Canton Weekly Register

Woman.—Place her among flowers. Foster her as a tender plant, and she is a thing of fancy, waywardness, and sometimes folly.—Annoyed by a dew drop, fretted by the touch of a butterfly's wing, and ready to faint at the rustle of a beetle; the zephyrs are too rough, the shadows are too heavy for her, and she is overpowered by the perfume of a rosebud—But let real calamity come—rouse her affections—kindle the fires of her heart, and mark her then. How her heart strengthens itself: how strong is her purpose. Place her in the heat of battle—give her a child, a bird—anything she loves or pities, to protect, and see her white arms, as a shield, while her own blood streams to her upturned forehead, praying for life to protect the helpless.

Transplant her to the dark places of earth—awaken her energies to action, and her breath becomes a healing, her presence a blessing. She disputes, inch by inch, the strides of stalking pestilence, when man, the strong and brave, shrinks away affrighted, misfortune daunts her not; she wears away a life of silent endurance, and goes forth with less timidity than to her bridal. In prosperity, she is a bud full of odors, waiting but for the winds of adversity, to scatter them abroad—pure gold, valuable, but untried in the furnace. In short, woman is a miracle, a mystery; the center from which radiates the great charm of existence.