Sinclair.—By opposition. Whoever adopts such a course, either from character or principle, acquires more authority than one would readily think.
Amelia.—I fear we are about to fall into the tone of censure so general to men.
Henrietta.—Do not interrupt him, Amelia. Nothing can be more harmless than these mere opinions; and we are the gainers, by learning what other persons think of us. Now, then, for the fourth class: what about it?
Sinclair.—I think I may speak unreservedly. The class I allude to does not exist in our country, and does not exist in France; because the fair sex, both among us and our gallant neighbours, enjoys a proper degree of freedom. But in countries where women are under restraint, and debarred from sharing in public amusements, the class I speak of is numerous. In a neighbouring country, there is a peculiar name by which ladies of this class are invariably designated.
Henrietta.—You must tell us the name: we can never guess names.
Sinclair.—Well, I must tell you, they are called roguish.
Henrietta.—A strange appellation.
Sinclair.—Some time ago you took great interest in reading the speculations of Lavater upon physiognomy: do you remember nothing about roguish countenances in his book?
Henrietta.—It is possible, but it made no impression upon me. I may, perhaps, have construed the word in its ordinary sense, and read on without noticing it.
Sinclair.—It is true that the word "roguish," in its ordinary sense, is usually applied to a person, who, with malicious levity, turns another into ridicule; but, in its present sense, it is meant to describe a young lady, who, by her indifference, coldness, and reserve—qualities which attach to her as a disease—destroys the happi-
