I sometimes think that women bear their burdens with less apparent struggle, less toil or complaint than men; and this although they own more of the horse’s anxious temperament than the sluggish nature of the ox and the ass. If they have less “nerve” than ourselves—less of the coolness which springs from constitutional insensibility to danger—they have more of that mettlesome spirit which is sometimes called “pluck,” that indomitable courage which acknowledges no failure for defeat, which never sleeps upon its post, which can bear up bravely even against the sickness and depression of unremitting pain. It is proverbial that in all phases of mere bodily suffering they show twice the patience and twice the fortitude of the stronger sex; while who shall say how much of silent sorrow they can cherish and conceal in troubled hearts while they go about their daily business with smiles on their gentle faces, with a tranquil, staid demeanour seeming to chant in soft, harmonious cadence the watchword of “All’s Well!” Do you not think they too keep their favourite skeletons (far less perfect than yourself) hoarded, hidden away, locked up, but not to be buried or forgotten for the worth of kingdoms? Do you suppose they never bring them out to be hugged, and fondled, and worshipped, and wept over? “In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.” Bah! It is a world of shams. If a woman is not a hypocrite she must be a stone! We should give them greater credit though could we learn more of the weights they have to carry. But their training is known only to themselves; their trials come off in secret; the saddles they wear are jealously locked up, and they take care to keep the key! I think the reason they run so kindly is that they apply themselves very frequently to the last resource of the Ancient Mariner when he saw no escape from his punishment, when he was overweighted with his curse. I know not: I only know that the quiet courage, the generous spirit, the untiring endurance with which they perform the journey of life is too generally ignored, unappreciated, and thrown away. How often have we not seen a thorough-bred horse ridden by a butcher? a being little lower than an angel submitting, gentle and patient, to a creature little higher than a brute. CHAPTER XI SHADOWS “Coming events cast their shadows before,” says a favourite adage of that proverbial philosophy which is often so quaint and truthful, sometimes so contradictory and far-fetched. In the present instance the maxim, I think, is contradicted by our individual convictions and general experience. For my own part I protest I am no believer in presentiments. That is a beautiful fiction of poetry, completely unsubstantiated by the prosaic events of life, which represents the predestined sufferer as one who “Still treads the shadow of his foe,”