Never yet was there a woman _really_
improved in attraction by mingling with the motley throng of the _beau
monde_. She may learn to dress better, to step more gracefully; her
head may assume a more elegant turn, her conversation become more
polished, her air more distinguished;--but in point of _attraction_
she acquires nothing. Her simplicity of mind departs;--her generous,
confiding impulses of character are lost;--she is no longer inclined
to interpret favourably of men and things,--she listens without
believing,--sees without admiring; has suffered persecution without
learning mercy;--and been taught to mistrust the candour of others
by the forfeiture of her own. The freshness of her disposition
has vanished with the freshness of her complexion; hard lines are
perceptible in her very soul, and crowsfeet contract her very fancy.
No longer pure and fair as the statue of alabaster, her beauty, like
that of some painted waxen effigy, is tawdry and meretricious. It is
not alone the rouge upon the cheek and the false tresses adorning
the forehead, which repel the ardour of admiration; it is the
artificiality of mind with which such efforts are connected that
breaks the spell of beauty.
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