A great deal of vice prevails in England, among the very fashionable, and the very low classes. Misconduct and divorces are not unfrequent among the former, because their mode of life corrupts their principles, and they deem themselves above the jurisdiction of popular opinion; the latter feel as if they were beneath the influence of public censure, and find it very difficult to be virtuous, on account of extreme poverty and the consequent obstructions in the way of marriage. But the general character of English women is modest, reserved, sincere, and dignified. They have strong passions and affections, which often develope themselves in the most beautiful forms of domestic life. They are in general remarkable for a healthy appearance, and an exquisite bloom of complexion. Perhaps the world does not present a lovelier or more graceful picture than the English home of a virtuous family. In modern times, no nation has produced a greater number of truly illustrious women. Hannah More wrote as vigorously as Johnson, and with far more of Christian mildness; Maria Edgeworth, as a novelist, is second only to Sir Walter Scott; Mrs. Fry, who cheerfully left the refinements of her own home, to do good to the destitute and vicious in their prisons, deserves a statue by the side of Howard; Mrs. Somerville, notwithstanding the malicious assertion of Byron, has proved that female astronomers can look at the moon for some better purpose than to ascertain whether there be a man in it; and who is disposed to dispute lord Brougham’s assertion, that Harriet Martineau, by her writings on political economy, is doing more good than any man in England? Modern literature contains abundant satire upon the vices and follies of women; but invectives against the sex are by no means popular. Byron indeed treats them in the true Turkish style, like voluptuous goddesses, or soulless slaves, as his own caprices happen to be; but a libertine will always write thus, because (as the old chronicler said of the troubadour) “he knoweth nothing better.” Cowper, and Wordsworth, and that sweet minstrel Barry Cornwall, have praised us in a purer and better spirit, and thereby left to posterity a transparent record of their own virtue.