country, we all know that the female communicants form an immense majority in all our churches. "Very many of them (says Timothy Dwight in the 4th vol. of his Travels, and no one was better qualified to speak on this subject)—very many of them are distinguished for moral excellence—are unaffectedly pious, humble, benevolent, patient and self-denying. In this illustrious sphere of distinction, they put our own sex to shame. Were the church of Christ stripped of her female communicants, she would lose many of her brightest ornaments, and I fear,two-thirdsof her whole family."1

1I have no doubt that President Dwight has underrated the number of female communicants in the United States. From conversations with the most intelligent of the clergy, I should be disposed to say they formed three-fourths, or four-fifths of the communicants.

How then does it happen that woman is more religious than man—that she is every where found yielding a more ready and more perfect devotion to the God of nature? We have seen that instinct, feeling and reason concur in the support of religion. Which of these is the main impelling cause with woman? I am disposed to say the two former. She is not so much disposed to skepticism as man; she does not wait for the slow deductions of reason, before she is willing to yield her assent. She does not withhold her belief, like man, until she can contemplate the power, majesty and unity of the deity, in the countless millions of bright orbs, rolling in harmony and magnificence, along those complicate and luminous paths which have been assigned to them in the infinitudes of space. She does not wait until she can descend from the contemplation of this grand, this sublime prospect, to the infinitesimally minute parts of nature, and view with the eye of philosophy, their order, harmony and design, where she may behold the existence of deity proclaimed in those countless millions of millions of animalculæ, which escape the unassisted vision of man—each one displaying a form, a structure, a complexity of organs as perfect, as beautiful, as well adapted to the sphere in which he moves, on that little atom of creation, which is a world to him, as the grandest and most imposing animals of nature. No! She does not require for the generation of her faith, thus to be able to range from the bottom to the top of creation—from the infinitely small to the infinitely great—to behold in the vast and the minute

She looks into her own heart, and finds there the want of a consoling religion. She looks into the pages of holy writ, and builds her faith on the revealed will of her Maker. "Thus saith the Lord," is the simple but stable foundation on which her hopes are rested. With man, religion is much more a matter of speculation, of reason and philosophy, than with woman.

Let us now investigate, if possible, the causes of this very interesting difference between the sexes.

Causes.—1st. Education.

And in the first place, it is in a great measure attributable to the peculiar education of the sex. I mean the education which woman receives from her parents and teachers. The education of man is much more scientific, according to the present custom of society, than that of woman. Science, as we shall soon see, whilst it enlarges the powers of comprehension and ratiocination, by leading us into the mysteries of nature, and teaching us the "causas rerum," is calculated at the same time rather to curb the feelings, and to control the imagination. The consequence is, that a scientific education fortifies the mind against the too ready admission of doctrines, whatever they may be, and prevents us from yielding assent to truths, when we are not prepared to give a reason for the faith that is within us. In the education of woman, every thing is done to preserve her native feelings in all their original purity and strength. Her studies are of a more light and literary cast, such as administer to the imagination or warm the sensibilities. In her case the play of the instincts and of the feelings is not cramped by the controlling influence of logic and reason; and hence, no doubt, one cause of the religious differences between the sexes.

For the same reason, the religious enthusiasm of woman, is very apt to degenerate into superstition—that of man, into dogmatism and fanaticism. Woman, generally, cares very little for mere creeds and doctrines, but is apt to believe in miraculous interpositions, and a special providence. Woman possesses more devotion and more genuine love for her God—her eye is fixed on heaven, and the ardor of her religious aspirations always points her to the glorious mansion prepared on high; where, in the fulness of her devotion and piety, surrounded by the bright effulgence of the throne of omnipotence, she may pour forth the torrent of her love in hymns sung to the praise of her Maker. She looks to this grand, this glorious end, and prays to her God that it may be hers, and that he will direct her into the right path.

Man, on the other hand, is so much taken up by the study and investigation of the circumstances which attend him on his religious journey through life, that he forgets in the scrupulous study of his means, the end and object of all his devotion. It is not only necessary with him, that he should go to heaven, but he is too often resolved to go there in no other way than his own. And we may almost assert with the author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, that by his vain reasonings, and quibbles, and sophisms, he sometimes so narrows the bridge which is to conduct us to a blissful eternity, as almost to reduce its width to that of a razor's edge, to be walked over only by those whose sophisticated intellects can comprehend the absurd jargon of his theologico-metaphysical creed. It was very difficult during the middle ages, to engage the females in those tremendous, but nonsensical disputes between the Realists and Nominalists, which involved the peace and happiness of whole nations. What cared they aboutuniversals genera and species. Little did they concern themselves with the learned disputes of the Thomists, the Scotists, and the Occamites. The amors of Peter Abelard, were much more interesting to them, than his voluminous dissertations upon the Scholastic Theology. And we can well imagine, that few women would care to read that mighty production of theAngelical DoctorSaint Thomas Aquinas, bearing the imposing title ofSumma Totius Theologiæ, containing the formidable amount of 1,250 folio pages of very small print in double columns, with 19 more of errata, and 200 of index. But enough of this. Some of the other sex even maynowsicken at the idea of encountering a work so formidable as this, although it be upon the vital subject of theology.

Women are much more superstitious, generally, as I have already remarked, than men. They much more readily believe in dreams, visions and miraculous interferences. Women deeply in love, have often been known to die from the effects of unfavorable dreams about a distant lover, in a perilous situation. McNish, in his interesting work on the Philosophy of Sleep, tells us of a young lady, a native of Ross-shire, who was deeply in love with an officer who accompanied Sir John Moore in the Peninsular war. The constant danger to which he was exposed, had, of course, a very great effect on her spirits. One night, after falling asleep, she imagined she saw her lover pale, bloody, and wounded in the breast, enter her apartment. He drew aside the curtains of the bed, and with a look of the utmost mildness, informed her that he had been slain in battle, desiring her at the same time to comfort herself, and not take his death too seriously to heart. "It is needless," says McNish, "to say what influence this vision had upon a mind so replete with woe. It withered it entirely, and the unfortunate girl died a few days thereafter." Many such instances as these might be adduced, where all the explanations and consolations of philosophy have been rejected, and the unfortunate lady has actually died from the grief produced by the confident expectation of the realization of a dream or vision. I can well imagine the eagerness with which the females of antiquity would crowd around their seers, and their oracles, to have unveiled to them the mysteries of the future. Even now, women are much more disposed to consult gypsies and fortune tellers, than men. But they are most apt to incline to these petty superstitions, if I may use the expression, when under the influence of strong passion, such as that of love. We all know, that one deeply in love, is apt to be a little superstitious; and many there are besides the Phebe of Irving, who can wander forth in the "stilly night," when the moon is pouring her silvery radiance over the world, and kneel upon the "stone in the meadow," and repeat the old traditional rhyme

2nd. Religious Wants.

Another reason, no doubt, of the religious differences of the sexes, is the greater demand or want, if I may use the phraseology of political economy, which woman experiences for religion. Her whole education, physical and moral, and her consequent position in society, contribute to the creation of these religious wants. There are times and situations in which we all feel in a very peculiar manner the want of religion. There are periods when the billows of adversity are rolling high and threatening to overwhelm us with ruin—when all our ordinary resources have failed—when there is in this world no arm that can save, no power that can protect us—then does the voice of nature whisper to us to turn to him who hath promised to be a father to the fatherless, and a husband to the widow, and to him in the hour of our peril do we address the fervent prayer. There is no part of the Journal of the Landers with which I have been more affected, than that in which John Lander speaks of the disaster of Kirree, while descending the Niger. Himself and brother had been separated, they met again on the river, but in the moment of the most heart-rending peril, when a savage enemy was upon the point of immolating them, and of destroying at once all those bright visions of glory and usefulness, which ever float in the ardent imagination of the traveller, and urge him over seas, and lands, and mountains, and deserts. "This day (says John Lander,) I thought was to be my last, when I looked up and saw my brother at a little distance gazing steadfastly upon me; when he saw that I observed him, he held up his arm with a sorrowful look, and pointed his finger to the skies. O! how distinctly and eloquently were all the emotions of his soul at that moment depicted in his countenance! Who could not understand him. He would have said 'trust in God.' I was touched with grief. Thoughts of home and friends rushed upon my mind, and almost overpowered me. My heart hovered over the scenes of infancy and boyhood. Recollecting myself, I bade them as I thought an everlasting adieu; and weaning my heart and thoughts from all worldly associations, with fervor I invoked the God of my life, before whose awful throne I imagined we should shortly appear, for fortitude and consolation in the hour of trial. My heart became subdued and softened; my mind regained its serenity and composure; and though there was nothing but tumult and distraction without, within all was tranquillity and resignation." And thus do we find that adversity often leads us to pay devotion to our God. When the treasures of this world in which the heart dwelt are swept away, we are more disposed to look to the imperishable treasures of another world. "When there is no object on this side the grave on which to fix our hopes, we delight to extend them beyond the troubled horizon which bounds our earthly prospects, to wander unconfined in the regions of futurity,"

On the other hand, how truly dismal and appalling at such hours as those I have been describing, is the condition of the genuine Atheist. When the plans, and projects, and schemes of this world have failed him, and all his earthly hopes are untimely blighted by the sad strokes of cruel fortune; where is his consolation—where his refuge? Shall he turn to those whom the world once called his friends? Alas! they were with him in summer and sunshine, when his flocks were feeding on a hundred hills—when his indiscriminate and boundless hospitality was the theme of praise on the tongue of the selfish and sycophantic sensualist, who delighted in his "glutton meal;" and his splendid mansion was the scene of music and of revelry. In the hour of his bereavement they turn from him, and even mock him in his misfortunes! Shall he attempt again to mend his broken fortunes and rise once more in the world's thought? Perhaps some insuperable barrier stands before him; friends have deserted him, and old age may be fast incapacitating him to run again the race of earthly ambition; and the base treachery of friends, and the mortifying neglect of a cold and selfish world, may have implanted in his heart, the deep and uneradicable feeling of dark and gloomy misanthropy, which may forever unfit him for wearing the world's honors, or coveting the world's praise. Shall he throw his thoughts beyond this world's horizon, and look with the spirit of prayer and supplication to heaven for that support and consolation which is denied him here? No! no! His fatal skepticism prevents his hopes from resting on another world. It shuts him up here amid all the gloom and horror of his terrestrial mansion—concentrates all his dismal thoughts within his own overwhelmed soul, and leaves him a prey to misery and despondency.

I hope then I have said enough to show that there are times and seasons when the heart of man turns instinctively to the God of nature for support; that there are times when philosophy, and science, and friendship, all must fail to administer consolation to the oppressed heart:—it is then that religion and religion alone can furnish the balm that can neutralize woe. Under its benign influence the billows of adversity may roll on—they may break over our heads, but cannot overwhelm the soul when sheltered securely under its divine panoply.

Now let us inquire whether woman experiences oftener than man those moments of sorrow and affliction, which religion alone can assuage; and this inquiry, I think, must be answered by all, in the affirmative. The sorrows, and griefs, and trials of woman, are not of so palpable, conspicuous, and sometimes violent a character as are those of man. They do not attract so universally the gaze of the world—their consequences are not so extensive—they do not so much occupy the pen of the historian, or draw forth the speculations of philosophy; but they are more numerous, more secret; and for this very reason more calculated to turn her to her God for consolation. I have already in the preceding number shown, that woman, from her position in society, is obliged to conceal more than man. She experiences many sorrows and afflictions, which like the Viola of Shakspeare, she never tells to any one, but keeps them locked up in her own bosom to brood over in solitude. Rousseau says, a man truly happy, neither speaks much nor laughs much—he hugs, so to speak, the happiness to his heart. "Il reserre, pour ainsi dire, le bonheur autour de son coeur." The assertion which Rousseau here makes concerning the happiness of man, is strictly true, when applied to the misery of woman—especially to that most numerous class of her griefs which spring from wounded affections. This species of misery, if I may borrow the pencil of Rousseau "elle reserre autour de son coeur." Her shrinking modesty dares not confess it to the world; sometimes even the penetrating scrutiny of an affectionate mother is shunned and deceived. What then is her resource? She knows there is a God who inhabiteth the high and lofty places of eternity, who has promised to turn from none who seek him—she feels that all her sorrows are known to him. She can truly exclaim in the language of the Psalmist, "thou hast searched me and known me. Thou knowest my down sitting, mine uprising: thou understandest my thoughts afar off. Thou compasseth my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. For there is not a word in my tongue, but lo, O Lord! thou knowest it altogether." With this being then, who already knows all her afflictions, does she commune—to him she pours forth the torrent of her feelings, and tells the tale of her concentrated woe, which no vulgar ear shall ever hear. This communion becomes sweet to her in the hour of her afflictions, and she bestows upon him who has promised to be the friend of the disconsolate and broken-hearted, that love which perhaps has been slighted and despised by another. "As the dove (says Irving,) will clasp its wings to its sides, and cover and conceal the wound that is preying on its vitals—so is it the nature of woman, to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. 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 and brood among the ruins of her peace."

It is at such times as these she feels the great want of religion; and accordingly we find that on tracing the history of woman, we often see her religious career commencing after some great disappointment—after some cruel stroke which has been inflicted on the feelings and affections. In Catholic countries we frequently see women, after these great disappointments, retiring from the world and immuring themselves for the remainder of their lives within the walls of a nunnery, where at a distance from the world and free from the rude gaze of an inquisitive society, they may spend the remainder of their days in silent and pensive melancholy, softened and ameliorated by sweet communion with God. You rarely hear of this on the part of man. If he survives the misfortunes that for a time have oppressed him, he plunges into the active business and bustle of the world, and in the midst of his employments he finds new occupation for his mind—he summons it away from the contemplation of his grief. New feelings are called into play, and often succeed in banishing the old. How often do we findambitionbecoming the succedaneum oflove.

But woman has not this opportunity of withdrawing herself from the scenes of her misfortunes and griefs. Every object around her reflects back their images upon her mind; and, go where she will, she is still like those unfortunate beings, laboring under the illusions of spectral apparitions;—the phantoms are around her still, gazing on her with lurid glare whilst awake, haunting her whilst asleep. Nothing but religion can afford her solace, under afflictions so oppressive and crushing. Without it, she may well exclaim in the language of the "Dirge,"

In addition to what is said above, it may be observed that the physical infirmities of woman, are greater than those of man; she is liable to sudden changes in health, which endanger her life. Every child which comes into the world, is an admonition to the mother on the precariousness of human life, and the necessity of living in a state of constant preparation for another world.

3d. Dependence and Physical Weakness.

Another cause, no doubt, of the more religious character of woman, is her greater feebleness and dependence upon the powers around her, than that felt by man. When we look to the stupendous mechanism of the heavens and the earth, and contemplate the mighty powers that are at work in the universe, the mind naturally turns, in the spirit of devotion and prayer, to that infinite, incomprehensible, mysterious being, who guides and directs those powers. When we contemplate, for example, the globe on which we stand—think of it as moving at the rate of more than sixty thousand miles per hour, around that luminous orb, which at the distance of millions of miles, binds it down to its prescribed orbit; when we think again of this mass on which we stand, vast and grand to us, but an atom to him who placed it here, rolling on its axis, carrying us forward with a compound velocity, which if it could be suddenly arrested by some opposing mass competent to the resistance, would be sufficient to tear from their bases all the mountains and hills of the earth, and hurl their scattered fragments o'er the vallies—a velocity, whose sudden cessation would prostrate alike the animal and vegetable kingdoms, burying all in one common chaotic ruin, from which no one being would escape to sing the funeral dirge of adead world. When we contemplate all this, and know that there is a hand competent to the control of these mighty powers; that under its influence, while thus rapidly hurled along through the illimitable regions of space, the busy operations of men are going forward; that the grand tower, the enormous pyramid, the slender reed, and the delicate spire of grass, stand alike unaffected and unshaken by this velocity; that the slumbers of the infant on its little couch, and the spider weaving her delicate web in the "autumnal fields," are alike undisturbed;—when we look again, and contemplate that thin elastic medium which we breathe, covering the earth like an invisible mantle, all quiet and calm at the sunset hour, so that even the thistle-down lies still and motionless on the earth's surface; then think again of that same medium, lashed into the fearful tempest, spreading dismay and destruction along its desolating track, and scattering the mariner and his cargoes over the billows of the sea; or when we contemplate that principle of heat which pervades the universe, constituting the greatvis vivica, or enlivening power of nature,—so placid, so sweet, and it would scarcely be metaphor to add, sotender, as it exists around us in the mild and bland atmosphere of a summer's morning, when

And then think again of this same agent confined in the earth's mass; by its sudden action laying hold on the globe with the grasp of more than ten thousand giants, upheaving the dense and mighty stratum which lies above it, shaking whole continents by its power, and burying the toppling cities with the accumulated wealth of ages under its fearful ruins; when we contemplate, I say, all these powers around us, we see our dependence onthem, and againtheirdependence on omnipotence. The feeling of dependence forced upon the mind, begets a spirit of devotion and trust towards the God of nature. At first, overwhelmed by the evidences of mighty power exerted around and over us, we are almost disposed to cry out in the language of holy writ, "what is man that thou shouldst be mindful of him, or the son of man that thou shouldst deign to visit him." But our confidence revives when we recollect the promise that "if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith."

This spirit of dependence, wherever felt, always begets more or less a religious spirit of devotion. It is this spirit which, in ages of ignorance and superstition, begets the worship of heroes, of statesmen, and philanthropists. It is this spirit which has added such as Hercules, Castor, Pollux, Isis, Osiris, &c. to the vast catalogue of the gods in the polytheistic religions of antiquity. It is this same spirit, which makes the subordinate officer and the soldier, look with awe and the most confident reliance on the successful military chieftain, who has so often manoeuvred them like a machine, and has gained victory after victory by those rapid combinations and skilful evolutions, which to the mind that does not comprehend, appear to be the result of inspiration rather than the effects of human wisdom. Wherever in fine, there is a system of dependence, there you will find always more or less a spirit of reverence. How intensely does this spirit manifest itself in a father or mother, who has knelt before an emperor or king, and obtained the pardon of a condemned son. Now, as I have already observed, woman feels this dependency much more strongly than man. She is the weaker vessel, and hence there is a devotional feeling excited by this dependence, which follows the chain of dependence up, link by link, until it reaches the throne of omnipotence. Woman does not feel this dependence from a contemplation of the mighty physical energies exerted around her by the great powers of nature; but it arises from her greater weakness and dependency when compared with the other sex.

Do we not all know that there is something much more devotional in the love of woman than man—a something much more nearly allied to religion? Do we not know that this same weakness and consequent dependence, makes woman more confiding, more trusting, more submissive than man? She feels much greater veneration for the great and the powerful, and acquiesces much more readily in the tyranny and oppression of rulers. Even women of the very first order of intellect feel this reliance and trust on the greater powers around them. Mrs. Jameson says, in speaking of the Portia of Shakspeare, "I never yet met in real life, nor ever read in tale or history, of any woman distinguished for intellect of the highest order, who was not also remarkable for thistrustingnessof spirit, this hopefulness and cheerfulness of temper, which is compatible with the most serious habits of thought, and the most profound sensibility. Lady Wortley Montague was one instance; and Madame de Stael furnishes another much more memorable."

The physical weakness of woman and her consequent dependence on man, makes religion more necessary to her for another reason. It is her interest that every restraint should be imposed on the passions of man; that he should walk in the paths of virtue and morality; that his superior strength should be subdued and tempered by motives of humanity. He is then more kind, more attentive, and more loving to her. He is then a better father, a better economist,—in fine, a better citizen, fulfilling more perfectly all the relations of life. The Christian religion, as we shall soon see, is eminently calculated to produce this happy result, and consequently woman is deeply interested in its spread. Let no one start forward with the objection, that in this way she is the better enabled togovernher husband. I admit this, if, to govern him, means to restrain him from vice and immorality; but surely this is a government which no honest good citizen can object to. Every lady has a fearfully deep interest in the whole character and temperament of her husband's mind and feelings. Upon them depend, indeed, her weal or woe. Her condition may be deplorable, and sometimes irremediable, if a wicked husband choose to oppress her. But that is certainly a holy and a virtuous selfishness, if selfishness it can possibly be called, which secures our own welfare and happiness while adding to that of another, by curbing and controlling his more violent and malignant feelings and passions, and attuning the whole inner man to harmony and concord.

4th. Seclusion and Meditation.

Again, the life of woman, as has been before remarked, is much more sedentary, more secluded, and consequently more contemplative than that of man. Solitude and contemplation are very favorable to the production of religious impressions and the generation of a spirit of piety and devotion. Man is so constantly occupied amid the busy scenes of active employment, so much engrossed with his schemes of ambition and self-aggrandizement, so rapidly whirled forward by the eddying current of active life, that he scarcely will take time to pause in the hurry and bustle of existence to contemplate his Maker, and render to him the homage that is his due. Public devotion even often breaks in upon his regular routine of life, and frequently mars some little pet scheme of the day. He is a Sabbath-day worshipper; a worshipper at spare times and leisure seasons. But the solitary chamber of a woman, is often by day and by night, the temple from which in her lone hours she sends her silent prayers to heaven; the temple from which, in her silent meditations, her thoughts wander forth and hold sweet communion with the God of nature.

But, let us investigate a little more philosophically, the effects of this secluded, meditative, contemplative life of woman. And, in the first place, all will acknowledge that occasional solitude and consequent meditation are extremely favorable to the cause of virtue generally. Whilst we are running our dissipated career, under the excitement of the passions, we rarely have time, leisure, and reflection sufficient to determine on reform. "It is not in the madness of intemperate enjoyment," says Dr. Brown, in one of his most brilliant lectures, "that we see drunkenness in the goblet, or disease in the feast. Under the actual seduction of the passion we see dimly, if we see at all, any of the evils to which it leads." It is in the hour of solitude and reflection, that the remorseful thought of our errors and vices, comes across the mind; then, in the coolness and calmness of solitude, can we trace out the blighting evils that are likely to follow on our career; then, and then alone, can we dispassionately view, in the vista of the future, our loss of character, of health and riches, by the course we are pursuing; then we behold the melancholy consequences, widening out, until they embrace our family, friends, neighborhood, and state; we then can summon, in gloomy review before the mind's eye, our wives and children, dearer to us than life, living in penury and misfortune, and perhaps dependent for a scanty subsistence upon the cold hand of charity. When the mind is capable of reflection—of sketching out this sad picture, there may be hopes of reform. The individual is never absolutely, hopelessly lost, who indulges in silent meditations on the past; such an individual may even be saved at the eleventh hour. Hence, too, there is virtue in mere intelligence, because intelligence can always think and meditate. Hence, too, the efficacy of solitary confinement in the gloomy walls of the prison, and the very deleterious influence of all prison discipline not based on the principle of solitary confinement.

Again, any scene of distress, any monuments or associations, which remind us of the instability of the boasted works of man; anything which forces a comparison in the mind between the transitory character and nothingness of the things of earth, when compared with the eternity of ages that are to follow, or with the perfections and immutability of God; all such reflections as these are calculated to make a deep religious impression upon the mind. What classic scholar, for example, can stand upon the Capitol on the Capitoline Mount, in Modern Rome, and look over the mouldering but still magnificent ruins of the imperial city, as they lie scattered and confused over the vallies and the seven hills, and cast a retrospective glance at the ages which have gone by, without a deep feeling of religious awe and of veneration towards the God of nature? When he reflects that the poet of antiquity describes this classic ground, over which the eye of the traveller is now wandering in pensive and bewildering gaze, as a solitary wilderness; when Evander, and afterwards when Æneas came to the Latian Coast; that the brier and the bramble then grew together in wild luxuriance on the Tarpeian Hill; that the foxes had their holes and the birds their nests on the Palatine and the Aventine. When he looks again to the time of the poet, and beholds the proud imperial city, the mistress of the world, enthroned in all her gorgeous splendor and costly magnificence upon the seven hills, wielding the sceptre of her dominion over the earth,

"Until the o'ercanopied horizon fail'd,"

and sees upon the Tarpeian hill, the splendid temple with its golden ornaments and its stately columns, instead of the brier and the bramble, and beholds,

And then looks to her again—when in the awful language of the poet,

and sees that the temple upon the Tarpeian mount has been overthrown and rifled, and the brier and the bramble have come back again, that owl answers owl upon the Palatine, that the din of arms and the active bustle and hum of citizens and functionaries of imperial Rome, have ceased forever on the Appian and Emilian ways, that no stately triumph mounts the Capitoline hill, to administer to the insatiate ambition of the rapacious and remorseless Roman, that

now meets his eye where'er it turns. Well may he exclaim with such a prospect before him, in the language of the same poet,

When he sees all these mutations and revolutions on a single spot of earth, in the hour of his meditations his mind reverts to Him who alone is immutable and unchangeable, upon whose brow, time writes no wrinkles. "Alas, the pride of man goes down with him into the dust! it withers when the lamp of his transient existence flickers out into the long slumbering of the tomb." Eternal youth, eternal majesty, eternal duration, belong only to the great, the unchangeable I AM. The bustling transitory career of the mighty of the earth, when duly contemplated, should but the more strongly impress on the mind the infinity, eternity, and omnipotence of Deity. "Where now are they who sounded the clarion of war along the plains of Thessaly, the mount of Marathon and Samos's rocky isle. The trumpet's voice hath died upon the breeze; the thousands which it aroused have gone to rest; the castles which have been subdued and won, on whose walls the spear glittered and the cannon pealed, have crumbled into dust; the ivy lingers about the decaying turrets; the raven builds her nest in the casement, and sends upon the ear of midnight her desolate wailings; the owl hoots where the song was heard; and man, proud man, who once fought and won—he who reared the structure,"

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