moſt dangerous of tyrants, and women have been duped by their lovers, as princes by their ministers, whilſt dreaming that they reigned over them.
I now principally allude to Rouſſeau, for his character of Sophia is, undoubtedly, a captivating one, though it appears to me groſsly unnatural; however, it is not the ſuperſtructure, but the foundation of her character, the principles on which her education was built, that I mean to attack; nay, warmly as I admire the genius of that able writer, whoſe opinions I ſhall often have occaſion to cite, indignation always takes place of admiration, and the rigid frown of inſulted virtue effaces the ſmile of complacency, which his eloquent periods are wont to raiſe, when I read his voluptuous reveries. Is this the man, who, in his ardour for virtue, would baniſh all the ſoft arts of peace, and almoſt carry us back to Spartan diſcipline? Is this the man who delights to paint the uſeful ſtruggles of paſſion, the triumphs of good diſpoſition, and the heroic flights which carry the glowing ſoul out of itſelf?—How are theſe mighty ſentiments lowered when he deſcribes the pretty foot and enticing airs of his little favourite! But, for the preſent I wave the ſubject, and, inſtead of ſeverely reprehending the tranſient effuſions of overweening ſenſibility, I ſhall only obſerve, that whoever has caſt a benevolent eye on ſociety, muſt often have been gratified by the ſight of humble mutual love, not dignified by ſentiment, nor ſtrengthened by a union in intellectual purſuits. The domeſtic trifles of the day have afforded mat-
