ns of trouble, do not fetter that exalted
principle imbued in her very nature. It is true, her tender and feeling
heart may often be moved (as she is thus constituted), but she is not
conquered, she has not given up to the harlequin of disappointments, her
energies have not become clouded in the last movement of misfortune, but
she is continually invigorated by the archetype of her affections. She
may bury her face in her hands, and let the tear of anguish roll, she
may promenade the delightful walks of some garden, decorated with all
the flowers of nature, or she may steal out along some gently rippling
stream, and there, as the silver waters uninterruptedly move forward,
shed her silent tears; they mingle with the waves, and take a last
farewell of their agitated home, to seek a peaceful dwelling among
the rolling floods; yet there is a voice rushing from her breast, that
proclaims VICTORY along the whole line and battlement of her affections.
That voice is the voice of patience and resignation; that voice is
one that bears everything calmly and dispassionately, amid the most
distressing scenes; when the fates are arrayed against her peace, and
apparently plotting for her destruction, still she is resigned.
Woman's affections are deep, consequently her troubles may be made to
sink deep. Although you may not be able to mark the traces of her grief
and the furrowings of her anguish upon her winning countenance, yet be
assured they are nevertheless preying upon her inward person, sapping
the very foundation of that heart which alone was made for the weal and
not the woe of man. The deep recesses of the soul are fields for their
operation. But they are not destined simply to take the regions of
the heart for their dominion, they are not satisfied merely with
interrupting her better feelings; but after a while you may see the
blooming cheek beginning to droop and fade, her intelligent eye no
longer sparkles with the starry light of heaven, her vibrating pulse
long since changed its regular motion, and her palpitating bosom beats
once more for the midday of her glory. Anxiety and care ultimately throw
her into the arms of the haggard and grim monster death. But, oh, how
patient, under every pining influence! Let us view the matter in bolder
colors; see her when the dearest object of her affections recklessly
seeks every bacchanalian pleasure, contents himself with the last
rubbish of creation. With what solicitude she await
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