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resemble Herminius clothed in a coat of mail; the warriors perceive the helmet, the lance, and the dazzling plume; they expect to meet with equal force; they begin the onset with violence, and the first wound cuts to the heart.
Injustice may not only destroy female happiness and peace, but it may detach the heart from the first object of its affections; who knows whether the effects produced by slander may not sometimes obliterate truth from the memory? Who can tell whether the authors of this calumny, having already embittered life, may not even after death deprive an amiable woman of those regrets which are universally due to her memory?
In this description I have hitherto portrayed only the injustice of men towards any distinguished female :—is not that of her own sex equally to be feared? Do they not secretly endeavour to awaken the ill will of men against her? Will they ever unite, in order to aid, to defend, and support her in her path of difficulty?
Nor is this all: opinion seems to exempt men from all those attentions usually paid to the sex in all that concerns an individual, whose superior abilities are generally allowed; towards such, men may be ungrateful, deceitful, and ill designing, without being called to account by the public." Is she not an extraordinary woman?" Every thing is comprised in these words: she is left to the strength of her own mind, to struggle as she can with her afflictions. The interest usually inspired by females, the power which is the safeguard of men, all fail her at once: she drags on her isolated existence like the Parias of India, amongst all those distinct classes, into none of which she can never be admitted, and who consider her as fit only to live by herself, as an object of curiosity, perhaps of envy, although, in fact, deserving of the utmost commiseration.
THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL.
An English Eclogue, by Southey, but not in his Works,
WHOM are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of Death?
A long parade, indeed, Sir; and yet here
'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp Tempts me to stand a gazer.
Who plays the truant, says, the Proclamation
Under a lucky planet, who to-day
When first I heard his death, that very wish
The Camel and the Needle
Is that, then, in your mind?
Even so. The text
Is Gospel wisdom. I would ride the Camel-
Could pass the narrow gate.
If, with this text before me, I should feel
In the preaching mood But for these barren fig-trees,
With all their flourish and their leafiness,
Stor'd fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wrong'd,
All honest, open, honourable gains,
Stranger. Why judge you, then, So hardly of the dead?
For what he left
Undone ;-for sins, not one of which is mention'd
But the poor man rung never at his door;
I must needs
Believe you, Sir; these are your witnesses,
How can this man have liv'd, that thus his death
Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose heart
When yet he was a boy, and should have breath'd
To give his blood its natural spring and play,
Yet your next Newspapers will blazon him
Even half a million
Gets him no other praise. But come this way
Some twelvemonths hence, and you will find his virtues
Trimly set forth in lapidary lines,
Faith with her torch beside, and little Cupids
From a very rare Volume of old Poetry.
The Fountaines smoake, and yet no flames they shewe;
And Shadowes moove, although they seeme to stay:
The clearest skie is subject to a shower;
And fairest dayes doe in the morning lower.
The rarest jewels hidden virtue yeeld,
The sweete of traffique is a secret gaine,
And plants seeme dead, and yet they spring again.