A philosophical, historical, and moral essay on old maids. By a friend to the sisterhood. In three volumes.: [pt.1]

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- TO Mrs. ELIZABETH CARTER.

- CONTENTS.

- INTRODUCTION.

- PART I. ON THE PARTICULAR FAILINGS OF OLD MAIDS.

- CHAP. I. On the Situation and Treatment of Old Maids in general.

- CHAP. II. On the Curiosity of Old Maids.

- CHAP. III. On the Credulity of Old Maids.

- CHAP. IV. On the Affectation of Old Maids.

- EPIGRAM ON MISS DELIA DAINTY.

- CHAP. V. On the Envy and Ill-nature of Old Maids.

- PART II. ON THE PARTICULAR GOOD QUALITIES OF OLD MAIDS.

- CHAP. I. On the Ingenuity of Old Maids.

- CHAP. II. On the Patience of Old Maids.

- CHAP. III. On the Charity of Old Maids.

AN ESSAY ON OLD MAIDS.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

A Philosophical, Historical, and Moral ESSAY ON OLD MAIDS.

VOL. I.

A Philosophical, Historical, and Moral ESSAY ON OLD MAIDS.

BY A FRIEND TO THE SISTERHOOD.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

To unfold the sage And serious Doctrine of Virginity.
MILTON'S Comus.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉.
ARISTOPHANES.

Nemo apud nos, qui idem tentaverit; nemo apud Graecos, qui unus omnia ea tractaverit.—Res ardua, vetustis novitatem dare, novis autoritatem, obsoletis nitorem, obscuris lucem, fastiditis gratiam, dubiis fidem, omnibus vero naturam, et naturae suae omnia. Itaque, etiam non assecutis, voluisse, abundè pulchrum atque magnificum est.
PLINII Hist. Nat. Praefatio.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, IN THE STRAND. M.DCC.LXXXV.

TO Mrs. ELIZABETH CARTER.

DEAR MADAM,

PERMIT me to pay my devotions to you, as the ancients did to their threefold Diana; and to reverence you in three distinct characters; as a Poet, as a Philosophers, and as an Old Maid.

Although the latter name may, in vulgar estimation, be held inferior to the two preceding, allow me to say, it is the dignity with which you support the last of there titles, that has chiefly made me with you to appear as the Protectress of the little volumes, which I have now the honour to lay before you.

Your virtues and your talents induce me to consider you as the President of the chaste Community, whose interest I have endeavoured to promote in the following performance.

If you happily think that my work may answer my design, I am persuaded you will gratefully receive it under your honourable Patronage.—If you find, that, like other philosophical projectors, I have more benevolence than power, I am still convinced that the gentle Author of the beautiful Ode to Wisdom, the faithful and accomplished Translator of the moral Epictetus, will do ample justice to my good intention, and accept with polite good-humour this sincere homage, from

Her zealous Admirer, and devoted humble Servant, The AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

VOL. I.

- INTRODUCTION, Page. xiii

- PART I. ON THE PARTICULAR FAILINGS OF OLD MAIDS.

- Chap. I. On the Situation and Treatment of Old Maids in general, Page. 1

- Chap. II. On the Curiosity of Old Maids, Page. 19

- Chap. III. On the Credulity of Old Maids, Page. 34

- Chap. IV. On the Affectation of Old Maids, Page. 54

- Chap. V. On the Envy and Ill-nature of Old Maids, Page. 84

- PART II. ON THE PARTICULAR GOOD QUALITIES OF OLD MAIDS.

- Chap. I. On the Ingenuity of Old Maids, Page. 127

- Chap. II. On the Patience of Old Maids, Page. 161

- Chap. III. On the Charity of Old Maids, Page. 197

VOL. II.

- PART III. ON OLD MAIDS IN ANCIENT HISTORY.

- Chap. I. Conjectures concerning the Existence of Old Maids before the Deluge, Page. 1

- Chap. II. Conjectures concerning Old Maids among the Jews, Aegyptians, and some other Nations of Antiquity, Page. 38

- Chap. III. On the Old Maids of Greece, Page. 52

- Chap. IV. On the Vestals, and other Old Maids, of Rome, before the Christian Aera, Page. 84

- PART IV. ON OLD MAIDS, AFTER THE CHRISTIAN AERA.

- Chap. I. On the infinite Increase of Old Maids after the Christian Aera, Page. 135

- Chap. II. On some of the most early Christian Authors, who have touched on Virginity —Tertullian—St. Cyprian.—On the Canonical Virgins, Page. 153

- Chap. III. On Methodius, Bishop of Olympus, and his Banquet of Virgins, Page. 174

- Chap. IV. On the Saints who have written Panegyrics on Virginity—St. Athanasius, &c. Page. 194

- Chap. V. On St. Basil, and his Panegyric on Virginity, Page. 200

- Chap. VI. On St. Gregory Nazianzen, and his Poem in Praise of Virginity.—On some Latin Poets of the dark Ages, who have written on the same Subject, Page. 209

VOL. III.

- PART. V. ON CHRISTIAN AND OTHER MODERN OLD MAIDS.

- Chap. I. On Saint Gregory of Nyssa, and his Panegyric on Virginity, Page. 1

- Chap. II. On St. Ambrose, and his several Compositions in Praise of Virginity, Page. 11

- Chap. III. On St. Chrysostom, and his Panegyric on Virginity, Page. 30

- Chap. IV. On St. Jerom, and his various Compositions in Praise of Virginity, Page. 36

- Chap. V. On some Miracles ascribed to Monastic Virgins, Page. 64

- Chap. VI. On the Decline and Fall of Monastic Virginity, Page. 74

- Chap. VII. On some Monastic Old Maids distinguished by literary Talents, Page. 88

- Chap. VIII. On some Old Maids of the new World, Page. 103

- Chap. IX. On the Reverence paid to Old Maids by our Northern Ancestors, Page. 111

- PART VI. CONTAINING MISCELLANEOUS MATTER.

- Chap. I. On certain Passages in English Poets concerning Virginity.—On the medical Influence ascribed to it.—On various Devices supposed to ascertain it, &c. Page. 127

- Chap. II. Containing the Discussion of a very delicate and important Question, Page. 161

- Chap. III. Containing a Sermon to Old Maids, delivered in a Dream, Page. 198

- POSTSCRIPT, Page 243

INTRODUCTION.

IN proportion as enlightened benevolence and true philosophy gain credit in the world, it becomes the endeavour of those who write, to make their pen an instrument of essential service to human nature.

Many an aspiring moralist, embracing the whole circle of rational creation, delights himself with the project of conferring an important benefit on mankind in general; and some, confining their ambition to a narrower province, content themselves with selecting, for the objects of their attention, a single class of mortals, exposed by their situation to particular failings, or oppressed by peculiar and unmerited afflictions. A celebrated philosopher of France [*] has written a benevolent and admirable essay on those unfortunate beings called Authors; and a contemplative, indefatigable philanthropist of our own country [*] has, with equal goodness and propriety, produced a treatise on Chimney-sweepers. Dissimilar as the respective evils of these different sufferers may be thought, we may find, on examination, a very striking resemblance between them, both in the services they perform, and the hardships they endure. It is the business of an Author, if he understands his profession, to sweep away those black and bitter particles, which form a lodgment on the brain, and to give that degree of cleanliness and comfort to the pericranium of his reader, which the brush of the Chimney-sweeper secures to the house of his employer. The rewards, which are usually given to these fellow-labourers in the service of mankind, are equally destitute of proportion to the benefit which the world receives from their toil. The fate of both is bitter: but the bitterness of soot itself may be considered as sweet, when compared to those troubles and mortifications which surround the unfortunate creature, who derives his poor and precarious support from the labours of his pen. Much credit is therefore undoubtedly due to the humane essayists of France and England, who have endeavoured to alleviate the burthens which press so heavily on these two afflicted classes of mankind: yet I flatter myself with the idea of surpassing both the French and English philanthropist, by directing my lucubrations to an order of beings, whom I think still more entitled to the regard and protection of an enterprising philosopher: I mean the sisterhood of Old Maids; a sisterhood which has, perhaps, as many unmerited hardships to support as the two suffering fraternities above-mentioned, and without the soothing consolation, which those fraternities possess in common, from the idea, that however ill rewarded they may be, they perform a very useful and necessary part in the motley scenes of human life.

I devote myself, with a new species of Quixotism, to the service of Ancient Virginity. It is my intention, in the following work, to redress all the wrongs of the autumnal maiden, and to place her, if possible, in a state of honour, content, and comfort.— I shall begin with a few remarks on the extreme cruelty and injustice of the sarcastic contempt so frequently lavished on Old Maids in general, and of the tendency which such treatment has to afflict, exasperate, and debase the character. I shall proceed to point out the particular failings to which the situation is peculiarly exposed; and afterwards dwell on the better qualities which it is calculated to promote. I shall then take a general survey of the various neglect and honour, which appears to have been the lot of Old Maids in different ages of the world; and, examining the present condition of the sisterhood, I shall conclude with topics of consolation and advice.

Having thus explained the plan of my Essay, let me profess to the Ancient Virgins, whose champion I declare myself, that I shall zealously endeavour to afford them both amusement and instruction.

I hope to steer

From grave to gay, from lively to severe:

and, if my powers prove equal to my wishes, I flatter myself that my benevolent production will grow such a favourite with them, as to be distinguished, in due time, by the more flattering appellation of The Old Maiden's Manual.

As the efficacy of advice is generally proportioned to the esteem entertained for its author, let me be suffered, without an imputation of vanity, to touch on my own disinterested conduct in writing this Essay. Were I to employ the same time and trouble in behalf of other suffering societies, namely, that of our disgraced commanders or discarded statesmen, I might (paradoxical as the assertion may appear) I certainly might acquire either place or pension by such labour; since it seems to be a maxim of state to replace such public servants as are peculiarly loaded with public detestation, and the deeper a disbanded politician may sink in infamy, the higher he will be found to rise in his chances of regaining power. But, in the present case, I can have no such prospect to stimulate my pen; for, though the persons for whom I write cannot be said to possess the favour of the public, yet I solemnly protest, I have no expectation that any one of them will be admitted into the cabinet of any potentate or prime minister in all the kingdoms of Europe, or obtain any influence in the United States of America.

A word on my title-page, and I shall close my Introduction.—I was at first afraid, that the name of An Essay on Old Maids might entrap some indelicate reader, by its similarity to the title of a work, which threw our whole nation into a ferment, when a private indecorum was made an instrument of public iniquity. But I have since reflected, that if any such reader is so deceived, he (for readers of that class must be undoubtedly masculine) he will be very properly punished for the viciousness of his expectation, by the loss of the little money which these pages will cost. Disappointed he will certainly be, as it is the sole purpose of this Essay to promote the circulation of good-will and good-humour in bodies where they are frequently supposed to stagnate; and to effect this salutary and laudable design, sometimes with a very serious, and sometimes with a smiling countenance, but never by overstepping the line of modesty and good manners.

Notes

*
Mr. d'Alembert.
↵

*
The amiable traveller Jonas Hanway, Esq whose pen has been assiduously employed, for half a century, in the service humanity.
↵

PART I. ON THE PARTICULAR FAILINGS OF OLD MAIDS.

CHAP. I. On the Situation and Treatment of Old Maids in general.

I WISHED to imitate the example of those philosophers who begin a new and elaborate work by the definition of some important term, to secure themselves from the petty cavils which so frequently arise from ambiguity and misunderstanding.—I was apprehensive of being exposed to such cavils, if I did not clearly ascertain the period when that state commences, which I have chosen for the subject of a moral essay; and from this apprehension, I was on the point of defining an Old Maid to be, an unmarried woman, who has compleated her fortieth year. Though idle witlings might have carped at my definition, as too loose to be strictly philosophical, I am convinced that every sober reader would have found it sufficiently precise for our present purpose.

But, alas, I am afraid that every benevolent person, who begins a work to befriend any part of his species, must be surprised, as he advances, with unexpected difficulties. At the very outset of my present labour, I have been harrassed by so unforeseen and so distressing a perplexity, that I think it expedient, for my own credit, to give a candid account of it to my readers. This perplexity arose from my desire to fix, in the most unexceptionable manner, the aera of Old-Maidism; a phrase which I use, indeed, without authority: but, as I write on a new branch of philosophy, let me vindicate the philosophical privilege of coining such new words as my original work may require.—I proceed to the account of my distress. In conversing with people of all ages, particularly of the female sex, I perceived they had very unsettled and discordant notions of the aera, which I hoped they would enable me to ascertain. The misses of twenty considered all their unmarried friends, who had passed their thirtieth year, as absolute Old Maids; those of thirty supposed the aera to commence at about forty-five; and some ladies of fifty convinced me how differently they thought upon the subject, by calling others, about three or four years younger than themselves, by the infantine appellation of girls; from whence I presumed they would advance the aera I speak of to the age of sixty at least. Finding it impossible to collect, from the different voices in the female world, one harmonious and satisfactory opinion, I had recourse to the most profound philosophers of my acquaintance; but, alas, my embarrassment encreased in proportion to the number of the persons I consulted. One of these learned gentlemen, who, unfortunately for his own happiness, has as much scepticism as erudition, attempted to crush my whole philosophical work, by asserting, that Old Maids are absolute non-entities; and he insultingly defied me to produce a scientific demonstration of their existence. I soon left this licentious sceptic to the full enjoyment of his own sarcastical humour, and consulted an eminent physician of an opposite character, who had lately married an amiable lady of forty-three, and was just become, in consequence of that union, the happy father of a very promising boy. This more candid doctor pleaded with great energy against my giving the name of Old Maid to single ladies of forty; he asserted that every female ought to be regarded as in a juvenile state, while she has the power of conferring on a husband so lively a blessing as that which he had just had the happiness of receiving. I felt all the weight of the living argument which this forcible reasoner produced against me. In this embarrassment, I resolved to sacrifice my philosophical accuracy to my politeness; and, instead of setting out with a positive definition, I shall decline the dangerous task of drawing the precise line where the epocha of Old-Maidism commences: but having observed that the world in general, who are far from possessing the energetic good-nature of my friend the doctor, never fail to give the unwelcome title of Old Maid to unmarried ladies of forty, I determined to comply, in some measure, with this common and vulgar prejudice, in a dilemma where neither female wit nor masculine knowledge could afford me a satisfactory direction.

And let me observe, that by my conduct in this delicate point, I generously consult the interest of the good maidens, for whom I write, at the painful hazard of their displeasure; for if they should affirm, what I am by no means unwilling to allow, that a single lady of forty cannot with strict propriety be called an Old Maid, yet surely there is great chance of her being so in due course of time; if she is not a profest member of the sisterhood, she may certainly be regarded as a noviciate, and as such she is undoubtedly concerned in all the salutary admonitions addressed to that insulted yet respectable order.

At the age, then, when ladies allow themselves to be forty, I desire my fair and single friends to consider themselves as standing, if not within the gates, at least upon the threshold of that community of which I treat. I request them to recollect what qualities and conduct will most become the character they are preparing to support; what will most effectually protect it from ridicule and reproach, alleviate its vexations, and encrease its comforts. These are surely points, which it is their interest to study: it is my ambition to assist them in the attainment of this useful knowledge; and, if I am not deceived by that species of benevolent illusion, to which a philosopher is peculiarly subject, they may render themselves both wiser and happier by the frequent perusal of these little volumes.

Let us take a survey of the circumstances which usually attend the Old Maid, at the time of her first acquiring that title. If she has received a polite education—and to such I address myself—it is probable, that after having passed the sprightly years of youth in the comfortable mansion of an opulent father, she is reduced to the shelter of some contracted lodging in a country town, attended by a single female servant, and with difficulty living on the interest of two or three thousand pounds, reluctantly, and perhaps irregularly, paid to her by an avaricious or extravagant brother, who considers such payment as a heavy incumbrance on his paternal estate. Such is the condition in which the unmarried daughters of English gentlemen are too frequently found. To support such a change of situation, with that chearfulness and content which several of these fair sufferers possess, requires a noble firmness, or rather dignity of mind; a quality which many illustrious men have failed to exhibit in a similar reverse, and which ought therefore to be doubly honourable in these its more delicate possessors; particularly when we add, that the mortifications of their narrow fortune must be considerably embittered by their disappointment in the great object of female hope. Without the minutest breach of delicacy, we may justly suppose, that it is the natural wish and expectation of every amiable girl, to settle happily in marriage; and that the failure of this expectation, from whatever causes it may arise, must be inevitably attended by many unpleasant, and many depressive sensations:

For who, to cold virginity a prey,

The pleasing hope of marriage e'er resign'd,

Renounc'd the prospect of the wedding-day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

if I may be allowed to parody a celebrated passage in a justly-admired poet, who might himself be called (I mean not to derogate from his genius or his virtues by the expression) an Old Maid in breeches, or, to speak his own more forcible, poetic language,

Without a hive of hoarded sweets,

A solitary fly.

The Old Maid, indeed, may often be considered, not only as a solitary fly, but as a fly in those cloudy and chilling days of autumn, when the departure of the sun has put an end to all its lively flutter, and leaves it only the power of creeping heavily along in a state of feebleness and dejection. If her heart has been peculiarly formed by nature to relish and to adorn the most endearing and delightful of all human connections, she will the more feel the cruelty of that chance which has debarred her from it; and, hard as such a destiny must appear, her misery will frequently rise in proportion to those merits which entitled her to happiness. A frame of glowing sensibility requires a proper field for the exercise and expansion of all its generous affections; and when this is denied to it, such obstruction will sometimes occasion the very worst of evils, a sort of stagnation both in heart and soul, a disorder for which language can afford no name, and which, being a compound of mental and bodily distemper, is more dreadful to support, and perhaps more difficult to cure, than any distinct maladies either of mind or body. To sensations of this kind I attribute that very extraordinary fact, recorded in the Moral Essays of Plutarch, and mentioned also by his two amiable modern rivals in morality, Montaigne and Addison, I mean the self-murder of the Milesian virgins. Such a desire to die had possessed the unmarried females of Miletus, that nothing could restrain them from suicide, till a law was enacted, which subdued the disgust of life by awakening the terrors of modesty, ordaining that the body of every one, who ended her own existence, should be exposed a naked spectacle in the streets of her native city. I am persuaded that these unhappy victims of despair were arrived at that period of female life which I am now considering, because Plutarch, in speaking of the persons who endeavoured to dissuade them from their horrid purpose, enumerates only their fathers, mothers, and friends. From hence we may justly conclude, that none of them retained a lover; a circumstance which physicians, I believe, will think sufficient to account for their death, without imputing it, as Plutarch seems inclined to do, to a contagious disorder, arising from a corrupted state of the air; in which case, both the married women, and the male inhabitants of Miletus, must in all probability have been equally infected [*]. It is true, indeed, that the records of modern history hardly contain so authentic and deplorable an instance of despairing virginity; and, perhaps, some acrimonious Old Maids may censure, with great bitterness of spirit, the inference which I have fairly drawn from the narrative of Plutarch. It is the misfortune of these exasperated ladies to mistake their friends for their foes, and to consider an expression of pity towards any sufferers of their sisterhood, as a personal insult to themselves—for their part, they are proud of declaring, they regard the condition of an Old Maid as the most comfortable in human life; it is the condition of their choice, and what every wise woman would chuse. I always look upon such declarations as a kind of ill-constructed rampart, raised very hastily by mistaken pride, to defend an uneasy situation: I would advise all my fair friends, of gentler spirit, to abandon this untenable outwork, and protect themselves by a much nobler mode of defence. The Old Maid who affirms, she never wished to marry, pronounces the severest of satires against her own heart. How utterly devoid of tenderness, and of every amiable sensation, must that female be, who never felt, at any period of life, a desire to engage in the duties, or to share the delights, of that state, to which all human beings are invited by the voice of nature and reason! Indeed, the total exemption from such innocent, or rather laudable desire, is hardly within the line of possibility; and the ancient virgin, who affects this language, will generally be thought to wear a very ungraceful mask of hypocrisy. I would therefore wish her, whenever she has occasion to speak of the nuptial state, to preserve that mysterious reverence with which it is justly treated by the sublimest of poets; and to represent her own exclusion from it, not as the effect of choice, arising from a cold and irrational aversion to the state in general, but as the consequence of such perverse incidents as frequently perplex all the paths of human life, and lead even the worthiest of beings into situations very different from what they would otherwise have chosen. I am the more solicitous to warn the autumnal maiden against this false pride and mistaken delicacy, from a conviction that it produces many of the most painful feelings to which she is exposed: by giving her an air of affectation, it invites that blunt but lacerating raillery, with which she is so often and so unpolitely attacked. If she could bring herself to allow, that Old-Maidism in general is a condition requiring pity and protection, she might, even by adopting these sentiments, render it much less so than it really is; but the refined pride and prejudice, which I am now endeavouring to remove, is so deeply rooted in many of the sisterhood, that I shall not be surprised, if some of its more acrimonious members exclaim against this benevolent discussion of their cause, and even condemn it as a libel against their community. To guard myself as much as possible against so injurious an imputation, I will relate the little incident which induced me to compose this amicable treatise.

It was my good fortune to be present at an entertaining conversation between a lively married lady, not insensible to the burthen of a numerous family, whom I shall call Euphrasia, and a very amiable, but rather elderly virgin, whom I shall distinguish by the name of Maranthe. After they had discussed, with much vivacity and good-humour, the different comforts and troubles of their respective conditions; ‘If you Old Maids,’ said Euphrasia, ‘had but a just sense of all your advantages, you would be the most fortunate of human creatures.’ —"No, indeed," replied the judicious and warm-hearted Maranthe, ‘the wife, I confess, has her heavy load of anxieties, but the Old Maid is like a blasted tree in the middle of a wide common.’—The force of this simile, and the pathetic tone with which it was uttered, by a woman of great sensibility, with a very cultivated mind, made a deep impression both on my imagination and my heart. The idea has led me, in my solitary and thoughtful hours, to meditate on the situation of the Old Maid; and I have said to myself, in such philosophical reveries, What can I do for this blasted tree? I cannot, indeed, transplant, and cause it to blossom; but I will at least endeavour to raise a little fence around it, which may take off, in some measure, from its neglected appearance, and not suffer the wild asses, who wander near it, to kick and wound it, as they so frequently do, in the wanton gambols of their awkward vivacity.

The vexations of a contracted fortune, and the mortifying neglect with which the indigent are usually treated, however galling to a generous mind, are not evils, perhaps, so productive of pain, as that coarse and contemptuous raillery, with which the ancient maiden is perpetually insulted. Habit and discretion may teach her to be contented with a very scanty income, and a noble ingenuous pride is her natural remedy against the wounds of neglect; but she seems utterly destitute of all adequate defence against her most provoking and most active enemy, the incessant impertinence of indelicate ridicule. How often does the amiable Old Maid smart under the flippant jocularity of the unfeeling rustic merchant, or the boorish 'squire, who never fail to comment on the variations of her countenance, repeatedly wonder why she does not get her a husband, and very kindly hint to her, with equal delicacy of sentiment and language, that if she does not take great care, she will slip out of the world without answering the end of her creation!

As I most cordially wish, that the sisterhood may be less pestered in future with such offensive pleasantry, I shall remark, that jests of this nature must proceed from a very unthinking head, or a very callous heart: we may rally, indeed, with some degree of reason and justice, the intemperate curiosity or affectation of an Old Maid; we may even chastise her impertinence or ill-nature; but to sneer at the ancient virgin, merely because she has a claim to that title, is not only inconsistent with good-nature and good manners, but, in truth, a piece of cruelty as wanton and malicious as it is to laugh at the personal blemishes of any unfortunate being, who has been maimed by accident, or deformed from his birth. Just and obvious as this sentiment must appear, it occurs not to jokers of a certain class, who, having met with some ridiculous Old Maids, are tempted to make the whole sisterhood their standing jest. Perhaps the particular failings, which are commonly imputed to the Old Maid in general, may be found to arise from the peculiarity of her situation, and the injurious treatment she receives from the world; a consideration, which, placing the character in a fairer point of view, will, I hope, be the occasion of its being treated more tenderly. But, as I mean to consider these particular failings distinctly, I shall now assign a separate chapter to each.

CHAP. II. On the Curiosity of Old Maids.

THE human mind is naturally active, and when its faculties are not called into rational exercise, by the interesting cares, or the elegant amusements, of domestic life, it is apt to perplex itself in the most idle pursuits and frivolous enquiries. The lady, who has little or no business to regulate, if she has unluckily failed to cultivate a passion for the pleasing occupations of needle-work, drawing, music, or literature, is often reduced to the necessity of sending her thoughts abroad, and at last is rendered, by habit, a kind of perpetual spy on the conduct of her neighbours. Hence the curiosity of an Old Maid is become proverbial: and, as I consider it as one of the foibles which contribute most largely to the abasement of the character, I shall treat it with the severity it deserves.

The curious Old Maid is a restless being, whose insatiate thirst for information is an incessant plague both to herself and her acquaintance; her soul seems to be continually flying, in a giddy circuit, to her eyes, ears, and tongue; she appears inflamed with a sort of frantic desire to see all that can be seen, to hear all that can be heard, and to ask more questions than any lips can utter. This raging solicitude for intelligence may be considered as a kind of mental fever; and, like other fevers, it is frequently brought on by petty habits of unregarded intemperance, by forming, in early life, no government over the tongue, but allowing it the fullest indulgence in every inquisitive and impertinent caprice. The guardians of female youth cannot caution their pupils too strongly against the dangerous custom of asking idle and insignificant questions; for a frivolous curiosity, though it amount not to vice, is, perhaps, the most offensive of all foibles; and, when it has rooted itself in the mind of an Old Maid, the most difficult to eradicate or subdue. Such curiosity is a kind of ravenous monster, which hangs upon its prey,

As if encrease of appetite did grow

By what it fed on.

If any thing can tame this wild spirit of impertinent enquiry, in the curious Old Maid, it may be the knowledge of a truth, which I shall therefore most freely communicate to her, and which, I dare say, her own experience will confirm; it is this— of all the qualities which can debase or counteract the natural attractions of woman, the foible, of which I am now speaking, is what our sex is most apt to fear and avoid. I have known a very amiable man, who had really no vices to conceal, take as much pains to shun an inquisitive Old Maid, as if he had been trying to escape the bite of a rattle-snake; and I have observed, that the character acts upon the generality of men as an object of antipathy. There are, however, a set of frolicksome and daring blades, who are able to make this teazing impertinence of the ancient virgin a perpetual source of diversion. They sport with the curiosity of an Old Maid with that kind of fearless levity, by which a lively school-boy is sometimes tempted to play with an adder. I knew a sprightly gentleman of this humour, who, living in a country town, and having been long pestered by his opposite neighbours, two maidenly gentlewomen of the most inquisitive spirit, contrived to render this provoking nuisance an eternal fund of entertainment. At first, indeed, they teazed him so much, by their constant practice of peeping and prying into every minute article of his domestic concerns, that, although he was naturally mild and benevolent, his temper was materially injured, and he could hardly mention his neighbours without uttering a vehement execration against their impertinence. But at length he began to speculate on the nature and the force of that inordinate passion, which could impel two rational creatures, in the decline of life, to exert such indefatigable activity for the most trivial purposes. He diverted himself in framing a thousand little devices to try the full extent of this frivolous curiosity; and the avidity of their desire to know every thing which passed in his house, and the history of every individual who entered it, furnished him with the opportunity of putting their curiosity to innumerable trials. A particular account of these devices, and their success, would form too large an episode for this little work; I shall mention, therefore, only one of his manoeuvres, which afforded him his most capital sport, and which he distinguished by the whimsical phrase of ‘ Angling for Old Maids at Midnight. ’ As this, I believe, is a species of fishing not mentioned in the Complete Angler, or in any of our elaborate treatises on that amusing art, it will require a full explanation. Such then was the process of my friend in his new-invented diversion: —Soon after the clock had struck twelve, he muffled up his person in some dark disguise, and, sallying from a posterngate, which opened into a different street, he proceeded to the front door of his own house, and knocked with a very audible rap. His opposite old inquisitors were induced by their infirmities to go early to bed; but, as curiosity seldom sleeps very sound, the hope of a nocturnal discovery never failed to bring either one or both to their window. If they were tolerably well, they ventured to throw up the sash, and to thrust their two sharp visages as far into the street as they could with safety be stretched; for they were both too keen to trust the relation of each other, and panted with equal eagerness for ocular acquaintance with the object which excited their curiosity. This, however, they could never perfectly attain; their frolicksome neighbour, though a large lamp was burning before his door, contrived to shew little or nothing of his figure, and yet loitered so long in the street, as to inflame the old ladies with the most ardent expectation of farther discovery. He repeated this frolic with diverse petty variations, for the entertainment of different guests, and every repetition of it afforded him new diversion. The more frequently the Old Maids caught a glimpse of the muffled figure, the more eager were they to find out both the name of the person and the nature of his business. Voltaire's man in the iron mask never excited more restless wonder, or more extravagant surmises: sometimes the curious virgins conjectured this nocturnal visitant to be the lover of a handsome chamber-maid, and sometimes their suspicions fell very heavy on the fair lady of the house, who was, indeed, possessed of every attraction to excite ‘Envy in woman, or desire in man;’ but her wit and beauty were equalled, if not surpassed, by her innocence and good-nature. She frequently remonstrated against this cruel diversion of her husband, and protested he would be the death of the old ladies, by bringing them, half naked, into the damp air of the night. He maintained, on the contrary, that the curiosity of an Old Maid is so fiery a passion, that she, who is thoroughly inflamed by it, may expose her shrivelled body, without danger of cold, to the most unwholesome of nightly vapours. The event proved his mistake; for, persevering in his sport, and trying it as a Christmas gambol, at a time when it snowed very much, the most elderly and infirm of the two ancient maidens, tempted, perhaps, by that hope of discovery which the additional light of the snow might afford her, continued so long at her window, that she contracted a rheumatic fever, which confined her for many months to her bed. Yet her sufferings, severe as they were, did not annihilate the curiosity which produced them, if I may credit the testimony of my friend. He positively asserted, that he once descried this identical old maiden, before she had recovered the perfect use of her limbs, peeping through her sash at midnight, though she was under the necessity of supporting herself, for that purpose, on the arm of her sister.—How useful and how amiable a being might this unfortunate woman have proved, had the activity of her mind been directed to any laudable pursuit! But, I fear, this frivolous curiosity, when it is suffered to take full possession of the spirit, may be reckoned among the most incurable of mental maladies; and I therefore conjure the sisterhood, for whom I write, to guard against the first symptoms of the distemper by every possible precaution. Perhaps the most early and alarming symptom of it is the habit, already mentioned, of asking questions, in which they have little or no concern. I would wish them to reflect, that the most ordinary and natural question may become impertinent and ridiculous, by the avidity with which it is asked, or by the peculiar situation of the enquirer; a remark which was suggested to me by the following ludicrous occurrence: —Calling, the other day, on an old acquaintance in the Temple, I found him just returned from the country, where he had passed a few weeks with a sister newly married: as I rapped at his chambers, he was preparing to sally forth on a visit to a family of five elderly maidens, to whom he had promised an early account of his rural expedition. As we have a similar regard for these good ladies, I readily attended my friend to their house. They are a set of amiable beings, who live together in the most sisterly concord. Nature, indeed, has not exerted her most delicate skill in the formation of their persons; but their want of beauty is very amply compensated— their understandings, though not brilliant, are cultivated; their hearts benevolent; and their fortune easy. Though all the five may be fairly counted in the class of Old Maids, they are wonderfully free from all the failings imputed to that community, except, indeed, the particular foible which is the subject of my present chapter; and even their curiosity is of the most pardonable kind; it is sometimes troublesome, and sometimes ridiculous, but never malignant. It is now time to enter on the history of our visit. When we arrived at their nice yet comfortable mansion, we found the lady abbess of this little convent, or, in plain English, the eldest sister of the family, alone in the parlour. In her civilities to my friend, she failed not to enquire after his new-married sister, and asked, with great appearance of solicitude, if the lady was breeding. The marriage had not been consummated more than three months, and my friend very gravely replied, that he really did not know; but he rather believed not. The second virgin of the house now appeared, and in a few minutes made the same enquiry; to which the barrister very mildly returned the same kind of negative. The three younger maidens of the family soon entered the room together; the eldest of the three advanced towards my friend, to converse with him concerning the married folks he had visited, and, before many moments elapsed, she contrived to introduce the question, which he had twice answered already, concerning the pregnancy of his relation. The man of law preserved, however, the gravity of his countenance, and replied with the same good-humour, and almost in the same words, as he had done before; but unluckily, in the bustle of arranging our seats, the two youngest virgins of the house did not perfectly hear this important reply. Being very eager for full information on the point, and thinking it, perhaps, more delicate to enquire of the lady who heard him, than to trouble the gentleman to repeat his answer, they both whispered in the same moment, but in the opposite ears of their sister, ‘Is she with child?’ Their words were, indeed, intended for no ear but her's; yet the keenness of their curiosity made their whispers audible. The question, ‘Is she with child?’ thus repeated by two voices at the same time, appeared like the different parts of a catch, and, combined with the eagerness of manner in the singular figures who uttered them, produced a truly comic effect. A burst of insuppressible laughter rendered me unable to speak; but my friend, the barrister, possessing greater powers of countenance, immediately exclaimed, My dear ladies, as ye take such a generous interest in the increase of the world, I most heartily wish that ye may all participate in that noble and necessary business! The three elder virgins looked rather grave upon this hasty speech of my friend, considering it, perhaps, as a kind of sarcastical reproof on the eagerness of their curiosity, or lamenting, possibly, the too evident futility of such a wish; but in the eyes of the two youngest ladies, who seem to consider themselves as noviciates only in the order of Old Maids, I observed such a flash of sudden and doubtful joy, as is apt to illuminate the countenance of a person surprised by a very flattering, though not a very probable prediction.

Trifling as it may appear, I am induced to insert the preceding incident in this essay, by having remarked, on many different occasions, that of all the questions in familiar life, which the curious Old Maiden is tempted to ask, there is none which she utters with more frequency, or more eagerness, than questions concerning the pregnancy of her most common acquaintance. As I apprehend that the sisterhood, in walking upon such tender ground, may be often galled and pelted by the scurvy jests of many merciless wags, I wish the amiable, though inquisitive Old Maid, to be cautioned by the foregoing anecdote, and to secure herself from such raillery, by applying for information of this sort to persons of her own sex, and in the hours of female retirement; assuring her, however, that it is only my intention to direct her in the mode of enquiry, and not to suppress her very innocent desire of being made acquainted with the progressive state of the world.

The gratification of curiosity, even in matters of little moment, is undoubtedly pleasant; and, as I am very far from desiring to abridge the scanty pleasures of the Old Maid, I would wish her curiosity to be indulged in all points, where it has no tendency to disturb the tranquillity of others, or to bring the galling burthen of contempt and ridicule upon herself.

CHAP. III. On the Credulity of Old Maids.

IN the days of Addison, the credulity of superstition was reckoned among the most striking characteristics of the ancient virgin, as we learn from the excellent paper of that engaging moralist, on the most absurd and depressive of human follies.

"An Old Maid" (says the Spectator), ‘that is troubled with the vapours, produces infinite disturbances of this kind among her friends and neighbours. I know a maiden aunt, of a great family, who is one of these antiquated sibyls, that forebodes and prophesies from one end of the year to the other. She is always seeing apparitions, and hearing death-watches; and was the other day almost frighted out of her wits by the great house-dog that howled in the stable, at a time when she lay ill of the toothach.’

I must observe, however, to the credit of reason and philosophy, and to the honour of their most amiable and successful advocate, the great author whom I have quoted, that the superstitious follies of our country are almost eradicated. Such an antiquated sibyl as Addison painted, possibly from the life, is now, I think, very rarely to be found among us. In reckoning credulity among the peculiar foibles of the Old Maid, I mean a credulity diametrically opposite to that which he has so justly satirized; I mean a credulity, which busies itself with matter much more than with spirit, which, totally disregarding the incorporeal beings of another world, attaches itself to the most substantial living bodies of the earth we inhabit. The credulous Old Maid of the present time is one, who, instead of seeing apparitions in the vacancy of air, sees a lover in every man by whom she is civilly accosted, and, instead of hearing death-watches, hears a hint at least, if not an offer of marriage, in every common compliment that is casually addressed to her. I have known some unfortunate ladies reduced to a deplorable condition by a very serious misconstruction of the most trivial and unmeaning civilities.

Let me remark, however, that the credulous Old Maiden is seldom much affected by the loss of one imaginary lover; she is, generally speaking, a most active architect, supremely skilled in the ingenious and happy art of building castles in the air, and, as fast as one fabric of amorous illusion is demolished, she erects another in its place. Her life is a scene of perpetual and ever varying hope; and, as hope is one of the most lively passions, her temper is naturally gay. Her head may be compared to one of those raree-shew-boxes, which are filled with splendid and successive pictures of one magnificent object: at the first peep you may discern the temple of Hymen; the structure presently vanishes, but disappears only to make room for a more captivating view, either of the temple itself, or of some delightful avenue, which is terminated by the same noble edifice. The credulous Old Maid has a memory completely stored with histories of love at first sight; she can recollect a thousand instances in real life, as well as romance, of ladies who have made the most sudden and fortunate conquests, by the simple and natural circumstance of looking out of window, and she, therefore, devotes herself, with particular assiduity, to this favourite amusement. I know a sprightly ancient virgin of this description, who, as constantly as my lord mayor's day returns, continues to plant herself in some conspicuous window of the city, and, as the festive procession advances in her sight, she is animated with the hope of wounding an alderman or a sheriff: she looks, indeed, on these occasions, as if she was thoroughly convinced, that the incessant fire of her eyes did prodigious execution upon the passing crowd; yet, I believe, if we except her intention, she is as perfectly innocent of metaphorical man-slaughter, as the honest man in armour, who forms a part of the cavalcade, is innocent of blood. Fruitless as the experiment has hitherto proved, she is firmly persuaded, that her destiny has ordained her to captivate some unknown lover, by the graceful action of leaning from a window; and, I am credibly informed, that she passed a great part of several nights in that position, at the time of those outrageous riots, which threatened to lay the metropolis in ashes. At the moment when other females of her neighbourhood had started from their beds, under the terrific ideas of murder and conflagration, this happier fair one was observed to loiter in the most easy attitude, at her open sash, with the enlivening hope of striking some gallant hero, at the head of those military parties who then paraded the streets. Her night-dress was adjusted with peculiar elegance for this purpose, and she has ever since flattered herself with the assurance of having made a very deep impression on the heart of a certain captain of the guards, who kissed his hand to her at the time, and, according to her supposition, has only been prevented from a farther explanation of his love, by the unfortunate circumstance of his having a proud and intractable old peer for his father.

There is one danger, to which the credulous Old Maid, if she happens to be rich, is particularly exposed; I mean, the very serious danger arising from those vigilant and assiduous gentlemen, 'ycleped fortunehunters, who think themselves entitled to plunder an opulent and deluded female, in the character of a bridegroom. One of the most wretched examples (alas! I wish I could say the only one!) I ever knew of this fatal credulity, was the unfortunate Flaccilla.

Flaccilla was a good-natured Old Maid, who inherited an ample fortune at a late season of life, and possessed, from her childhood, a romantic turn of mind. She happened to pass some months, in autumn, at the seat of a nobleman, to whom she was distantly related. The peer had lately received a new game-keeper into his service, a stout and enterprising son of Hibernia, who had seen, though under thirty, many vicissitudes of life, and had sustained the active parts of a travelling valet, a common soldier, and a strolling player, before he engaged in his present occupation. The lively Patrick soon contracted a great intimacy with the fair attendant of Flaccilla, who diverted him, in their vacant moments, by relating, with ludicrous humour, the whimsies of her lady. The ingenious Hibernian, who had founded his amusement on the foibles of the maid, now determined to build his fortune on the foibles of the mistress. Having arrayed himself in his new suit of green, he surprised the tender Flaccilla alone, in a sequestered spot of her favourite wood, to which she delighted to retire, for the convenience of devouring a new novel without interruption. Patrick soon prevailed on her to quit the visionary tale for a more engaging romance. In short, he persuaded her, that he was the son of an Irish peer, in disguise, who had only submitted to his present humiliation to secure the extatic delight, which he now enjoyed, of throwing himself at her feet. The steady impostor played his part with dexterity and success. The lady consented to elope—was married, and made miserable, before the activity of her friends could undeceive her. All, indeed, that they were at last able to do for her was, to prevail on the reasonable Patrick to leave his wife to reflect on her credulous imprudence, and to bargain for a chance of future tranquillity at the expence of her fortune. Some inconsiderable share of this, indeed, she was lucky enough to recover and retain; but her health and spirits were impaired by the disgrace of her adventure, and her latter years were embittered by unavailing repentance for her absurd credulity.

As the kind of credulity, which I am now speaking of, is often founded on the most arrogant and preposterous vanity, it is undoubtedly a fair subject for comic satire, and it has not escaped the lash of our modern dramatic authors. The spirited little comedy of two acts, entitled, The Old Maid, has exhibited such credulity in a very ludicrous and lively manner. This foible of the antiquated virgin can hardly be exposed with more ingenious or more poignant ridicule; I shall therefore proceed to consider it in the opposite point of view, and to shew, that this very foible, though rising to a high degree of absurdity, may still be an object more worthy of tenderness and pity, than of contempt and derision. Instead of being the offensive offspring of arrogance and vanity, it is frequently the mere baby of simplicity and benevolence: it often arises solely from the most natural and the most amiable of human wishes, the wish of being beloved; and, when its origin is such, who would not be tender to the child for the sake of its parent? As hope is one of the most potent of our illusive passions, we cannot wonder, that the just and laudable hope of finding a husband should often cheat the most sensible of maidens into an erroneous belief of having found him. How often does the philosopher delude himself in much clearer matters, and where the silence of his heart affords him not so good an excuse for the confusion of his judgment! I have observed this easiness of belief, in some elderly virgins, so perfectly free from every other blemish, that I could not but lament the raillery to which it is exposed. I have seen it united with such frames, that, instead of deriding it as a human weakness, I have been almost led to regard it as a gift from heaven, to compensate for the misfortunes of deformity. The young and inconsiderate cannot be expected to view it in so serious a light; but, to caution them from the danger of treating it with such unintended cruelty as they may afterwards regret, I shall relate the brief history of a lady, whose fate was as singular as her person was unfortunate, and her character deserving.

Harriot Aspin was the youngest of four sisters, who in their childhood had all a prospect of passing through life with every advantage that beauty and fortune can bestow. But destiny ordained it otherwise. The extravagance of their father abridged the portion of each, and the little Harriot had the additional affliction of personal calamities. From a fall which her nurse occasioned, and concealed, she contracted a great degree of deformity; and the injuries that her frame had received from accident, were completed in what her countenance suffered from that cruel distemper, by which beauty was so frequently destroyed, before the happy introduction of inoculation. Her countenance and person were wretchedly disfigured; but her mind still possessed the most valuable of mental powers, and her heart was embellished by every generous affection. Her friends were many; but she had passed her fortieth year without once hearing the addresses of a single lover; yet the fancied whisper of this enchanting passion often vibrated in her ear; for, with a solid and brilliant understanding, she was deeply tinctured with this credulous foible. As she advanced towards fifty, finding her income very narrow, and her situation unpleasant, she took shelter in the family of her favourite sister, married to a good-natured man of easy fortune; who, though he had several children, very readily allowed his wife to afford an asylum, and administer all the comforts in her power to this unfortunate relation.

The good deeds of benevolence rarely pass unrewarded. The obliging temper of Harriot, united to infinite wit and vivacity, contributed to restore the declining health of her sister, and enlivened the house, into which she was so kindly admitted. She endeared herself to every branch of it; but her second nephew, whose name is Edward, became her principal favourite, and returned her partiality with more esteem and affection than nephews are used to feel for an old maiden aunt. Indeed, there was a striking similarity in their characters, for they both possessed a very uncommon portion of wit, with extreme generosity and good-nature. Harriot had the most perfect penetration into the foibles of every character but her own, and had the art of treating them with such tender and salutary mirth, that she preserved her nephew, whose constitution was amorous and vain, from a thousand follies, into which the giddiness of his passions would otherwise have betrayed him; and, what is still more to her honour, when he was really fallen into some juvenile scrape, which sometimes would happen, she never failed to assist him, both with secret advice, and the private aid of such little sums of money as she always contrived to save from her slender income, for the most generous of purposes. By her last beneficence of this nature, she had enabled her nephew to redeem his gold watch, which Edward, who stood in awe of his father, had actually pawned, to deliver a poor and unfortunate girl from a spunging-house.

It was almost impossible not to love a maiden aunt of so engaging a character; and Edward, whose affections were naturally ardent, loved her, indeed, most sincerely; but his penetration discovered her foible, and the vivacity of his spirit often tempted him to sport with it. Hitherto, however, he had done so in the most harmless manner; but a circumstance arose, which fully proved the danger of this ordinary diversion. Edward, being a younger brother, was designed for the profession of physic. He had studied at Edinburgh, and, returning from thence to London, had brought with him a medical friend, who was a native of Savoy, and was preparing to settle as a physician at Turin. In the gaiety of his heart, Edward informed his aunt Harriot, that he had provided her with a husband; and he enlarged on the excellent qualities of his friend. The Savoyard was extremely polite, and, either attracted by the pleasantry of her conversation, or touched with medical pity for the striking infelicity of her distorted frame, he had paid particular attention to Miss Aspin; for, being yet under fifty, she had not assumed the title of Mrs. This particular attention was full sufficient to convince the credulous Harriot, that her nephew was serious; but she was unluckily confirmed in that illusion, by his saying to her one evening, ‘Well, my dear aunt, my friend is to leave England on Monday; consider, upon your pillow, whether you will pass the Alps, to settle with him for life, and let me know your decision before the week expires.’ The sportive Edward was very far from supposing, that these idle words could be productive of any fatal event; for the health of his aunt was such, that he considered his proposal of crossing the Alps full as extravagant as if he had proposed to her to settle in the moon; but let youth and vigour remember, that they seldom can form a just estimate of the wishes, the thoughts, and feelings of infirmity!—Poor Harriot had no sooner retired to her chamber, than she entered into a profound debate with a favourite maid, who used to sleep in her room, concerning the dangers of crossing the Alps, and the state of her health. In this debate, both her heart and her fancy played the part of very able advocates, and defended a weak cause by an astonishing variety of arguments in its favour. They utterly overpowered her judgment; but they could not bias the sounder sentence of Molly, who was seated on the bench on this occasion. This honest girl, who happened to have a real lover in England, had many motives to dissuade her mistress from an extravagant project of settling in a foreign country; and she uttered as many reasons to poor Harriot against the passage of the Alps, as were urged to the son of Amilcar by his Carthaginian friends, when he first talked of traversing those tremendous mountains. The debate was very warm on both sides, and supported through the greatest part of the night. The spirited Harriot was horribly fatigued by the discourse, but utterly unconvinced by the forcible arguments of her opponent. She even believed that the journey would prove a remedy for her asthmatic complaints; her desire of a matrimonial establishment was full as efficacious as the vinegar of Hannibal, and the Alps melted before it. At the dawn of day she had positively determined to follow the fortunes of the amiable Savoyard. The peace of mind, which this decision produced, afforded her a short slumber; but on waking, she was very far from being refreshed, and found that her unhappy frame had suffered so much from the agitation of her spirit, and the want of her usual sleep, that she was unable to appear at breakfast. This, however, was a circumstance too common to alarm the family; for though her chearfulness never forsook her, yet her little portion of strength was frequently exhausted, and her breath often seemed on the very point of departing from her diminutive body. Towards noon, her sister entered her chamber, to make a kind enquiry concerning her health. It was a warm day in spring; yet Harriot, who was extremely chilly, had seated herself in a little low chair, by the side of a large fire. Her feet were strangely twisted together, and, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee, she supported her head on her right hand. To the affectionate questions of her sister she made no reply, but, starting from her reverie, walked with apparent difficulty across the chamber, and, saying, with a feeble and broken voice, ‘I can never pass the Alps,’ sunk down on the side of her bed, and with one deep sigh, but without any convulsive struggle, expired. Whether the much-injured and defective organs of her life were completely worn out by time, or whether the conflict of different affections, which had harrassed her spirit through the night, really shortened her existence, the all-seeing author of it can alone determine. It is certain, however, that her death, and the peculiar circumstances attending it, produced among her relations the most poignant affliction. As she died without one convulsive motion, her sister could hardly believe her to be dead; and as this good lady had not attended to the levities of her son Edward, she could not comprehend the last words of Harriot, till her faithful servant gave a full and honest account of the nightly conversation which had passed between herself and her departed mistress. As her nephew Edward was my intimate friend, and I well knew his regard for this singular little being, I hastened to him the first moment that I heard she was no more. I found him under the strongest impression of recent grief, and in the midst of that self-accusation so natural to a generous spirit upon such an occasion. I endeavoured to comfort him, by observing, that death, which ought, perhaps, never to be considered as an evil, might surely be esteemed a blessing to a person, whose unfortunate infirmities of body must undoubtedly have been a source of incessant suffering. Alas! my dear friend, he replied, both my heart and my understanding refuse to subscribe to the ideas, by which you so kindly try to console me. I allow, indeed, that her frame was unhappy, and her health most delicate; but who had a keener relish of all the genuine pleasures which belong to a lively and a cultivated mind, and still more, of all those higher delights, which are at once the test and the reward of a benevolent heart? It is true, she had her foibles; but what right had I to sport with them? to me they ought to have been particularly sacred; for she never looked upon mine, but with the most generous indulgence. Poor Harriot! he would frequently exclaim, Poor aunt Harriot! I have basely abridged thy very weak, but not unjoyous existence, by the most unthinking barbarity. I will, however, be tender to thy memory; and I wish that I could warn the world against the dangerous cruelty of jesting with the credulity of every being who may resemble thee.

CHAP. IV. On the Affectation of Old Maids.

IN the list of those foibles which most frequently expose their possessor to ridicule and contempt, we may justly place affectation; it assumes, indeed, a thousand different shapes, but in whatever form it appears, it is so far from obtaining the affection or the applause, which it anxiously solicits, that it is sometimes observed to render even youth and beauty disgusting. What then must its influence be, when it obtrudes itself upon our sight in the stiff figure, and with the hard features, of the antiquated virgin? Yet the situation of the Old Maid has, perhaps, a particular tendency to produce and cherish this foible. Having found that her natural charms have not, in the short period of their bloom, been so fortunate as she wished, she may easily be tempted to affect, either such graces as she retains no longer, or such new attractions as she thinks may become her maturer season of life. A minute observer may perceive many different kinds of affectation in this single character; but I shall confine myself to three, which I have particularly remarked in the sisterhood; and these are, an affectation of youth, an affectation of a certain censorial importance, and an affectation of extreme sensibility. The first, if not the most ridiculous, is, I think, the most common. We cannot enter an assembly-room, without seeing many virgins of this description, who, with the heavy wing of the beetle, affect the sportive motions of the butterfly. The kind-hearted Old Maid, who considers age as the great obstacle to that tender connection which is the object of her just desire, is tempted to hazard every expedient to conceal the advances of this inexorable power. But age is a jealous tyrant, and every effort of the faded virgin to proclaim herself free from its influence, tends only to make her feel the utmost severity of its dominion. I therefore entreat the sisterhood to reflect, that every injudicious and unseasonable attempt to please, is generally productive of disgust. I advise them to avoid every kind of personal decoration, which custom has in any degree appropriated to youth, and, above all, the use of pink ribands, to which they have a particular propensity. A wag of my acquaintance declares, that he looks upon every Old Maid, who arrays herself in ornaments of this colour, as a vessel displaying signals of distress, and inviting every bold adventurer to hasten to her relief; but, as the cruelty of man is apt to contemplate distress, of this nature without a particle of generous sympathy, the pink ensign, on these occasions, is commonly hoisted in vain. Indeed, the juvenile Old Maid, if I may use such an expression, is so perfectly blind to her real interest, that she often condemns herself to the very state she is trying to avoid, by exchanging the natural charms, which she might still exert with success, for the artificial attractions which she is eager to acquire. Cosmelia will, I fear, be an unfortunate example of this melancholy truth. It has been the perverse destiny of this lady, to lose all the advantages that might be expected from superior endowments. She has appeared, through life, to despise the powers she possessed, and endeavoured to fix her empire by those she had not. In youth, her person and features were supremely handsome; but at nineteen she was a beautiful pedant, whose tongue incessantly counteracted the influence of her eyes. She then neglected her dress, in a disgusting degree, to devote herself, with an absurd assiduity, to the acquisition of languages. These, indeed, she attained; but the chief effect she produced by her learning was, to frighten her young acquaintance, and astonish an old schoolmaster by her marvellous intimacy with the dialects of Greece.

Cosmelia is now forty-seven. Her mind is enriched by a long commerce with the best of ancient and modern authors, and her person is still very handsome; but her beauty and her knowledge seem to be rendered ineffectual by her rage for appearing young. She now labours to conceal her erudition, with an affectation superior to what she formerly shewed in displaying it. Notwithstanding her early disposition to pedantry, in the tender graces of epistolary writing she is hardly inferior to the marchioness de Sevigné; but this enchanting talent she very rarely exerts; for she unluckily thinks, that, at her present time of life, a smooth skin is more worthy of care and improvement, than a lively imagination.

Instead, therefore, of employing her pen in the composition of such letters as would delight her friends, she deserts her correspondents, and devotes a great portion of her time to the more interesting occupation of tickling her own forehead with a greasy feather. Qualified as she is to receive pleasure from books, she hardly ever adds a volume to her collection; but expends as much money as might purchase an elegant library, in amassing all the various washes that are said either to give or to preserve a very delicate complexion. She examines the advertisements for a new lotion for the face, with as much avidity as the curious Old Maid discovers in looking into the list of marriages. Having tried all that the newspapers have celebrated, from the Milk of Roses to the Olympian Dew; as their effects, however, seldom correspond with her wishes, she is often tempted to try new inventions of her own, and she frequently watches the simmer of a little pipkin, with as much eagerness and anxiety as the alchymist used to exhibit over the vessel that he expected to teem with his imaginary gold: I might add, indeed, with similar success; for, whether devices of this kind have little or no efficacy in themselves, or whether her raging passion for a clear countenance makes the strongest cosmetic appear defective, she never attempts to render herself more fair, but she grows more discontented with her complexion. Such attempts, by leading her to look more frequently in her mirror, only confirm her more and more in that most grievous apprehension, that she cannot appear quite so young as she wishes to be thought. This apprehension seems to haunt her like an evil genius, and is for ever marring all the natural grace, both of her words and actions. In moments when she had just enchanted a little party of friends by her various talents, I have seen this unfortunate foible start up, and dissolve the spell of pleasure in an instant; so that the persons who had for some time heard and beheld her with the highest admiration, began to survey her with an odd mixture of pity and derision, which nothing but the deference due to her sex and character induced them to conceal. This oppressive dread of not appearing young, which is, indeed, for ever present to her fancy, was remarkably conspicuous the other day, when she sat for her picture to oblige a relation. When she cast her eye upon the sketch, after the first sitting, in which the painter, to secure a likeness, had given peculiar strength to his outline, her vexation arose to agony; she apprehended, that all the spectators of her portrait would read the horrid words, forty-seven, in every line of her countenance. This idea continued to prey on her mind to such a degree, that when she ascended a second time into the sitting chair of the painter, her features exhibited more visible terror, than those lovely victims, Anne Boleyn and the Queen of Scots, are said to have discovered when they mounted the block. Indeed, though her head was secure, she considered herself as going to lose in effigy the most precious part of it, namely, that fictitious expression of youth, which she had incessantly laboured to preserve; and her dread of this loss arose to such an astonishing height, that she had certainly fallen into an hysterical fit, if an early peep at the improvement of the painter had not happily relieved her. His penetration had discovered her foible; and, as he had known her intimately in her bloom, he generously called his recollection to his aid, and gave, as he advanced, so youthful an air to her face, that it harmonised with the wreath of roses, and all the juvenile decorations with which she had requested him to adorn her resemblance. Her raptures encreased with the encreasing beauty of the portrait, which became so young and lovely in the last sitting, that the lady gazed upon her own image with such doating delight as almost entitled her to the name of an old Narcissus in petticoats.

I have dwelt the longer on this foible of Cosmelia's, because it overshadows the lustre of a brilliant understanding, and a warm benevolent heart; it is a sort of malady, which, though wretched in its effects, if permitted to gain ground, appears at present to admit of a very easy cure. Let her cease to think of her own age, and the idea of it will never occur unpleasantly to the imagination of others. If she could herself once forget, that she is turned of forty, she has a thousand attractions by which she might make any man forget it, whose recollection of so unpleasant a circumstance she might particularly wish to prevent. Let her discard the artificial affectation of youth, and she will find herself amply furnished with native powers to engage both esteem and affection; for (if a prosaic writer may be allowed to alter a verse of Pope for his convenience) we may affirm that Cosmelia ‘Disgusts by nothing but a rage to charm.’

This is by no means the case with the second kind of affectation, which I have engaged to consider, as being frequently found in the sisterhood; I mean the affectation of censorial importance. The affected Old Maid of this character, instead of endeavouring to appear more airy and frolicsome than time allows her to be, assumes all the dignity of advanced life, and affects to survey, and to comment upon, the world with the asperity of a Cato. The censorial spirit, that I now speak of, is entirely distinct from envy and ill-nature, which are to form the subjects of my following chapter. I cannot more clearly explain the peculiarities of this affectation, than by a little description of Altamira, as she is the most striking example of the foible that ever came within the scope of my observation. Altamira is a tall virgin of forty-two, of a lank and pale visage, and with a neck as long and meagre as that of Cicero, whom she also resembles, not indeed in the force and elegance, but in the length and volubility, of her orations; for, unluckily, having a barrister for her cousin, she has learnt to harangue on the real and imaginary failings of her acquaintance, with all the formality, and with all the assurance, of a lawyer. She is frequently observed, in a large circle, stretching forth all her length of neck, to question some distant lady concerning the minute circumstances of a suspected intrigue, or to inveigh against the irregularities of some person, who is accidentally mentioned, and of whose character she has no real knowledge. It is hardly possible to behold her in this position, without comparing her to a poor goose upon a common, who hisses at every passenger without any provocation, without any design to wound, and apparently without any purpose, but that of shewing the awkwardness of its figure, and the dissonance of its voice.

Envy and malevolence are such active principles, that we are never surprised, when persons under their influence indulge themselves in descanting on the frailties of their acquaintance: but Altamira is neither envious nor malignant; she is uncommonly tall, and, as she luckily thinks that a tall woman is the finest female production of nature, she sees nothing to envy in the persons of the little women around her, and looks down upon the comparative pigmies with a kind of complacent contempt. The peculiar elevation of her own figure misleads her into a mistaken estimate of her own sex; but the superior elevation of her mind renders her perfectly just towards ours. She does not appear to think, that the graces and talents of man are at all dependent on his size or stature; and, so far from despising any of her male acquaintance, because he is shorter than herself, she has the good-nature and condescension to stoop, for a salute, to the most diminutive of men.

I was once inclined to impute her offensive affectation of censorial dignity to the mere habit of haranguing, which she accidentally caught from her cousin at the bar; or to a nobler motive, namely, that ardent admiration of virtue, which frequently leads its possessor into spirited, though injudicious invectives against the supposed adherents of vice: but my friend Sophronius, who loves to investigate every nice discrimination of character, and is very shrewd in his remarks upon the sex, corrected my mistake. In our discourse concerning the foible of Altamira, "You have surely attended little to human nature," said my friend, "if you can seriously believe that Altamira's incessant invectives against dissipation and incontinence, proceed from that purity and rectitude of mind, which feels and delights in contemplating both the beauty and the beneficence of all the temperate virtues. If you study her character more attentively, you will discover, that the reverse of your idea is much nearer the truth. She perpetually declaims against the intrigues of incontinence, because, under the mask of such declamation, she acquires the privilege of treating her own fancy with those licentious images, on which it loves to dwell; and, believe me, there are many preachers of her order in the same predicament."

Whether Sophronius was perfectly right in this sarcastic censure, I will not pretend to determine; but I think his remark may be of service to the sisterhood, and I hope it will caution them against launching forth into such intemperate orations as those of Altamira, by shewing them the construction to which her eloquence is exposed.

But I quit this affected censor in petticoats, to consider an affectation of a more gentle and insinuating nature, I mean the affectation of extreme sensibility. The Old Maid is frequently tempted to counterfeit this superlative delicacy of feeling. I know a tender virgin of about forty-six, who, having read in divers poems and romances, that woman is irresistible in tears, has somehow contrived to form an inexhaustible reservoir of water in the neighbourhood of her eyes, and, to captivate every new acquaintance, she plays off those two radiant fountains as readily as the master of a French garden entertains every foreign visitant by an occasional shower from his favourite jet d'eau: the lady, indeed, has this great advantage over the gardener, that her watery exhibition is never obstructed by accident; she can at all seasons command both the shower and the apt occasion to introduce it; she can pluck a withering flower from the nosegay in her bosom, and drop a tear of tenderness in remarking the transient beauties of vegetation; or, if she finds not any occasion to weep, she can talk of the softness of her own heart, and bring forth her tears by only thinking of the facility with which she can produce them.

Nor does this affectation appear only in a superfluity of tears; it divides itself into many minute branches, and all the little airs and apprehensions of prudery may be referred to this source. I shall not, however, descend to a particular examination of these, but confine myself to a single view of this foible in one of its most whimsical shapes, I mean a preposterous fondness for the irrational parts of the creation. When the Old Maid has no real or imaginary lover, on whom she can display this affected tenderness, she is sometimes contented to take a lap-dog, a parrot, or a monkey, as the object of her caresses; or, if she does not think a single irrational companion a sufficient substitute for the noble creature of reason, she collects a group of animals, and lavishes upon them those delicate endearments, which she has no opportunity of bestowing upon man.

Orniphila is a lady who entertains her acquaintance with the most sumptuous display of this foible; for she is unluckily possessed of such opulence, as enables her to indulge her most extravagant caprice. Orniphila was extremely handsome in her youth, and, as she inherited both fortune and beauty, she would probably have settled happily in marriage, had not the affectation of superlative sensibility rendered her more an object of ridicule than of desire. She had the misfortune to fancy, that true delicacy consists in an apparent debility of nerves, and she therefore, with the figure of an Amazon, affected the timidity of a fairy. No ghost could start with greater trepidation at the crowing of a cock. On the sudden beat of a drum, she would throw herself into a kind of convulsion; and she has frequently wished, that Heaven had made her the inhabitant of some more tranquil globe, on which the air is never wounded by any sound more powerful than the notes of a nightingale. This gentleness of disposition did not, as the lady might possibly wish, induce any sympathetic swain to amuse her with the soothing whispers of love. She became an Old Maid; and, as she approached the age of forty, perceiving that she wanted something to caress, she began to provide herself with a train of animals, which she has enlarged to such a degree, that her house is a kind of little ark, though I believe it tends rather to destroy, than to preserve, the life of the various creatures it admits. Whether she is offended by that neglect which she has experienced from mankind, or whether a passion for animals annihilates our regard towards our own species, may admit of dispute; but it is certain, that her attachment to birds, dogs, and monkies, which has grown, perhaps, from an affected tenderness into a real passion, appears to have rendered Orniphila utterly insensible to the merit of human nature. She professes to have an aversion to children, because she is distracted by their noise; yet, so inconsistent is affectation, she has chosen for her constant companion, and even for her bedfellow, a great surly Pomeranian dog, whose incessant barking is more offensively loud than the most noisy infant that ever squalled in a cradle! She has many nephews and nieces, to whom little presents of money would be very acceptable; but Orniphila will not bestow even a crown to treat one of these children with a play; yet she will frequently throw away a guinea to purchase a little fruit from a hot-house, as a delicious indulgence to her old talking parrot.—Our foibles, like our vices, are very fruitful sources of vexation and distress; and I happened to be an ocular witness of a very heavy punishment, which accident inflicted on the unamiable weakness of Orniphila. As she does me the honour to rank me among her distant relations, and as she thinks I have some knowledge of natural history, she lately sent me a very pressing invitation to tea, that she might consult me on a new foreign bird just presented to her by one of her dependents. I was pleased to find two of her nieces, and their brother, admitted to her tea-table. The girls, who are almost women, were going from school to their parents in the country. The boy, a lively lad of thirteen, was just arrived from Eton, to escort his sisters, and appeared to divert himself not a little with the oddities of his aunt. She is always seen, like Circe, surrounded with animals. A few tame little birds, who fly unconfined about her chamber, are generally perched on her shoulder or her cap; the fat Pomeranian, when he is not growling, reposes at her feet; and a large squirrel occasionally peeps from her pocket, as he is indulged with a kind of banquetting-house under her hoop: but of all the creatures who usually reside in her room, the most striking is a very large and magnificent, but ill-tempered mackaw. The two girls had contemplated the fine plumage of this bird with great admiration, which he appeared to return; for, allured perhaps by an ornament of flowers which she wore in her cap, he hopped, on a sudden, from his stand upon the head of the eldest. The poor girl was exceedingly alarmed, and her brother hastened, with infinite good-humour, to her relief. He, at first, endeavoured to remove the bird very gently; but the mackaw did not chuse to relinquish his prize, and, in a scuffle which ensued, tore off the thumb-nail of his opponent. In the keen resentment, which this violent anguish produced, the young Etonian exerted all his strength, and wrung off the neck of his antagonist, without a single reflection on the feelings of his aunt. Orniphila, who was utterly unaffected by the wound of her nephew, fell into extreme agonies on beholding the mangled body of her favourite bird; and, leaving all her guests to take such care as they could of themselves, she summoned her servants to convey her instantly to bed, for the calamity rendered her unable to support her own frame. I have not seen her since, and nothing, I believe, will ever tempt me to visit her again, as I hear that, instead of atoning for her ill behaviour, she sent for her lawyer the next morning, and made him erase from her will the name of the spirited youth, who had excited her implacable resentment by ridding the world of her mischievous mackaw. But if this little book engages her attention, as I intend it shall, I trust it may induce her to correct her injustice, and to double the legacy which she so hastily cancelled.

I shall here take an opportunity of doing justice to my old acquaintance Petraea, who is supposed, by many people, to be a perfect model of the refined affectation which I am now considering, and to boast of exquisite sensibility, with a heart harder than marble.

Petraea is perpetually engaged by a tragedy or a novel, which she reads with infinite avidity, and a profusion of tears: you would suppose her, in these moments, the open-handed daughter of pity; but, if the ideal hero or heroine, whose distresses have convulsed her bosom with sympathy, could start into real life, and ask the sympathetic Petraea for five shillings, there would be an end of her sympathy; her open heart would contract, and become as closely puckered up as her purse. Yet the tenderness of Petraea is not affectation, as I once erroneously believed. Having studied her with attention, I am at length convinced, that her tender feelings are genuine, and that her true character, which is that of humanity, will always shew itself in its natural colours, except when it is overclouded by avarice, that cold and gloomy passion, which is not only apt to steal over advanced life, but to prevail more in celibacy than in wedlock! It was the following little incident which confirmed my present opinion of Petraea:—During one of my visits to her, a clergyman came in, whom we both esteem as a man of veracity and virtue. He told a story of singular distress, that had just befallen a family not unknown to us. The facts were well related, and the lady was much affected; but, in the close of his narration, the good man happening to drop a compassionate hint of a five guinea subscription, the gushing tears of Petraea were suddenly dispersed; her eyes became severe; her lips, pale and trembling, began to mutter doubts concerning the worthiness which she had just acknowledged; she then entered on a nonsensical dissertation on the frequency of impostures, and the propriety of people's suffering for imprudence.

The sensible divine perceived the rock on which his charitable hopes were now splitting; and, avoiding it with great dexterity, he pointed out to her a line of conduct, in which her weight and interest might relieve the distressed family without expending a shilling. The heart of Petraea now opened again; she cordially promised her assistance, and ultimately succeeded in the plan proposed, though it was attended with infinite trouble, which she uniformly supported with benevolent chearfulness and charitable pleasure.

I must not close a chapter on affectation, without a few remarks on one species of this foible, which deserves my particular attention, not only as being peculiar to Old Maids, but as having a great tendency to injure such well-meaning authors as myself, who, in treating subjects of extreme nicety, are unavoidably exposed to all the frowns and grimaces of prudish misconstruction.

I mean the affectation of superlative delicacy, both in sentiments and language. Many pure and prim virgins are betrayed, by this foible, into very ludicrous distress; they discover indecency in the most innocent expressions, and then distort their stiff features at the terrific grossness of their own misconception: they exemplify, in the most striking manner, the maxim of Swift, that nice persons are full of nasty ideas. Indeed, the head of the over-delicate Old Maid may be aptly compared to the foul cask, in which, according to the expression of Horace, the purest infusion immediately turns sour. By ladies of this description, a word of the most harmless signification is considered as obscene, and the language of religion herself is arraigned, as fit only for a brothel.

The most consummate model, that I can recollect, of this common character, the over-delicate Old Maid, is a lady, who has been distinguished, for some years, among her acquaintance, by the appellation of Miss Delia Dainty. From her unparalleled delicacy she has obtained the rare privilege of preserving the title of Miss to the advanced age of seventy. The extreme nicety of her ideas was displayed by the following little incident, at the age of thirtytwo: —Her father, a rich, honest, and rough country gentleman, inherited, from a more elegant uncle, a noble house, with some admirable statues. In compliment to the ladies who visited at this mansion, the former master of it, a man of the politest manners, had thrown a little veil over every part of his marble treasures, where he thought the extreme freedom of ancient art could excite any painful surprise in the modest fair ones of his neighbourhood. When the father of Miss Dainty succeeded to these possessions, the statues remained in this decent state: it had been thought, that modesty herself could require nothing more; but Delia, who examined these fine works of antiquity with uncommon attention, discovered a beautiful marble greyhound unprovided with a veil. As the animal was sitting in a very quiet position, his late master had never entertained an idea, that any eye could be startled at his appearance; but calm as the creature sat, he alarmed the chaste eyes of Delia, and her extreme delicacy induced her to furnish him with a little apron of paper. The honest 'squire, her father, soon discovered the strange apparel on his favourite statue, and rallied his daughter rather coarsely on her new invention, as he called it, of putting a dog into breeches. It was reported, at the time, that the considerate 'squire (who was very familiar and jocose with a facetious divine, that lived with him as a chaplain) made the doctor an immediate offer of his daughter, with a handsome portion. The story went farther, and it was said, that the divine, who lived in the habit of returning his patron's jocularity, thanked him for the honour, but begged leave to decline it, declaring that he could never venture on so delicate a wife, since he apprehended, that a lady, who required such decorum from a hound in marble, would hardly allow her husband to wear his nose uncovered.

I will not vouch for the truth of this anecdote; but it is certain, not only that Miss Dainty has remained unmarried, but that she has exerted her delicacy, on all occasions, in passing a severe censure on the language of clergymen; who are very apt, she says, even in the pulpit, to run into immodest allusions. It was in consequence of this wonderful nicety of apprehension, that she once sent her Abigail, with an angry message to the young curate of her parish, reprimanding him for having used the word carnal in his last sermon, and commanding him never to wound her ears any more by so gross an expression. It happened, I think, about the forty-third year of her life, that she refused subscribing to the charity for the propagation of the gospel, because the directors of that pious and noble institution insulted, she said, every chaste and refined ear, by using a word so very gross as the term propagation. The clergyman, who applied to her on this occasion, was both piqued and diverted by her refusal to contribute; and, possessing a considerable share of satyrical humour, he thought proper to punish her uncharitable delicacy by an epigram, which was eagerly circulated among the lady's acquaintance. With this unpublished little piece of poetical raillery I shall terminate this chapter.

EPIGRAM ON MISS DELIA DAINTY.

That prim Delia Dainty must die an Old Maid

Is declar'd in the book, where our lots are display'd;

Nor could Hymen himself, had he hold of her hand,

Contrive this decree of the Fates should not stand;

For had she accepted an offer of marriage,

So nice is her ear, and so modest her carriage,

That when to the altar she went as a bride,

Before the chaste knot of the church could be tied,

The pure words of the rite she would censure most keenly,

And cry, Hold, wicked priest! you are talking obscenely.

CHAP. V. On the Envy and Ill-nature of Old Maids.

I HAVE hitherto considered only those foibles in the ancient virgin, which expose her to derision; I am now to speak of more serious defects, of qualities which never fail to render their unhappy possessor an object of abhorrence. It is a common idea, I hope I may call it a vulgar prejudice, that Old Maids are peculiarly infected with envy and ill-nature; and this general opinion may partly account for the extreme cruelty which the sisterhood has experienced, for their being universally treated, according to the observation of a great moralist, "as the refuse of the world." Little, indeed, would be their claim to compassion and regard, if they were particularly distinguished by these detestable characteristics; but I am firmly persuaded, that, in the circle of every one's acquaintance, many individuals of this order may be found, who are not only free from the vices in question, but eminently graced with the very opposite virtues. If, in speaking of Old Maids collectively, we must allow them to be envious, we may at least apologise for the sisterhood, by observing, that they are not more envious than every class of beings who stand in a similar predicament. In the fine arts, it has been remarked through every age, that envy rarely fails to infect the tribe of unsuccessful adventurers. In painting and sculpture, in music, and every branch of literature, the most exquisite productions of applauded genius have been insulted by the envious and malevolent strictures of disappointed vanity. Now, the fair sex may be considered as students in the most important and the most delicate of all arts, the art of pleasing; and, of course, the Old Maid may be reckoned in the number of unsuccessful artists, when she has lost the chance of obtaining the golden chain of Hymen, that honourable prize, which she has probably exerted her utmost skill to acquire, and which is generally bestowed on every tolerable proficient in the art that she endeavoured to practise.

Considered in this point of view, the Old Maid has generally a more reasonable ground for discontent and invective, than the neglected painter or poet. The applause of the public is not often misplaced: those laurel wreaths, which are the chief incitements, and frequently the sole rewards, of genius, are commonly bestowed by the hand of justice herself; but the chaplets of Hymen are promiscuously distributed by interest, ambition, and caprice. The mortified and necessitous artist, who vents his spleen against his successful and opulent rival, is generally guilty of injustice and detraction against talents and industry far superior to his own; but the Old Maid, who is betrayed into envious expressions concerning the comforts and the splendor of the married dame, has often a better title to those comforts and that splendor, than the more fortunate lady by whom she sees them possessed.

Let us run this parallel a little farther, it will be found yet more to the advantage of the ancient virgin.

The failing artist is hardly ever wounded or provoked by the insolent or contumelious behaviour of an exalted antagonist. There is a magnanimity in true genius, more inclined to pity the vexations, and to relieve the necessities, than to deride the weakness and incapacity of his unsuccessful competitors. It is just the reverse with the unfortunate Old Maid: her solitary distress, and her curious ignorance, are for ever insulted by the supercilious knowledge, and the arrogant importance, of many luckier females, initiated in those splendid and honourable mysteries, to which she is unhappily a stranger.

From the preceding view of their peculiar hardships and provocations, I may venture to assert, that a slight tincture of envy is more pardonable in the sisterhood, than in any class of beings whatever.

I mean not to appear as the apologist of envy, when it exerts its most baneful influence, and bursts out into active malignity. When it grows to this height, it is at once the most absurd and the most odious of vices; absurd, because it pursues torment for pleasure, and odious, as the enemy of all social delight. It certainly deserves no quarter wherever it may be found, and particularly none when it exists among the sisterhood, because there is hardly a creature to be found on the earth more detestable in itself, and more pernicious to all around it, than the active and officious Old Maid, who is for ever goaded by this malignant passion.

Envy is a disease most prevalent in vain, in narrow, and uncultivated minds; and I have observed, that the most envious of the ancient virgins are generally persons who, in their youth, have amused themselves with the most haughty expectations, in consequence either of personal or pecuniary advantages. As the finest Burgundy, when spoiled, produces the most poignant vinegar, the superannuated beauty turns into the sharpest and most acrimonious Old Maid; her ill-nature, in declining life, is proportioned to that proud and imaginary value which she vainly set upon her youthful graces. The neglect that those graces have experienced, is an injury which rankles perpetually in her heart, and which she is ever trying to revenge upon the world at large: she has all the vindictive malevolence of Juno, and would gladly plunge the whole universe in dissention and misery, because she thinks herself defrauded of that provoking fruit, which she considered as due to her imperious beauty.

There is no situation, where a being of this restless nature may not exert, with a very mischievous effect, her malignant activity: but a country town is the proper theatre of the envious Old Maid; a theatre, where she frequently exhibits a busy and bold malevolence, little inferior to that which Milton has so finely made the characteristic of Satan! If she happens to be rich, she rivals the arch-fiend in dignity, as well as in rancour, and has a splendid pandaemonium to receive those subordinate spirits, who are the ready ministers of her diabolical pleasure: nor is it less the business of this assembly, than of the Miltonic pandaemonium, to wage an insidious war against heaven, by attacking the lovely works of the Creator, and attempting to destroy the happiness of innocence and beauty.

The envious Old Maid is a complete proficient in the black art of detraction; and, if she possesses both opulence and wit, all the evils that the ignorance of the dark ages imputed to witchcraft, are inferior to those which her malicious spirit has the power of producing. Her tongue is armed with a corrosive venom, and, by its insidious application, she delights in dissolving the ties of ancient friendship, in annihilating the festive bands of Hymen at the moment of their formation, and in poisoning all the fountains of social pleasure.

She may be justly reckoned a real sorceress, who surpasses, in malicious power, the most terrific of all the fabulous enchanters. But it is not easy to give a perfect description of the many mysterious spells, by which she incessantly pursues the gratification of her malice. Her favourite and most successful instruments of mischief are anonymous letters, those insidious destroyers of domestic peace, written under the false pretence of a friendly concern for the very persons whom they are really intended to harrass and torment! From the subtle fabrication of such letters, a lovely and innocent girl is abridged of her liberty by a rigorous and deluded parent; a lover is led to mistrust the fidelity of his mistress; and the fairest blossoms of affection are shaken suddenly to the ground by the hand of that cunning envy, which, working for ever in the dark, is rarely punished by a complete detection.

There are a thousand petty modes of defamation, which derive astonishing influence from the ingenious acuteness of the sarcastic Old Maid. I have known a malevolent hag, of this order, contrive to sully a very fair reputation, without uttering a syllable, by one significant glance of her eye, and an artful shake of her head. This lady, indeed, possessed an uncommon bitterness of spirit; and, as one anecdote of her life may afford an useful lesson to some of her sisterhood, I shall introduce her to the acquaintance of my reader, under the title of Mrs. Winifred Wormwood.

Mrs. Wormwood was the daughter of a rustic merchant, who, by the happy union of many lucrative trades, amassed an enormous fortune. His family consisted of three girls, and Winifred was the eldest: long before she was twenty, she was surrounded with lovers, some probably attracted by the splendid prospect of her expected portion, and others truly captivated by her personal graces; for her person was elegant, and her elegance was enlivened with peculiar vivacity. Mr. Wormwood was commonly called a kind parent, and an honest man; and he might deserve, indeed, those honourable appellations, if it were not a profanation of language to apply them to a narrow and a selfish spirit. He indulged his daughters in many expensive amusements, because it flattered his pride; but his heart was engrossed by the profits of his extensive traffic: he turned, with the most repulsive asperity, from every proposal that could lead him to diminish his capital, and thought his daughters unreasonable, if they wished for any permanent satisfaction above that of seeing their father increase in opulence and splendor. His two younger children, who inherited from their deceased mother a tender delicacy of frame, languished and died at an early period of life, and the death of one of them was imputed, with great probability, to a severe disappointment in her first affection. The more sprightly Winifred, whose heart was a perfect stranger to genuine love, surmounted the mortification of seeing many suitors discarded; and, by the insensate avarice of her father, she was naturally led into habits of artifice and intrigue. Possessing an uncommon share of very shrewd and piercing wit, with the most profound hypocrisy, she contrived to please, and to blind, her plodding old parent; who perpetually harangued on the discretion of his daughter, and believed her a miracle of reserve and prudence, at the very time when she was suspected of such conduct as would have disqualified her, had it ever been proved, for the rank she now holds in this essay. She was said to have amused herself with a great variety of amorous adventures, which eluded the observation of her father; but of the many lovers, who sighed to her in secret, not one could tempt her into marriage, and, to the surprise of the public, the rich heiress of Mr. Wormwood reached the age of thirty-seven, without changing her name. Just as she arrived at this mature season of life, the opulent old gentleman took his leave of a world, in which he had acted a busy part, pleased with the idea of leaving a large fortune, as a monument of his industry, but wanting the superior satisfaction, which a more generous parent would probably have derived from the happy establishment of a daughter. He gained, however, from the hypocrisy of Winifred, what he could not claim from her affection, the honour of being lamented with a profusion of tears. She distinguished herself by displaying all the delicate gradations of filial sorrow; but recovered, at a proper time, all the natural gaiety of her temper, which she had now the full opportunity of indulging, being mistress of a magnificent mansion, within a mile of a populous town, and enabled to enliven it with all the arts of luxury, by inheriting such accumulated wealth, as would safely support the utmost efforts of provincial splendor. Miss Wormwood now expected to see every batchelor of figure and consequence a suppliant at her feet: she promised to herself no little entertainment in sporting with their addresses, without the fear of suffering from a tyrannical husband, as she had learned caution from her father, and had privately resolved not to trust any man with her money; a resolution the more discreet, as she had much to apprehend, and very little to learn, from so dangerous a master! The good-natured town, in whose environs the rich Winifred resided, very kindly pointed out to her no less than twenty lively beaux for her choice; but, to the shame or the honour of those gentlemen, they were too timid, or too honest, to make any advances. The report of her youthful frolics, and the dread of her sarcastic wit, had more power to repel, than her person and her wealth had to attract. Passing her fiftieth year, she acquired the serious name of Mistress, without the dignity of a wife, and without receiving a single offer of marriage from the period in which she became the possessor of so opulent a fortune.

Whether this mortifying disappointment had given a peculiar asperity to her temper, or whether malevolence was the earlier characteristic of her mind, I will not pretend to determine; but it is certain, that from this autumnal or rather wintry season of her life, Mrs. Wormwood made it her chief occupation to amuse herself with the most subtle devices of malicious ingenuity, and to frustrate every promising scheme of affection and delight, which she discovered in the wide circle of her acquaintance. She seemed to be tormented with an incessant dread, that youth and beauty might secure to themselves that happiness, which she found wit and fortune were unable to bestow; hence she watched, with the most piercing eye, all the lovely young women of her neighbourhood, and often insinuated herself into the confidence of many, that she might penetrate all the secrets of their love, and privately blast its success. She was enabled to render herself intimate with the young and the lovely, by the opulent splendor in which she lived, and by the bewitching vivacity of her conversation. Her talents of this kind were, indeed, extraordinary: her mind was never polished or enriched by literature, as Mr. Wormwood set little value on any books, excepting those of his counting-house; and the earlier years of his daughter were too much engaged by duplicity and intrigue, to leave her either leisure or inclination for a voluntary attachment to more improving studies. She read very little, and was acquainted with no language but her own; yet a brilliant understanding, and an uncommon portion of ready wit, supplied her with a more alluring fund of conversation, than learning could bestow. She chiefly recommended herself to the young and inexperienced, by the insinuating charm of the most lively ridicule, and by the art of seasoning her discourse with wanton innuendos of so subtle a nature, that gravity knew not how to object to them: she had the singular faculty of throwing such a soft and dubious twilight over the most licentious images, that they captivated curiosity and attention, without exciting either fear or disgust. Her malevolence was perpetually disguised under the mask of gaiety, and she completely possessed that plausibility of malice, so difficult to attain, and so forcibly recommended in the words of lady Macbeth:

Bear welcome in your eye,

Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower,

But be the serpent under it!

With what success she practised this dangerous lesson, the reader may learn from the following adventure.—

It was the custom of Mrs. Wormwood to profess the most friendly solicitude for female youth, and the highest admiration of beauty; she wished to be considered as their patroness, because such an idea afforded her the fairest opportunities of secretly mortifying their insufferable presumption. With a peculiar refinement in malice, she first encouraged, and afterwards defeated, those amusing matrimonial projects, which the young and the beautiful are so apt to entertain. The highest gratification, which her ingenious malignity could devise, consisted in torturing some lovely inexperienced girl, by playing upon the tender passions of an open and unsuspecting heart.

Accident threw within her reach a most tempting subject for such fiend-like diversion, in the person of Amelia Nevil, the daughter of a brave and accomplished officer, who, closing a laborious and honourable life in very indigent circumstances, had left his unfortunate child to the care of his maiden sister. The aunt of Amelia was such an Old Maid as might alone suffice to rescue the sisterhood from ridicule and contempt. She had been attached, in her early days, to a gallant youth, who unhappily lost his own life in preserving that of his dear friend, her brother: she devoted herself to his memory with the most tender, unaffected, and invariable at••••ent; refusing several advantageous offers o• ••rriage, though her income was so narrow that necessity obliged her to convert her whole fortune into an annuity, just before the calamitous event happened, which made her the only guardian of the poor Amelia. This lovely but unfortunate girl was turned of fourteen on the death of her father. She found, in the house of his sister, the most friendly asylum, and a relation, whose heart and mind made her most able and willing to form the character of this engaging orphan, who appeared to be as highly favoured by nature, as she was persecuted by fortune. The beauty of Amelia was so striking, and the charms of her lively understanding began to display themselves in so enchanting a manner, that her affectionate aunt could not bear the idea of placing her in any lower order of life: she gave her the education of a gentlewoman, in the flattering and generous hope, that her various attractions must supply the absolute want of fortune, and that she should enjoy the delight of seeing her dear Amelia settled happily in marriage, before her death exposed her lovely ward to that poverty, which was her only inheritance.—Heaven disposed it otherwise. This amiable woman, after having acted the part of a most affectionate parent to her indigent niece, died before Amelia attained the age of twenty. The poor girl was now apparently destitute of every resource; and exposed to penury, with a heart bleeding for the loss of a most indulgent protector. A widow lady of her acquaintance very kindly afforded her a refuge in the first moments of her distress, and proposed to two of her opulent friends, that Amelia should reside with them by turns, dividing her year between them, and passing four months with each. As soon as Mrs. Wormwood was informed of this event, as she delighted in those ostentatious acts of apparent beneficence, which are falsely called charity, she desired to be admitted among the voluntary guardians of the poor Amelia. To this proposal all the parties assented, and it was settled, that Amelia should pass the last quarter of every year, as long as she remained single, under the roof of Mrs. Wormwood. This lovely orphan had a sensibility of heart, which rendered her extremely grateful for the protection she received, but which made her severely feel all the miseries of dependence. Her beauty attracted a multitude of admirers, many of whom, presuming on her poverty, treated her with a licentious levity, which always wounded her ingenuous pride. Her person, her mind, her manners, were universally commended by the men; but no one thought of making her his wife. "Amelia," they cried, ‘is an enchanting creature; but who, in these times, can afford to marry a pretty, proud girl, supported by charity?’ Though this prudential question was never uttered in the presence of Amelia, she began to perceive its influence, and suffered the painful dread of proving a perpetual burden to those friends, by whose generosity she subsisted; she wished, a thousand times, that her affectionate aunt, instead of cultivating her mind with such dangerous refinement, had placed her in any station of life where she might have maintained herself by her own manual labour: she sometimes entertained a project of making some attempt for this purpose; and she once thought of changing her name, and of trying to support herself as an actress on one of the public theatres; but this idea, which her honest pride had suggested, was effectually suppressed by her modesty; and she continued to waste the most precious time of her youth, under the mortification of perpetually wishing to change her mode of life, and of not knowing how to effect it. Almost two years had now elapsed since the death of her aunt, and, without any prospect of marriage, she was now in her second period of residence with Mrs. Wormwood. Amelia's understanding was by no means inferior to her other endowments; she began to penetrate all the artful disguise, and to gain a perfect and very painful insight into the real character of her present hostess. This lady had remarked, that when Miss Nevil resided with her, her house was much more frequented by gentlemen, than at any other season. This, indeed, was true; and it unluckily happened, that these visitors often forgot to applaud the smart sayings of Mrs. Wormwood, in contemplating the sweet countenance of Amelia; a circumstance full sufficient to awaken, in the neglected wit, the most bitter envy, hatred, and malice. In truth, Mrs. Wormwood detested her lovely guest with the most implacable virulence; but she had the singular art of disguising her detestation in the language of flattery: she understood the truth of Pope's maxim, ‘He hurts me most who lavishly commends;’ and she therefore made use of lavish commendation, as an instrument of malevolence towards Amelia; she insulted the taste, and ridiculed the choice, of every new-married man, and declared herself convinced, that he was a fool, because he had not chosen that most lovely young woman. To more than one gentleman she said, You must marry Amelia; and, as few men chuse to be driven into wedlock, some offers were possibly prevented by the treacherous vehemence of her praise. Her malice, however, was not sufficiently gratified by observing that Amelia had no prospect of marriage. To indulge her malignity, she resolved to amuse this unhappy girl with the hopes of such a joyous event, and then to turn, on a sudden, all these splendid hopes into mockery and delusion. Accident led her to pitch on Mr. Nelson, as a person whose name she might with the greatest safety employ, as the instrument of her insidious design, and with the greater chance of success, as she observed that Amelia had conceived for him a particular regard. Mr. Nelson was a gentleman, who, having met with very singular events, had contracted a great, but very amiable singularity of character:—he was placed, early in life, in a very lucrative commercial situation, and was on the point of settling happily in marriage with a very beautiful young lady, when the house, in which she resided, was consumed by fire. Great part of her family, and among them the destined bride, was buried in the ruins. Mr. Nelson, in losing the object of his ardent affection by so sudden a calamity, lost for some time the use of his reason; and when his health and senses returned, he still continued under the oppression of the profoundest melancholy, till his fond devotion to the memory of her, whom he had lost in so severe a manner, suggested to his fancy a singular plan of benevolence, in the prosecution of which he recovered a great portion of his former spirits. This plan consisted in searching for female objects of charity, whose distresses had been occasioned by fire. As his fortune was very ample, and his own private expences very moderate, he was able to relieve many unfortunate persons in this condition; and his affectionate imagination delighted itself with the idea, that in these uncommon acts of beneficence he was guided by the influence of that lovely angel, whose mortal beauty had perished in the flames. Mr. Nelson frequently visited a married sister, who was settled in the town where Mrs. Wormwood resided. There was also, in the same town, an amiable elderly widow, for whom he had a particular esteem. This lady, whose name was Melford, had been left in very scanty circumstances on the death of her husband, and, residing at that time in London, she had been involved in additional distress by that calamity, to which the attentive charity of Mr. Nelson was for ever directed: he more than repaired the loss which she sustained by fire, and assisted in settling her in the neighbourhood of his sister. Mrs. Melford had been intimate with the aunt of Amelia, and was still the most valuable friend of that lovely orphan, who paid her frequent visits, though she never resided under her roof. Mr. Nelson had often seen Amelia at the house of Mrs. Melford, which led him to treat her with particular politeness, whenever he visited Mrs. Wormwood; a circumstance on which the latter founded her ungenerous project. She perfectly knew all the singular private history of Mr. Nelson, and firmly believed, like all the rest of his acquaintance, that no attractions could ever tempt him to marry; but she thought it possible to make Amelia conceive the hope, that her beauty had melted his resolution; and nothing, she supposed, could more effectually mortify her guest, than to find herself derided for so vain an expectation.

Mrs. Wormwood began, therefore, to insinuate, in the most artful manner, that Mr. Nelson was very particular in his civilities to Amelia; magnified all his amiable qualities, and expressed the greatest pleasure in the prospect of so delightful a match. These petty artifices, however, had no effect on the natural modesty and diffidence of Amelia; she saw nothing that authorised such an idea in the usual politeness of a well-bred man of thirty-seven; she pitied the misfortune, she admired the elegant and engaging, though serious manners, and she revered the virtues, of Mr. Nelson; but, supposing his mind to be entirely engrossed, as it really was, by his singular charitable pursuits, she entertained not a thought of engaging his affection. Mrs. Wormwood was determined to play off her favourite engine of malignity, a counterfeited letter. She had acquired, in her youth, the very dangerous talent of forging any hand that she pleased; and her passion for mischief had afforded her much practice in this treacherous art. Having previously, and secretly, engaged Mr. Nelson to drink tea with her, she wrote a billet to Amelia, in the name of that gentleman, and with the most perfect imitation of his hand. The billet said, that he designed himself the pleasure of passing that afternoon at the house of Mrs. Wormwood, and requested the favour of a private conference with Miss Nevil in the course of the evening, intimating, in the most delicate and doubtful terms, an ardent desire of becoming her husband. Mrs. Wormwood contrived that Amelia should not receive this billet till just before dinner-time, that she might not shew it to her friend and confidant, Mrs. Melford, and, by her means, detest its fallacy before the hour of heir intended humiliation arrived.

Amelia blushed in reading the note, and, in the first surprise of unsuspecting innocence, gave it to the vigilant Mrs. Wormwood; who burst into vehement expressions of delight, congratulated her blushing guest on the full success of her charms, and triumphed in her own prophetic discernment. They sat down to dinner, but poor Amelia could hardly swallow a morsel; her mind was in a tumultuous agitation of pleasure and amazement. The malicious impostor, enjoying her confusion, allowed her no time to compose her hurried spirits in the solitude of her chamber. Some female visitors arrived to tea; and, at length, Mr. Nelson entered the room. Amelia trembled and blushed as he approached her; but she was a little relieved from her embarrassment by the business of the tea-table, over which she presided. Amelia was naturally graceful in every thing she did, but the present agitation of her mind gave a temporary awkwardness to all her motions: she committed many little blunders in the management of the tea-table; a cup fell from her trembling hand, and was broken; but the politeness of Mr. Nelson led him to say so many kind and graceful things to her on these petty incidents, that, instead of increasing her distress, they produced an opposite effect, and the tumult of her bosom gradually subsided into a calm and composed delight. She ventured to meet ihe eyes of Mr. Nelson, and thought them expressive of that tenderness which promised a happy end to all her misfortunes. At the idea of exchanging misery and dependence for comfort and honour, as the wife of so amiable a man, her heart expanded with the most innocent and grateful joy. This appeared in her countenance, and gave such an exquisite radiance to all her features, that she looked a thousand times more beautiful than ever. Mrs. Wormwood saw this improvement of her charms, and, sickening at the sight, determined to reduce the splendor of such insufferable beauty, and hastily terminate the triumph of her deluded guest. She began with a few malicious and sarcastic remarks on the vanity of beautiful young women, and the hopes, which they frequently entertain, of an imaginary lover; but finding these remarks produced not the effect she intended, she took an opportunity of whispering in the ear of Amelia, and begged her not to harbour any vain expectations, for the billet she had received was a counterfeit, and a mere piece of pleasantry. Amelia shuddered, and turned pale: surprise; disappointment, and indignation, conspired to overwhelm her. She exerted her utmost power to conceal her emotions; but the conflict in her bosom was too violent to be disguised. The tears, which she vainly endeavoured to suppress, burst forth, and she was obliged to quit the room in very visible disorder. Mr. Nelson expressed his concern; but he was checked in his benevolent enquiries by the caution of Mrs. Wormwood, who said, on the occasion, that Miss Nevil was a very amiable girl, but she had some peculiarities of temper, and was apt to put a wrong construction on the innocent pleasantry of her friends. Mr. Nelson observing that Amelia did not return, and hoping that his departure, might contribute to restore the interrupted harmony of the house, took an early leave of Mrs. Wormwood; who immediately flew to the chamber of Amelia, to exult, like a fiend, over that lovely victim of her successful malignity. She found not the person, whom she was so eager to insult. Amelia had, indeed, retired to her chamber, and passed there a very miserable half hour, much hurt by the treacherous cruelty of Mrs. Wormwood, and still more wounded by reflections on her own credulity, which she condemned with that excess of severity so natural to a delicate mind in arraigning itself. She would have flown for immediate consolation to her friend, Mrs. Melford, but she had reason to believe that lady engaged on a visit, and she therefore resolved to take a solitary walk for the purpose of composing her spirits: but neither solitude nor exercise could restore her tranquillity; and, as it grew late in the evening, she hastened to Mrs. Melford's, in hopes of now finding her returned. Her worthy old confidant was, indeed, in her little parlour alone, when Amelia entered the room. The eyes of this lovely girl immediately betrayed her distress; and the old lady, with her usual tenderness, exclaimed ‘Good heaven! my dear child, for what have you been crying?’ "Because," replied Amelia, in a broken voice, and bursting into a fresh shower of tears, ‘because I am a fool.’ —Mrs. Melford began to be most seriously alarmed, and, expressing her maternal solicitude in the kindest manner, Amelia produced the fatal paper—"There," says she, ‘is a letter in the name of your excellent friend, Mr. Nelson; it is a forgery of Mrs. Wormwood's, and I have been such an idiot as to believe it real.’ The affectionate Mrs. Melford, who, in her first alarm, had apprehended a much heavier calamity, was herself greatly comforted in discovering the truth, and said many kind things to console her young friend. "Do not fancy," replied Amelia, ‘that I am foolishly in love with Mr. Nelson, though I think him the most pleasing as well as the most excellent of men, and though I confess to you, that I should certainly think it a blessed lot to find a refuge from the misery of my present dependence, in the arms of so benevolent and so generous a protector.’ — ‘those arms are now open to receive you,’ said a voice that was heard before the speaker appeared. Amelia started at the sound, and her surprise was not a little increased in seeing Mr. Nelson himself, who, entering the room from an adjoining apartment, embraced the lovely orphan in a transport of tenderness and delight. Amelia, alive to all the feelings of genuine modesty, was for some minutes more painfully distressed by this surprise, than she had been by her past mortification: she was ready to sink into the earth, at the idea of having betrayed her secret to the man, from whom she would have laboured most to conceal it. In the first tumult of this delicate confusion, she sinks into a chair, and hides her face in her handkerchief. Nelson, with a mixture of respect and love, being afraid of increasing her distress, seizes one of her hands, and continues to kiss it without uttering a word. The good Mrs. Melford, almost as much astonished, but less painfully confused than Amelia, beholds this unexpected scene with that kind of joy which is much more disposed to weep than to speak:—and, while this little party is thus absorbed in silence, let me hasten to relate the incidents which produced their situation.

Mr. Nelson had observed the sarcastic manner of Mrs. Wormwood towards Amelia, and, as soon as he had ended his uncomfortable visit, he hastened to the worthy Mrs. Melford, to give her some little account of what had passed, and to concert with her some happier plan for the support of this amiable insulted orphan. ‘I am acquainted,’ said he, ‘with some brave and wealthy officers, who have served with the father of Miss Nevil, and often speak of him with respect; I am sure I can raise among them a subscription for the maintenance of this tender unfortunate girl: we will procure for her an annuity, that shall enable her to escape from such malignant patronage, to have a little home of her own, and to support a servant.’ Mrs. Melford was transported at this idea; and, recollecting all her own obligations to this benevolent man, wept, and extolled his generosity; and, suddenly seeing Amelia at some distance, through a bow window, which commanded the street in which she lived, "Thank Heaven," she cried, ‘here comes my poor child, to hear and bless you for the extent of your goodness.’ Nelson, who delighted most in doing good by stealth, immediately extorted from the good old lady a promise of secrecy: it was the best part of his plan, that Amelia should never know the persons to whom she was to owe her independence, ‘I am still afraid of you, my worthy old friend,’ said Nelson; ‘your countenance or manner will, I know, betray me, if Miss Nevil sees me here to-night.’ —"Well," said the delighted old lady, ‘I will humour your delicacy; Amelia will, probably, not stay with me ten minutes; you may amuse yourself, for that time, in my spacious garden: I will not say you are here; and, as soon as the good girl returns home, I will come and impart to you the particulars of her recent vexation.’ —Admirably settled," cried Nelson; and he immediately retreated into a little back room, which led through a glass door into a long slip of ground, embellished with the sweetest and least expensive flowers, which afforded a favourite occupation and amusement to Mrs. Melford. Nelson, after taking a few turns in this diminutive garden, finding himself rather chilled by the air of the evening, retreated again into the little room he had passed, intending to wait there till Amelia departed; but the partition between the parlours being extremely slight, he overheard the tender confession of Amelia, and was hurried towards her by an irresistible impulse, in the manner already described.

Mrs. Melford was the first who recovered from the kind of trance, into which our little party had been thrown by their general surprise; and she enabled the tender pair, in the prospect of whose union her warm heart exulted, to regain that easy and joyous possession of their faculties, which they lost for some little time in their mutual embarrassment. The applause of her friend, and the adoration of her lover, soon taught the diffident Amelia to think less severely of herself. The warm-hearted Mrs. Melford declared, that these occurrences were the work of Heaven. "That," replied the affectionate Nelson, ‘I am most willing to allow; but you must grant, that Heaven has produced our present happiness by the blind agency of a fiend; and, as our dear Amelia has too gentle a spirit to rejoice in beholding the malignity of a devil converted into the torment of its possessor, I must beg, that she may not return, even for a single night, to the house of Mrs. Wormwood.’ Amelia pleaded her sense of past obligations, and wished to take a peaceful leave of her patroness; but she submitted to the urgent entreaties of Nelson, and remained for a few weeks under the roof of Mrs. Melford, when she was united at the altar to the man of her heart. Nelson had the double delight of rewarding the affection of an angel, and of punishing the malevolence of a fiend: he announced in person to Mrs. Wormwood his intended marriage with Amelia, on the very night when that treacherous Old Maid had amused herself with the hope of deriding her guest; whose return she was eagerly expecting, in the moment Nelson arrived to say, that Amelia would return no more.

The surprise and mortification of Mrs. Wormwood arose almost to frenzy; she racked her malicious and inventive brain for expedients to defeat the match, and circulated a report for that purpose, which decency will not allow me to explain. Her artifice was detected and despised. Amelia was not only married, but the most admired, the most beloved, and the happiest of human beings; an event which preyed so incessantly on the spirit of Mrs. Wormwood, that she fell into a rapid decline, and ended, in a few months, her mischievous and unhappy life, a memorable example, that the most artful malignity may sometimes procure for the object of its envy, that very happiness which it labours to prevent!

If the envious and ill-natured Old Maid has a passion for verse, and has indulged herself in the habit of tacking ill-assorted rhymes together, she frequently vents her malevolence in a miserable lampoon. I once knew an elderly virgin, whose spleen betrayed her into this dangerous kind of authorship; and her fate was such, as ought to deter every rhyming sister from satirical composition. This antiquated lampooner, instead of hurting the innocent and good-humoured female, whom she made the heroine of her woeful song, injured only herself: she actually reversed the ancient fable of Orpheus, and, instead of attracting all creation by the music of her lyre, induced every being to avoid her society; till, finding herself unable to support the solitude, which her poetry had occasioned, she was obliged to abandon the town, where she had resided from her childhood, and to take refuge in a distant county.

I shall conclude this long chapter with the remark of a famous Grecian philosopher, which may have more influence in exterminating envy from the sisterhood, than all the volumes that have been written on this very powerful and mischievous vice. "As rust consumes iron," said Antisthenes, "so does envy the envious person." There cannot, I think, be a happier illustration of the effects produced by this corroding infirmity. There is no passion that more darkly disfigures "the human face divine;" and I can assure my fair reader, that when the rust of envy has been allowed to harbour, for any length of time, in the lines of the visage, there is no lotion in the world that can restore the lost radiance. I therefore entreat every Old Maiden, who feels an envious emotion arising in her breast, to consider what hideous effects it may produce in her countenance, and to reflect, that she will improve her features by recovering her good-nature.

Having thus far expatiated on the peculiar foibles and defects of the sisterhood, I shall devote the subsequent part of this volume to the more pleasing consideration of their amiable qualities, for amiable qualities they have, which are, like their foibles, peculiarly their own; and a writer, who involves either the whole sex, or any class of females, in one blind, undistinguishing censure, appears to me as absurd, as that person would be, who should pronounce a pine-apple a very bad fruit, because he accidentally tasted only a piece of the rind, which had left a blister on his lips.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

Notes

*
My conjecture is confirmed by the opinion of the learned Sennertus; who has published a system of physic in two ponderous folios, in which he has devoted a chapter to that interesting complaint, the melancholy of virgins and widows.—Vide Sennerti Practicae, Lib. iv. Par. ii. sect. 3. cap. 6.
↵

PART II. ON THE PARTICULAR GOOD QUALITIES OF OLD MAIDS.

CHAP. I. On the Ingenuity of Old Maids.

WHILE other antiquarians have laboriously employed and exhausted their powers in searching for old ruins of Gothic architecture, or some Druidical remains, I have traversed the kingdom in quest of curious characters in the sisterhood of Old Maids, and, whenever I gain intelligence of a new curiosity belonging to this class, I forsake all other occupations, to study it with the patient attention of a true virtuoso.

As soon as I am properly introduced to the fresh ancient maiden, I sit philosophically down, and endeavour to discover, through that incrustation of little singularities which a long life of celibacy has produced, her genuine character, the real disposition of her heart, and the exact altitude of her head.

Having made an accurate drawing of this piece of antiquity in its present state, I consider what she must have been in her youth; and, having settled my conjectures on that point, I proceed to reflections on the kind of wife she might probably have made, and teach myself whether I ought to contemplate her present state with satisfaction or concern.

Every man has his taste. Whether my speculations may be superior or not to those of more fafhionable antiquaries, is a point that I shall leave the world to consider; I will only say, that if the society of antiquarians should think this study of mine may entitle me to be admitted of their community, I could enrich their Archaeologia with sketches of many a fair neglected ruin, which have hitherto escaped their researches.

With some of these sketches I have, indeed, attempted to adorn my own little volumes; but others I shall still retain in my private cabinet, till I have happily awakened in our country a more lively and affectionate relish for the singular branch of virtù, which I am now introducing, for the first time, to the notice, and, I hope, the cultivation, of the enlightened public.

In the many years of profound speculation, which I devoted to the study of Old Maids, before I began this elaborate, and, I trust, this immortal essay, I observed that the better part of the sisterhood are distinguished by three amiable characteristics— ingenuity, patience, and charity. To each of these I shall give a separate chapter, and, as the sagacious Aristotle says, in dividing a subject of less importance, ‘first for the first.’

Ingenuity may, indeed, be considered as a characteristic of the fair sex in general; but there are many circumstances which tend to weaken and diminish this quality in the married dame, and many which have an equal tendency to strengthen and encrease it in the ancient virgin. The former may be compared to the high-fed and indolent prelate, who, having gained the object of his pursuit, and being elated with the ceremonious dignity of his station, is apt to neglect the cultivation of those spiritual talents which ought to adorn it; the latter resembles the unbeneficed ecclesiastic, who, conscious of his humiliating condition, endeavours to surmount its disadvantages by the acquisition and display of those accomplishments, which, if they do not raise him to a higher rank, may secure to him, undignified as he is, both attention and esteem.

Nothing is more common, than, to hear complaints against married ladies for having neglected those ingenious pursuits, by which their youth was distinguished: the harpsichord and the pencil, those pleasing and graceful amusements of female life, are generally consigned to oblivion in the second or third year after marriage; even a musical voice, the most delightful gift of nature, is so frequently neglected in that business or dissipation which succeeds the festivity of Hymen, that I have heard more than one husband upbraid his wife, for having forgot every favourite song, which, in their single days, had a powerful influence in securing his affection.

Now, with the more discreet and good-natured Old Maids, the case is just the reverse. I never met with even one ancient virgin, who, retaining her health and faculties, had ceased to practise any ingenious art, or to display any amusing accomplishment, which had ever gained her applause.

That perfect leisure, and that exemption from all the more burthensome houshold cares, which the Old Maid enjoys, is highly calculated to assist her progress in works of ingenuity; and such works, by detaching the mind from idle, impertinent, and censorious ideas, contribute not a little to support the natural benevolence of the heart, and to confer a considerable degree of happiness on many a worthy spinster of gentle manners and of easy fortune.

The truth of this remark is very strongly exemplified in the elderly daughter of Dr. Coral, a lady whose conduct has been so singular and amiable, that I shall present to my reader a little history both of her and her father.—Dr. Coral was educated in the study of physic, and took his degree in that science; but having a greater passion for what is curious, than for what is useful, he degenerated from a physician into a virtuoso. The country, in which he settled, soon observed that the Doctor was more disposed to examine the veins of the earth, than to feel the pulse of a patient: his practice of course declined; but he was happily enabled to live without the aid of his profession, by the affluent fortune of his wife. She was a lady of a mild and engaging character, but of a delicate constitution, and, dying in child-bed, left him an only daughter, whom he called Theodora. The Doctor was by no means a man of warm passions, and never entertained an idea of marrying again; though a female fossilist once endeavoured to work upon his foible, and to entice him into second nuptials, by an artful hint, that an union of their two cabinets would enhance the value of both. Indeed, he had little or no occasion for conjugal assistance; for, being himself a most active spirit, he not only discharged those common offices of life which belong to the master of a family, but was able and willing to direct or execute all the minuter domestic business, which is generally considered within the female department. His activity, though, from the want of an enlarged understanding, it wasted itself on trifles, supported the chearfulness of his temper. He was, indeed, frequently officious, but always benevolent. Though he had ceased to practise physic at the summons of the wealthy, he was eager, at all times, to afford every kind of relief to the sufferings of the poor. He was gentle and indulgent to his servants, and as fond of his little daughter as a virtuoso can be of any living and ordinary production of nature. Theodora discovered, in her childhood, a very intelligent spirit, with peculiar sweetness of temper. As she grew up, she displayed a striking talent for the pencil, and particularly endeared herself to her father, by surprising him with a very accurate and spirited delineation of three the most precious articles in his cabinet; a compliment which so warmed the heart of the delighted old naturalist, that he declared he would give her five thousand pounds on the day of her marriage. No one doubted his ability to fulfil such a promise; for though he had squandered considerable sums on many useless baubles, he was, in all common articles of expence, so excellent a manager, that, instead of injuring, he had increased his fortune; and from this circumstance he was generally believed to be much richer than he really was. Theodora had now reached the age of nineteen, and, though not a beauty, she had an elegant person, and a countenance peculiarly expressive of sensible good-nature: her heart was so very affectionate, that it not only led her to love her father most tenderly, but even to look upon his whimsical hobby-horse with a partial veneration. This singularity of sentiment contributed very much to their mutual happiness, and rendered our gentle and ingenious damsel not so eager to escape from the custody of a fanciful old father, as young ladies of fashion very frequently appear. Yet, happy as she was, Theodora admitted the visits of a lover, who had the address to ingratiate himself with Dr. Coral. This lover was a Mr. Blandford, a young man of acute understanding and polished manners, settled in London as a banker, and supposed to be wealthy. He had been introduced to Miss Coral at an assembly, and soon afterwards solicited the honour of her hand for life. The Doctor, who was remarkably frank in all pecuniary affairs, very candidly told the young gentleman what he intended for his daughter, declaring at the same time, that he left her entirely at her own disposal; but, either from the favourable opinion he entertained himself of Mr. Blandford, or perhaps, from some expressions of approbation which had fallen from his daughter, the Doctor was very firm in his belief, that the match would take place; and, being alert in all his transactions, he actually prepared his five thousand pounds for the bridegroom, before there was any immediate prospect of a wedding. Theodora was certainly prejudiced in favour of Mr. Blandford; yet, whether she really felt a reluctance to forsake her indulgent father, or whether she considered it as dangerous to accept a husband on so short an acquaintance, she had hitherto given no other answer to his addresses, but that she thought herself too young to marry. Blandford considered this reply as nothing more than a modest preliminary to a full surrender of her person, and continued his siege with increasing assiduity. In this very critical state of affairs, Dr. Coral was summoned to a distance by a letter from a friend, who announced to him the death of a brother virtuoso, with a hint, that the Doctor might enrich himself by the purchase of a very choice collection of the most valuable rarities, which, if he was quick enough in his application, he might possibly obtain by a private contract. For this purpose, his correspondent had inclosed to him a letter of recommendation to the executors of the deceased collector. This was a temptation that Dr. Coral could not resist. Without waiting for the return of his daughter, who was abroad on an evening visit, he threw himself into a post-chaise, and travelled all night, to reach the mansion of this departed brother in the course of the following day, He was received very cordially by a relation of the deceased, and surveyed with avidity and admiration innumerable curiosities, of which he panted to become the possessor. But as the collection was very various and extensive, the Doctor began to tremble at the idea of the sum, which the proprietors would unquestionably demand for so peerless a treasure. The delight, with which his whole frame was animated in surveying it, sufficiently proved that he had a high sense of its value, and precluded him from the use of that profound and ingenious art, so honourably practised by the most intelligent persons in every rank of life, I mean the art of vilifying the object which they design to purchase. Dr. Coral, after commending most of the prime articles with a generous admiration, demanded, with that degree of hesitation which anxiety produces, if any price had been settled for the whole collection. The gentleman, who attended him, enlarged on the great trouble and expence with which his departed relation had amassed this invaluable treasure, and'concluded a very elaborate harangue in its praise, by informing the Doctor, that he might become the happy master of the whole on the immediate payment of three thousand five hundred pounds. The Doctor was more encouraged than dismayed by the mention of this sum; for, in the first place, the price was really moderate; and, secondly, he had the comfortable knowledge, that he had the power of instantly securing to himself these manifold sources of delight. But the comfort arising from this assurance was immediately destroyed by the reflection, that all his ready money was devoted to the approaching marriage of his daughter; and his parental affection combating, with some little success, against his passion for virtù, the good Doctor had almost resolved to relinquish all ideas of the purchase. Unluckily, he took a second survey of the choicest rarities, and met with an article which had been accidentally mislaid, and overlooked in his first view of the collection—perhaps its present effect upon him was the greater from this casual delay; certain it is, that this additional rarity fell with an amazing force on the wavering balance of his mind; it entirely overset his prudential affectionate resolution, and, hastily seizing a pen, which lay ready in a massive ink-stand of a curious and antique form, he instantly wrote a draught upon his banker for the three thousand five hundred pounds.

At this passage of my little work, I foresee that many an honest spinster, who may be reading it to her companions, will pause for a moment, and express an eager desire to know what this wonderful rarity could be. When I inform her it was a very little box, containing the uneatable product of a tree, she may, perhaps, imagine it a pip of the very apple which tempted our inconsiderate grand mother:—Eve, indeed, may be said to have instituted the order of virtuosos, being the first of the many persons on record, who have ruined themselves and their family by a passion for rarities.

But to return to her legitimate descendant, the curious Dr. Coral. This gentleman considered, that if he neglected the present opportunity, he might never again be able to acquire the very scarce and marvellous production of nature, which he had long thirsted to possess, and which now stood before him.

Not to teaze my fair readers with any longer suspence, I will directly tell them, the above-mentioned little box contained a vegetable poison, collected, with extremest hazard of life, from the celebrated upas-tree in the island of Java. A Dutch surgeon had received this inestimable treasure from the sultan of Java himself, as a part of his reward for having preserved the life of a favourite beauty in the royal seraglio; and the surgeon, on his return to Europe, had gratefully presented it to the deceased virtuoso, who had been the generous patron of his youth.

Dr. Coral was inflamed with the keenest desire of beginning various experiments with this rarest of poisons, without suspecting that it might deprive his daughter of a husband; taking, therefore, this inestimable little box, with a few more of the most precious and portable articles in his new acquisition, and giving the necessary directions concerning some weighty cabinets of medals, and other more bulky rarities, he re-entered his post-chaise with that triumphant festivity of mind, which can be conceived only by a successful collector.

As the Doctor delighted almost as much in the idea of buying a bargain, as in the possession of a rarity, he amused himself, in his journey home, with various projects for the disposal of his ample treasure. It was his plan, to select the articles which he particularly prized, and, by a judicious sale of the remainder, to regain almost the whole sum that he had so rapidly expended. Possessing a high opinion of his own judgment in affairs of this nature, he pleased himself with the apparent facility of his design, and, under the lively influence of these agreeable thoughts, he arrived at his own door. The affectionate Theodora flew with peculiar eagerness to receive him, having suffered no little anxiety from his extraordinary absence. The sprightliness of his appearance soon relieved her from all her solicitude, and they entered the parlour very gaily together, where Theodora had just been making tea for a female relation, and the assiduous Mr. Blandford.

The Doctor, like most people of a busy turn, had a particular pleasure in talking of whatever he did, as he never meant to do any thing that a man ought to blush for; and he now began to entertain his company with an account of his adventures: he enlarged with rapture on his purchase, intimating that it had cost him a very large sum, and not mentioning his undigested scheme of repaying himself.

Observing, however, that his narration produced a very striking and gloomy change in the countenance of Mr. Blandford, he withdrew with that gentleman into his study, and very candidly told him, that this recent and expensive-transaction should make no material difference in the fortune of his daughter: he explained his intention of regaining the money by a partial sale of the collection, and added, that as this mode of replacing the sum expended might not be very expeditious, he should more than compensate for the deficiency by a bond for four thousand pounds, with full interest, and strict punctuality of payment.

Mr. Blandford happened to be one of those adventurous gentlemen, who, as they tremble on the verge of bankruptcy, ingeniously disguise the shudderings of real fear under artful palpitations of pretended love, and endeavour to save themselves from falling down a tremendous precipice by hastily catching at the hand of the first wealthy and benevolent virgin or widow, whom they suppose within their reach: he was a great projector in the management of ready money, and had raised many splendid visions on the expected fortune of Miss Coral; but the little box of poison, which the Doctor had brought home, converted his daughter, in the eyes of Mr. Blandford, into a second Pandora; and as that gentleman had all the cunning of Prometheus, he resolved, like the cautious son of Japetus, to have no connection with the lady offered to him as a bride, because he foresaw the evils included in her dower.

Mr. Blandford, on this occasion, thought proper to imitate the policy of those, who try to conceal a base purpose of their own, by accusing another person of baseness: he upbraided Dr. Coral for having shamefully disappointed his very just expectations, and, taking the subject in that key, he pursued it through all the notes of high and artificial passion; which produced a superior burst of louder and more natural anger from the honest insulted virtuoso. Poor Theodora, in passing the door of the study, heard the voice of her father so unusually violent, that, from a sudden impulse of affectionate apprehension, she entered the room, where the two gentlemen were engaged in the most angry altercation. Mr. Blandford seized the opportunity of bidding his mistress an eternal adieu. While she stood motionless with surprise, he made his final bow with a sarcastic politeness, rushed eagerly out of the house, and decamped the very next day from the town, which contained the lovely object of his transient adoration.

The approach or miscarriage of an expected wedding is a favourite subject of general conversation in every country town, and the disunion of Mr. Blandford and Miss Coral was very amply discussed. The separated young pair were universally pitied, and the whole weight of popular reproach fell immediately on the head of the unfortunate naturalist. As he was a man, who, from the peculiarity of his pursuits, withdrew himself from cards and common company, the little parties of the town most eagerly seized an opportunity of attacking his character: as a humorist, he was ridiculed, perhaps, with some justice; as a man of unrivalled benevolence and active charity, he was the object of much secret envy and malice, and of course was very unjustly vilified. The good people, who arraigned him on the present occasion, did not scruple to represent him, even to his daughter, as an unnatural monster, who had sacrificed for a cockle-shell the happiness of his child. Nor was the little box of gum from the upas-tree omitted in these charitable remarks. One lady of peculiar spirit asserted, that if her father had robbed her of so handsome a husband, for the sake of purchasing such a rarity, she might have been tempted to anticipate the old gentleman, in his experiments on the poison, by secretly preparing the first dose of it for himself. Happily for Theodora, she had such gentleness and purity of heart, that every attempt to inflame her against her father served only to increase her filial affection. She reproved, with a becoming spirit, all those who insulted her by malignant observations on his conduct; and, perceiving that he was deeply vexed by the late occurrences, and the comments of the neighbourhood upon them, she exerted all her powers, in the most endearing manner, to dissipate his vexation. "It is true," she said, as they were talking over the recent transaction; ‘it is true, that I began to feel a partial regard for Mr. Blandford; but his illiberal behaviour has so totally altered my idea of his character, that I consider the circumstance which divided us as the most fortunate event of my life. I have escaped from impending misery, instead of losing a happy establishment; and I have only to be thankful for this protection of Providence, if it pleases Heaven to continue to me the power, which I have hitherto possessed, of promoting the happiness of my father.’

As she uttered this judicious and tender sentiment, a few starting tears appeared in evidence of its truth; they melted the good Doctor, and converted all his chagrin into affectionate pride and delight. The justice of Theodora's observation was soon afterwards confirmed in a very striking manner, by the fate of Mr. Blandford, who plunging into all the hazardous iniquity of Change-alley, became at last a bankrupt, and with such fraudulent appearances against him, that the compassion, which his misfortune might have inspired, was lost in the abhorrence of his treachery. Dr. Coral, who, by studying the inanimate wonders of the creation, had increased the natural piety of his mind, was now most devoutly thankful to Heaven for the escape of his child. The tender Theodora was still more confirmed in her partial attachment to the house of her father; she took a kind and sympathetic pleasure in assisting his fanciful pursuits; she persuaded him to retain every article in his new purchase, which she observed him to contemplate with particular delight; she gave an air of uncommon elegance to the arrangement of all the curiosities which he determined to keep; and, by an incessant attention to the peace and pleasure of her father's life, most effectually established the felicity of her own. Their comfort and their amusements, being founded on the purest and most permanent of human affections, have continued, without diminution, through several succeeding years. I should fill many pages in recording the several ingenious works and devices, by which Theodora has contrived to amuse herself, and to delight her father; let it suffice to say, that, being always engaged in occupations of benevolent ingenuity, she is never uneasy; and she has grown imperceptibly into an Old Maid, without entertaining a wish for the more honourable title of a wife. Her mild and gentle parent has secured himself from all the irksome infirmities of age, by long habits of temperance, exercise, and, what is perhaps stiil more salutary, universal benevolence: he is still in possession of all his faculties, at the age of eighty-seven; and, if he has not the satisfaction of seeing a numerous group of descendants, he beholds, however, with infinite delight, one virtuous and happy daughter, most tenderly attached to him, and wishing for no higher enjoyment than what arises from their reciprocal affection.

In the last visit that I made to these two amiable and singular characters, I was attended by a lively friend, who loves to indulge himself in a laugh at every oddity that he meets with in human life. On our quitting the house together, my companion concluded a few sprightly remarks, on the lady whom we had left, with the following quotation from Monsieur de la Bruyere: ‘La fille d'un curieux est une râretédont l'envie ne prend point de se charger: elle viellit à côté du cabinet, & mérite, enfin, d'y avoir place au rang des antiques.’ — ‘The daughter of a virtuoso is a rarity that no one is very eager to possess: she grows old by the side of the cabinet, and is at last entitled to a place within it, in the class of antiques.’

"I grant you," I replied, ‘that the daughter of my old friend, Dr. Coral, is the most capital rarity in his collection, and one that I always survey with increasing pleasure and esteem: she is, indeed, a rarity, whose very existence, like that of the phoenix, I have heard called in question; she is a contented Old Maid. Extreme filial tenderness, and an active and elegant ingenuity, are the most striking qualities in her very uncommon character; these qualities have rendered her the delight and support of an indulgent, but very whimsical old father; they have enabled her to maintain an easy and a chearful state of mind, under those circumstances, which many females would consider as particularly galling; they have enabled her, in short, to give an example to her sex, that it is possible to pass a very useful and a very happy life, without a share in those connubial honours and enjoyments, which are erroneously supposed essential to the happiness of woman.’

The condition of the autumnal virgin is so highly favourable to ingenious pursuits, that the Goddess of Ingenuity, among the ancients, was herself an Old Maid; and, had there arisen, in the days of antiquity, any genius as zealous as I am for the chaste and elderly votaries of Minerva, he would certainly have left us an invaluable history of the sisterhood, and a particular account of their various elegant works, and their ingenious inventions. But, to the shame of past ages, and to the glory of this my original essay, let me remark, that I am the very first author who has expressly devoted a literary labour to these choice and deserving objects of philosophic attention. The writers, indeed, of antiquity were by no means insensible to the beauty or the merit of the fair sex, and it would be easy to fill several pages with a bare catalogue of the many compositions which have been written in the praise of women. The furious Amazon, the heroic matron, the wanton poetess, and the voluptuous courtezan, are all immortalized in the works of many an ancient author; but even the mild and amiable Plutarch, who has written expressly in honour of the sex, has failed to celebrate the patient and ingenious Old Maid, a character whose quiet and useful virtues give her a peculiar title to philosophical panegyric.

Athenaeus has left us many curious and amusing particulars relating to those illustrious ladies of pleasure, Aspasia, Phryne, and Lais; to the last, a monument was erected on the banks of the river Peneus, and her epitaph is still preserved. The vain and licentious Greeks, who paid these honours to an insolent and rapacious courtezan, committed, I apprehend, to the funeral pile, many a gentle and ingenious antiquated virgin, without either lamenting her loss or recording her accomplishments. But I shall enlarge on this topic in a subsequent volume, as I mean to take a general survey of the treatment which Old Maids have met with in the different ages and regions of tlie world: I shall confine inyfelf at prefent to the subject more immediately before me, the ingenuity of the sisterhood.

The arts of music, painting, and poetry, those general soothers of human care, are eminently useful to the ancient virgin; each of these three enchanting sister-arts is endued with the power of dissipating that restless languor, which a solitary condition is so apt to produce; each is able to check, and to eradicate, those maladies, to which the female frame is particularly subject, when the heart is vacant, and the mind unemployed.

In the more active and less sickly days of antiquity, a Grecian lady, who was a native of Argos, and whose name was Telesilla, labouring under a very infirm state of health, consulted an oracle for relief; the answer she received was, a direction to devote herself to the Muses, with an assurance that she would find them the most successful physicians. She obeyed this divine injunction, and was so completely restored, that she not only gained the highest honour by many admirable verses, but was enabled to preserve her country from ruin by a signal exertion of heroic spirit. When Argos, whose warriors were engaged in a distant enterprize, was invaded by the Spartans, Telesilla assembled, and animated her countrywomen to the defence of their native city; and obtained the glory of repelling the invaders, though led to the assault by the two kings of Sparta, Cleomenes and Demaratus. Whether Telesilla was, at this juncture, an Old Maid or not, the candid Plutarch, who relates her exploit in his treatise on the virtues of women, has forgot to inform us. Instead of entering into critical conjectures on a point so difficult to determine, I shall content myself with advising all my fair readers, who may labour; like Telesilla, under an oppressive derangement of health, without a particular name, or a medicinal remedy, to follow her happy example, and attempt their own cure, by devoting themselves to the muses; or, in other words, to forget and lose their petty maladies in a steady application to any elegant and feminine art, in which nature and education may have prepared them to excel. Our own age and country may furnish me with more than one signal proof, that the divinities of Parnassus are sometimes highly propitious to the chaste and mature votaries of Minerva: not to mention the philosophic and poetical lady to whom these volumes are addressed, I am credibly informed, that two other most eminent female poets of our nation may probably become very honourable members of that sisterhood, in whose service I am writing; and it enhances the obligations which the literary world is still receiving from these fair and delightful authors, that, endued, as I am told they are, with personal as well as mental attractions, they have declined to engage in the alluring rites of Hymen, for the sake of devoting themselves, with an undivided ardour, to the more glorious, yet less tempting, service of Apollo and the Nine.

While I am thus zealously recommending ingenious occupations to the whole community of autumnal virgins, let me pay due regard to needle-work, that peculiar province of the fair sex, on which our ancestors wisely set so much value. If the ladies of our time do not work with that patient assiduity, which our good grandmothers exerted, they have happily acquired the art of executing more graceful performances; the many excellent pictures, which we have lately seen produced by the needle, will, I hope, encourage our fair countrywomen to persevere; in a branch of art which is peculiarly their own, and in which they cannot be mortified by the jealous and arrogant rivalship of man.

The needle, indeed, has one great advantage over the pencil and the lyre; it is not the mere instrument of decoration or amusement; it can answer the most ordinary, as well as the most refined, purposes, and is equally conducive to utility and delight. In commending to the sisterhood all the employments of ingenuity, let me request my fair reader to give the preference to those which are peculiarly becoming. If a worthy spinster has a talent for music, let her adhere to such graceful instruments as belong to her sex, and avoid the example of an English lady, whom I saw, many years ago, displaying to her acquaintance the unfeminine accomplishment of beating a drum. For the rejection of every ungraceful amusement, the maiden sisterhood has the high authority of their patroness, Minerva. We are told, that when this sage goddess beheld herself playing on the pipe, which she had just invented, she was so disgusted by the distortion which it produced in her countenance, that she indignantly threw her recent and ingenious invention into that watery mirror, which had presented to her the reflection of her own bloated cheeks.

There may, however, be great and extraordinary occasions, on which the sincere Old Maid may obtain signal honour by exerting her ingenuity in violation of the graces; and I shall close this chapter by a memorable example of this important truth. It is recorded by an historian of the dark ages, whose name I am at present unable to recollect, that two illustrious virgins, confined in a besieged city, were distressed by infinite apprehensions of indecent outrage, when the victorious enemy took possession of the place; but their ingenuity suggested to them a fortunate, though uncleanly expedient, by which their chastity was preserved; they covered their bosoms with the slices of a putrified chicken. The consequence was, that the licentious soldier, who rushed to their embrace, was repelled by the idea of pestilent disease, and they happily escaped the injury they dreaded, by being considered as objects of abhorrence instead of desire. That these virtuous, though deceitful, ladies were virgins, I am confident; but whether they were really Old Maids or not, as I relate the anecdote only from memory, I must submit to the conjectures of the ingenious reader.

CHAP. II. On the Patience of Old Maids.

I REMEMBER to have heard it said by a late eminent anatomist, in a professional discourse on the female frame, that it almost appeared an act of cruelty in nature to produce such a being as woman. This remark may, indeed, be the natural exclamation of refined sensibility, in contemplating the various maladies to which a creature of such delicate organs is inevitably exposed; but if we take a more enlarged survey of human existence, we shall be far from discovering any just reason to arraign the benevolence of its provident and gracious author. If the delicacy of woman must render her familiar with pain and sickness, let us remember, that her charms, her pleasures, and her happiness, arise also from the same attractive quality; she is a being, to use the forcible and elegant expression of a poet, ‘Fine by defect, and amiably weak.’

There is, perhaps, no charm, by which she more effectually secures the tender admiration and the lasting love of the more hardy sex, than her superior endurance, her mild and graceful submission to the common evils of life. Nor is this the sole advantage she derives from her gentle fortitude; it is the prerogative of this lovely virtue to lighten the pressure of all those incorrigible evils, which it chearfully endures. The frame of man may be compared to the sturdy oak, which is often shattered by resisting the tempest; woman is the pliant osier, which, in bending to the storm, eludes its violence.

The accurate observers of human nature will readily allow, that patience is most eminently the characteristic of woman. To what a sublime and astonishing height this virtue has been carried by beings of the most delicate texture, we have striking examples in the history of the many virgin martyrs, who were exposed, in the first ages of Christianity, to the most barbarous and lingering tortures. Nor was it only from Christian zeal, that woman derived the power of defying the utmost rigors of persecution with invincible fortitude: Saint Ambrose, in his elaborate and pious treatise on virgins, records the resolution of a fair disciple of Pythagoras, who, being severely urged by a tyrant to reveal the secrets of her sect, to convince him that no torments should reduce her to so unworthy a breach of her vow, bit her own tongue asunder, and darted it in the face of heir oppressor. In consequence of those happy changes, which have taken place in the world, from the progress of purified religion, the inflexible spirit of the tender sex is no longer exposed to such inhuman trials; but if the earth is happily delivered from the demons of torture and superstition; if beauty and innocence are no more in danger of being dragged to perish at the stake, I fear there are situations in female life, that require as much patience and magnanimity as were formerly exerted in the fiery torments of the virgin martyr. It has been justly remarked, by those who have studied human nature, that it is more difficult to support an accumulation of minute infelicities, than any single calamity of the most terrific magnitude. If this maxim is true, as I believe it to be, it will justify me in asserting, that the indigent, unfortunate Old Maid of the present time, is a being as fully entitled to pity, as those female victims formerly were, who, in the ages of persecution, were led to tortures and death. If my reader is startled, or tempted to smile, at a comparison of two sufferers, whose destiny may be thought so dissimilar, I entreat him to consider attentively the frame of mind, which we may reasonably attribute to these different objects of compassion. During the torments of the virgin martyr, the fervour of enthusiasm, and a passion for religious glory, are sufficient to give new vigour to the soul, in proportion as the most excruciating outrages are inflicted on the body; but what animating ideas can arise, to sustain the resolution of the more unhappy Old Maid, reduced from a state of affluence and pleasure to poverty and contempt? reduced to a condition opposite to her wishes, unfriendly to her talents, and destructive to the health both of her body and her mind? To support such a condition with a placid and chearful magnanimity, appears to me one of the highest exertions of human fortitude; and I have, therefore, always regarded my poor friend Constantia as a character of as much genuine heroism and piety, as the celebrated St. Agnes, or any other the most heroic female saint in the ample calendar of Rome.

Constantia was the daughter of a merchant, who, being left a widower at an early period of life, with two beautiful little girls, bestowed upon them a very fashionable and expensive education. It happened that, when Constantia had just attained the age of twenty-one, her sister, who was a year older, received, and delighted in, the addresses of a man, considered as her equal in rank and fortune; a man who was not, indeed, devoid of affection to his mistress, yet distinguished by a superior attention to her dower. This prudent lover informed the old gentleman, that he was a warm admirer of his eldest daughter, and that he was also happy in having gained the young lady's good opinion; but that it was impossible for him to marry, unless he received, at the time of his marriage, a particular sum, which he specified. The worthy merchant was disconcerted by this declaration, as he had amused himself with the prospect of a promising match for his child. He replied, however, with calmness and integrity; he paid some general compliments to his guest; he said, he should be happy to settle a very good girl with a man of character, whom she seemed to approve; but he was under a painful necessity of rejecting the proposal, because it was impossible for him to comply with the terms required, without a material injury to his youngest daughter. The cautious suitor took a formal leave, and departed. The honest father, in a private conference, with his eldest child, gave her a full and ingenuous account of his conduct. She applauded the justice of his decision, but felt her own loss so severely, that the house soon became a scene of general distress. Constantia, finding her sister in tears, would not leave her without knowing the cause of her affliction. As soon as she had discovered it, she flew to her father; she thanked him for his parental attention to her interest, but, with the most eager and generous entreaties, conjured him not to let a mistaken kindness to her prove the source of their general unhappiness. She declared, with all the liberal ardour and sincerity of a young affectionate mind, that she valued fortune only as it might enable her to promote the comfort of those she loved; and that, whatever her own future destiny might be, the delight of having secured the felicity of her sister, would be infinitely more valuable to her than any portion whatever. She enlarged on the delicacy of her sister's health, and the danger of thwarting her present settled affection. In short, she pleaded for the suspended marriage with such genuine and pathetic eloquence, that her father embraced her with tears of delight and admiration; but the more he admired her generosity, the more he thought himself obliged to refuse her request. He abhorred the idea of making such a noble-minded girl, what she was desirous, indeed, of making herself, an absolute sacrifice to the establishment of her sister; and he flattered himself, that the affection of his eldest girl, which the kind zeal of Constantia had represented to him in so serious a light, would be easily obliterated by time and reflection. In this hope, however, he was greatly deceived: the poor girl, indeed, attempted, at first, to display a resolution, which she was unable to support; her heart was disappointed, and her health began to suffer. Constantia was almost distracted at the idea of proving the death of a sister whom she tenderly loved, and she renewed her adjurations to her father with such irresistible importunity, that, touched with the peculiar situation of his two amiable children, and elated with some new prospects of commercial emolument, he resolved, at last, to comply with the generous entreaty of Constantia, though at some little hazard of leaving her exposed to indigence.

The prudent lover was recalled; his return soon restored the declining health of his mistress; all difficulties were adjusted by a pecuniary compliance with his demands; the day of marriage was fixed; and Constantia, after sacrificing every shilling of her settled portion, attended her sister to church, with a heart more filled with exultation and delight, than that of the bride herself, who had risen from a state of dejection and despair to the possession of the man she loved. But the pleasure that the generous Constantia derived from an event which she had so nobly promoted, was very soon converted into concern and anxiety. In a visit of some weeks, to the house of the new-married couple, she soon discovered that her brother-in-law, though entitled to the character of an honest and well-meaning man, was very far from possessing the rare and invaluable talent of conferring happiness on the objects of his regard. Though he had appeared, on their first acquaintance, a man of a cultivated understanding, and an elegant address, yet, under his own roof, he indulged himself in a peevish irritability of temper, and a passion for domestic argument, peculiarly painful to the quick feelings of Constantia, who, from the exquisite sensibility of her frame, possessed an uncommon delicacy both of mind and manners. She observed, however, with great satisfaction, and with no less surprise, that her sister was not equally hurt by this fretful infirmity of her husband. Happily for her own comfort, that lady was one of those good, loving women, whose soft yet steady affection, like a drop of melted wax, has the property of sticking to any substance on which it accidentally falls. She often adopted, it is true, the quick and querulous style of her husband; nay, their domestic debates have run so high, that poor Constantia has sometimes dreaded, and sometimes almost wished, an absolute separation; but her lively terrors on this subject were gradually diminished by observing, that although they frequently skirmished, after supper, in a very angry tone, yet, at the breakfast-table the next morning, they seldom failed to resume a becoming tenderness of language. These sudden and frequent transitions from war to peace, and from peace to war, may possibly be very entertaining to the belligerent parties themselves; but I believe they always hurt a benevolent spectator. Constantia shortened her visit. She departed, indeed, disappointed and chagrined; but she generously concealed her sensations, and cherished a pleasing hope, that she might hereafter return to the house with more satisfaction, either from an improvement in the temper of its master, or, at least, from opportunities of amusing herself with the expected children of her sister; but, alas! in this her second hope, the warm-hearted Constantia was more cruelly disappointed. Her sister was, in due time, delivered of a child; but it proved a very sickly infant, and soon expired. The afflicted mother languished for a considerable time, in a very infirm state of health, and, after frequent miscarriages, sunk herself into the grave. The widower, having passed the customary period in all the decencies of mourning, took the earliest opportunity of consoling himself for his loss, by the acquisition of a more opulent bride; and, as men of his prudent disposition have but little satisfaction in the sight of a person from whom they have received great obligations, which they do not mean to repay, he thought it proper to drop all intercourse with Constantia. She had a spirit too noble to be mortified by such neglect. Indeed, as she believed, in the fondness of her recent affliction, that her sister might have still been living, had she been happily united to a man of a more amiable temper, she rejoiced that his ungrateful conduct relieved her from a painful necessity of practising hypocritical civilities towards a relation, whom in her heart she despised. By the death of her sister she was very deeply afflicted, and this affliction was soon followed by superior calamities.

The affairs of her father began to assume a very alarming appearance. His health and spirits deserted him on the approaching wreck of his fortune. Terrified with the prospect of bankruptcy, and wounded to the soul by the idea of the destitute condition, in which he might leave his only surviving child, he reproached himself incessantly for the want of parental justice, in having complied with the entreaties of the too generous Constantia. That incomparable young woman, by the most signal union of tenderness and fortitude, endeavoured to alleviate all the sufferings of her father. To give a more chearful cast to his mind, she exerted all the vigour and all the vivacity of her own; she regulated all his domestic expences with an assiduous but a tranquil oeconomy, and discovered a peculiar pleasure in denying to herself many usual expensive articles, both of dress and diversion. The honest pride and delight which he took in the contemplation of her endearing character, enabled the good old man to triumph, for some time, over sickness, terror, and misfortune. By the assistance of Constantia, he struggled through several years of commercial perplexity; at last, however, the fatal hour arrived, which he had so grievously apprehended; he became a bankrupt, and resolved to retire into France, with a faint hope of repairing his ruined fortune, by the aid of connections which he had formed in that country. He could not support the thought of carrying Constantia among foreigners, in so indigent a condition, and he therefore determined to leave her under the protection of her aunt, Mrs. Braggard, a widow lady, who, possessing a comfortable jointure, and a notable spirit of oeconomy, was enabled to make a very considerable figure in a country town. Mrs. Braggard was one of those good women, who, by paying the most punctual visits to a cathedral, imagine they acquire an unquestionable right, not only to speak aloud their own exemplary virtues, but to make as free as they please with the conduct and character of every person, both within and without the circle of their acquaintance. Having enjoyed from her youth a very hale constitution, and not having injured it by any foolish tender excesses, either of love or sorrow, she was, at the age of fifty-four, completely equal to all the business and bustle of the female world. As she wisely believed activity to be a great source both of health and amusement, she was always extremely active in her own affairs, and sometimes in those of others.

She considered the key of her store-room as her sceptre of dominion, and, not wishing to delegate her authority to any minister whatever, she was very far from wanting the society of her niece, as an assistant in the management of her house; yet she was very ready to receive the unfortunate Constantia under her roof, for the sake of the pleasure which would certainly arise to her, not indeed from the uncommon charms of Constantia's conversation, but from repeating herself, to every creature who visited at her house, what a great friend she was to that poor girl.

Painful as such repetitions must be to a mind of quick sensibility, Constantia supported them with a modest resignation. There were circumstances in her present situation that galled her much more. Mrs. Braggard had an utter contempt, or rather a constitutional antipathy, for literature and music, the darling amusements of Constantia, and indeed the only occupations by which she hoped to sooth her agitated spirits, under the pressure of her various afflictions. Her father, with a very tender solicitude, had secured to her a favourite harpsichord, and a small but choice collection of books. These, however, instead of proving the sources of consolatory amusement, as he had kindly imagined, only served to increase the vexations of the poor Constantia, as she seldom attempted either to sing or to read, without hearing a prolix invective from her aunt, against musical and learned ladies.

Mrs. Braggard seemed to think, that all useful knowledge, and all rational delight, are centered in a social game of cards; and Constantia, who, from principles of gratitude and good-nature, wished to accommodate herself to the humour of every person from whom she received obligation, assiduously endeavoured to promote the diversion of her aunt; but having little or no pleasure in cards, and being sometimes unable, from uneasiness of mind, to command her attention, she was generally a loser; a circumstance which produced a very bitter oration from the attentive old lady, who declared that inattention of this kind was inexcusable in a girl, when the money she played for was supplied by a friend. At the keenness, or rather the brutality, of this reproach, the poor insulted Constantia burst into tears, and a painful dialogue ensued, in which she felt all the wretchedness of depending on the ostentatious charity of a relation, whose heart and soul had not the least affinity with her own. The conversation ended in a compromise, by which Constantia obtained the permission of renouncing cards for ever, on the condition, which she herself proposed, of never touching her harpsichord again, as the sound of that instrument was as unpleasant to Mrs. Braggard, as the sight of a card-table was to her unfortunate niece.

Constantia passed a considerable time in this state of unmerited mortification, wretched in her own situation, and anxious, to the most painful degree, concerning the fate of her father. Perceiving there were no hopes of his return to England, she wrote him a most tender and pathetic letter, enumerating all her afflictions, and imploring his consent to her taking leave of her aunt, and endeavouring to acquire a more peaceable maintenance for herself, by teaching the rudiments of music to young ladies; an employment to which her talents were perfectly equal. To this filial petition she received a very extraordinary, and a very painful answer, which accident led me to peruse, a few years after the death of the unhappy father who wrote it.

It happened, that a friend requested me to point out some accomplished woman, in humble circumstances, and about the middle season of life, who might be willing to live as a companion with a lady of great fortune and excellent character, who had the misfortune to lose the use of her eyes. Upon this application, I immediately thought of Constantia. My acquaintance with her had commenced before the marriage of her sister, and the uncommon spirit of generosity, which she exerted on that occasion, made me very ambitious of cultivating a lasting friendship with so noble a mind; but living at a considerable distance from each other, our intimacy had for several years been supported only by a regular correspondence. At the time of my friend's application, Constantia's letters had informed me that her father was dead, and that she had no prospect of escaping from a mode of life which I knew was utterly incompatible with her ease and comfort. I ;oncluded, therefore, that I should find her most ready to embrace the proposal which I had to communicate, and I reslved to pay her a visit in person, for the pleasure of being myself the bearer of such welcome intelligence. Many years had elapsed since we met, and they were years that were not calculated to improve either the person or the manners of my unfortunate friend. To say truth, I perceived a very striking alteration in both. It would be impossible, I believe, for the most accomplished of women to exist in such society, as that to which Constantia had been condemned, without losing a considerable portion of her external graces. My friend appeared to me like a fine statue, that had been long exposed to all the injuries of bad weather; the beautiful polish was gone, but that superior excellence remained, which could not be affected by the influence of the sky. I was, indeed, at first, greatly struck by a new and unexpected coarseness in her language and address; but I soon perceived, that although her manners had suffered, she still retained all the spirited tenderness, and all the elegance of her mind. She magnified the unlooked-for obligation of my visit, with that cordial excess of gratitude, with which the amiable unhappy are inclined to consider the petty kindnesses of a friend. I wished, indeed, to assist her, and believed that chance had enabled me to do so; but there were obstacles to prevent it, of which I had no apprehension. The first reply that Constantia made to my proposal, for her new settlement in life, was a silent but expressive shower of tears. To these, however, I gave a wrong interpretation; for, knowing all the misery of her present situation, I imagined they were tears of joy, drawn from her by the sudden prospect of an unexpected escape from a state of the most mortifying dependence. She soon undeceived me, and, putting into my hand two letters, which she had taken from a little pocket-book, "Here," she said, ‘is the source of my tears, and the reason why nothing remains for me, but to bless you for your kind intention, without receiving any advantage from your design of befriending so unfortunate a wretch.’ Constantia continued to weep; and I eagerly searched into this mysterious source of her distress. I found the first letter in my hand contained her petition to her father, which I have mentioned already; the second was his reply to her request, a reply which it was impossible to read, without sharing the sufferings both of the parent and the child. This unhappy father, ruined both in his fortune and his health, had been for some time tormented by an imaginary terror, the most painful that can possibly enter into a parental bosom; he had conceived that, in consequence of his having sacrificed the interest of his younger daughter to the establishment of her sister, the destitute Constantia would be at length reduced to a state of absolute indigence and prostitution. Under the pressure of this idea, which amounted almost to frenzy, he had replied to her request. His letter was wild, incoherent, and long; but the purport of it was, that if she ever quitted her present residence, while she herself was unmarried, and her aunt alive, she would expose herself to the curse of an offended father; and his malediction was indeed, in this case, denounced against her in terms the most vehement that the language of contending passions could possibly supply. Having rapidly perused this letter, I endeavoured to console my poor weeping friend, by representing it as the wild effusion of a very worthy but misguided man, whose undeserved calamities had impaired his reason. ‘My father,’ replied Constantia, ‘is now at rest in his grave, and you, perhaps, may think it superstitious in me to pay so much regard to this distressing letter; but he never in his life laid any command upon me, which was not suggested by his affection, and, wretched as I am, I cannot be disobedient even to his ashes.’ Constantia, though she shed many tears as she spoke, yet spoke in the tone of a determined martyr. I repeated every argument that reason and friendship could suggest, to shake a resolution so pernicious to herself; but I could make no impression on her mind: she had determined to adhere strictly to the letter, as well as the spirit, of her father's interdiction; and, as I perceived that she had an honest pride in her filial piety, I could no longer think of opposing it. Instead, therefore, of recommending to her a new system of life, I endeavoured to reconcile her mind to her present situation. "Perhaps," replied Constantia, ‘no female orphan, who has been preserved by providence from absolute want, from infamy and guilt, ought to repine at her condition; and, when I consider the more deplorable wretchedness of some unhappy beings of my own sex, whose misery, perhaps, has arisen more from accident than from voluntary error, I am inclined to reproach my own heart for those murmurs, which sometimes, I confess to you, escape from it in solitude; yet, if I were to give you a genuine account of all that I endure, you, I know, would kindly assure me, that the discontent, which I strive in vain to subdue, has not amounted to a crime.’ She then entered into a detail of many domestic scenes, and gave me so strong a picture of a life destitute of all social comfort, and harrassed by such an infinitude of dispiriting vexations, that I expressed a very sincere admiration of the meek and modest fortitude which she had displayed in supporting it so long. ‘I have, indeed, suffered a great deal,’ said Constantia, with a deep sigh; ‘but the worst is not over; I am afraid that I shall lose all sense of humanity: I can take no interest in any thing; and, to confess a very painful truth to you, I do not feel, as I ought to do, the undeserved attention and friendship which I am at this moment receiving from you.’ I would have tried to rally her out of these gloomy phantasies; but she interrupted me, by exclaiming, with a stern yet low voice, ‘Indeed it is true; and I can only explain my sensations to you, by saying, that I feel as if my heart was turning into stone.’ This forcible expression, and the corresponding cast of countenance with which she uttered it, rendered me, for some moments, unable to reply; it struck me, indeed, as a lamentable truth, to which different parts of her much-altered frame bore a strong though silent testimony. In her face, which was once remarkable for a fine complexion, and the most animated look of intelligent good-nature, there now appeared a sallow paleness, and, though not a sour, yet a settled dejection; her hands also had the same bloodless appearance, retaining neither the warmth nor the colour of living flesh;—yet Constantia was at this time perfectly free from every nominal distemper.

The entrance of Mrs. Braggard gave a new turn to our conversation, but without affording us relief. That good lady endeavoured to entertain me with particular attention; but there was such a strange mixture of vulgar dignity and indelicate facetiousness in her discourse, that she was very far from succeeding in her design. She asked me, if I was not greatly struck by the change that a few years had made in the countenance of her niece, hinting, in very coarse terms of awkward jocularity, that the loss of her complexion was to be imputed to her single life; and adding, with an affected air of kindness, that, as she had some very rich relations in Jamaica, she believed she should be tempted to carry the poor girl to the West Indies, to try all the chances of new acquaintance in a warmer climate. I perceived the pale cheek of Constantia begin to redden at this language of her aunt. As the expressions of that good lady grew more and more painful to her ingenuous pride, the unfortunate Constantia, who found it impossible to suppress her tears, now quitted the room; but she returned to us again in a few minutes, with an air of composed sorrow, and of meek endurance.

I soon ended my mortifying visit, and left the town in which Constantia resided, with a disposition to quarrel with fortune for her injustice and cruelty to my amiable friend. It seemed to me as if nature had designed, that an affectionate activity, and a joyous benevolence, should be the vital springs in Constantia's existence; but that chance having thrown her into a situation, which afforded no nourishment to the lovely qualities of her heart and mind, she was perishing like a flower in an unfriendly soil.

My imagination was wounded by the image of her destiny; but the generous Constantia, seeing the impression which her sufferings had made upon me, wrote me a letter of consolation. She arraigned herself, with an amiable degree of injustice, for having painted to me, in colours much too strong, the unpleasant qualities of her aunt, and the disquietude of her own condition: she flattered me with the idea, that my visit and advice to her had given a more chearful cast to her mind; and she encouraged me to hope, that time would make her a perfect philosopher. In the course of a few years, I received several letters from my friend, and all in this comfortable strain. At length she sent me the following billet:

My dear friend,

I am preparing to set out, in a few days, for a distant country; and, before my departure, I wish to trouble you with an interesting commission: if possible, indulge me with an opportunity of imparting it to you in person, where I now am. As it will be the last time I can expect the satisfaction of seeing you in this world, I am persuaded you will comply with this anxious request of

Your much obliged, and very grateful, CONSTANTIA.

In perusing this note, I concluded that Mrs. Braggard was going to execute the project she had mentioned, and was really preparing to carry her niece to Jamaica; yet, on reflection, if that were the case, Constantia might, I thought, have contrived to see me with more convenience in her passage through London. However, I obeyed her summons as expeditiously as I could. In a few minutes after my arrival in the town where she resided, I was informed, by the landlord of the inn at which I stopped, that the life of my poor friend was supposed to be in danger. This information at once explained to me the mystery of her. billet. I hastened to the house of Mrs. Braggard, and, in the midst of my concern and anxiety for my suffering friend, I felt some comfort on finding, that in our interview we should not be tormented by the presence of her unfeeling aunt, as that lady had been tempted to leave her declining charge, to attend the wedding of a more fortunate relation, and was still detained, by scenes of nuptial festivity, in a distant county. When I entered the apartment of Constantia, I perceived in her eyes a ray of joyous animation, though her frame was so emaciated, and she laboured under such a general debility, that she was unable to stand a moment without assistance.

Having dismissed her attendant, she seemed to collect all the little portion of strength that remained in her decaying frame, to address me in the following manner:

‘Be not concerned, my dear friend, at an event, which, though you might not, perhaps, expect it so soon, your friendship will, I hope, on reflection, consider with a sincere, though melancholy satisfaction. You have often been so good as to listen to my complaints; forgive me, therefore, for calling you to be a witness to that calm and devout comfort, with which I now look on the approaching end of all my unhappiness! You have heard me say, that I thought there was a peculiar cruelty in the lot that Heaven had assigned to me; but I now feel, that I too hastily arraigned the dispensations of Providence. Had I been surrounded with the delights of a happy domestic life, I could not, I believe, have beheld the near approaches of death in that clear and consolatory light in which they now appear to me. My past murmurs are, I trust, forgiven, and I now pay the most willing obedience to the decrees of the Almighty. The country, to which I am departing, is, I hope and believe, the country where I shall be again united to the lost objects of my tenderest affection. I have but little business to adjust on earth—may I intreat the favour of you,’ continued Constantia, with some hesitation, ‘to be my executor? —My property,’ added she, with a tender yet ghastly smile, ‘being all contained in this narrow chamber, will not give you much embarrassment; and I shall die with peculiar peace of mind, if you will kindly assure me, I shall be buried by the side of my dear, unhappy father.’ The tender thoughts that overwhelmed her, in mentioning her unfortunate parent, now rendered her utterance almost indistinct; yet she endeavoured to enter on some private family reasons for applying to me on this subject. I thought it most kind to interrupt her, by a general assurance of my constant desire to obey, at all times, every injunction of her's; and, observing to her, that her distemper appeared to be nothing but mere weakness of body, I expressed a hope of seeing her restored. But, looking stedfastly upon me, she said, after a pause of some moments, ‘Be not so unkind as to wish me to recover; for, 'in the world, I only fill up a place which may be better supplied when I have made it empty.'’ The calm and pathetic voice, with which she pronounced these affecting words of Shakespeare, pierced me to the soul; I was unable to reply, and I felt an involuntary tear on my cheek. My poor friend perceived it, and immediately exclaimed, in a more affectionate tone, ‘You are a good, but weak mortal; I must dismiss you from a scene, which I hoped you would have supported with more philosophy. Indeed, I begin also to feel, that it is too much for us both; if I find myself a little stronger to-morrow, I will see you again; but if I refuse you admittance to my chamber, you must not be offended: and now you must leave me; do not attempt to say adieu, but give me your hand, and God bless you!’ Pressing her cold emaciated fingers to my lips, I left her apartment, as she ordered me, in silent haste, apprehending, from the changes in her countenance, that she was in danger of fainting. The next morning she sent me a short billet, in a trembling hand, begging me to excuse her not seeing me again, as it arose from motives of kindness— and in the evening she expired. Such was the end of this excellent, unfortunate being, in the forty-second year of her age. The calamities of her life, instead of giving any asperity to her temper, had softened and refined it.—Farewel!—Thou gentle and benevolent spirit, if, in thy present scene of happier existence, thou art conscious of sublunary occurrences, disdain not this imperfect memorial of thy sufferings and thy virtues! and, if the pages I am now writing, should fall into the hand of any indigent and dejected maiden, whose ill fortune may be similar to thine, may they sooth and diminish the disquietude of her life, and prepare her to meet the close of it with piety and composure!

CHAP. III. On the Charity of Old Maids.

WHEN nature has bestowed on the ancient virgin a constitutional fund of benevolence, and fortune has blessed her with wealth, her condition is highly favourable to the exercise of beneficent virtue. As she is not encumbered with that load of houshold care, and parental solicitude, which is apt to cramp the munificence of the married dame, and to confine it within the circle of a single family, her kindness and liberality will be often found to indulge themselves in a more ample field. If, among the many virtues that dignify human nature, there is any one that may claim pre-eminence in the sight of earth and heaven, I apprehend it must be charity;—and of charity, in the most enlarged and apostolical sense of it, I had once the happiness of knowing a singular and perfect image, in the person of a most amiable Old Maid. To a faithful description of this lady, under the name of Chariessa, I shall devote this chapter, sensible that nothing which my own fancy or understanding might suggest, on the present subject, could afford to my fair readers a more useful lesson, than they will find in the character of a departed sister, whom an easy fortune, and unexampled benevolence, rendered, perhaps, the very happiest Old Maid that ever existed.

Chariessa was the youngest child of a worthy and active gentleman, who, though his name had a place in the will of a very opulent father, suffered many hardships, in the early part of his life, from the scantiness of his patrimony. His father was infected with that ridiculous, or rather detestable, family pride, by which many persons are tempted to leave their younger children in absolute indigence, from the vain and absurd project of aggrandising an eldest son; a project which was suggested to the old gentleman we are speaking of, by his discovery of a genealogical table, which unluckily enabled him to trace his progenitors to the reign of Edward the Fourth, when it appeared that one of his ancestors was high sheriff for the county in which he resided.

As the father of Chariessa had felt all the evils arising from an unjust distribution of property, he determined to leave whatever fortune he might himself acquire, in equal proportions among his children. From a very fortunate marriage, and much unexpected success in life, he was enabled, at his decease, to leave to his son, and to each of his two daughters, a portion equivalent to sixteen thousand pounds.

The son had been educated in one of the first mercantile houses of London, and, at the time of his father's death, was just returned from a tour to the continent, where he had been engaged in fixing his future correspondences, before he settled as a merchant.

He had passed some few years in trade, when his uncle, the eldest brother of his father, died without issue, and left him the family estate, on the condition of his quitting commerce entirely, and residing at the ancient seat of the Trackums. He obeyed the injunction of the will, and retired into the country with his wife, who, though a celebrated beauty, was a lady of infinite discretion, and distinguished through life by the most prudent attention to a numerous family.

'Squire Trackum, as we shall now call him, changed his manners with his place of abode, and quitted the grave address of the important merchant, to assume the boisterous jocularity of the esquires that surrounded him. In a short time he was so completely metamorphosed, that in his first visit to town he greatly astonished and entertained his old acquaintance of the city; but his real character remained the same. He now concealed, under the mask of rustic joviality, that uncommon share of worldly wisdom, which he formerly hid under the mantle of serious and solemn frankness; he even carried into the field of rural sport, that incessant attention to interest which he used to exert upon Change, and, in the very moment when he was galloping after a hare, would calculate the chances of settling a daughter in marriage, or letting a farm to advantage. In one unguarded moment of real frankness, when he was warmed by the bottle, he boasted, to an intimate friend, that he never passed ten minutes in the company of any man, without considering how he might derive some degree of pecuniary or interested advantage from his acquaintance.

Before the 'squire assumed his rural character, Erinnis, the eldest of his two sisters, had married a gentleman of a distant county, who was respected as the descendant of an ancient family, and the possessor of a large estate.

The unmarried Chariessa, whose temper, suitable to her pleasing, elegant person, was sprightly, generous, and unsuspecting, conceived a most lively attachment to the wife and children of her brother, whom she always regarded with such affectionate confidence, that she suffered herself to be guided, in all important points, by his judgment and advice.

The provident 'squire, considering that a rich maiden aunt is an admirable prop to the younger branches of a very fruitful house, had very early determined within himself, that his sister, Chariessa, should pass her life in single blessedness; and he doubted not but he had sufficient address to confirm her an Old Maid, by the artful device of perpetually expressing the most friendly solicitude for her marrying to advantage. He had persuaded her, on his leaving London, to chuse for her residence a provincial town, in the neighbourhood of Trackum-hall, and by thus securing her within the reach of his constant observation, and studying to increase the influence which he had already acquired over her frank and affectionate spirit, he took the most effectual precautions for accomplishing his wishes. As Chariessa was in, that rank of life, in which matrimonial approaches are made rather in a slow and ceremonious, than a rapid and ardent, manner, the watchful 'squire had sufficient time and opportunity to counteract the attempt of every man, whom he found guilty, or whom he suspected, of a design on the heart and hand of this devoted vestal. By inducing his innocent sister to believe, that he most heartily wished to see her well married, and by persuading her, at the same time, to think highly of his penetration into the real characters of men—a penetration which it is difficult for single ladies to acquire—he brought the good and credulous Chariessa to see all her lovers exactly in that unfavourable point of view, in which his own interest and artifice contrived to shew them. In consequence of her affectionate reliance on his assiduous counsel, she absolutely rejected the overtures of three gentlemen, who were generally esteemed unexceptionable; but the friendly zeal of the vigilant 'squire had discovered, that they were all utterly unworthy of so excellent a creature as Chariessa.

The mean designs of self-interest are frequently punished with the heavy tax of solicitude, concerning the many dangers to which they are commonly exposed. It happened thus with our prudent and successful 'squire. He triumphed, indeed, by putting every suitor to flight, while Chariessa resided within the reach of his indefatigable attention; but there were periods, in which he was tormented by the restless apprehension of losing all the fruits of his ungenerous labour.

Attached as she was to the person and family of her brother, Chariessa did not cease to love or to visit her sister Erinnis; and she resolved to pass the summer of every third year at the house of that lady, who was settled in a very distant part of the kingdom. Erinnis was one of those extraordinary women, whom nature, in a fit of perversity, now and then produces, apparently for no purpose, but that of proving a burthen to themselves, and a torment to all around them. Erinnis had possessed, like her sister, youth and beauty, opulence and understanding; but she possessed them only to shew, that, valuable as these endowments are, they are utterly insufficient to secure happiness or esteem, without the nobler blessings of a benevolent heart and a regulated mind. She was early married to Sir Gregory Gourd, a placid and honest baronet, who, in rather an advanced season of life, had united himself to this young lady, by the advice of his relations, for the two following purposes: first, to pay off an incumbrance on his ancient estate with a part of her ample dower; and secondly, to provide a male heir to that honourable house, whose antiquity he contemplated with a complacent and inoffensive pride. The luckless knight was doubly disappointed in these his two favourite projects. As to the first, indeed, he paid off a mortgage; but soon found himself involved, by the profusion of his wife, in much heavier debts: as to his second hope, whether he had entered too far into the vale of years to be gratified in such an expectation, or whether nature, who had certainly given no maternal tenderness to the temper of Erinnis, had therefore wisely determined, that she should never be a mother, I will not pretend to decide; but certain it is, that, vehemently as she panted for this event, Erinnis had never any near prospect of producing a child. This disappointment, from what cause soever it might proceed, had such an incessant tendency to inflame the natural contemptuous malignity of her spirit, that she insulted the poor submissive old knight with every humiliating outrage, which an imperious wife can inflict on a terrified and unresisting husband.

The extreme envy with which the fine and flourishing group of her brother's children inspired her, tempted the desperate Erinnis to try the delusive and dangerous assistance of quacks; who, lured by the prodigality with which she was willing to pay for what could not be purchased, fed her, for a long time, with fresh hopes of producing, by their various nostrums, what nature was resolutely determined to withhold.

These villainous drugs had not only all the mischievous effect of drams, both on her countenance and temper, but led her into the habit of applying for present relief, in all her uneasy sensations of mind and body, to those flattering and false friends of the perturbed spirit.

Her passions, naturally vehement and acrimonious, were thus inflamed into fits of frenzy; but in the moments of her most intemperate absurdity and extravagance, she constantly retained a considerable portion of hypocritical cunning, and, however insolent and injurious in her treatment of all her other relations, she for ever expressed, though in a disgusting manner, the fondest affection for her sister Chariessa. This affection was partly real, and partly pretended. There was, indeed, so engaging, so pure, so sublime a spirit of indulgent benevolence in the character of Chariessa, that it could not fail to inspire even malignity and madness with some portion either of love or respect. But this passionate attachment of Erinnis to her sister arose chiefly from a mercenary motive. Though Chariessa was, in general, blessed with good health and good spirits, she was frequently subject to certain feverish attacks, in which her life was supposed to be in danger; and Erinnis, who had squandered enormous sums in the public display of much awkward magnificence, and in many private articles of expence, was grown so needy and rapacious, that she looked forward, with all the eagerness of avarice, to the several thousand pounds, which she was sure of gaining, if the good angel Chariessa took her flight to heaven. In her most stupefying fits of intoxication, and in her most furious fallies of ill-humour, she never lost sight of this expected legacy. Chariessa, whose pure and generous mind could hardly have been induced to believe, that such an idea ever entered into any human breast, not only never suspected the profuse professions of this pretended love, but gave a very singular and touching proof of the genuine sisterly affection and confidence, with which her own heart was inspired. It happened, that she was attacked by a very dangerous fever, at the house of Erinnis. After many days confinement to her bed, being alone with her physician, she said to him, in a very calm and unembarrassed manner, ‘Pray, sir, tell me very frankly, do you think I shall die?’ As her distemper had just taken a favourable turn, the doctor very chearfully replied, ‘No, indeed, my good madam.’ Upon which she exclaimed, in a very affectionate tone, ‘I am glad of it, for the sake of my dear sister!’ Nor was this the exclamation of a feeble mind, afraid of death, and disguising that fear under the mask of affection. Chariessa was a genuine Christian, who, having weighed both this world and the next in the balance of reason and of faith, was at all times perfectly prepared for her natural dissolution. Her exclamation was the dictate of the most generous and disinterested tenderness: she had seen the artful Erinnis counterfeit such inordinate sorrow, during the course of her malady, and she so fondly believed the truth of that well-dissembled affliction, that, totally free from every selfish idea, the innocent Chariessa considered only the joy, with which she supposed her sister would contemplate her unexpected recovery.

Though her own affectionate and unsuspecting temper made her receive, with an amiable credulity, all the lavish endearments of Erinnis, Chariessa was very far from being blind to the many glaring faults of her turbulent sister; but she generously found an excuse for them, which converted them at once into objects of the tenderest compassion. She persuaded herself, that the sallow and ferocious appearance, in the altered countenance of Erinnis, proceeded entirely from a disease in her liver, and that all the furious perversities of her temper were owing either to the internal pain of this cruel disorder, or to the hot medicines which she was tempted to try. Under the influence of this kind idea, she most assiduously laboured, not only to apologise for the offensive irregularities in the conduct and manners of Erinnis, but to counteract, to the utmost of her power, all the mischievous effects of her capricious and vindictive ill-humour: she raised and comforted the poor knight, whenever she saw him reduced to a painful state of humiliation, by the frantic insolence of his wife; she consoled and rewarded the innocent and unfortunate domestics, whenever she found them stript and discarded by their turbulent and offended mistress: in short, she endeavoured to maintain a degree of order, justice, and decency, throughout a numerous houshold, under the chaotic dominion of a malevolent intoxicated fury; and whoever has seen her in this trying situation, has seen a perfect image of charity, ‘believing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things.’

Although the peaceable and chearful spirit of Chariessa could find but little pleasure in a house like that of Erinnis, a compassionate affection to her sister made her very exact in the stated season of her visits: their duration always extended to six months, and sometimes amounted to seven; a circumstance which did not fail to increase the tormenting fears of her distant brother Trackum, who always contemplated the return of Chariessa into his neighbourhood, with that sort of satisfaction, which is felt by the tamer of a bird, on seeing it, after fluttering to the limits of an extensive chamber, return, in an easy and voluntary manner, to the open door of its cage.

Chariessa, however, was very far from feeling any degree of constraint: she departed on many of these distant visits, and returned as often to her own mansion, without once suspecting the inquietude which her long absence never failed to excite. Indeed, the fearful 'squire might have saved himself the pain of many teazing doubts, and many private perplexing enquiries, had he been capable of forming a just estimate of the heart and mind of Chariessa; but this, indeed, he was not; and, although he knew that the magnificent but lonely habitation of Erinnis was as much avoided as the den of a savage, yet he trembled at the idea of the lovers that the unguarded Chariessa might meet in that pompous solitude. He was assured, that a rustic apothecary, and a more rustic divine, were the only frequent visiters at this dreary castle; but, as he had no confidence in female delicacy or discretion, and, as he found that the man of physic and the man of God were both single men, and that each would have many opportunities of being alone with Chariessa, he greatly feared that she and her fortune might fall a sacrifice to one or the other of these formidable assailants. This groundless terror, instead of being diminished by time, increased with the increasing age of Chariessa. The 'squire was very coarse in his idea of Old Maids; he concluded, that no virgin turned of forty, and left entirely to her own discretion, could resist any matrimonial offer whatever; and, as his sister had reached that decisive period on her last visit to Erinnis, his spirits were not a little depressed by his despair of her return in that state of vestal purity, which he had so zealously wished her to maintain. At length, however, his apprehension was effectually terminated by an event, which, though much more probable than the dreaded marriage of Chariessa, was not so strongly anticipated by the imagination of the distant 'squire. This event was the death of Erinnis; who, having utterly worn out a good constitution by the most absurd and disgraceful intemperance, died, as she had lived, in magnificent misery. The tender Chariessa paid the last offices of affection to her unworthy sister, and returned in a calm and pious state of mind from the abode of joyless grandeur, whose vanity was now most completely shewn, to her own peaceful and comfortable mansion. Her disposition was still remarkably chearful, and she took too kind and too virtuous an interest in the general happiness of the living, to think affected sorrow a proper compliment to the dead. She had too clearly seen all the various infelicity of Erinnis, not to consider her release as a blessed event; and it pleased Heaven to reward the long and indulgent attention, which she had paid to the bodily and mental infirmities of that unhappy relation, with many years of undisturbed tranquillity, and the purest social enjoyment. I had opportunities to contemplate her interesting character at this season of her life, and, as I believe her to have been, for several years, one of the happiest of mortals, I shall enlarge on the particular circumstances which constituted that happiness, and minutely examine that invaluable cast of mind, which enabled her to gain, and to secure, the rarest and most precarious of all human possessions.—Chariessa was about forty-two, when she returned to a constant residence in her own quiet and comfortable mansion: she was naturally fond of society, and her easy fortune enabled her to enjoy it in that temperate and rational manner, which suited her inclination. Having made many just remarks on the different conditions of female life, she was perfectly convinced, that she had great reason to be satisfied with her own single state, and no incidents arose, that could make her wish to change it. Her patrimonial fortune had been much increased by some considerable legacies, and she enjoyed an income, which, by her prudent regulation of it, not only supplied her with all the usual comforts of affluence, but furnished her with the exalted pleasure of conferring happiness on a selected number of industrious poor. She had a spacious and chearful house, that peculiarly pleased her own fancy, and a set of intelligent and good-humoured domestics, who were attached, more by affection than by interest, to her person; and the neighbouring seat of her brother afforded her a young flourishing family, whom she frequently surveyed with all the tender delight of an affectionate parent.

Such were the external circumstances that contributed to form the happiness of Chariessa; circumstances, indeed, highly desirable in themselves, yet utterly insufficient to make a woman happy, without those nobler internal blessings, which were the true riches of Chariessa. She possessed, in the most eminent degree, a chearful simplicity of heart, inexhaustible benevolence, and unaffected piety. It was by the constant yet modest exercise of these admirable qualities, that Chariessa secured to herself, not only more felicity, but even more public regard and attention, than was obtained by some single ladies of her neighbourhood, who were undoubtedly her superiors in the attractive endowments of beauty, opulence, and wit. Chariessa, perhaps, was never known in her life to utter a witty repartee; but, such is the lively influence of genuine good-nature, that her conversation never failed to delight, and her house was frequented as the abode of benevolent vivacity. Though she had passed the gay period of youth, and never affected to disguise her age, she took a particular satisfaction in promoting the innocent amusements of the young; indeed, she was a general friend to every season and every rank of life: even the common acquaintance of Chariessa, if they had any occasion to wish for her assistance, were sure of finding her, without solicitation, a zealous promoter of their prosperity and pleasure.

There was a period in her life, at which some of her uncandid neighbours conjectured, that the subtle vice of avarice was beginning to infect her; she suddenly parted with her chariot, and reduced her establishment, without assigning her reasons for conduct so surprising. In a few years she resumed her equipage, and recommenced her usual style of living, with as much or rather more splendor than ever. This still more engaged the attention of the neighbourhood; and the very people, who, on the former alteration, had accused her of avarice, now exclaimed, that she was either seized with the frenzy of extravagance, or was endeavouring to allure a husband. It was, however, proclaimed upon her death, by the worthy family of a deceased merchant, that, under the promise of the most absolute secrecy, she had allotted to his assistance, during the years of the above-mentioned retrenchment, a full moiety of her income, by which generous exertion she had supported him through some most cruel and undeserved distresses, enabled him to retrieve his circumstances, and preserve his family from impending ruin.

Though her spirits were naturally quick, and her affections very strong, I never heard an instance of her being at any time betrayed into an uncandid animosity. The town, in which she resided, was frequently distracted by ecclesiastical and parliamentary contention. In those uncharitable struggles for power, the relations of Chariessa were often hotly engaged. Her affectionate heart never failed, indeed, to take a lively interest in all their pursuits, but she never ridiculed or vilified their opponents, with those eager and illiberal invectives, which have been known to flow, upon such exasperating occasions, from the lips of many a quiet spinster, and of many a sober matron. The enmity of Chariessa was as generous as her friendship; and, whenever she heard such petty abusive tales, as are basely fabricated in every popular contest, for the purpose of the hour, although they favoured her own party, she would discountenance their circulation, or expose their absurdity. Nor was this liberality of conduct without its reward: Chariessa had the satisfaction of perceiving, that she conciliated to herself the perfect respect and good-will of the most opposite contending characters. Perhaps there never lived a human being, so fairly and fully possessed of general esteem; and, to a mind truly amiable, there can hardly be a state of earthly enjoyment superior to what arises from incessant and open proofs of being universally beloved. Having possessed, for many years, this tranquil and pure delight, the tender Chariessa began to sink under natural infirmity: she sustained a short but severe illness with exemplary composure, and, in the close of it, with that calm and chearful devotion which had distinguished her life, she resigned her benevolent spirit to the great parent of all benevolence.

The influence of her virtue was very far from ceasing with her mortal existence; and, though twelve years have now elapsed since the decease of this admirable woman, her excellent qualities are still fresh in the memory of all who had the happiness of her acquaintance; and they hardly ever pass the house in which she resided, without bestowing a sigh of regret, or a sentence of praise, on the merits of Chariessa.

It was, undoubtedly, the warm and genuine spirit of charity, in the scriptural comprehensive sense of that word, which gave so strong an effect to the simple character of this excellent person. Indeed, in the formation of her character, it seemed as if nature had determined to shew how far her own powers were sufficient to make a woman both amiable and happy, without borrowing any assistance from art. To the various elegant accomplishments that particularly belong to her sex and her station, we might almost say, that Chariessa was an absolute stranger: she had no ear for music, no taste for painting, no talents for any elaborate and graceful works of the needle; she had no passion for books, and had therefore contracted so slender an acquaintance with polite literature, that, in common discourse, she adopted many terms of provincial vulgarity: yet, so admirably did chearfulness and good-nature atone for all her deficiencies, that it was impossible to think her conversation tiresome, or her company insipid. I once, indeed, heard it remarked, by an ancient spinster of her neighbourhood, who, though infinitely more opulent, was not half so much respected, that Chariessa had a very weak understanding: but if to avoid all the little jealousies, suspicions, and bickerings of ordinary spirits; if to conciliate universal regard, without practising the ungenerous arts of hypocrisy and adulation; if to pursue and relish the most innocent and rational pleasures with moderation and gratitude, if to discharge the most essential duties with regularity, devoid of ostentation; if, in short, to enjoy and to distribute the valuable, though transitory happiness of this world, and at the same time to secure the permanent and inestimable felicity of that which is announced to us by the promises of Heaven; if, I say, to do all this may be considered as a proof of wisdom, envy herself must allow, that Chariessa was one of the wisest as well as the most fortunate of women.

I have dwelt with peculiar pleasure on the character of this amiable person, not only from the affection which I bear to her memory, but from the wish of exciting many a worthy Old Maid to emulate that benevolent alacrity which formed the happiness of my departed friend. No example can, I think, be presented to the sisterhood, which they may follow with greater ease, or with superior advantage. It must, indeed, be allowed, that few ancient virgins possess the comfortable affluence of Chariessa; yet her excellence arose not from external circumstances; with a much humbler revenue, she would have possessed and discovered the same generous felicity of spirit. Nature is equally indulgent to every rank in life; as in her vegetable kingdom she has kindly made the sweetest of flowers the most common, so, in the moral world, she has placed the lovely virtue, which conduces most to human happiness, equally within the reach and cultivation of the rich and the poor. Benevolence may be considered as the rose, which is found as beautiful and as fragrant in the narrow border of the cottager, as in the ample and magnificent garden of the noble. The truth of genuine charity is not estimated by the weight of what she gives; and the mite of the indigent Old Maid, like that of the poor widow, may be superior in real merit to the most splendid donation. Charity is a theme, on which the sublimest spirits have so often and so ably discoursed; it is a virtue of such acknowledged value and lustre, that to speak farther in its praise may appear like an attempt

to gild refined gold,

Or add a perfume to the violet.

Yet, after all the admirable things that have been written on this lovely president of the angelic virtues, it remains, I think, for me to shew, why charity may with singular propriety be recommended to that fair and tender community, of which I have now, and, I hope, with no offensive arrogance, professed myself the pastor.

The unhappiness of ancient virgins often arises from a certain vacuity of heart, which is frequently the natural consequence of their peculiar situation. I have sometimes considered the Bosom of an Old Maid as a kind of cell, in which it was intended that the lively bee, Affection, should treasure up its collected sweets; but this bee happening to perish, before it could properly settle on the flowers that should afford its wealth, the vacant cell may unluckily become the abode of that drone Indifference, or of the wasp Malignity. To speak in less figurative language:—the want of proper objects to engage and employ that fund of tenderness, which nature seldom fails to bestow on the female frame, may render the joyless unconnected spinster both troublesome to her acquaintance, and a burthen to herself. Of all the different kinds of want, I apprehend that, which originates in the heart, must be the most depressing. The pains of disappointed hunger and thirst are undoubtedly great; yet a destiny far more deplorable than that of Tantalus would be assigned to that being (if we may suppose such a being to exist) who, with a spirit full of generous and kind affections, should never be allowed to indulge itself in a single act or expression of generosity or kindness. Now the solitary yet benevolent Old Maid, who has no husband to love, no child to idolize, and, perhaps, no friend to esteem, would be almost reduced to the dreary and miserable condition which I have here imagined, were not charity, who has the power of supplying even the tenderest relation, and of giving children to the childless —were not charity, I say, both perfectly able, and perpetually ready. ‘To fill the void left aching in the breast.’

It is the privilege of charity to possess one signal advantage over some of the most eminent passions and virtues of the human spirit. Ambition, love, and friendship, are not only subject to mortification and disappointment, but cannot even exist without the assistance of time and chance. But charity is by no means the offspring or the slave of accident, and all her delights are permanent and certain. It is possible, that a heart, which nature has rendered capable of the most tender and sublime attachment, may wander through the wilderness of human life, without tasting the sweets either of love or friendship. But a charitable spirit, though confined to the most narrow and barren field of action, may find even there abundance of objects to call forth, and to reward, the most salutary and delightful exertions. I exhort, therefore, the solitary Old Maid— who may be considered as the inhabitant of a wilderness, where the flowers of love are utterly withered, and those of friendship very thinly scattered—to make charity her favourite and constant companion. She who does so, will infallibly find, in the delight arising from such intercourse, an adequate and lively substitute for all the more precarious pleasures, of which the caprice of chance may have cruelly deprived her.

I was on the point of closing my present chapter with the preceding exhortation, when an old acquaintance entered my study, and, before he ended his visit, obliged me with a pleasing and useful proof of genuine friendship, in a full and frank opinion of the newly-written pages that happened to lie before me. After some animating compliments on the design and tendency of my work in general, by which my vanity was more flattered than it may become me, as a philosopher, to confess, my friend proceeded in the following manner:— ‘There appears to me a deficiency in this part of your essay, which time and chance have enabled me to supply: you have, indeed, done ample justice, in many points, to the amiable members of the sisterhood; you have successfully exposed the falsehood of that vulgar and illiberal prejudice, which concludes, that every Old Maid is a mortified being, whom the want of attractions, or the influence of accident, has reduced, against her will, to a very woeful condition; you have shewn, on the contrary, by argument and example, that the ancient virgin may be a chearful and happy creature, completely contented with a state, which she has deliberately chosen: but to discharge your duty entirely to that injured and amiable community, whose advocate you are, it remains for you, I think, to celebrate some characters, who, without any tincture of Romish superstition, have devoted themselves to a life of virginity, from the pure and sublime motives of friendship and affection. I have myself,’ continued my instructor, ‘the happiness of having known two signal instances of that generous sacrifice, which, I think, you ought to commemorate; I shall rejoice in seeing the characters of my two friends immortalized in your benevolent essay; you may introduce them to the admiration of your readers, under the titles of Angelica and Meletina. Eminent as they are in disinterested virtue, you may include in a few pages, all that is material in the history of each.’

‘Meletina is the accomplished daughter of opulent parents. Her mother died when she was very young; her father, a man of a feeling and liberal mind, devoted himself entirely to the education of his two lovely children, Meletina and her brother, who, being nearly of an age, and equal in all the best gifts of nature, grew up together in the tenderest affection. It happened that Meletina, now turned of twenty, was on a distant visit, at the house of a female relation, when she heard that her father, whom she loved most tenderly, was attacked by a very dangerous disorder. The poor girl hastened home in the most painful anxiety, which was converted into the bitterest distress, by her finding, on her return, that her father was dead, and her brother confined by the malignant distemper, which he had caught in his incessant attendance on the parent they had lost. The utmost efforts were used to keep Meletina from the chamber of her brother; but no entreaties could prevail on her to desert the only surviving object of her ardent affection, and, despising the idea of her own danger, she attended the unhappy youth, who was now delirious, with such tender assiduity, that she would not permit him to receive either nourishment or medicine from any hand but her own. The purity of her constitution, or the immediate care of Providence, preserved the generous Meletina from infection, and Heaven granted to her earnest prayers the endangered life of her brother; but his recovery seemed to be rather designed as a trial of her fortitude, than as a reward of her tenderness: his bodily health was restored to him, but his mental faculties were destroyed. The unhappy Meletina, in the place of a lively young friend, and a generous protector, found only a poor babbling idiot; whose situation appeared to her the more deplorable, because, though he had utterly lost a solid and a brilliant understanding, he seemed to retain all his benevolent affections. By one peculiarity which attended him, she was singularly affected; and, perhaps, it made her resolve on the extraordinary sacrifice, which she has offered to his calamity. The peculiarity I speak of was this: he not only discovered great satisfaction in the sight of his sister, though utterly unable to maintain a rational conversation with her; but if she left him for any considerable time, he began to express, by many wild gestures, extreme agitation and anxiety, and could never be prevailed on to touch any food, except in the presence of Meletina. Many experiments were tried to quiet his apprehensions on this point, and to relieve his sister from so inconvenient and so painful an attendance. These experiments did not succeed; but two medical friends of Meletina, who took a generous interest in her health and happiness, engaged to correct this peculiarity in her poor senseless brother, and convinced her, that for his sake, as well as her own, she ought to acquiesce in some painful expedients for this purpose. Her understanding was, indeed, convinced by their humane and judicious arguments, but her heart soon revolted against them; and, after two or three severe but unsuccessful attempts to correct the obstinate habit of the affectionate idiot; she determined to irritate him no farther, but to make an entire sacrifice of her own convenience and pleasure to the tranquillity of this unfortunate being. She felt a tender and melancholy delight in promoting his peace and comfort; but the time now arrived, in which the force and purity of her sisterly attachment was exposed to a trial, perhaps as severe as ever woman sustained. A year and some months had now elapsed since the decease of her father, when a young soldier of family and fortune, who had made a deep impression on her youthful heart, returned to England from a distant campaign. He was just recovered of a wound, which had detained him abroad, and returned home in the ardent hope of being completely rewarded for all his toils and sufferings, by the possession of his lovely Meletina. She received him with all the frankness and warmth of a sincere and virtuous affection; but, after they had given to each other a long and circumstantial account of their past distresses, she answered his eager proposal of immediate marriage, by declaring, that she thought it her duty to renounce her fair prospect of connubial happiness, and to devote herself entirely to that unfortunate brother, who existed only by her incessant attention: she enumerated the many reasons that inclined her to such a painful sacrifice, with all the simple and pathetic eloquence of angelic virtue. Her lover, who possessed that melting tenderness of heart, which often accompanies heroic courage, listened to all her arguments with a silent though passionate admiration, and, instead of attempting to detach her thoughts from the deplorable condition of her brother, he offered to relinquish his own active pursuits, to engage with her in any plan of sequestered life, and to take an equal part in the superintendance of that hapless being, who had so just a title to their compassion and their care. This generous offer overwhelmed the tender Meletina. For some time she could answer it only by weeping; but they were tears of mingled agony and delight. At last she replied, "My excellent friend, I shall now, and at all times, have the frankness to avow, that you are extremely dear to me, and that I feel, as I ought to do, the uncommon proof which you are now giving me of the purest affection; but I must not suffer the kindness and generosity of your heart to injure your happiness and glory. I must not be your wife. The peculiarity of my situation calls for so painful a sacrifice; but great sacrifices have great rewards; I feel that I shall be supported by the noble pride, not only of discharging my duty, but of preserving your tender esteem, which I should certainly deserve to forfeit, as well as my own, if I did not resolutely decline your too generous proposal." The affectionate young soldier endeavoured to shake her resolution, by every argument that the truth and ardour of his passion could possibly suggest. Meletina was inflexible; and the utmost that her lover could obtain, was a promise, that if, by attention and time, she succeeded in her hope of restoring the intellects of her brother, she would complete the scene of general happiness, which that joyful event would occasion, by the immediate acceptance of that hand, which she now rejected only from the just scruples of genuine affection. Having thus settled their very delicate contest, they parted. The soldier rejoined his regiment; but, in spite of military dissipation, continued for a long time to write very tender letters to the generous Meletina. At last, however, whether his passion was diminished by its despair of being gratified, or whether the purity of a chaste attachment is incompatible with a martial life, while he was engaged in dangerous and distant service, he was deeply involved in a very perplexing illicit intrigue, which would probably have given him many years of disquietude, had not the chance of war put an early period to his life: a musketball passed through his body; but he lived long enough to write an affectionate parting letter to Meletina, in which he confessed his frailties, extolled her angelic purity of heart, and entreated her to do, what he solemnly assured her he did himself, consider both the time and the manner of his death, not as a misfortune, but a blessing. Meletina lamented him when dead, as she had loved him living, with the most faithful tenderness; she mourned for him as for a husband; and, though many years have elapsed since his decease, a grey silk is to this day her constant apparel. Nor is there any oftentation in this peculiarity of her dress; for her attendance on her brother is still so uniform, that she never appears in public, and, indeed, is never absent from her own house more than two or three hours at a time. From habit, and the affectionate cast of her temper, she takes a pleasure in the petty childish plays by which her hapless companion is amused; and, so far from sinking herself into a state of indolence or apathy, she possesses great delicacy of manners, and all the strength and lustre of a refined understanding. She is now turned of fifty; and, though her countenance, when she is silent, has an air of mild and touching melancholy, her conversation is animated and chearful. As her brother pleases himself by the habit of rising and going to rest with the lark, she has the long winter evenings entirely to herself; and at this season she has a great share of social enjoyment, by receiving the visits of her selected friends. To these she is remarkably open and unreserved, and has a peculiar pleasure in talking over the extraordinary occurrences of her early life. This circle, indeed, is small, though it is justly esteemed an honour to share the friendship of Meletina, and those who possess it have the happiness of knowing, perhaps, the most singular and most interesting of ancient virgins.’

‘If any one might dispute this pre-eminence with Meletina, it must be, I think, the more fortunate Angelica, who lived the life of a vestal from motives equally amiable, but in a state of tranquillity and delight.’

‘Angelica was the only child of a worthy gentleman, who, having lost his wife, and dying himself during the infancy of his daughter, left her, with an estate of about a thousand a year, to the care of his most intimate friend, a man of great integrity and benevolence, with a moderate fortune and a numerous family. Angelica grew up in the most affectionate intimacy with all the children of her excellent guardian; but her favourite friend was his eldest daughter, whom we will call Faustina. She was born in the same year with Angelica, and possessed the same intelligent sweetness of temper, with the additional advantages of a beautiful countenance and a majestic person. Angelica had never any claim to either of these perfections: her stature was rather below the common size, and her features, though softened by modesty, and animated by a lively understanding, were neither regular nor handsome; but, from the tenor of her life, it may be questioned, if any female ever possessed a more beautiful soul. At the age of twenty-three she continued to reside in the house of her guardian, when a young man of a pleasing person and most engaging manners, to whom we will give the name of Eumenes, became a very assiduous visiter at that house. He was a man of the fairest character, but of a narrow fortune; and many good people, who supposed him enamoured of Angelica's estate, began to censure the guardian of that lady for encouraging the preliminary steps to so unequal a match; they even foretold, as Eumenes was particularly attentive to Angelica, and often alone with her, that the young gentleman would soon settle himself in life, by eloping with the heiress. Her guardian, who governed all his houshold by gentleness and affection, had too much confidence in his ward to apprehend such an event: but he began to think, that a serious and mutual passion was taking root in the bosom of each party; an opinion in which he was confirmed, by observing, that while his daughter was engaged in a distant visit of some weeks, Eumenes continued to frequent the house with his usual assiduity, and seemed to court the society of Angelica. The old gentleman was, however, mistaken in one part of his conjecture; for Eumenes only sought the company of Angelica as the sensible and pleasing friend of his absent favourite: but as he had not yet confessed his love, the gentle Angelica, like her guardian, misinterpreted his assiduity, and conceived for him the tenderest affection; which, with her usual frankness, she determined to impart to her dear Faustina, as soon as she returned. From this resolution she was accidentally diverted by a joyous confusion, which discovered itself both in the features and behaviour of Faustina, who, on the very day of her return, eagerly put a letter into the hand of Angelica, and requested her to read it in her chamber, while she flew to converse in private with her father on its important contents. The letter was from Eumenes. It contained a passionate declaration of his attachment to Faustina, and a very romantic plan to facilitate their speedy marriage. What the feelings of Angelica must have been in the perusal of this letter, I shall leave the lively female imagination to suppose, and only say, that, having subdued all traces of her own painful emotion before Faustina had finished her conference with her father, she entered their apartment. She found her friend in tears, and the benevolent old gentleman endeavouring to make his agitated daughter smile again, by treating the proposal as, a jest, and declaring that he would consent to the union of two tender romantic lovers, as soon as they could marry without a prospect of starving; which, he said, from the expectations of Eumenes, they might possibly accomplish in the course of twenty years. The generous Angelica instantly became the patroness of Eumenes and Faustina; she interceded for their being immediately allowed to form the happiness of each other, and, to obviate every parental objection to the match, she insisted on settling half her fortune upon them, with a proposal of becoming a part of their family.’

‘The guardian of Angelica treated her romantic idea with a mixture of admiration and ridicule; Eumenes and Faustina regarded it with the most serious gratitude, but at the same time rejected the too generous offer, with a resolution so noble and sincere, that it increased the ardent desire which Angelica felt, to make her own easy fortune the sole instrument of their general happiness: but all her liberal efforts for this purpose were as liberally opposed, and all she could obtain was a promise from her guardian, to allow the lovers to cherish their affection for each other, and to marry as soon as Eumenes, who had just taken orders, should obtain preferment sufficient to support a wife. This, however, was an event which the worthy father of Faustina had not the happiness of seeing: he died in the following year; and Angelica, who had no longer any controller to apprehend in the management of her fortune, renewed her former generous proposal to her friends. They persevered in their magnanimous refusal of her bounty, though some family circumstances made them peculiarly anxious to settle together as soon as possible, on any slender provision. An event, however, soon happened, which enabled them to marry without any trespass on the rules of oeconomical discretion. Eumenes was unexpectedly presented to one of the most valuable livings in the kingdom, by a nobleman, who professed to give it him in consequence of a juvenile and almost forgotten friendship with his deceased father. This surprising stroke of good fortune made the lovers and their sympathetic friend completely happy. The wedding was soon adjusted. Angelica settled herself in a pleasant villa, within a few miles of the wealthy rector; who was surrounded in a few years with a very promising family: she shared, and contributed not a little to, the happiness of her friends, being frequently at their house; and, when she returned to her own, being constantly accompanied by one or two of the little ones. She had a peculiar delight, and was singularly skilful in the cultivation of young minds. She rejected several offers of marriage, and her general answer was, that she would never change her state, because she already enjoyed the highest pleasure that human life can bestow, in the share which her friends allowed her to take in the education of their lovely children. Eumenes and Faustina vied with each other in doing justice to the virtues and talents of this admirable woman, and, through many years of the most familiar and friendly intercourse with her, they continued to regard her with increasing esteem; yet she had some secret merits, to which they were utter strangers, till death had robbed them, for ever of her engaging society.’

‘About four years ago the excellent Angelica contracted an epidemical fever, and departed to a better world, at the age of forty-seven. She left the bulk of her fortune to be divided equally among the children of Faustina; and there was found, in a little cabinet which contained her will, the following extraordinary letter to that lady:’

My very dear friend,

Having enjoyed your entire confidence from our infancy, I think myself bound to apologise to you, for having returned it, during several years, with disguise and delusion. Be not startled at this surprising intelligence—but why do I say startled? the moments for such terror will be past, and you will be able to feel only a melancholy tenderness towards your beloved Angelica, when you read this paper, as it is not to reach you till she is no more: perhaps it may never reach you; yet I hope it will. I pray to Heaven that you may survive me, and in that comfortable expectation I shall here pour forth to you my whole heart.

You may remember, that when we were first enlivened by the acquaintance of Eumenes, I was frequently rallied on his attention to me: as that attention was sufficient to mislead the vanity of any girl, I need not blush in confessing to you its effect upon me—I forgot, in your absence, the superiority of your attractions, and, credulously supposing that the affection of Eumenes was settled on myself, I hastily gave him my heart. As I never designed, however, that this foolish heart should hide any of its foibles from my Faustina, I was preparing to tell you the true state of it, when you imparted to me the surprising important letter, which declared the wiser choice of Eumenes. Yes, my dear, I say sincerely, the wiser choice, and shall prove it so. Remember that I am now speaking as from the grave, and you will not suspect me of flattery.—But to return to that heart-searching letter. I will confess to you, that I wept bitterly for some minutes, as soon as I had first perused it. I felt as foolish as a child, who, having built for the first time a castle of cards, sees it suddenly overthrown. But my heart soon corrected the errors of my vain imagination: I began to commune with my own soul; I said to myself, why am I thus mortified? what is my wish? is it not to see and to make Eumenes happy? and is not this still in my power? not, indeed, as a wife, since he has judiciously chosen a lovely girl, much more likely to succeed in that character; but still as the friend of two excellent creatures, formed for each other, and equally dear to me. It was thus I reasoned with myself. My benevolence and my pride were highly flattered in this self-debate; and it gave me spirit to act towards you both in the manner you well remember. It hurt me much to find, that my darling proposal for your speedy union was thwarted so long, shall I say, by your nobleness of nature, or by your false delicacy? I believe I called it at the time by the latter name, being thoroughly persuaded, that in your condition I would have accepted from you the offer which I made. At length, however, the time arrived, in which I was enabled to accomplish, in a manner unknown to you, the darling object of my ambition.

Allow me, my dearest friends, to boast in this paper, that I have been the invisible architect of the happiness which we have now enjoyed together for many years. It was the unseen hand of your Angelica, that made you the happy wife of Eumenes, by placing him in that preferment, to which his virtues have given him so just a title. How I was fortunately enabled to make, and to conceal, so desirable a purchase, you will perfectly comprehend, from the collection of papers which I shall leave in the cabinet with my will and this letter. As long as the discovery could wound your honest pride, by a load of imaginary obligation, I determined never to make it; but, so strange is human pride! we are never hurt by the idea of obligation to the dead; and remember, as I said once before, that I am now speaking from the grave. By this conduct I am humouring, at one and the same time, both your pride and my own; for I will here avow, that I am very ambitious of increasing, after my death, that pure and perfect regard which ye have both shewn, through the course of many social years, to your living Angelica.—But, while I am thus soliciting an increase of your affection, let me guard that very affection from one painful excess. I know you both so well, that I am almost sure you will exclaim together, on first reading these papers, Good God, what a generous creature, to make such a sacrifice of herself for our sakes! But, affectionate as these expressions may be, they will be far from just. Be assured, my dear friends—and I now speak the language of sober reason—I have made no sacrifice; so far from it, I am convinced, from a long and serious survey of human life, that the most selfish and worldly being could not have pursued any system more conducive to their own private interest and advantage than mine has been. You will agree with me in this truth, when I impart to you some of my own philosophical remarks, I will begin with one of the most important, and it will surprise you; it is this— I am thoroughly convinced, that I should not have been happy, had I been, what I once ardently hoped to be, the wife of Eumenes. Hear my reason, and subscribe to its truth. Amiable as he is, he is a little hasty in his temper; and this circumstance would have been sufficient to make us unhappy; for, even supposing I had been able to treat it with the indulgent good sense of his gentle Faustina, yet all the good-humour that I could have put, on such occasions, into my homely visage, would have had but a slow effect in suppressing those frequent sparks of irritation, which are extinguished in a moment by one of her lovely smiles. Take it, my dear, as one of my maxims, that every man of hasty spirit ought to have a very handsome wife; for, although sense and good temper in the lady may be the essential remedies for this masculine foible; yet, believe me, their operation is quickened tenfold by the heart-piercing light of a beautiful countenance. I was led to this remark by a very painful scene, which once passed between Eumenes and me: he was angry with me for taking the part of his son Charles, in a little dispute between them; and, though I argued the point with him very calmly, he said sharply, after the boy had quitted the room, that I shewed, indeed, much fondness to the child, but no true friendship to the father. The expression stung me so deeply, that I no longer retained a perfect command over my own temper; and, to convince him of the truth and the extent of that friendship, which he arraigned so unjustly, I should certainly have betrayed the darling secret of my life, which I had resolved to keep inviolate to the end of my days, had not the sudden appearance of my dear Faustina suggested to me all the affectionate reasons for my secrecy, and thus restored me to myself. Her smiles now shewed their very great superiority over my arguments; for, almost without the aid of words, but with a sweetness of manner peculiar to herself, she reconciled, in a few minutes, the too hasty father, not only to poor Charles, but to the more childish Angelica. This, I believe, was the only time that I was in danger of betraying a secret, which I had, I think, judiciously imposed upon myself; for my disguise on this point, as it equally consulted our mutual pride and delicacy (whether true or false delicacy no matter) has, I conceive, been very favourable to our general happiness; to my own I am sure it has. In all those moments of spleen or depression, to which, I believe, every mortal is in some degree subject, nothing has relieved me so much as the animating recollection, that I have been the unknown architect of my friends felicity. There is something angelic in the idea, supremely flattering to the honest pride of a feeling heart. Yet, pleased as I have ever been with the review of my own conduct, which the world might deride as romantic, I would by no means recommend it to another female in my situation; not from an idea that she might not be as disinterested as myself, but lest in her friend she should not find a Faustina; for it has not been my own virtue, but the virtues of my lovely inimitable friend, which have given the full success to my project. Had my Faustina and Eumenes lived, like many other married folks, in scenes of frequent bickering or debate, I should, I doubt not, like many other good spinsters, who are witnesses of such connubial altercation, have entertained the vain idea that I could have managed the temper of the lordly creature much better, and, of course, should have been very restless that I was not his wife: but, to do full justice to the uncommon merits of my incomparable Faustina, I here most solemnly declare to her, I never, since her marriage, beheld or thought of her and Eumenes, without a full persuasion that Heaven had made them for each other.—But it is high time to finish this singular confession, in which, perhaps, I have indulged myself too long. I will only add my prayers, that Heaven may continue health and human happiness to my two friends, beyond the period assigned to my mortal existence; and that, whenever I may cease to enjoy their friendship on earth, they will tenderly forget all the foibles, and mutually cherish the memory, of their affectionate

ANGELICA.

‘This generous Old Maid displayed also in her will, which she composed herself, many touching marks of her affectionate spirit.—The house in which she resided, she left as a little legacy to Faustina, and requested her friends to remove into it upon her decease, that Faustina might not be exposed to a more painful removal, if she should happen to survive her husband. As she knew that a compliance with this request would lead her friends into some depressive sensations, she contrived to furnish them with an engaging though melancholy occupation, by requesting them to build a kind of monument to herself, under the form of a little temple to Friendship, on a favourite spot in the garden.’

‘Nothing, perhaps, can equal the uncommon generosity of Angelica, but the tender and unaffected sorrow with which her loss has been lamented. The most trivial of her requests has been religiously observed, and the whole family of Eumenes seem to think no pleasure equal to that of doing justice to her merit, and proclaiming their unexampled obligations to their departed friend.’

SUCH is the history of these two amiable ancient virgins, which I have now given to my reader, with the sanction of the benevolent critic, to whom we are indebted for an acquaintance with such interesting virtue. It must, I think, be allowed, that two members of such engaging excellence are alone sufficient to ennoble any community; and, I flatter myself, the mild lustre of their characters will reflect a degree of glory on the sisterhood, and raise it considerably in the estimation of the world. Perhaps, if a just chronicle of Old Maids had been kept since the creation, it would have presented to us many similar examples of tender magnanimity.

But, as I have remarked already, the sisterhood has unhappily had no herald to immortalise their perfections, except, indeed, the pious old maidens of the Romish church: they certainly have not wanted their full share of celebration. But of these, and of their elder and more neglected sisters, the ancient virgins of a remoter period. I shall speak at large in the subsequent part of this Essay. I shall there, to the utmost of my abilities, collect all the scattered rays of light, with which antiquity can supply me, for the illustration of my interesting subject. To rival the curious researches of our present most celebrated antiquarians, and, in the wide field which I have chosen, to leave no bush or bramble unexplored, I shall examine, in the first chapter of my second volume, if there ever existed an antediluvian Old Maid.

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A philosophical, historical, and moral essay on old maids. By a friend to the sisterhood. In three volumes.: [pt.1]

Hayley, William, 1745-1820.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4726

ID [isbn10]

1106017250

ID [isbn13]

9781106017253

ID [TCP]

K072107.001

ID [BIBNO]

CW3311661184

ID [ECLL]

0257700101

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— A philosophical, historical, and moral essay on old maids. By a friend to the sisterhood. In three volumes., Hayley, William, 1745-1820.. 3v. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for T. Cadell,. 1785.. [A friend to the sisterhood = William Hayley.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT88734.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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