The sympathies of our nature are strengthened
by pondering cogitations, and deadened by thoughtless use.
Macbeth's heart smote him more for one murder, the first, than for
a hundred subsequent ones, which were necessary to back it. But,
when I used the epithet vulgar, I did not mean to confine my remark
to the poor, for partial humanity, founded on present sensations or
whim, is quite as conspicuous, if not more so, amongst the rich.
The lady who sheds tears for the bird starved in a snare, and
execrates the devils in the shape of men, who goad to madness the
poor ox, or whip the patient ass, tottering under a burden above
its strength, will, nevertheless, keep her coachman and horses
whole hours waiting for her, when the sharp frost bites, or the
rain beats against the well-closed windows which do not admit a
breath of air to tell her how roughly the wind blows without. And
she who takes her dogs to bed, and nurses them with a parade of
sensibility, when sick, will suffer her babes to grow up crooked in
a nursery. This illustration of my argument is drawn from a matter
of fact. The woman whom I allude to was handsome, reckoned very
handsome, by those who do not miss the mind when the face is plump
and fair; but her understanding had not been led from female duties
by literature, nor her innocence debauched by knowledge. No, she
was quite feminine, according to the masculine acceptation of the
word; and, so far from loving these spoiled brutes that filled the
place which her children ought to have occupied, she only lisped
out a pretty mixture of French and English nonsense, to please the
men who flocked round her.
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