danger and loving love, from which they demand much, and to which they grant little; beyond every thing they prize renown and glory.  All heroism is dear to them.  Perhaps there is no one among them who would think it possible to pay too dearly for a brilliant action; and yet, let us say it with reverence, many of them devote to obscurity their most holy sacrifices, their most sublime virtues.  But however exemplary these quiet virtues of the home life may be, neither the miseries of private life, nor the secret sorrows which must prey upon souls too ardent not to be frequently wounded, can diminish the wonderful vivacity of their emotions, which they know how to communicate with the infallible rapidity and certainty of an electric spark.  Discreet by nature and position, they manage the great weapon of dissimulation with incredible dexterity, skillfully reading the souls of others with out revealing the secrets of their own.  With that strange pride which disdains to exhibit characteristic or individual qualities, it is frequently the most noble virtues which are thus concealed.  The internal contempt they feel for those who cannot divine them, gives them that superiority which enables them to reign so absolutely over those whom they have enthralled, flattered, subjugated, charmed; until the moment arrives when—­loving with the whole force of their ardent souls, they are willing to brave and share the most bitter suffering, prison, exile, even death itself, with the object of their love!  Ever faithful, ever consoling, ever tender, ever unchangeable in the intensity of their generous devotion!  Irresistible beings, who in fascinating and charming, yet demand an earnest and devout esteem!  In that precious incense of praise burned by M. de Balzac, “in honor of that daughter of a foreign soil,” he has thus sketched the Polish woman in hues composed entirely of antitheses:  “Angel through love, demon through fantasy; child through faith, sage through experience; man through the brain, woman through the heart; giant through hope, mother through sorrow; and poet through dreams.” [Footnote:  Dedication of “Modeste Mignon".]

The homage inspired by the Polish women is always fervent.  They all possess the poetic conception of an ideal, which gleams through their intercourse like an image constantly passing before a mirror, the comprehension and seizure of which they impose as a task.  Despising the insipid and common pleasure of merely being able to please, they demand that the being whom they love shall be capable of exacting their esteem.  This romantic temperament sometimes retains them long in hesitation between the world and the cloister.  Indeed, there are few among them who at some moment of their lives have not seriously and bitterly thought of taking refuge within the walls of a convent.