"On the Influence of Women," Commencement Address of
R. Don Wilson
, [June] 1841
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Wilson, Richard Don, 1819-1883
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On the influence of woman
Though occupying but a small space on the page of history woman has
from the earliest infancy of the world exerted a truly wonderful influence upon
its destinies. The fair sex do not require that their advocates should maintain
that mother
Eve
was created within the garden of
Eden in
complement to her beauty, the man without, or that they should declare her
ignorant of the Almighty's edict and innocent in her fall. It is sufficient for
them to know that even if
Eden was lost by
Eve's transgression, they have repaid its loss by their
devotedness, their virtues, and their love; and that man,
Adam-like, had rather share her fall than rove alone amid
the brightest creations of fancy.
Above our first parents spread lovingly the young sky, and far away
in the blue distance shone the silvery moon and sparkled the pearly stars, and
myriads beyond sought to send their light to that house of happiness. There was
in them then a beauty and a mystery no longer seen, and our first parents felt
their spiritualizing effects with emotions to which earth's tenants are
strangers now, but a vague shadow of which yet haunts the poesy of feeling. By
day the sun in glory careered on high and sunk unclouded to his rest. Beautiful
was the drapery of many and skyey hues which heralded his rise and hung around
his eve's decline. Beneath them was spread a velvety carpet of new sprung dewey
grass, and trees loaded with luscious fruit formed umbrageous parterres along
which bloomed luxuriant flowers and evergreens, and over these birds of bright
wing and musical were glancing on in light and joy; and clustering vines
manlted with purple grapes wreathed the boughs in arching canopies. The breeze
of morn and zephyr's sigh at eve were freighted with sweet odours
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and fairy sounds. Sweet was the tinkling of the rills
that ran from mossy founts whose surface was their mirror. The nightingale's
mellifluous notes serenaded their rest and the waves of the
Pison had
music in its flow as it laved its golden banks; and the spheres that move in
mystic harmoney—those living lyres of the universe had tones for their
ears—music of which earth's sweetest melodies are but the dying echoes.
Eden was a scene
of enchantment, pregnant with delight. Even
Tempe's
vale, or
Cashmere's
lovlier still is but a dim reflection. And all this was lost, and never will
earth see so fair a scene again. No more will angels revisit its blossoming
bowers. The sun has lost its splendor, the flowers their
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bloom, and the garden is a waste. Yet was our father
Adam wise to leave even Paradize for land where thorns and
thistles grew so he might gaze on woman's eyes.
Since then fair
Helen's shining charms have roused the world to arms and
set the lofty domes of
Troy on fire.
Zenobia has
fought, and
Boadicea
too and sweet
Aspasia's
fluent wit has flashed in Grecian halls more eloquent than even
Demothenes. She ruled the famous
Pericles
and even the sage, old
Socrates
forgot his cold philosophy and hung enraptured on her honeyed words. The beauty
of
Egyptia's queen
has conquered conquerors and for her the
"ancient world was won and lost"
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erst times Paradize for mother
Eve.
Thus woman's power is limitless, nor is there now on earth a man within whose
breast is left a lingering spark of chivalry who would not sing to some fair
ladye love,
"I cannot lose a world for thee
But would not lose thee for a world."
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The days of chivalry are gone: those high toned sentiments which
inspired the knights of by-gone centuries are no more. No longer the knight
seeks adventures high to win the smile of her he idolizes.
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He does not challenge now a brother knight who dares deny her charms
superior to those of all others. He does not guard her rest beneath night's
holy vault, nor chant
beneath
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mild moon-light a serenade soft as the airs of June. The tournament with all
its gallant sports—the last fond glance which woman's champion
s cast ere he poised his ready
lance—the shock—the shiver—the prize bestowed by lady's
hand—the lady eyes that shone thereon—all are no more. The rose has
lost its emblem—Gloves their token—and rings the power to exorcise:
Woman had no no mail clad knight to right her wrongs or by his deeds to win her
love. No longer robed in purple and in gold she sits in state the contest to
behold and hand the wreath around the
warrior's
victor's brow. Those days are gone: but the
sprit—the essence of them remain—The same devotion differently
displayed burns on its holy altar yet. that love of honor has its
home—that gallantry its shrine in hearts that throb with fearful bliss.
The outward forms and ceremonies have undergone a change but the hallowed
principle is the same. The influence of woman is despotic yet.
It stirs the warrior's soul, and fires the patriot's heart, and
where his banner waves its fold are hands to do and souls to dare what woman
please command. It lights the statesman's brow and eloquence bursts blazing
forth, and kindles in its audience the flame of high resolve or virtuous
indignation. We see the sturdy gripe—the flashing eye—the heaving
chest—the stamp—the rush—how it melts the stubborn heart in
one deep mingling flow of sympathy. Hate is disarmed and prejudice
forgot—and eyes unused to weep are full of tears. The orator has found
his way unto their hidden
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source—unlocked
their long closed founts, and given their waters vent. Hence too romance her
coloring draws—her airy ministers—her brilliant images—and
tender sentiments—her world of fadeless flowers and chrystal skies.
Hence, poesy, thy inspiration comes! Woman is the poet's theme. she flashes ore
his page the rich golden hues of fancy,—strows in wild profusion the
flowers that embellish his works and fills his ears with the sounds of fairy
land. Even the poor student feels her influence—and wastes his healht,
and tasks his mind to gain her smiles. That enervated frame—that faded
eye—that pallid cheek—that furrowed brow—that thoughtful
countenance—bespeak the toils of intellect—the fire that preys upon
his heart felt but unseen. The zest of youth is gone, his energies impaired,
and flickering is the vital
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flame. Oft does he trim his midnight lamp, and oft his dimming eyes do wander
from his book and gaze on misty vacancy. Oh he had rather die a martyr striving
for the palm of woman's smiles, than live a life of indolence and ease,
unhonored and unloved.
The condition of woman varies in different lands and different
stages of society, and may be taken as an infallible index of the degree of
civilization to which any nation has arrived. Among the savage tribes no
envious lot is hers, she has no kneeling worshippers to swear her eyes are like
twin stars, her blushes like the morning skies and breath like fragrant airs.
The slave of him whose passions
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are his guide she
suffers wrongs untold from his caprice and look to death alone as a release
from toils her tender frame was never meant to bear. Her tyrant throws his well
strung bow across his brawny shoulder and decked in all the foppery of gaudy
feathers roves the pathless wilds free as the winds that round him blow or
streams that lave their fringed flowery banks; while she degraded, s[u]nk, must
till the soil, and unsocial meals prepare for his return; and when they meet no
smile is on his brow no pleasure in his eye. No savage ornaments do glitter
round her neck or wanton in her hair. She is too low to feel a pride in
decoration.
As man emerges from this savage state the condition of woman is
improved. Still all lonely does she live, secluded from the world and doomed to
feel herself the most abject, she whom heaven designed should be the paragon of
creatures.
It is only where man has risen to refinement, where the arts and
sciences are known that woman attains that elevated station her softer
qualities are suited to adorn. Here in beauty's light and freedom's pride she
moves along, enchantress of the scene. Pure are the stars that spangle heaven's
cerulean vault. Here are the dews the evening air distils; and the moon as she
walks her path of light so wildly beautiful and bright is pure. Pure the
vermeil dyes of morn and eve, and these are lovely too. But purer than all is
the flush that suffuses the modest maiden's cheek—that slight vermilion
tinge—that rainbow token of a future covenant. More lovely than they are
the bright eyes of woman—her eloquent eyes. The universe is full of
beauty. It waves in the green leafed trees, blooms in the
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flowers, decks the grass, colors the wings of birds, floats in the
clouds, flows on the water, lights up the gems in hidden mines, haunts oceans
coral depths, beams in the sunshine, smiles in the landscape. Earth, sea, and
sky with beauty overflow. More beautiful than these is woman, that beauty which
breatheth from her face, and speaketh to the heart—that sparkles in her
eye, glosses her hair, waits on her steps, waves and lightens, Aurora
Borealis-like in each graceful movement. Oh charms are hers, which art cannot
boast or nature rival—the masterpiece of creation—His
last—His loveliest work.
There is music in the song of birds—in the flow of water and
murmur of its fall, in the wind from its gentlest breath to the louder organ
tones that swell amid the harmonies of Nature's mighty temple. The ocean has
its voiceless anthems and the chords of the great universe move in harmonic
choirs, and the rolling spheres, which "weave the dance that measures
their years",
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melodies which fancy hears. But sweeter far than any yea than all these is the
seraph voice of woman—soft dulcet tones, ye have an echo in every
heart—a chord in every breast, which trembles to your minstrelsy, and
sings responsive sympathy. More musical are ye than the tones of the mellow
flute, or the strings of the Aeolian harp, when they quaver to the viewless
spirit of the air.
But what would all these adornsments be worth were it not for the
soul whose virtues shine through all and harmonize the whole—for the
intelligence, which irradiates her countenance, and gives her all that poets
dream, with all that rapt enthusiasm can hope for. Her persuasion is more
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powerful than the tongue of
Tully [Cicero] , more commanding than a tyrant's sword are
her tears; These endow her with that influence by which she ruleth man, and
through him the world. Her frame is of a more delicate texture, her mind of a
more angelic mould than his. Her qualities are winning and attractive. Man's
stern and commanding. Man's joy is in lofty scenes—in awful
sights—and wild terrific sounds—in convulsions of nature and of
nations. In storms—their thunder and lightning—in
volcanoes—in earthquakes—in mountains and the billowy main. Her joy
is in the stars and dews, and tranquil skies, and placid streams—
in
8 and
flowers—in all things tender, soft, sweet, musical, and fair. Yet do the
two dispositions
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blend in delicious harmony. The realm of poesy and fiction is hers. She
transports to brighter worlds and lovelier bowers, than man imagines which she
has breathed into existence and peopled with forms of life and light. Such are
the writings of
Landon,
Hemans, and our own
Sigourney—the pride of her sex—and no less of
her nation.
Earth has not a more angelic vision than a young girl just dawning
into womanhood with all her new blown charms around. Her path is one of
roses—her anticipations are warm—and hope—illusive hope lures
on but to bewilder. There is something in the inexperience—the
artlessness of the confiding girl—which breathes of Paradize. An
atmosphere of purity is around her. But when the wings of time shall have
showered their blessings and their flowers on her suny lawn of life, the bloom
must fade from her rosy cheek,—the sparkle
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leave her eye—the zephyr that waits on her step must flag—
But then the rose of affection has a brighter bloom than the Hebean
flush of youth and health—and the tenderness mirrored in her eyes is more
eloquent than the fire of earlier days and her voice has a mellower
tone—and her step is beautiful as that of a messenger on the mountain
tops, that bringeth glad tidings.
On woman depend the polish—the manners of the rougher sex.
From its mother the child will take the hue which colors the web of existence.
In after years, when gloom, and desolation—and the storms of adversity
are around him—and the winds sweep fearfully along—and the awful
roll of the thunder is heard—and the lurid flash of the lightning
seen—and the waves are high—and the clouds of heaven are black and
ominous, and the haven is afar—and his bark is tempest-tost: then the
precepts of a mother are the pilot and the helm which guide him through the
many and deep waters of life's tumultuous sea. To them he
r securs in his passage over the
Bridge of
Sighs—that fearful transit from youth to manhood—and
sustained thereby advances fearless of the frowns of fortune, and the dangers
that await him. Wherever he may be—in the suny vales of the
south—amid polar snows—on the
Alps or the
Andes—still
like the prayer of the mussulman his heart's aspirations are turned towards the
Mecca of his home.
The waste of years—
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the blighted
hopes—the thorns and trials of the rugged world—its cares and
sorrows—amid that one rush of feelings are forgot. the long lost tones of
other days—earlier and brighter—like hallowed airs and dying
symphonies of harp strings woke to music by the soft south west and broken in
the waking sigh around him—A second spring renews the joys and the hopes
of his sunny youth—The steril desert of life is watered by the dews of
reminiscences, pleasant but mournful to the soul—and the chilled and base
heart leafs out again, and the very soul of life's young poesy breathes around
him.
Why is this? why do the scenes of childhood crowd on the memory
after the lapse of years and the wear and tear of time? Why is the
sun—
and the sand—and the toil—the thirst and the faintness
forgot. Because of the mother whose love has hallowed that home. The spirit
which she breathed into our budding infancy sheds its fragrance on the faded
leaves of age. Distance and time are annihilated—and we are transported
back to the green bowers of home. A mother's hand is laid on that brow where
the ashes of former fires and the tombs of former thoughts lie mouldering.
Home, mother, with those two words what associations
are connected—by them what feelings are awakened. He who has gained the
pinnacle of fame by his sword—his tongue—or his pen—looks
back to his mother as the founder of his greatness, and his joy and his pride
like
Coriolanus of old is that she shares in his glory and is
proud of her son.
On woman then depends the morality of a nation—the
preservation of its liberties. Vain is the effort of the most
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brilliant genius, though his wit may wither and
his eloquence electrify—vain his attempt to rise to eminence without the
aid of woman. If woman inspire not the warrior—if her lilly hand weave
not liberty on his standard—the eagle of victory will never perch
thereon—or if it do—If he prefer to wade through streams of
blood—to pave his way with human bones to crowns and thrones, rather than
dying in the strife for freedom to leave a name which she would hallow and gain
a grave her tears would bedew. If so, a curse is abroad on that land, and the
lava fire of ambition will ere long scath and scorch its very vitals.
If this calamity befall the young
America—the pride of the world—the home of
freedom—and the asylum of the oppressed, the sun of its glory will be
darkened—and the stars—the twenty six stars—the constellation
of the west—the most brilliant among nations will be dimmed and the
stripes will be of a deeper dye—the crimson dye of blood—and the
banner torn and flying will pass away like the red cloud of an autumnal night.
The nation will heave with a mighty convulsion—the presaging throes which
forebode its dissolution. The song—and the dance—and the bright
saloon will be exchanged for the war-whoop and the drum—the march and the
camp. The demon of war will be loosed—order become a chaos—and
every social tie be broken. The son and the sire will meet in the unholy
conflict. The blood of martyred millions will gush in torrents from their
veins—and run a purple river to the ocean—and the bones of the
owners will bleach their fields. The hearth will be left desolate—the
altars defiled—sanctity violated—and the wife and the daughter be
left
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alone—mourners over many tombs.
Hark! a voice is borne from the depths of the wilderness which is
not of the sounds that pass away. The trump—the drum—the cries of
martial hosts—the loud soar of artillery—the onset—the
clashing of swords and the ringing of steel—the goans—the
deaths—and all is over. The grass grows again and nature resumes her
wonted course—But hearts are left to mourn and ivy twines around the
deserted homes—and weeds obscure the portals.
Such mothers of
America will
you be doomed to experience unless principles are instilled into the young mind
of order and love of liberty which will grow with his growth and strengthen
with his strength.
Daughters of
Carolina—"Land of the beautiful and the
brave"—the fair and the chivalric—It is yours to
elevate—to give tone—and character to the age—you in whom is
realized all that the novelist has dreamed of ideal perfection:
"Who walk in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies."
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The
chivalry of
Carolina is here and look to you to reward their
toils—they look to you as the rose that adorns their path of
life—and the honey that sweetens its cup. But others of maturer age look
to you as the preservers of this favored land—and of its noble
institutions—as the inspirers of virtue—the palladium of its
liberties. In your heart of hearts is the shrine of virtue—that highest
gift of the
Creator—an essence—an emanation of himself,
and from his heaven of heavens he will defend. The earth and the orbs that roll
through the blue depths of ether are material & will vanish, when they
shall have served the purposes of their creation. But virtue is eternal. While
its abode is the human heart—the host of angels guard, and the banner of
heaven waves over it, and the music which swells in the temple of temples shall
tell its praise and the amaranthine wreath shall crown it.
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