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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