dearest friends, originated indirectly in such a source. Do not
understand me as undervaluing the fine old chivalrous devotion to
women: the hard task is for me to believe that any devotion to a good
and pure woman is exaggerated. They are above us, Charles, in all the
finer and nobler traits, and we are responsible for this weakness in
them. What wonder if they believed us when we told them that they were
more than human, something angelic? Their duty was to listen to us,
and act by our judgment; and when we have told them now for ages that
our place is at their feet, the hem of their garments for our lips,
their smiles brighter than the sunshine of heaven, should we feel
surprise at their acquiescing in our _dicta_, and assuming the
enormous social influence which we yield to them, beg them upon our
knees to take? For my part, I rejoice that man has not a power as
unlimited; and if one sex must rule, spite of every thing, I am almost
ready to give up to the women. They go right oftener; and if this
tyranny must really exist, I know not that Providence has not
mercifully placed the sceptre in her hands. See where all my great
philosophy ends--I can't help loving while I speak against them. The
sneer upon my lips turns to a smile--my indignation to good-humor.
Oh, Charles! Charles! right or wrong, they rule us; and if we must
have sexual tyranny, it is best in the hands of mothers. But rather
let us have no tyranny at all: let the man take his place as lord
without, the woman her sovereignty over the inner world. Let her grace
perfect his strength; her bosom hold his rude head and dusty brow; let
her heart crown his intellect--each fill the void in each. Vain
thought, I am afraid; and this, I fear, is scarcely more than
dreaming. Let us leave the subject."

And Mowbray sighed; nodding, as he passed on, to a young gentleman on
horseback. This was Jacques.

CHAPTER XVI.

ADVANCE OF THE ENEMY UPON SIR ASINUS.

Instead of listening further to the conversation of Mowbray and
Hoffland, let us follow Jacques, who, mounted as we have seen on a
beautiful horse, is gaily passing down the street.

Jacques is clad as usual like a lily of the field, with something of
the tulip; he hums a melancholy love song of his own composition, not
having yet come into possession of Hoffland's legacy; he smiles and
sighs, and after some hesitation, draws rein before the domicile of
our friend Sir Asinus, and dismounting, ascends