not pleaſant when the heart is opened by compaſſion and the head active in arranging plans of uſefulneſs, to have a prim urchin continually twitching back the elbow to prevent the hand from drawing out an almoſt empty purſe, whiſpering at the ſame time ſome prudential maxim about the priority of juſtice.
Deſtructive, however, as riches and inherited honours are to the human character, women are more debaſed and cramped, if poſſible, by them, than men, becauſe men may ſtill, in ſome degree, unfold their faculties by becoming ſoldiers and ſtateſmen.
As ſoldiers, I grant, they can now only gather, for the moſt part, vain glorious laurels, whilſt they adjuſt to a hair the European balance, taking eſpecial care that no bleak northern nook or ſound incline the beam. But the days of true heroiſm are over, when a citizen fought for his country like a Fabricius or a Waſhington, and then returned to his farm to let his virtuous fervour run in a more placid, but not a leſs ſalutary, ſtream. No, our Britiſh heroes are oftener ſent from the gaming table than from the plow; and their paſſions have been rather inflamed by hanging with dumb ſuſpenſe on the turn of a die, than ſublimated by panting after the adventurous march of virtue in the hiſtoric page.
The ſtateſman, it is true, might with more propriety quit the Faro Bank, or card-table, to guide the helm, for he has ſtill but to ſhuffle and trick. The whole ſyſtem of Britiſh politics, if ſyſtem it may courteouſly be called, conſiſting in multiplying dependents and contriving taxes
