ter for cheerful converſe, and innocent careſſes have ſoftened toils which did not require great exerciſe of mind or ſtretch of thought: yet, has not the ſight of this moderate felicity excited more tenderneſs than reſpect? An emotion ſimilar to what we feel when children are playing, or animals ſporting[1], whilſt the contemplation of the noble ſtruggles of ſuffering merit has raiſed admiration, and carried our thoughts to that world where ſenſation will give place to reaſon.
Women are, therefore, to be conſidered either as moral beings, or ſo weak that they muſt be entirely ſubjected to the ſuperior faculties of men.
Let us examine this queſtion. Rouſſeau declares that a woman ſhould never, for a moment, feel herſelf independent, that ſhe ſhould be governed by fear to exerciſe her natural cunning, and made a coquetiſh ſlave in order to render her a more alluring object of deſire, a ſweeter companion to man, whenever he chooſes to relax himſelf. He carries the arguments, which he pretends to draw from the indications of nature, ſtill further, and inſinuates that truth and fortitude, the corner ſtones of all human virtue, ſhould be cultivated with certain reſtrictions, becauſe, with reſpect to the female character, obedience is the grand leſſon which ought to be impreſſed with unrelenting rigour.
- ↑ Similar feelings has Milton's pleaſing picture of paradiſiacal happineſs ever raiſed in my mind; yet, inſtead of envying the lovely pair, I have, with conſcious dignity, or Satanic pride, turned to hell for ſublimer objects. In the ſame ſtyle, when viewing ſome noble monument of human art, I have traced the emanation of the Deity in the order I admired, till, deſcending from that giddy height, I have caught myſelf contemplating the grandeſt of all human fights;—for fancy quickly placed, in ſome ſolitary receſs, an outcaſt of fortune, riſing ſuperior to paſſion and diſcontent.
