she is a LADY; how is it possible for her to stitch for a livelihood? or to receive pupils without a nice apartment? What can we do, but listen and relieve? This is the Widow's way! and this is the way, alas! of man's heart! Lord Clarendon, having had a disagreement with the Duchess of Portsmouth, the favorite mistress of his Royal master, suffered himself, under great excitement, to go so far as to say: Madam, if you live, you will grow old! Could anything have been more true? more certain to be verified? and yet, to a woman whose sway depended on her youth and beauty, could anything in words have been more galling, bitter, vindictive, and revengeful? This was Lord Clarendon's way! Sheridan, in the finest comedy of our language, makes-Lady Sneerwell I think-say to Lady Teazle: I hope your husband may live a hundred years! Did you ever hear such a spiteful creature?' retorts Lady Teazle, touched to the quick, and thrown quite off her guard. Not for that wish, I hope my dear,' exclaims her honest good-hearted Sir Peter. This is Sheridan's way. There is a Lady in this unconscious city-unconscious I mean as to the full value of the treasure that it possesses in her; as the mountain is I suppose unconscious of the precious ore that it carries in its heart-whose very 'Good morrow!' is an endowment for the day. Joy waits upon her! Pleasure gurgles in her face, and Intelligence beams from it! and the day grows brighter, the morning fresher, and the air becomes a more blessed gift and aliment of life after she has once said, and looked, 'Good morning to you!' Some charm unknown until then is felt to have been imparted from her, that yet she can never lose! and much is then felt to have been positively gained, in these few words, not making her less rich, but given freely never hereafter to be lost! They come from her coral lips, and from her precious heart, and cultivated spirit, enveloped as it were in the magick of her voice; in her lightest, finest, most luxuriant hair; in her deep blue eyes; in the living damask of her cheek; in her unstudied grace, and native refinement of the soul. Each has its own peculiar part, and yet all speak in the one cheery intonation of the voice, and all with one same expression. It is the one expression of the whole of that mysterious and spiritual creation, that exists and is involved in the word, WOMAN! and it is beautiful- as Hope, in some early Vision of the young and pure Imagination! 'WHEN she spake, Sweet words, like dropping honey, she did shed; A silver sound, that Heavenly musick seem'd to make,' In truth one may say of this LADY, as our great master writes it, 'She hath a way, Ann Hathaway!' There is another Lady in my thoughts-whether she belong to this city or no, I say not-whose style of receiving attentions in small conversational parties is supremely her own; and is so highly characteristick, as to contrast remarkably with that of Ann Hatha way. She has been more cried up as a belle, than truly distinguished as a beauty; and though not deficient certainly in personal attractions, her face, to the uninterested observer, is rather that of a Doll to be looked at, than that of a Woman to be profoundly loved. She plants her eyes (which are really fine) upon some Gentleman, who, upon every principle on which society is framed, is entitled if not to a cordial, at least to a polite regard. Her look does not fully express a salut de demi-connaisance, though she has met him frequently before, but still it is a step toward it, and it is enough, combined with other reasons, to make him feel, that, although there is an air of preoccupation in it, to omit paying his compliments altogether might be noticed as an inattention; and incapable of this, he approaches and accosts her. She rises from her seat, gently, gracefully, beautifully; gratifies him with no one word nor any other act of notice in answer to his suffrage; suffers no passing sensation however slight to move over one fair feature of her countenance; makes a semi-circular swing for the due adjustment of her pretty drapery behind; performs the same movement in a counter semi-revolution; first to the right, then to the left; appears to be fully ascertained that all things whatever are altogether comme il faut about and within her train; and then, gently, gracefully, beautifully, studiously, subsides into her former posture on the fauteuil — impassive, imperturbable, impenetrable, unspeakable, as one of the Chinese Watchmen, made and modelled and baked in the far interiour of the Celestial Empire, to stand and do nothing upon the upmost gallery of a pagoda, fancied and carved in alabaster and decorated with little gilt bells that hang, never to ring, at the corners of every story of the fabrick. I remember a little watchman upon the upper gallery of such an alabaster pagoda that stood in the library when I was an unprofitable urchin, who wore the same unsympathizing, unchangeable, relentless, unimpressionable face. The watchmen upon the lower stories, I must do them all the justice to add, were far more lively and placable in their countenances and demeanour than the little fellow in the range above. They were an hilarious, companionable, lifeloving set, although quite as decorous and orderly. But I suppose that either he, or his maker, thought it becoming, as he might perhaps stand for a short time upon an upper Gallery of the little Pagoda, that he should wear such an air without knowing why, a dignity with an unsearchable cause. And possibly some such thought may have visited the human apprehension in the instance before me; and to speak solemnly may have played the Devil with what was intended to do good and give pleasure! At any rate, such is this Lady's Way. - There is certainly nothing more perfectly facile to any one individual of that sex upon whom our happiness depends, than to mark around her the exact line of proximity, or of distance, within which no one of ours may venture to intrude; and which every Gentleman is, above all earthly things, bound to respect and reverence. It is given to every LADY to stand within a charméd circle of her own: tracing it, at her proper pleasure, with a beam of starry light; or with a bit of coarse, conjuring chalk. And knowing thisand every LADY knows it, and that it can be done in the passage of a thought by one magnetick movement of her Will under her prescriptive rights-I submit with all humility, that a power, which no one can contend against, should be exercised with discretion; and, in a small conversational party, with some degree even of generosity; and I hope to excite no displeasure, by repeating in this connexion, the title of my Essay: There is A Way of doing Things.' JOHN WATERS. The re How often we hear persons say, 'I hate a croaker!' mark always struck me as unjust, and as coming under the Scripture text, 'First pluck the beam out of thine own eye.' In fact, we are all fault-finders; and I am surprised that this right of finding fault has never been classed under the head of the 'absolute rights' of individuals. Paley would rise ten per cent. higher in my estimation, if he had not neglected so important and valuable a right. I am perfectly aware that many learned and worthy persons think that fault-finding is not a right. Such persons found their belief upon the principle that nothing can be considered a right which is not capable of being violated.' I admit the remark in its fullest extent, and would reply, that every person who opposes and reproaches another for exercising the glorious privilege of fault-finding, violates in the highest sense a right. The exercise of the right is as much a natural possession as the everlasting law of selfdefence. The right to find fault has existed since the creation of the world until the present moment, and has developed itself in proportion to the objects, real or imaginary, which spring up in the path of life. Though Adam and Eve, the first persons in the world, were supposed to have been made perfect, the sublime Milton, (and he of course is authority,) vividly portrays, the exercise, by our first parents, of this clear and indisputable right. In mentioning my ancestors, I am guided by the profoundest respect and veneration; and, for the sake of my theory, am proud that one of the first symptoms of humanity which they exhibited was this exercise of finding fault with each other. In tracing the progress of the world, and reflecting upon the various classes and callings into which the human family is divided, we shall find that no one is exempt from this natural propensity. When Alexander sat down and wept because he had no more worlds to conquer, he only did in a kingly way what every man woman and child does daily; yes, I had almost said, hourly. In our childhood we have been taught to look upon this act of Alexander as a wretched picture. The remark has been held up to us as indicating a valuable lesson, the curse of ambition. For my part, when I escaped from nursery tyranny and became my own thinker, I looked upon the whole thing in a different light. I regarded the act of Alexander as a grand illustration of the great truth, that fault-finding is a gift from heaven, a clear and natural right. The remark which the warrior made showed the triumph of this inherent principle in the human heart. The whole world offered no field for farther conquest, and amidst his tears he found fault because he could find nothing else. We find fault with our bosom friend, with the world at large; and, as if to show how deeply the passion is rooted in the heart of man, we find fault with a bountiful and benignant Providence. Indeed, the privilege is as free and habitual to man as the air we breathe; and I am inclined to the opinion that it is as salutary and as essential to human life. It is so soothing to our self-love to find fault with a person, especially if he be our superior, that to cut off this enjoyment would dry up one of the most prolific fountains of human happiness. The beggar finds fault with your viands, which have gratuitously feasted him, and with your cast-off coat, which covers his nakedness. I have a short story at hand, which will illustrate my views. The beauty of the story consists in its truth and in its power of illustration. A few days ago I was at the hospitable mansion of a dear friend, with whom I dined. Being on intimate terms with the household, after dinner I passed into the kitchen, where I saw a couple of wretches feeding freely upon a good roast turkey, accompanied by vegetables and the usual condiments. The beggars were too busy with their feast to observe me; but their appearance being somewhat singular, I scrutinized them closely. One of them raised his eyes to the other and said: The old Hunks ought to send out his plum-pudding and wine.' The stingy rascal is too tight for that!' replied the other. I could scarcely credit my senses. Such language applied to my generous friend, and by creatures too who |