own _dear_ self, whom alone self-love has blinded to herself. Hers is the delusion of the silly ostrich, which in the concealment of his head, thinks to elude pursuit. But granting her the utmost success of long and carefully practised art--and that her airs and graces, her soft _languishments_, killing glances, heavenly smiles, and soul thrilling laughter, have all the witchery that such art can give, and have called forth the applause of the crowd of vulgar admirers,--will it compensate for the obvious disgust of those who have learned to detect and to despise their empty and heartless display? Will it compensate for the lowering of that proud self-esteem, which is the bright reward of truth, and the best security of virtue? Would she flourish in the empire of the heart, that bright dominion of her sex? Would she, by her look, manner and words, inspire respect, confidence and love? And shall each betray that they have been practised but to deceive? Shall she hope to speak to the heart in tones which come not from the heart? Shall she hope to engage interest for the subject of her conversation, when full not of it but of herself? For what is it that she would challenge the affections? For a being pure, single hearted, and identical,--or for one whose very identity is almost lost amidst the perpetually varying aspects and phases, under which, in her inflated vanity, she pleases to exhibit herself. How shall our love continue to pursue, and cling to that, of whose very form and essence we have no abiding assurance? In the disruption of feeling produced by such changes, we cannot but feel that we have almost lost the beloved object, and exclaim in bitterness,--alas! she is no longer what I have loved. "Why _affectation_,--why this mock grimace? Go silly thing, and hide that simp'ring face; Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait-- All thy false mimic fooleries I hate: For thou art Folly's counterfeit--and she, Altho' right foolish, hath the better plea;-- Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee. "Why that soft languish,--why that drawling tone? Art sick? art sleepy? Get thee hence; begone-- I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears, Those flutterings, faintings, and unreal fears. "Can they deceive us? Can such mum'ries move? Touch us with pity, or inspire with love? No! affectation--vain is all thy art; Those eyes may wander over every part, They'll never find their passage to the heart."