ous and fatal enemies which lurk within her own heart—from vanity, from envy, and from love of admiration.
To prove that I lay no unfounded charge at the door of man in this respect, let us look into society as it is. The beautiful woman! What court is paid to her! What extravagances are uttered and committed by those who compose her circle of admirers! She opens her lips;—men of high intellectual pretensions are proud to listen. Some trifling or vapid remark is all she utters. They applaud, if she attempts to be judicious; they laugh, if she aims at being gay; or they evince the most profound reverence for her sentiments, if the tone of her expression is grave. Listen to the flattery they offer at the shrine of this idol of an hour. No; it is too gross—too absurd for repetition. One thing, however, makes it serious. Such flattery is frequently at the expense of rivals, and even of friends; so that, while these admirers foster vanity, they are not satisfied without awaking the demon of envy in a soul—an immortal soul, which it ought to have been their generous and noble aim to shield from every taint of evil, and especially from so foul a taint as that of envy.
But let us turn to another scene in the drama of society. The very same men are disclaiming their unsuccessful efforts to obtain the favour of this beauty, and ridiculing the emptiness and the folly of the remarks they so lately applauded. Time passes on. The beauty so worshipped begins to wane. Other stars shine forth in the hemisphere, and younger belles assert superior claims to admiration. Who, then, remains of all that prostrate circle? Not one! They are all gone over to the junior claimant, and are laughing with her at the disappointment of the faded beauty.
This is a dark and melancholy picture, but for its truth I appeal to any who have mixed much in general society, who have either been beautiful themselves, or the confidants
