I return to the previous question,--said I,--if our friend the Member of
the House of Representatives will allow me to borrow the phrase. Womanly
women are very kindly critics, except to themselves and now and then to
their own sex. The less there is of sex about a woman, the more she is
to be dreaded. But take a real woman at her best moment,--well dressed
enough to be pleased with herself, not so resplendent as to be a show and
a sensation, with those varied outside influences which set vibrating the
harmonic notes of her nature stirring in the air about her, and what has
social life to compare with one of those vital interchanges of thought
and feeling with her that make an hour memorable? What can equal her
tact, her delicacy, her subtlety of apprehension, her quickness to feel
the changes of temperature as the warm and cool currents of talk blow by
turns? At one moment she is microscopically intellectual, critical,
scrupulous in judgment as an analyst's balance, and the next as
sympathetic as the open rose that sweetens the wind from whatever quarter
it finds its way to her bosom. It is in the hospitable soul of a woman
that a man forgets he is a stranger, and so becomes natural and truthful,
at the same time that he is mesmerized by all those divine differences
which make her a mystery and a bewilderment to--
If you fire your popgun at me, you little chimpanzee, I will stick a pin
right through the middle of you and put you into one of this gentleman's
beetle-cases!
I caught the imp that time, but what started him was more than I could
guess.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122