Loudon free press. (Loudon, Tenn.) 1852-1855, 1854-08-09
Short Patent Sermon.
Ny tert tsis morning is contained in these
lrOrdS
How solveless is woman!
How tender is womanl
How lovely is woman!
How child-ljke is woman


How lovely is womanl
How chid-like is woman.
My Hearers-sure enough, how solveless is
woman! She is an unguessable riddle-a most
intricate enigma flower, which, by analyzing
no one can tell to a certainty whether it be poi
sonous or innoxious-not always. She has
been with man from the beginning, and he
hasn't found her out yet She is comparative
ly an unexplored country-an alphabet Of
hleroglyphics-a magnetic mystery. Nobody
knows what her heart contains. Sometimes it
seems stuffed with love, tenderness, and SYM
pathy, and at others filed with nothing but
grit and gravel. it won't answer to shake her
if you do, you cause the acid and the alkalies
in her nature to come in contact; and then such
an efervesence takes place as might lower the
ambition Of pearlash and cider. Like the
mouth of April, she is all sunshine and showers.
Many tear-drop Of hers, dries and evaporates
in the warm light of smile, ere it has a chance
to fall; and many bright smile is suddenly
quenched by sprinkle from some passing
cloud Of sorrow, about the size ola bed blanket.
GrefS bubbles up from her bosom, to burst in
an atmosphere Ofjoy, like autnmnal flowers,
spring from the warm bed of her heart to be
cut down by the sudden frost of grief A queer
compound is woman! She is made up of mod
esty, boldness, beauty, silks, satins jealousy,
love, hatred, horse hair whale bone, piety, paint
gaiety, gumalastic bears grease, sympathy,
tears smiles, affection, and kindness. She talks
with her tongue, speaks with her eyes, is elo-
quent in her actions, and yet can't understand
her.
My brethern-how tender is woman.-She
must be screened from the hot summers sun,
sheltered from storms, and protected from the
blasts Of winter, and yet, as she makes up her
mind to it, she can out Sweat the sun, and face
north easter. But inwardly she is as tender
as the mercies Of heaven:-her heart is as
much softer than the human as heeswaxi is softer
than brickbat, her sympathies are as delicate
as the down under an angels wing, and her
love appears as fresh and unfading amid the
sorrows of adversely, as the evergreen wreath
that encircles the bald brow of Winter. Her
tenderness is too tough to be destroyed by
whatever change, fortune or time may bring.
sly dear friends how lofty is woman. No
matter whether born in a cellar, she can some
times be so lofty asa galret. When she once
gets back up, O cats and broomsticks look out
for yourselves She is as high as Olympus and
as savage as a sausage machiue. In her wrath
she is as crazy as bed bug as strong as a
tiger. and as terrible as tornado. She can
blaze away as though hell, heaven, and earth
were coming to close quarters; but in few
moments it is all Overland nobody killed.
When she comes down from the mountains,
whence she has been rolling big stones upon
the people below-softens down to jelly, and
becomes as quiescent as goose pond after a
tempest
My hearers-how loving is woman.-Aye,
she is amazingly stickey in her attachments.
She will cling TO the chosen object Of her heart
like a possum to gum tree; and you can't sep
arate her without swapping strings that no art
can mend and leaving. a portion of her soul
upon the upper-leather of her affections. She
will sometimes see something to love where
others can discover nothing even to admire, and
when her fondness is fastened upon a fellow, it
stays there, like glue and molasses in busby
head of hair.
NV hearers-how child-hke, withal, is woman
A plaything herself, she is fond of everything in
the worlds great toy shop. Her nome is in the
realm of fancy-her existence is kind of ideal
reality--her very miseries are mingled with
pleasing romance-her present is always bright
and her future still brighter. Would that were
a woman to be pleased with every posy that
pops its head above the weeds of wicked
world, and have no thorns to molest me while
gathering the wild flowers of Imagination!
Child-ike, woman is happy. Tickled with the
straw offattery, delighted with every rainbow
tinted bubble that floats upon the wave of time
as antic as a young coon in the moonlight
and as merry as cricket, she dances in the sun
light of JOY, and seems to use every endeavor
to coax us male moody mortals into brigher and
happier paths. So mote it be.
Dou Ir