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 im⯑portant 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, [2] 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 de⯑fining an Old Maid to be, an unmarried wo⯑man, who has compleated her fortieth year. Though idle witlings might have carped at my definition, as too looſe to be ſtrictly phi⯑loſophical, I am convinced that every ſober reader would have found it ſufficiently pre⯑ciſe for our preſent purpoſe.

But, alas, I am afraid that every benevo⯑lent 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 diſ⯑treſſing a perplexity, that I think it expe⯑dient, for my own credit, to give a candid account of it to my readers. This per⯑plexity 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 [3] 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, particu⯑larly of the female ſex, I perceived they had very unſettled and diſcordant notions of the aera, which I hoped they would ena⯑ble 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 dif⯑ferently 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 pre⯑ſumed 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 ac⯑quaintance; [4] 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 in⯑ſultingly defied me to produce a ſcientific demonſtration of their exiſtence. I ſoon left this licentious ſceptic to the full enjoy⯑ment of his own ſarcaſtical humour, and conſulted an eminent phyſician of an oppo⯑ſite 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 aſ⯑ſerted that every female ought to be re⯑garded 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 [5] 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-na⯑ture 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 com⯑mon 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 diſ⯑pleaſure; for if they ſhould affirm, what I [6] am by no means unwilling to allow, that a ſingle lady of forty cannot with ſtrict pro⯑priety 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 mem⯑ber 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 them⯑ſelves 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 en⯑creaſe 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 de⯑ceived [7] by that ſpecies of benevolent illu⯑ſion, 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 incum⯑brance 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 ſitu⯑ation, [8] 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 re⯑verſe, and which ought therefore to be doubly honourable in theſe its more deli⯑cate poſſeſſors; particularly when we add, that the mortifications of their narrow for⯑tune 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:

[9] 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 ex⯑preſſion) an Old Maid in breeches, or, to ſpeak his own more forcible, poetic lan⯑guage,

The Old Maid, indeed, may often be con⯑ſidered, not only as a ſolitary fly, but as a fly in thoſe cloudy and chilling days of au⯑tumn, 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 [10] 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 dread⯑ful 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 Plu⯑tarch, and mentioned alſo by his two amia⯑ble 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 ſui⯑cide, till a law was enacted, which ſubdued the diſguſt of life by awakening the terrors of modeſty, ordaining that the body of every [11] 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 circum⯑ſtance which phyſicians, I believe, will think ſufficient to account for their death, without imputing it, as Plutarch ſeems in⯑clined 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 proba⯑bility have been equally infected ^*. It is [12] true, indeed, that the records of modern hiſtory hardly contain ſo authentic and de⯑plorable 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 miſ⯑fortune of theſe exaſperated ladies to miſ⯑take their friends for their foes, and to con⯑ſider an expreſſion of pity towards any ſuf⯑ferers of their ſiſterhood, as a perſonal in⯑ſult to themſelves—for their part, they are proud of declaring, they regard the con⯑dition of an Old Maid as the moſt com⯑fortable in human life; it is the condition of their choice, and what every wiſe woman would chuſe. I always look upon ſuch de⯑clarations as a kind of ill-conſtructed ram⯑part, raiſed very haſtily by miſtaken pride, to defend an uneaſy ſituation: I would ad⯑viſe all my fair friends, of gentler ſpirit, to abandon this untenable outwork, and pro⯑tect themſelves by a much nobler mode of defence. The Old Maid who affirms, ſhe [13] never wiſhed to marry, pronounces the ſe⯑vereſt 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 de⯑lights, of that ſtate, to which all human be⯑ings 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 occa⯑ſion 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 gene⯑ral, but as the conſequence of ſuch perverſe incidents as frequently perplex all the paths of human life, and lead even the worthieſt [14] of beings into ſituations very different from what they would otherwiſe have choſen. I am the more ſolicitous to warn the autum⯑nal maiden againſt this falſe pride and miſ⯑taken 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 pre⯑judice, 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 ex⯑claim againſt this benevolent diſcuſſion of their cauſe, and even condemn it as a libel againſt their community. To guard my⯑ſelf as much as poſſible againſt ſo injurious an imputation, I will relate the little inci⯑dent [15] 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 ra⯑ther elderly virgin, whom I ſhall diſtin⯑guiſh 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 hu⯑man creatures.’ —"No, indeed," re⯑plied the judicious and warm-hearted Ma⯑ranthe, ‘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 ſi⯑mile, and the pathetic tone with which it was uttered, by a woman of great ſenſibility, with a very cultivated mind, made a deep [16] 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 can⯑not, indeed, tranſplant, and cauſe it to bloſ⯑ſom; but I will at leaſt endeavour to raiſe a little fence around it, which may take off, in ſome meaſure, from its neglected appear⯑ance, and not ſuffer the wild aſſes, who wander near it, to kick and wound it, as they ſo frequently do, in the wanton gam⯑bols of their awkward vivacity.

The vexations of a contracted fortune, and the mortifying neglect with which the indigent are uſually treated, however gall⯑ing to a generous mind, are not evils, per⯑haps, ſo productive of pain, as that coarſe and contemptuous raillery, with which the ancient maiden is perpetually inſulted. Ha⯑bit and diſcretion may teach her to be con⯑tented with a very ſcanty income, and a noble ingenuous pride is her natural remedy [17] againſt the wounds of neglect; but ſhe ſeems utterly deſtitute of all adequate de⯑fence 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 counte⯑nance, 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 ſiſter⯑hood 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 de⯑gree of reaſon and juſtice, the intemperate curioſity or affectation of an Old Maid; we may even chaſtiſe her impertinence or [18] ill-nature; but to ſneer at the ancient vir⯑gin, merely becauſe ſhe has a claim to that title, is not only inconſiſtent with good-na⯑ture 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 ri⯑diculous 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 ge⯑neral, may be found to ariſe from the pe⯑culiarity 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 ten⯑derly. But, as I mean to conſider theſe par⯑ticular 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 domeſ⯑tic 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 cul⯑tivate a paſſion for the pleaſing occupa⯑tions 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 be⯑come 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.

[20]The curious Old Maid is a reſtleſs being, whoſe inſatiate thirſt for information is an inceſſant plague both to herſelf and her ac⯑quaintance; her ſoul ſeems to be conti⯑nually 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 diffi⯑cult [21] to eradicate or ſubdue. Such curioſity is a kind of ravenous monſter, which hangs upon its prey,

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 commu⯑nicate 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 wo⯑man, the foible, of which I am now ſpeak⯑ing, 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 eſ⯑cape 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 [22] 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 in⯑quiſitive ſpirit, contrived to render this provoking nuiſance an eternal fund of en⯑tertainment. At firſt, indeed, they teazed him ſo much, by their conſtant practice of peeping and prying into every minute arti⯑cle 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 ut⯑tering 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 [23] 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 epi⯑ſode 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 whimſi⯑cal phraſe of ‘Angling for Old Maids at Midnight.’ As this, I believe, is a ſpe⯑cies of fiſhing not mentioned in the Com⯑plete Angler, or in any of our elaborate treatiſes on that amuſing art, it will require a full explanation. Such then was the pro⯑ceſs of my friend in his new-invented di⯑verſion: —Soon after the clock had ſtruck [24] twelve, he muffled up his perſon in ſome dark diſguiſe, and, ſallying from a poſtern⯑gate, 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 in⯑duced 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 rela⯑tion 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, con⯑trived to ſhew little or nothing of his fi⯑gure, and yet loitered ſo long in the ſtreet, as to inflame the old ladies with the moſt [25] ardent expectation of farther diſcovery. He repeated this frolic with diverſe petty vari⯑ations, 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 pro⯑teſted he would be the death of the old la⯑dies, [26] 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, perſe⯑vering 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 addi⯑tional light of the ſnow might afford her, continued ſo long at her window, that ſhe contracted a rheumatic fever, which con⯑fined 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 mid⯑night, [27] 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 unfortu⯑nate 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 precau⯑tion. Perhaps the moſt early and alarming ſymptom of it is the habit, already men⯑tioned, 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 ac⯑quaintance [28] 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 pardon⯑able [29] kind; it is ſometimes troubleſome, and ſometimes ridiculous, but never malig⯑nant. It is now time to enter on the hiſ⯑tory 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 re⯑ally 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 mar⯑ried folks he had viſited, and, before many [30] moments elapſed, ſhe contrived to intro⯑duce the queſtion, which he had twice an⯑ſwered 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, in⯑deed, 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 [31] 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 ex⯑claimed, 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 buſi⯑neſs! The three elder virgins looked ra⯑ther 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 [32] to inſert the preceding incident in this eſſay, by having remarked, on many different oc⯑caſions, 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 eager⯑neſs, than queſtions concerning the preg⯑nancy of her moſt common acquaintance. As I apprehend that the ſiſterhood, in walk⯑ing 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 cau⯑tioned 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 re⯑tirement; 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 [33] pleaſant; and, as I am very far from deſir⯑ing to abridge the ſcanty pleaſures of the Old Maid, I would wiſh her curioſity to be indulged in all points, where it has no ten⯑dency to diſturb the tranquillity of others, or to bring the galling burthen of con⯑tempt 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 ab⯑ſurd and depreſſive of human follies.

"An Old Maid" (ſays the Spectator), ‘that is troubled with the vapours, pro⯑duces 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, [35] at a time when ſhe lay ill of the tooth⯑ach.’

I muſt obſerve, however, to the credit of reaſon and philoſophy, and to the honour of their moſt amiable and ſucceſsful advo⯑cate, 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 in⯑habit. 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, [36] 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 un⯑meaning civilities.

Let me remark, however, that the cre⯑dulous 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 na⯑turally 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 diſap⯑pears [37] only to make room for a more capti⯑vating view, either of the temple itſelf, or of ſome delightful avenue, which is termi⯑nated by the ſame noble edifice. The cre⯑dulous 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 cir⯑cumſtance of looking out of window, and ſhe, therefore, devotes herſelf, with parti⯑cular 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 inceſ⯑ſant fire of her eyes did prodigious execu⯑tion upon the paſſing crowd; yet, I believe, [38] if we except her intention, ſhe is as per⯑fectly innocent of metaphorical man-ſlaugh⯑ter, as the honeſt man in armour, who forms a part of the cavalcade, is innocent of blood. Fruitleſs as the experiment has hi⯑therto 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 cre⯑dibly informed, that ſhe paſſed a great part of ſeveral nights in that poſition, at the time of thoſe outrageous riots, which threa⯑tened to lay the metropolis in aſhes. At the moment when other females of her neigh⯑bourhood had ſtarted from their beds, un⯑der the terrific ideas of murder and confla⯑gration, 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 aſ⯑ſurance [39] of having made a very deep im⯑preſſion 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 ex⯑planation of his love, by the unfortunate circumſtance of his having a proud and in⯑tractable old peer for his father.

There is one danger, to which the cre⯑dulous 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 fortune⯑hunters, 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, [40] at the ſeat of a nobleman, to whom ſhe was diſtantly related. The peer had lately re⯑ceived a new game-keeper into his ſervice, a ſtout and enterpriſing ſon of Hibernia, who had ſeen, though under thirty, many viciſſi⯑tudes 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 for⯑tune on the foibles of the miſtreſs. Having arrayed himſelf in his new ſuit of green, he ſurpriſed the tender Flaccilla alone, in a ſe⯑queſtered ſpot of her favourite wood, to which ſhe delighted to retire, for the con⯑venience of devouring a new novel without interruption. Patrick ſoon prevailed on her to quit the viſionary tale for a more en⯑gaging romance. In ſhort, he perſuaded [41] her, that he was the ſon of an Iriſh peer, in diſguiſe, who had only ſubmitted to his preſent humiliation to ſecure the extatic de⯑light, 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, in⯑deed, that they were at laſt able to do for her was, to prevail on the reaſonable Pa⯑trick to leave his wife to reflect on her cre⯑dulous 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 embit⯑tered by unavailing repentance for her ab⯑ſurd 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, [42] and it has not eſcaped the laſh of our mo⯑dern 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 ex⯑poſed with more ingenious or more poig⯑nant 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 ori⯑gin 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 illu⯑ſive paſſions, we cannot wonder, that the juſt and laudable hope of finding a huſband ſhould often cheat the moſt ſenſible of [43] maidens into an erroneous belief of having found him. How often does the philoſo⯑pher delude himſelf in much clearer mat⯑ters, and where the ſilence of his heart af⯑fords him not ſo good an excuſe for the confuſion of his judgment! I have ob⯑ſerved 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 inconſide⯑rate cannot be expected to view it in ſo ſe⯑rious a light; but, to caution them from the danger of treating it with ſuch unin⯑tended cruelty as they may afterwards re⯑gret, I ſhall relate the brief hiſtory of a lady, whoſe fate was as ſingular as her per⯑ſon was unfortunate, and her character de⯑ſerving.

Harriot Aſpin was the youngeſt of four [44] ſiſters, who in their childhood had all a proſpect of paſſing through life with every advantage that beauty and fortune can be⯑ſtow. 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 ca⯑lamities. From a fall which her nurſe oc⯑caſioned, 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 en⯑chanting paſſion often vibrated in her ear; [45] for, with a ſolid and brilliant underſtand⯑ing, ſhe was deeply tinctured with this cre⯑dulous 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 re⯑turned 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 [46] they both poſſeſſed a very uncommon por⯑tion of wit, with extreme generoſity and good-nature. Harriot had the moſt per⯑fect 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 benefi⯑cence 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.

[47]It was almoſt impoſſible not to love a maiden aunt of ſo engaging a character; and Edward, whoſe affections were natu⯑rally ardent, loved her, indeed, moſt ſin⯑cerely; 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 harm⯑leſs manner; but a circumſtance aroſe, which fully proved the danger of this ordi⯑nary 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 Sa⯑voyard was extremely polite, and, either attracted by the pleaſantry of her conver⯑ſation, or touched with medical pity for the [48] ſtriking infelicity of her diſtorted frame, he had paid particular attention to Miſs Aſpin; for, being yet under fifty, ſhe had not aſ⯑ſumed the title of Mrs. This particular attention was full ſufficient to convince the credulous Harriot, that her nephew was ſe⯑rious; but ſhe was unluckily confirmed in that illuſion, by his ſaying to her one even⯑ing, ‘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 feel⯑ings of infirmity!—Poor Harriot had no [49] ſooner retired to her chamber, than ſhe en⯑tered into a profound debate with a fa⯑vourite 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 de⯑fended a weak cauſe by an aſtoniſhing va⯑riety of arguments in its favour. They ut⯑terly 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 ex⯑travagant 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 moun⯑tains. The debate was very warm on both ſides, and ſupported through the greateſt part of the night. The ſpirited Harriot [50] was horribly fatigued by the diſcourſe, but utterly unconvinced by the forcible argu⯑ments of her opponent. She even be⯑lieved that the journey would prove a re⯑medy for her aſthmatic complaints; her deſire of a matrimonial eſtabliſhment was full as efficacious as the vinegar of Hanni⯑bal, and the Alps melted before it. At the dawn of day ſhe had poſitively determined to follow the fortunes of the amiable Sa⯑voyard. 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 ap⯑pear at breakfaſt. This, however, was a circumſtance too common to alarm the fa⯑mily; 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 depart⯑ing from her diminutive body. Towards [51] 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 her⯑ſelf 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, ex⯑pired. Whether the much-injured and de⯑fective 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 circum⯑ſtances [52] 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 at⯑tended 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 conver⯑ſation which had paſſed between herſelf and her departed miſtreſs. As her nephew Ed⯑ward was my intimate friend, and I well knew his regard for this ſingular little be⯑ing, I haſtened to him the firſt moment that I heard ſhe was no more. I found him under the ſtrongeſt impreſſion of re⯑cent 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 conſi⯑dered as an evil, might ſurely be eſteemed a bleſſing to a perſon, whoſe unfortunate infirmities of body muſt undoubtedly have [53] 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 benevo⯑lent 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, how⯑ever, be tender to thy memory; and I wiſh that I could warn the world againſt the dan⯑gerous 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 ridi⯑cule and contempt, we may juſtly place af⯑fectation; it aſſumes, indeed, a thouſand different ſhapes, but in whatever form it appears, it is ſo far from obtaining the af⯑fection 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 fi⯑gure, and with the hard features, of the an⯑tiquated virgin? Yet the ſituation of the Old Maid has, perhaps, a particular ten⯑dency 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 [55] attractions as ſhe thinks may become her maturer ſeaſon of life. A minute obſerver may perceive many different kinds of af⯑fectation in this ſingle character; but I ſhall confine myſelf to three, which I have par⯑ticularly remarked in the ſiſterhood; and theſe are, an affectation of youth, an affec⯑tation of a certain cenſorial importance, and an affectation of extreme ſenſibili⯑ty. The firſt, if not the moſt ridiculous, is, I think, the moſt common. We can⯑not 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 con⯑nection which is the object of her juſt de⯑ſire, 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 do⯑minion. [56] I therefore entreat the ſiſterhood to reflect, that every injudicious and unſea⯑ſonable attempt to pleaſe, is generally pro⯑ductive 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 ri⯑bands, to which they have a particular pro⯑penſity. A wag of my acquaintance de⯑clares, that he looks upon every Old Maid, who arrays herſelf in ornaments of this co⯑lour, 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 ſym⯑pathy, 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 ex⯑changing the natural charms, which ſhe might ſtill exert with ſucceſs, for the artifi⯑cial [57] attractions which ſhe is eager to ac⯑quire. Coſmelia will, I fear, be an unfor⯑tunate example of this melancholy truth. It has been the perverſe deſtiny of this lady, to loſe all the advantages that might be ex⯑pected 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 ſu⯑premely handſome; but at nineteen ſhe was a beautiful pedant, whoſe tongue inceſ⯑ſantly 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 lan⯑guages. Theſe, indeed, ſhe attained; but the chief effect ſhe produced by her learn⯑ing was, to frighten her young acquaint⯑ance, 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 [58] beſt of ancient and modern authors, and her perſon is ſtill very handſome; but her beauty and her knowledge ſeem to be ren⯑dered 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 marchi⯑oneſs de Sevigné; but this enchanting ta⯑lent ſhe very rarely exerts; for ſhe unluckily thinks, that, at her preſent time of life, a ſmooth ſkin is more worthy of care and im⯑provement, than a lively imagination.

Inſtead, therefore, of employing her pen in the compoſition of ſuch letters as would delight her friends, ſhe deſerts her corre⯑ſpondents, 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 [59] 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 fre⯑quently watches the ſimmer of a little pipkin, with as much eagerneſs and an⯑xiety 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 at⯑tempts to render herſelf more fair, but ſhe [60] grows more diſcontented with her com⯑plexion. 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 ap⯑pear 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 un⯑fortunate 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 in⯑duced them to conceal. This oppreſſive dread of not appearing young, which is, in⯑deed, for ever preſent to her fancy, was re⯑markably conſpicuous the other day, when ſhe ſat for her picture to oblige a relation. [61] 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 ex⯑hibited 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 la⯑boured to preſerve; and her dread of this loſs aroſe to ſuch an aſtoniſhing height, that ſhe had certainly fallen into an hyſte⯑rical fit, if an early peep at the improve⯑ment of the painter had not happily re⯑lieved [62] her. His penetration had diſcovered her foible; and, as he had known her inti⯑mately 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 reſem⯑blance. 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 Nar⯑ciſſus 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 ma⯑lady, 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 [63] the imagination of others. If ſhe could her⯑ſelf once forget, that ſhe is turned of forty, ſhe has a thouſand attractions by which ſhe might make any man forget it, whoſe recol⯑lection 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 affec⯑tation of cenſorial importance. The af⯑fected Old Maid of this character, inſtead of endeavouring to appear more airy and frolicſome than time allows her to be, aſ⯑ſumes all the dignity of advanced life, and affects to ſurvey, and to comment upon, the [64] world with the aſperity of a Cato. The cenſorial ſpirit, that I now ſpeak of, is en⯑tirely diſtinct from envy and ill-nature, which are to form the ſubjects of my fol⯑lowing chapter. I cannot more clearly ex⯑plain 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 in⯑deed 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 aſ⯑ſurance, of a lawyer. She is frequently ob⯑ſerved, 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 [65] the irregularities of ſome perſon, who is ac⯑cidentally mentioned, and of whoſe cha⯑racter ſhe has no real knowledge. It is hardly poſſible to behold her in this poſi⯑tion, 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 with⯑out any purpoſe, but that of ſhewing the awkwardneſs of its figure, and the diſſo⯑nance 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 per⯑ſons 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 miſ⯑leads [66] 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 acquaint⯑ance, 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 offen⯑ſive affectation of cenſorial dignity to the mere habit of haranguing, which ſhe acci⯑dentally 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 Al⯑tamira, [67] "You have ſurely attended little to human nature," ſaid my friend, "if you can ſeriouſly believe that Altamira's inceſſant invectives againſt diſſipation and inconti⯑nence, proceed from that purity and recti⯑tude of mind, which feels and delights in contemplating both the beauty and the bene⯑ficence 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 inconti⯑nence, becauſe, under the maſk of ſuch de⯑clamation, 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 [68] Altamira, by ſhewing them the conſtruction to which her eloquence is expoſed.

But I quit this affected cenſor in petti⯑coats, 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 ſome⯑how contrived to form an inexhauſtible re⯑ſervoir of water in the neighbourhood of her eyes, and, to captivate every new ac⯑quaintance, 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 ad⯑vantage 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 [69] noſegay in her boſom, and drop a tear of tenderneſs in remarking the tranſient beau⯑ties of vegetation; or, if ſhe finds not any occaſion to weep, ſhe can talk of the ſoft⯑neſs 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, how⯑ever, 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 [70] reaſon, ſhe collects a group of animals, and laviſhes upon them thoſe delicate endear⯑ments, which ſhe has no opportunity of be⯑ſtowing upon man.

Orniphila is a lady who entertains her acquaintance with the moſt ſumptuous diſ⯑play of this foible; for ſhe is unluckily poſ⯑ſeſſed of ſuch opulence, as enables her to indulge her moſt extravagant caprice. Or⯑niphila 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 deli⯑cacy 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 [71] made her the inhabitant of ſome more tran⯑quil globe, on which the air is never wounded by any ſound more powerful than the notes of a nightingale. This gentle⯑neſs of diſpoſition did not, as the lady might poſſibly wiſh, induce any ſympathetic ſwain to amuſe her with the ſoothing whiſ⯑pers 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 de⯑ſtroy, than to preſerve, the life of the various creatures it admits. Whether ſhe is of⯑fended by that neglect which ſhe has expe⯑rienced 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, per⯑haps, from an affected tenderneſs into a real paſſion, appears to have rendered Orniphila [72] utterly inſenſible to the merit of human na⯑ture. 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 Pome⯑ranian 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 accept⯑able; 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 weak⯑neſs of Orniphila. As ſhe does me the honour to rank me among her diſtant re⯑lations, and as ſhe thinks I have ſome [73] 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, ſur⯑rounded with animals. A few tame little birds, who fly unconfined about her cham⯑ber, 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. [74] 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 ſud⯑den, from his ſtand upon the head of the eldeſt. The poor girl was exceedingly alarmed, and her brother haſtened, with in⯑finite 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 oppo⯑nent. In the keen reſentment, which this violent anguiſh produced, the young Eto⯑nian exerted all his ſtrength, and wrung off the neck of his antagoniſt, without a ſingle reflection on the feelings of his aunt. Or⯑niphila, 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 [75] convey her inſtantly to bed, for the cala⯑mity 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 re⯑ſentment by ridding the world of her miſ⯑chievous mackaw. But if this little book engages her attention, as I intend it ſhall, I truſt it may induce her to correct her in⯑juſtice, 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 per⯑fect model of the refined affectation which I am now conſidering, and to boaſt of ex⯑quiſite ſenſibility, with a heart harder than marble.

Petraea is perpetually engaged by a tra⯑gedy or a novel, which ſhe reads with infi⯑nite [76] 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 erro⯑neouſly 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 huma⯑nity, 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 inci⯑dent which confirmed my preſent opinion of Petraea:—During one of my viſits to her, a clergyman came in, whom we both [77] 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 ſub⯑ſcription, the guſhing tears of Petraea were ſuddenly diſperſed; her eyes became ſe⯑vere; her lips, pale and trembling, began to mutter doubts concerning the worthi⯑neſs which ſhe had juſt acknowledged; ſhe then entered on a nonſenſical diſſerta⯑tion on the frequency of impoſtures, and the propriety of people's ſuffering for im⯑prudence.

The ſenſible divine perceived the rock on which his charitable hopes were now ſplitting; and, avoiding it with great dex⯑terity, he pointed out to her a line of con⯑duct, 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 [78] 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 my⯑ſelf, who, in treating ſubjects of extreme nicety, are unavoidably expoſed to all the frowns and grimaces of prudiſh miſcon⯑ſtruction.

I mean the affectation of ſuperlative de⯑licacy, 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 inno⯑cent 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 [79] nice perſons are full of naſty ideas. In⯑deed, 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 unparal⯑leled 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 fol⯑lowing little incident, at the age of thirty⯑two: —Her father, a rich, honeſt, and rough country gentleman, inherited, from a more elegant uncle, a noble houſe, with [80] 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 deli⯑cacy induced her to furniſh him with a little apron of paper. The honeſt 'ſquire, her father, ſoon diſcovered the ſtrange apparel on [81] 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 conſi⯑derate '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 jocu⯑larity, 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 oc⯑caſions, in paſſing a ſevere cenſure on the language of clergymen; who are very apt, [82] ſhe ſays, even in the pulpit, to run into im⯑modeſt 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 oc⯑caſion, 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. [83] With this unpubliſhed little piece of poe⯑tical raillery I ſhall terminate this chapter.

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

I HAVE hitherto conſidered only thoſe foibles in the ancient virgin, which ex⯑poſe her to deriſion; I am now to ſpeak of more ſerious defects, of qualities which ne⯑ver fail to render their unhappy poſſeſſor an object of abhorrence. It is a common idea, I hope I may call it a vulgar preju⯑dice, 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 experi⯑enced, 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 par⯑ticularly diſtinguiſhed by theſe deteſtable characteriſtics; but I am firmly perſuaded, [85] that, in the circle of every one's acquaint⯑ance, 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 ob⯑ſerving, 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 un⯑ſucceſsful adventurers. In painting and ſculpture, in muſic, and every branch of li⯑terature, the moſt exquiſite productions of applauded genius have been inſulted by the envious and malevolent ſtrictures of diſap⯑pointed vanity. Now, the fair ſex may be conſidered as ſtudents in the moſt impor⯑tant 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 [86] 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 ap⯑plauſe of the public is not often miſ⯑placed: thoſe laurel wreaths, which are the chief incitements, and frequently the ſole rewards, of genius, are commonly be⯑ſtowed by the hand of juſtice herſelf; but the chaplets of Hymen are promiſcuouſly diſtributed by intereſt, ambition, and ca⯑price. The mortified and neceſſitous artiſt, who vents his ſpleen againſt his ſucceſsful and opulent rival, is generally guilty of in⯑juſtice 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 [87] 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 contume⯑lious 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 in⯑ſulted by the ſupercilious knowledge, and the arrogant importance, of many luckier females, initiated in thoſe ſplendid and ho⯑nourable myſteries, to which ſhe is unhap⯑pily a ſtranger.

From the preceding view of their pe⯑culiar hardſhips and provocations, I may [88] 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 in⯑fluence, and burſts out into active malig⯑nity. 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 perni⯑cious 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 [89] with the moſt haughty expectations, in con⯑ſequence either of perſonal or pecuniary advantages. As the fineſt Burgundy, when ſpoiled, produces the moſt poignant vine⯑gar, 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 youth⯑ful graces. The neglect that thoſe graces have experienced, is an injury which ran⯑kles perpetually in her heart, and which ſhe is ever trying to revenge upon the world at large: ſhe has all the vindictive malevo⯑lence 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 ac⯑tivity: but a country town is the proper theatre of the envious Old Maid; a theatre, [90] where ſhe frequently exhibits a buſy and bold malevolence, little inferior to that which Milton has ſo finely made the cha⯑racteriſtic of Satan! If ſhe happens to be rich, ſhe rivals the arch-fiend in dignity, as well as in rancour, and has a ſplendid pan⯑daemonium to receive thoſe ſubordinate ſpirits, who are the ready miniſters of her diabolical pleaſure: nor is it leſs the buſi⯑neſs 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 inſi⯑dious application, ſhe delights in diſſolving [91] the ties of ancient friendſhip, in annihilat⯑ing the feſtive bands of Hymen at the mo⯑ment of their formation, and in poiſoning all the fountains of ſocial pleaſure.

She may be juſtly reckoned a real ſor⯑cereſs, who ſurpaſſes, in malicious power, the moſt terrific of all the fabulous en⯑chanters. But it is not eaſy to give a per⯑fect 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 de⯑ſtroyers of domeſtic peace, written under the falſe pretence of a friendly concern for the very perſons whom they are really in⯑tended 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 [92] ever in the dark, is rarely puniſhed by a complete detection.

There are a thouſand petty modes of defamation, which derive aſtoniſhing in⯑fluence from the ingenious acuteneſs of the ſarcaſtic Old Maid. I have known a ma⯑levolent 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 bit⯑terneſs 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 enor⯑mous 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, [93] and others truly captivated by her perſonal graces; for her perſon was elegant, and her elegance was enlivened with peculiar vi⯑vacity. Mr. Wormwood was commonly called a kind parent, and an honeſt man; and he might deſerve, indeed, thoſe ho⯑nourable appellations, if it were not a pro⯑fanation of language to apply them to a narrow and a ſelfiſh ſpirit. He indulged his daughters in many expenſive amuſe⯑ments, 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 opu⯑lence and ſplendor. His two younger children, who inherited from their deceaſed mother a tender delicacy of frame, lan⯑guiſhed and died at an early period of life, and the death of one of them was imputed, with great probability, to a ſevere diſap⯑pointment [94] in her firſt affection. The more ſprightly Winifred, whoſe heart was a per⯑fect 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 un⯑common ſhare of very ſhrewd and piercing wit, with the moſt profound hypocriſy, ſhe contrived to pleaſe, and to blind, her plod⯑ding old parent; who perpetually harangued on the diſcretion of his daughter, and be⯑lieved her a miracle of reſerve and pru⯑dence, at the very time when ſhe was ſuſ⯑pected of ſuch conduct as would have diſ⯑qualified 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 mar⯑riage, and, to the ſurpriſe of the public, the rich heireſs of Mr. Wormwood reached the [95] 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 ſatiſ⯑faction, which a more generous parent would probably have derived from the happy eſtab⯑liſhment of a daughter. He gained, how⯑ever, 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 diſ⯑playing 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 in⯑dulging, 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 Worm⯑wood [96] 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 ad⯑dreſſes, without the fear of ſuffering from a tyrannical huſband, as ſhe had learned cau⯑tion from her father, and had privately re⯑ſolved not to truſt any man with her mo⯑ney; 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 ad⯑vances. The report of her youthful fro⯑lics, and the dread of her ſarcaſtic wit, had more power to repel, than her perſon and her wealth had to attract. Paſſing her fif⯑tieth year, ſhe acquired the ſerious name of Miſtreſs, without the dignity of a wife, and without receiving a ſingle offer of marriage [97] 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 cha⯑racteriſtic 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 af⯑fection 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 be⯑ſtow; 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 [98] 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, ex⯑traordinary: her mind was never poliſhed or enriched by literature, as Mr. Worm⯑wood ſet little value on any books, except⯑ing 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 ac⯑quainted with no language but her own; yet a brilliant underſtanding, and an un⯑common portion of ready wit, ſupplied her with a more alluring fund of converſation, than learning could beſtow. She chiefly re⯑commended herſelf to the young and inex⯑perienced, by the inſinuating charm of the moſt lively ridicule, and by the art of ſea⯑ſoning her diſcourſe with wanton innuendos of ſo ſubtle a nature, that gravity knew [99] 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 for⯑cibly recommended in the words of lady Macbeth:

With what ſucceſs ſhe practiſed this dan⯑gerous 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 af⯑forded [100] her the faireſt opportunities of ſe⯑cretly mortifying their inſufferable pre⯑ſumption. With a peculiar refinement in malice, ſhe firſt encouraged, and afterwards defeated, thoſe amuſing matrimonial pro⯑jects, which the young and the beautiful are ſo apt to entertain. The higheſt gratifica⯑tion, 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 diver⯑ſion, in the perſon of Amelia Nevil, the daughter of a brave and accompliſhed offi⯑cer, who, cloſing a laborious and honour⯑able 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 unhap⯑pily [101] 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; re⯑fuſing ſeveral advantageous offers o [...] [...]r⯑riage, 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 fa⯑ther. 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 per⯑ſecuted by fortune. The beauty of Ame⯑lia was ſo ſtriking, and the charms of her lively underſtanding began to diſplay them⯑ſelves in ſo enchanting a manner, that her affectionate aunt could not bear the idea of placing her in any lower order of life: ſhe [102] gave her the education of a gentlewoman, in the flattering and generous hope, that her various attractions muſt ſupply the ab⯑ſolute 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 wo⯑man, 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 appa⯑rently deſtitute of every reſource; and ex⯑poſed 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 be⯑tween them, and paſſing four months with each. As ſoon as Mrs. Wormwood was informed of this event, as ſhe delighted in [103] thoſe oſtentatious acts of apparent benefi⯑cence, 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 re⯑mained ſingle, under the roof of Mrs. Wormwood. This lovely orphan had a ſenſibility of heart, which rendered her ex⯑tremely grateful for the protection ſhe re⯑ceived, 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 per⯑ſon, her mind, her manners, were univer⯑ſally 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 queſ⯑tion [104] 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 thou⯑ſand times, that her affectionate aunt, in⯑ſtead 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 la⯑bour: 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 ſug⯑geſted, 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 know⯑ing how to effect it. Almoſt two years had now elapſed ſince the death of her aunt, and, without any proſpect of marriage, ſhe [105] was now in her ſecond period of reſidence with Mrs. Wormwood. Amelia's under⯑ſtanding 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 cha⯑racter of her preſent hoſteſs. This lady had remarked, that when Miſs Nevil re⯑ſided 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 vi⯑rulence; 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;’ [106] and ſhe therefore made uſe of laviſh com⯑mendation, as an inſtrument of malevo⯑lence 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. Acci⯑dent 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 [107] 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 deſ⯑tined 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 con⯑tinued under the oppreſſion of the pro⯑foundeſt 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 proſe⯑cution of which he recovered a great por⯑tion of his former ſpirits. This plan con⯑ſiſted in ſearching for female objects of [108] charity, whoſe diſtreſſes had been occaſioned by fire. As his fortune was very ample, and his own private expences very mode⯑rate, he was able to relieve many unfortu⯑nate perſons in this condition; and his af⯑fectionate imagination delighted itſelf with the idea, that in theſe uncommon acts of beneficence he was guided by the in⯑fluence 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 re⯑paired the loſs which ſhe ſuſtained by fire, and aſſiſted in ſettling her in the neigh⯑bourhood [109] 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, when⯑ever he viſited Mrs. Wormwood; a circum⯑ſtance on which the latter founded her un⯑generous 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 reſo⯑lution; and nothing, ſhe ſuppoſed, could more effectually mortify her gueſt, than to find herſelf derided for ſo vain an expec⯑tation.

Mrs. Wormwood began, therefore, to inſinuate, in the moſt artful manner, that Mr. Nelſon was very particular in his civi⯑lities [110] to Amelia; magnified all his amiable qualities, and expreſſed the greateſt plea⯑ſure 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 polite⯑neſs of a well-bred man of thirty-ſeven; ſhe pitied the misfortune, ſhe admired the elegant and engaging, though ſerious man⯑ners, and ſhe revered the virtues, of Mr. Nelſon; but, ſuppoſing his mind to be en⯑tirely engroſſed, as it really was, by his ſin⯑gular 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. Nel⯑ſon to drink tea with her, ſhe wrote a billet [111] 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 doubt⯑ful 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 fal⯑lacy before the hour of heir intended humi⯑liation arrived.

Amelia bluſhed in reading the note, and, in the firſt ſurpriſe of unſuſpecting inno⯑cence, gave it to the vigilant Mrs. Worm⯑wood; who burſt into vehement expreſſions of delight, congratulated her bluſhing gueſt on the full ſucceſs of her charms, and tri⯑umphed in her own prophetic diſcernment. They ſat down to dinner, but poor Amelia [112] 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 vi⯑ſitors arrived to tea; and, at length, Mr. Nelſon entered the room. Amelia trem⯑bled and bluſhed as he approached her; but ſhe was a little relieved from her em⯑barraſſment by the buſineſs of the tea-table, over which ſhe preſided. Amelia was na⯑turally 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 bo⯑ſom gradually ſubſided into a calm and [113] compoſed delight. She ventured to meet ihe eyes of Mr. Nelſon, and thought them expreſſive of that tenderneſs which pro⯑miſed a happy end to all her misfortunes. At the idea of exchanging miſery and de⯑pendence for comfort and honour, as the wife of ſo amiable a man, her heart ex⯑panded 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, deter⯑mined to reduce the ſplendor of ſuch inſuf⯑ferable 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 en⯑tertain, of an imaginary lover; but finding theſe remarks produced not the effect ſhe intended, ſhe took an opportunity of whiſ⯑pering in the ear of Amelia, and begged [114] her not to harbour any vain expectations, for the billet ſhe had received was a coun⯑terfeit, and a mere piece of pleaſantry. Amelia ſhuddered, and turned pale: ſur⯑priſe; diſappointment, and indignation, con⯑ſpired to overwhelm her. She exerted her utmoſt power to conceal her emotions; but the conflict in her boſom was too vio⯑lent 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 re⯑turn, and hoping that his departure, might contribute to reſtore the interrupted har⯑mony of the houſe, took an early leave of Mrs. Wormwood; who immediately flew to [115] the chamber of Amelia, to exult, like a fiend, over that lovely victim of her ſuc⯑ceſsful malignity. She found not the per⯑ſon, whom ſhe was ſo eager to inſult. Amelia had, indeed, retired to her cham⯑ber, 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 imme⯑diate conſolation to her friend, Mrs. Mel⯑ford, but ſhe had reaſon to believe that lady engaged on a viſit, and ſhe therefore reſolved to take a ſolitary walk for the pur⯑poſe of compoſing her ſpirits: but neither ſolitude nor exerciſe could reſtore her tran⯑quillity; 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 par⯑lour alone, when Amelia entered the room. The eyes of this lovely girl immediately [116] 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 Ame⯑lia, 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 ma⯑ternal 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 [117] 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. Ame⯑lia, alive to all the feelings of genuine mo⯑deſty, 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 con⯑fuſion, 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 [118] hands, and continues to kiſs it without ut⯑tering a word. The good Mrs. Melford, almoſt as much aſtoniſhed, but leſs pain⯑fully 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 re⯑late the incidents which produced their ſituation.

Mr. Nelſon had obſerved the ſarcastic manner of Mrs. Wormwood towards Ame⯑lia, and, as ſoon as he had ended his un⯑comfortable viſit, he haſtened to the worthy Mrs. Melford, to give her ſome little ac⯑count 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 unfor⯑tunate [119] 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 tranſ⯑ported at this idea; and, recollecting all her own obligations to this benevolent man, wept, and extolled his generoſity; and, ſuddenly ſeeing Amelia at ſome diſ⯑tance, through a bow window, which com⯑manded 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 [120] 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 ſpa⯑cious garden: I will not ſay you are here; and, as ſoon as the good girl re⯑turns home, I will come and impart to you the particulars of her recent vexa⯑tion.’ —Admirably ſettled," cried Nel⯑ſon; 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 gar⯑den, 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 parti⯑tion between the parlours being extremely ſlight, he overheard the tender confeſſion of Amelia, and was hurried towards her by an [121] irreſiſtible impulſe, in the manner already deſcribed.

Mrs. Melford was the firſt who reco⯑vered from the kind of trance, into which our little party had been thrown by their general ſurpriſe; and ſhe enabled the ten⯑der 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 occur⯑rences 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 [122] torment of its poſſeſſor, I muſt beg, that ſhe may not return, even for a ſin⯑gle night, to the houſe of Mrs. Worm⯑wood.’ 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 Nel⯑ſon, 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 a⯑muſed herſelf with the hope of deriding her gueſt; whoſe return ſhe was eagerly ex⯑pecting, 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 [123] for expedients to defeat the match, and cir⯑culated 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 ad⯑mired, the moſt beloved, and the happieſt of human beings; an event which preyed ſo inceſſantly on the ſpirit of Mrs. Worm⯑wood, 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 ſome⯑times 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 [124] 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, in⯑duced every being to avoid her ſociety; till, finding herſelf unable to ſupport the ſoli⯑tude, 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 philoſo⯑pher, 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 [125] the effects produced by this corroding in⯑firmity. 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 har⯑bour, 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 there⯑fore entreat every Old Maiden, who feels an envious emotion ariſing in her breaſt, to conſider what hideous effects it may pro⯑duce in her countenance, and to reflect, that ſhe will improve her features by reco⯑vering her good-nature.

Having thus far expatiated on the pe⯑culiar 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 qua⯑lities 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 [126] 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.

CHAP. I. On the Ingenuity of Old Maids.

WHILE other antiquarians have la⯑boriouſly employed and exhauſted their powers in ſearching for old ruins of Gothic architecture, or ſome Druidical re⯑mains, I have traverſed the kingdom in queſt of curious characters in the ſiſterhood of Old Maids, and, whenever I gain intel⯑ligence of a new curioſity belonging to this claſs, I forſake all other occupations, to ſtudy it with the patient attention of a true vir⯑tuoſo.

[128]As ſoon as I am properly introduced to the freſh ancient maiden, I ſit philoſophi⯑cally down, and endeavour to diſcover, through that incruſtation of little ſingula⯑rities which a long life of celibacy has pro⯑duced, her genuine character, the real diſ⯑poſition 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 ſatis⯑faction 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 antiqua⯑rians ſhould think this ſtudy of mine may entitle me to be admitted of their commu⯑nity, [129] 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, in⯑deed, attempted to adorn my own little vo⯑lumes; but others I ſhall ſtill retain in my private cabinet, till I have happily awa⯑kened in our country a more lively and af⯑fectionate 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 ſpecula⯑tion, 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 diſtin⯑guiſhed 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 [130] 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 en⯑creaſe it in the ancient virgin. The for⯑mer 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 ſpi⯑ritual talents which ought to adorn it; the latter reſembles the unbeneficed eccleſiaſtic, who, conſcious of his humiliating condi⯑tion, endeavours to ſurmount its diſadvan⯑tages 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 hav⯑ing neglected thoſe ingenious purſuits, by which their youth was diſtinguiſhed: the [131] harpſichord and the pencil, thoſe pleaſing and graceful amuſements of female life, are generally conſigned to oblivion in the ſe⯑cond 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 hav⯑ing 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 re⯑verſe. I never met with even one ancient virgin, who, retaining her health and facul⯑ties, had ceaſed to practiſe any ingenious art, or to diſplay any amuſing accompliſh⯑ment, 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 [132] the mind from idle, impertinent, and cen⯑ſorious ideas, contribute not a little to ſup⯑port the natural benevolence of the heart, and to confer a conſiderable degree of hap⯑pineſs 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 vir⯑tuoſo. 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 en⯑gaging [133] character, but of a delicate conſti⯑tution, and, dying in child-bed, left him an only daughter, whom he called Theo⯑dora. The Doctor was by no means a man of warm paſſions, and never enter⯑tained an idea of marrying again; though a female foſſiliſt once endeavoured to work upon his foible, and to entice him into ſe⯑cond 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 de⯑partment. 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 ſum⯑mons [134] 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 ſweet⯑neſs of temper. As ſhe grew up, ſhe diſ⯑played 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 pre⯑cious articles in his cabinet; a compli⯑ment which ſo warmed the heart of the de⯑lighted 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 com⯑mon articles of expence, ſo excellent a ma⯑nager, that, inſtead of injuring, he had in⯑creaſed his fortune; and from this circum⯑ſtance [135] 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 ex⯑preſſive 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 un⯑derſtanding 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 [136] 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 approba⯑tion 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 pre⯑pared his five thouſand pounds for the bridegroom, before there was any imme⯑diate 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 ac⯑quaintance, ſhe had hitherto given no other anſwer to his addreſſes, but that ſhe thought herſelf too young to marry. Blandford con⯑ſidered [137] this reply as nothing more than a mo⯑deſt preliminary to a full ſurrender of her per⯑ſon, and continued his ſiege with increaſing aſſiduity. In this very critical ſtate of af⯑fairs, Dr. Coral was ſummoned to a diſ⯑tance by a letter from a friend, who an⯑nounced to him the death of a brother vir⯑tuoſo, with a hint, that the Doctor might enrich himſelf by the purchaſe of a very choice collection of the moſt valuable rari⯑ties, 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 rela⯑tion of the deceaſed, and ſurveyed with avi⯑dity [138] 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 peer⯑leſs 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 intelli⯑gent perſons in every rank of life, I mean the art of vilifying the object which they deſign to purchaſe. Dr. Coral, after com⯑mending moſt of the prime articles with a generous admiration, demanded, with that degree of heſitation which anxiety pro⯑duces, if any price had been ſettled for the whole collection. The gentleman, who at⯑tended him, enlarged on the great trouble and expence with which his departed rela⯑tion had amaſſed this invaluable treaſure, and'concluded a very elaborate harangue in [139] 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 Doc⯑tor 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 know⯑ledge, 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 miſ⯑laid, and overlooked in his firſt view of the collection—perhaps its preſent effect upon him was the greater from this caſual delay; [140] certain it is, that this additional rarity fell with an amazing force on the wavering ba⯑lance of his mind; it entirely overſet his prudential affectionate reſolution, and, haſ⯑tily 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 hun⯑dred pounds.

At this paſſage of my little work, I fore⯑ſee 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 inconſi⯑derate grand mother:—Eve, indeed, may be ſaid to have inſtituted the order of vir⯑tuoſos, 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 deſcen⯑dant, [141] the curious Dr. Coral. This gentle⯑man conſidered, that if he neglected the preſent opportunity, he might never again be able to acquire the very ſcarce and mar⯑vellous 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 fa⯑vourite beauty in the royal ſeraglio; and the ſurgeon, on his return to Europe, had gratefully preſented it to the deceaſed vir⯑tuoſo, 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 ſuſpect⯑ing [142] that it might deprive his daughter of a huſband; taking, therefore, this ineſtimable little box, with a few more of the moſt pre⯑cious and portable articles in his new ac⯑quiſition, and giving the neceſſary direc⯑tions concerning ſome weighty cabinets of medals, and other more bulky rarities, he re-entered his poſt-chaiſe with that trium⯑phant feſtivity of mind, which can be con⯑ceived 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 par⯑ticularly 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 judg⯑ment in affairs of this nature, he pleaſed himſelf with the apparent facility of his de⯑ſign, and, under the lively influence of theſe agreeable thoughts, he arrived at his [143] 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 en⯑larged with rapture on his purchaſe, inti⯑mating 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. Bland⯑ford, he withdrew with that gentleman into his ſtudy, and very candidly told him, that [144] 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, inge⯑niouſly 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 ſplen⯑did viſions on the expected fortune of Miſs Coral; but the little box of poiſon, which [145] the Doctor had brought home, converted his daughter, in the eyes of Mr. Blandford, into a ſecond Pandora; and as that gentle⯑man 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 pur⯑ſued it through all the notes of high and artificial paſſion; which produced a ſu⯑perior 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 unu⯑ſually violent, that, from a ſudden impulſe of affectionate apprehenſion, ſhe entered the room, where the two gentlemen were en⯑gaged [146] 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 con⯑tained the lovely object of his tranſient adoration.

The approach or miſcarriage of an ex⯑pected 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 pi⯑tied, and the whole weight of popular re⯑proach 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 ridi⯑culed, perhaps, with ſome juſtice; as a man [147] of unrivalled benevolence and active cha⯑rity, 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 ſcru⯑ple 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 aſ⯑ſerted, that if her father had robbed her of ſo handſome a huſband, for the ſake of pur⯑chaſing 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 gen⯑tleneſs and purity of heart, that every at⯑tempt 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 obſer⯑vations on his conduct; and, perceiving [148] that he was deeply vexed by the late oc⯑currences, and the comments of the neigh⯑bourhood 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 eſtab⯑liſhment; and I have only to be thank⯑ful 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 fa⯑ther.’

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 [149] affectionate pride and delight. The juſtice of Theodora's obſervation was ſoon after⯑wards 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 abhor⯑rence 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 con⯑firmed 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 ob⯑ſerved him to contemplate with particular delight; ſhe gave an air of uncommon ele⯑gance to the arrangement of all the curio⯑ſities which he determined to keep; and, [150] 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, with⯑out diminution, through ſeveral ſucceeding years. I ſhould fill many pages in record⯑ing the ſeveral ingenious works and de⯑vices, 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 imper⯑ceptibly into an Old Maid, without enter⯑taining a wiſh for the more honourable title of a wife. Her mild and gentle pa⯑rent has ſecured himſelf from all the irk⯑ſome 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 [151] 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 at⯑tended by a lively friend, who loves to in⯑dulge 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 an⯑tiques.’ — ‘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 [152] the moſt capital rarity in his collection, and one that I always ſurvey with in⯑creaſing pleaſure and eſteem: ſhe is, in⯑deed, 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 ſtrik⯑ing qualities in her very uncommon cha⯑racter; 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 cir⯑cumſtances, 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 ho⯑nours and enjoyments, which are erro⯑neouſly ſuppoſed eſſential to the happi⯑neſs of woman.’

The condition of the autumnal virgin is ſo highly favourable to ingenious purſuits, [153] 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 de⯑ſerving 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 fu⯑rious Amazon, the heroic matron, the wan⯑ton poeteſs, and the voluptuous courtezan, are all immortalized in the works of many an ancient author; but even the mild and [154] amiable Plutarch, who has written ex⯑preſsly 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 philoſo⯑phical panegyric.

Athenaeus has left us many curious and amuſing particulars relating to thoſe illuſ⯑trious 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 cour⯑tezan, committed, I apprehend, to the fu⯑neral 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 ſub⯑ſequent volume, as I mean to take a gene⯑ral 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 im⯑mediately [155] 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 na⯑tive of Argos, and whoſe name was Tele⯑ſilla, labouring under a very infirm ſtate of health, conſulted an oracle for relief; the anſwer ſhe received was, a direction to de⯑vote herſelf to the Muſes, with an aſſurance that ſhe would find them the moſt ſucceſs⯑ful phyſicians. She obeyed this divine in⯑junction, and was ſo completely reſtored, that ſhe not only gained the higheſt honour [156] 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 re⯑pelling the invaders, though led to the aſſault by the two kings of Sparta, Cleo⯑menes and Demaratus. Whether Teleſilla was, at this juncture, an Old Maid or not, the candid Plutarch, who relates her ex⯑ploit in his treatiſe on the virtues of wo⯑men, 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 [157] loſe their petty maladies in a ſteady appli⯑cation to any elegant and feminine art, in which nature and education may have pre⯑pared them to excel. Our own age and country may furniſh me with more than one ſignal proof, that the divinities of Par⯑naſſus 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 ſer⯑vice I am writing; and it enhances the ob⯑ligations which the literary world is ſtill re⯑ceiving from theſe fair and delightful au⯑thors, 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, ſer⯑vice of Apollo and the Nine.

[158]While I am thus zealouſly recommend⯑ing 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 an⯑ceſtors wiſely ſet ſo much value. If the ladies of our time do not work with that patient aſſiduity, which our good grand⯑mothers exerted, they have happily ac⯑quired 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 jea⯑lous and arrogant rivalſhip of man.

The needle, indeed, has one great ad⯑vantage over the pencil and the lyre; it is not the mere inſtrument of decoration or amuſement; it can anſwer the moſt ordi⯑nary, as well as the moſt refined, purpoſes, and is equally conducive to utility and de⯑light. In commending to the ſiſterhood [159] all the employments of ingenuity, let me requeſt my fair reader to give the pre⯑ference to thoſe which are peculiarly be⯑coming. 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 ac⯑quaintance 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 play⯑ing on the pipe, which ſhe had juſt invented, ſhe was ſo diſguſted by the diſtortion which it produced in her countenance, that ſhe in⯑dignantly 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 extra⯑ordinary occaſions, on which the ſincere Old Maid may obtain ſignal honour by exerting her ingenuity in violation of the [160] 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, con⯑fined 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 ex⯑pedient, by which their chaſtity was pre⯑ſerved; they covered their boſoms with the ſlices of a putrified chicken. The conſe⯑quence was, that the licentious ſoldier, who ruſhed to their embrace, was repelled by the idea of peſtilent diſeaſe, and they hap⯑pily 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 pro⯑feſſional diſcourſe on the female frame, that it almoſt appeared an act of cruelty in na⯑ture to produce ſuch a being as woman. This remark may, indeed, be the natural exclamation of refined ſenſibility, in con⯑templating the various maladies to which a creature of ſuch delicate organs is ine⯑vitably expoſed; but if we take a more en⯑larged ſurvey of human exiſtence, we ſhall be far from diſcovering any juſt reaſon to arraign the benevolence of its provi⯑dent and gracious author. If the de⯑licacy 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 attrac⯑tive [162] quality; ſhe is a being, to uſe the for⯑cible 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 ad⯑miration and the laſting love of the more hardy ſex, than her ſuperior endurance, her mild and graceful ſubmiſſion to the com⯑mon evils of life. Nor is this the ſole ad⯑vantage ſhe derives from her gentle forti⯑tude; it is the prerogative of this lovely virtue to lighten the preſſure of all thoſe incorrigible evils, which it chearfully en⯑dures. The frame of man may be com⯑pared 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 [163] 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 per⯑ſecution with invincible fortitude: Saint Ambroſe, in his elaborate and pious trea⯑tiſe on virgins, records the reſolution of a fair diſciple of Pythagoras, who, being ſe⯑verely urged by a tyrant to reveal the ſe⯑crets 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 reli⯑gion, 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 ſuper⯑ſtition; if beauty and innocence are no [164] 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 mi⯑nute 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 atten⯑tively the frame of mind, which we may reaſonably attribute to theſe different ob⯑jects of compaſſion. During the torments of the virgin martyr, the fervour of enthu⯑ſiaſm, [165] and a paſſion for religious glory, are ſufficient to give new vigour to the ſoul, in proportion as the moſt excruciating out⯑rages are inflicted on the body; but what animating ideas can ariſe, to ſuſtain the re⯑ſolution of the more unhappy Old Maid, reduced from a ſtate of affluence and plea⯑ſure to poverty and contempt? reduced to a condition oppoſite to her wiſhes, un⯑friendly 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 for⯑titude; and I have, therefore, always re⯑garded my poor friend Conſtantia as a cha⯑racter 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 mer⯑chant, who, being left a widower at an early period of life, with two beautiful little girls, beſtowed upon them a very faſhionable and [166] 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 ad⯑dreſſes of a man, conſidered as her equal in rank and fortune; a man who was not, in⯑deed, 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 ad⯑mirer of his eldeſt daughter, and that he was alſo happy in having gained the young lady's good opinion; but that it was im⯑poſſible for him to marry, unleſs he re⯑ceived, at the time of his marriage, a parti⯑cular ſum, which he ſpecified. The wor⯑thy merchant was diſconcerted by this de⯑claration, 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 com⯑pliments to his gueſt; he ſaid, he ſhould be happy to ſettle a very good girl with a man of character, whom ſhe ſeemed to ap⯑prove; [167] but he was under a painful neceſ⯑ſity 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 diſco⯑vered it, ſhe flew to her father; ſhe thanked him for his parental attention to her inte⯑reſt, but, with the moſt eager and generous entreaties, conjured him not to let a miſ⯑taken 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 pro⯑mote [168] 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 mar⯑riage with ſuch genuine and pathetic elo⯑quence, 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 ab⯑ſolute 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, how⯑ever, he was greatly deceived: the poor [169] girl, indeed, attempted, at firſt, to diſplay a reſolution, which ſhe was unable to ſup⯑port; 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 amia⯑ble children, and elated with ſome new proſpects of commercial emolument, he re⯑ſolved, 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 re⯑turn ſoon reſtored the declining health of his miſtreſs; all difficulties were adjuſted by a pecuniary compliance with his de⯑mands; 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 exul⯑tation and delight, than that of the bride herſelf, who had riſen from a ſtate of de⯑jection [170] 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 diſco⯑vered 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 ta⯑lent of conferring happineſs on the objects of his regard. Though he had appeared, on their firſt acquaintance, a man of a cul⯑tivated underſtanding, and an elegant ad⯑dreſs, yet, under his own roof, he indulged himſelf in a peeviſh irritability of temper, and a paſſion for domeſtic argument, pecu⯑liarly painful to the quick feelings of Con⯑ſtantia, who, from the exquiſite ſenſibility of her frame, poſſeſſed an uncommon deli⯑cacy both of mind and manners. She ob⯑ſerved, however, with great ſatisfaction, and with no leſs ſurpriſe, that her ſiſter was [171] not equally hurt by this fretful infirmity of her huſband. Happily for her own com⯑fort, 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 acci⯑dentally 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 ſome⯑times dreaded, and ſometimes almoſt wiſhed, an abſolute ſeparation; but her lively ter⯑rors on this ſubject were gradually dimi⯑niſhed 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 re⯑ſume 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 belli⯑gerent parties themſelves; but I believe they always hurt a benevolent ſpectator. Conſtantia ſhortened her viſit. She departed, [172] 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 improve⯑ment 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 diſap⯑pointed. Her ſiſter was, in due time, de⯑livered of a child; but it proved a very ſickly infant, and ſoon expired. The af⯑flicted 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 de⯑cencies of mourning, took the earlieſt op⯑portunity 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 per⯑ſon from whom they have received great [173] obligations, which they do not mean to repay, he thought it proper to drop all in⯑tercourſe 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 re⯑lieved her from a painful neceſſity of prac⯑tiſing hypocritical civilities towards a rela⯑tion, whom in her heart ſhe deſpiſed. By the death of her ſiſter ſhe was very deeply afflicted, and this affliction was ſoon fol⯑lowed 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 condi⯑tion, in which he might leave his only ſur⯑viving child, he reproached himſelf inceſ⯑ſantly for the want of parental juſtice, in [174] 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 viva⯑city of her own; ſhe regulated all his do⯑meſtic expences with an aſſiduous but a tranquil oeconomy, and diſcovered a pecu⯑liar 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 ſick⯑neſs, terror, and misfortune. By the aſſiſt⯑ance of Conſtantia, he ſtruggled through ſe⯑veral 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 [175] 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, poſ⯑ſeſſing a comfortable jointure, and a no⯑table ſpirit of oeconomy, was enabled to make a very conſiderable figure in a coun⯑try 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 ac⯑quaintance. Having enjoyed from her youth a very hale conſtitution, and not having injured it by any fooliſh tender ex⯑ceſſes, 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 [176] be a great ſource both of health and amuſe⯑ment, 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 wiſh⯑ing 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 Con⯑ſtantia 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 ſup⯑ported them with a modeſt reſignation. There were circumſtances in her preſent ſi⯑tuation that galled her much more. Mrs. Braggard had an utter contempt, or rather a [177] 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, un⯑der 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 grati⯑tude and good-nature, wiſhed to accommo⯑date herſelf to the humour of every perſon from whom ſhe received obligation, aſſi⯑duouſly endeavoured to promote the diver⯑ſion of her aunt; but having little or no [178] pleaſure in cards, and being ſometimes un⯑able, 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 converſa⯑tion ended in a compromiſe, by which Con⯑ſtantia obtained the permiſſion of renoun⯑cing cards for ever, on the condition, which ſhe herſelf propoſed, of never touching her harpſichord again, as the ſound of that in⯑ſtrument was as unpleaſant to Mrs. Brag⯑gard, as the ſight of a card-table was to her unfortunate niece.

Conſtantia paſſed a conſiderable time in this [179] 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, enumerat⯑ing 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 per⯑fectly 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 mid⯑dle 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. [180] Upon this application, I immediately thought of Conſtantia. My acquaintance with her had commenced before the mar⯑riage of her ſiſter, and the uncommon ſpirit of generoſity, which ſhe exerted on that oc⯑caſion, made me very ambitious of cultivat⯑ing 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 intelli⯑gence. Many years had elapſed ſince we met, and they were years that were not cal⯑culated to improve either the perſon or [181] the manners of my unfortunate friend. To ſay truth, I perceived a very ſtriking alte⯑ration in both. It would be impoſſible, I believe, for the moſt accompliſhed of wo⯑men to exiſt in ſuch ſociety, as that to which Conſtantia had been condemned, with⯑out loſing a conſiderable portion of her ex⯑ternal graces. My friend appeared to me like a fine ſtatue, that had been long ex⯑poſed to all the injuries of bad weather; the beautiful poliſh was gone, but that ſu⯑perior 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 lan⯑guage 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 gra⯑titude, with which the amiable unhappy are inclined to conſider the petty kindneſſes of a friend. I wiſhed, indeed, to aſſiſt her, [182] 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 re⯑ceiving 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 [183] 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 in⯑tereſt of his younger daughter to the eſtab⯑liſhment of her ſiſter, the deſtitute Conſtantia would be at length reduced to a ſtate of ab⯑ſolute indigence and proſtitution. Under the preſſure of this idea, which amounted almoſt to frenzy, he had replied to her re⯑queſt. 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 male⯑diction was indeed, in this caſe, denounced againſt her in terms the moſt vehement [184] that the language of contending paſſions could poſſibly ſupply. Having rapidly peruſed this letter, I endeavoured to con⯑ſole my poor weeping friend, by repreſent⯑ing it as the wild effuſion of a very worthy but miſguided man, whoſe undeſerved cala⯑mities had impaired his reaſon. ‘My fa⯑ther,’ replied Conſtantia, ‘is now at reſt in his grave, and you, perhaps, may think it ſuperſtitious in me to pay ſo much re⯑gard to this diſtreſſing letter; but he never in his life laid any command upon me, which was not ſuggeſted by his af⯑fection, and, wretched as I am, I cannot be diſobedient even to his aſhes.’ Con⯑ſtantia, though ſhe ſhed many tears as ſhe ſpoke, yet ſpoke in the tone of a determined martyr. I repeated every argument that rea⯑ſon 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 [185] had an honeſt pride in her filial piety, I could no longer think of oppoſing it. In⯑ſtead, therefore, of recommending to her a new ſyſtem of life, I endeavoured to recon⯑cile her mind to her preſent ſituation. "Perhaps," replied Conſtantia, ‘no female orphan, who has been preſerved by pro⯑vidence from abſolute want, from in⯑famy 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 ſoli⯑tude; yet, if I were to give you a ge⯑nuine 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 do⯑meſtic ſcenes, and gave me ſo ſtrong a pic⯑ture [186] of a life deſtitute of all ſocial comfort, and harraſſed by ſuch an infinitude of diſ⯑piriting vexations, that I expreſſed a very ſincere admiration of the meek and modeſt fortitude which ſhe had diſplayed in ſup⯑porting it ſo long. ‘I have, indeed, ſuf⯑fered 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 hu⯑manity: 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 re⯑ceiving 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 [187] reply; it ſtruck me, indeed, as a lament⯑able 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 en⯑deavoured 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 [188] 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 Con⯑ſtantia 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 re⯑turned 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 [189] 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 qua⯑lities of her heart and mind, ſhe was periſh⯑ing 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 encou⯑raged 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 follow⯑ing billet:

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, Con⯑ſtantia 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 [191] 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 ſup⯑poſed 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 inter⯑view 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 [192] 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 friend⯑ſhip will, I hope, on reflection, conſider with a ſincere, though melancholy ſatiſ⯑faction. 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 com⯑fort, with which I now look on the ap⯑proaching 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 be⯑lieve, have beheld the near approaches of death in that clear and conſolatory light in which they now appear to me. My [193] 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 in⯑treat the favour of you,’ continued Con⯑ſtantia, with ſome heſitation, ‘to be my ex⯑ecutor? —My property,’ added ſhe, with a tender yet ghaſtly ſmile, ‘being all con⯑tained 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 bu⯑ried by the ſide of my dear, unhappy father.’ The tender thoughts that over⯑whelmed her, in mentioning her unfortu⯑nate parent, now rendered her utterance al⯑moſt 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 [194] aſſurance of my conſtant deſire to obey, at all times, every injunction of her's; and, obſerving to her, that her diſtemper ap⯑peared to be nothing but mere weakneſs of body, I expreſſed a hope of ſeeing her re⯑ſtored. But, looking ſtedfaſtly upon me, ſhe ſaid, after a pauſe of ſome moments, ‘Be not ſo unkind as to wiſh me to reco⯑ver; 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 Shake⯑ſpeare, pierced me to the ſoul; I was una⯑ble 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. In⯑deed, 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 [195] 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 im⯑perfect memorial of thy ſufferings and thy virtues! and, if the pages I am now writ⯑ing, [196] ſhould fall into the hand of any indi⯑gent 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 fa⯑vourable to the exerciſe of beneficent vir⯑tue. As ſhe is not encumbered with that load of houſhold care, and parental ſolici⯑tude, which is apt to cramp the munifi⯑cence 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 en⯑larged and apoſtolical ſenſe of it, I had [198] once the happineſs of knowing a ſingular and perfect image, in the perſon of a moſt amiable Old Maid. To a faithful deſcrip⯑tion of this lady, under the name of Cha⯑rieſſa, I ſhall devote this chapter, ſenſible that nothing which my own fancy or un⯑derſtanding 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, ren⯑dered, 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 ab⯑ſurd project of aggrandiſing an eldeſt ſon; [199] a project which was ſuggeſted to the old gentleman we are ſpeaking of, by his diſ⯑covery of a genealogical table, which un⯑luckily enabled him to trace his progeni⯑tors 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 unex⯑pected 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 re⯑turned from a tour to the continent, where he had been engaged in fixing his future [200] 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 quit⯑ting 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 [201] 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 inte⯑reſt which he uſed to exert upon Change, and, in the very moment when he was gal⯑loping 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, with⯑out conſidering how he might derive ſome degree of pecuniary or intereſted advantage from his acquaintance.

Before the 'ſquire aſſumed his rural cha⯑racter, Erinnis, the eldeſt of his two ſiſters, had married a gentleman of a diſtant county, who was reſpected as the deſcen⯑dant [202] 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, con⯑ceived a moſt lively attachment to the wife and children of her brother, whom ſhe al⯑ways regarded with ſuch affectionate confi⯑dence, 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 ad⯑vantage. He had perſuaded her, on his leaving London, to chuſe for her reſidence [203] 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 accompliſh⯑ing his wiſhes. As Charieſſa was in, that rank of life, in which matrimonial ap⯑proaches are made rather in a ſlow and ceremonious, than a rapid and ardent, man⯑ner, 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 in⯑ducing his innocent ſiſter to believe, that he moſt heartily wiſhed to ſee her well mar⯑ried, and by perſuading her, at the ſame time, to think highly of his penetration into the real characters of men—a penetra⯑tion which it is difficult for ſingle ladies to acquire—he brought the good and credu⯑lous Charieſſa to ſee all her lovers exactly [204] in that unfavourable point of view, in which his own intereſt and artifice con⯑trived to ſhew them. In conſequence of her affectionate reliance on his aſſiduous counſel, ſhe abſolutely rejected the over⯑tures of three gentlemen, who were gene⯑rally 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 fre⯑quently puniſhed with the heavy tax of ſo⯑licitude, concerning the many dangers to which they are commonly expoſed. It happened thus with our prudent and ſuc⯑ceſsful 'ſquire. He triumphed, indeed, by putting every ſuitor to flight, while Charieſſa reſided within the reach of his indefatigable attention; but there were pe⯑riods, 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 [205] 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 extra⯑ordinary women, whom nature, in a fit of perverſity, now and then produces, appa⯑rently 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 en⯑dowments 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 [206] of her ample dower; and ſecondly, to pro⯑vide 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 profu⯑ſion 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 gra⯑tified in ſuch an expectation, or whether nature, who had certainly given no mater⯑nal 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 [207] 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 chil⯑dren inſpired her, tempted the deſperate Erinnis to try the deluſive and dangerous aſſiſtance of quacks; who, lured by the pro⯑digality with which ſhe was willing to pay for what could not be purchaſed, fed her, for a long time, with freſh hopes of produ⯑cing, 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 [208] conſtantly retained a conſiderable portion of hypocritical cunning, and, however in⯑ſolent 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 pre⯑tended. 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 attach⯑ment of Erinnis to her ſiſter aroſe chiefly from a mercenary motive. Though Cha⯑rieſſa 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 awk⯑ward magnificence, and in many private articles of expence, was grown ſo needy and rapacious, that ſhe looked forward, [209] with all the eagerneſs of avarice, to the ſe⯑veral 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. Cha⯑rieſſa, 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 diſ⯑temper had juſt taken a favourable turn, the doctor very chearfully replied, ‘No, [210] 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 diſ⯑guiſing that fear under the maſk of affec⯑tion. 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 diſinte⯑reſted 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-diſ⯑ſembled 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 unſuſ⯑pecting temper made her receive, with an amiable credulity, all the laviſh endear⯑ments [211] 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 aſſi⯑duouſly 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 miſ⯑chievous effects of her capricious and vin⯑dictive ill-humour: ſhe raiſed and com⯑forted the poor knight, whenever ſhe ſaw him reduced to a painful ſtate of humilia⯑tion, by the frantic inſolence of his wife; ſhe conſoled and rewarded the innocent [212] 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 do⯑minion of a malevolent intoxicated fury; and whoever has ſeen her in this trying ſi⯑tuation, 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 plea⯑ſure in a houſe like that of Erinnis, a com⯑paſſionate affection to her ſiſter made her very exact in the ſtated ſeaſon of her vi⯑ſits: their duration always extended to ſix months, and ſometimes amounted to ſeven; a circumſtance which did not fail to in⯑creaſe the tormenting fears of her diſtant brother Trackum, who always contem⯑plated the return of Charieſſa into his neigh⯑bourhood, with that ſort of ſatisfaction, which is felt by the tamer of a bird, on [213] 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 de⯑parted on many of theſe diſtant viſits, and returned as often to her own manſion, with⯑out 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 habi⯑tation of Erinnis was as much avoided as the den of a ſavage, yet he trembled at the idea of the lovers that the unguarded Cha⯑rieſſa 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, [214] 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 ground⯑leſs 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 ma⯑trimonial 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 ef⯑fectually terminated by an event, which, though much more probable than the dreaded marriage of Charieſſa, was not ſo [215] 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 af⯑fection 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 chear⯑ful, 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 men⯑tal infirmities of that unhappy relation, with many years of undiſturbed tranquil⯑lity, [216] and the pureſt ſocial enjoyment. I had opportunities to contemplate her inte⯑reſting character at this ſeaſon of her life, and, as I believe her to have been, for ſe⯑veral years, one of the happieſt of mortals, I ſhall enlarge on the particular circum⯑ſtances 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 [217] 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 ſe⯑lected number of induſtrious poor. She had a ſpacious and chearful houſe, that pe⯑culiarly 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 neigh⯑bouring ſeat of her brother afforded her a young flouriſhing family, whom ſhe fre⯑quently ſurveyed with all the tender de⯑light 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 inſuffi⯑cient 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 ſim⯑plicity of heart, inexhauſtible benevolence, [218] and unaffected piety. It was by the con⯑ſtant yet modeſt exerciſe of theſe admirable qualities, that Charieſſa ſecured to herſelf, not only more felicity, but even more pub⯑lic regard and attention, than was obtained by ſome ſingle ladies of her neighbour⯑hood, 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 converſa⯑tion 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 diſ⯑guiſe her age, ſhe took a particular ſatisfac⯑tion 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, [219] without ſolicitation, a zealous promoter of their proſperity and pleaſure.

There was a period in her life, at which ſome of her uncandid neighbours conjec⯑tured, that the ſubtle vice of avarice was be⯑ginning to infect her; ſhe ſuddenly parted with her chariot, and reduced her eſtabliſh⯑ment, without aſſigning her reaſons for conduct ſo ſurpriſing. In a few years ſhe reſumed her equipage, and recom⯑menced 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 extrava⯑gance, 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 al⯑lotted to his aſſiſtance, during the years of the above-mentioned retrenchment, a full [220] 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 ſtrug⯑gles 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 ex⯑aſperating occaſions, from the lips of many a quiet ſpinſter, and of many a ſober ma⯑tron. The enmity of Charieſſa was as ge⯑nerous as her friendſhip; and, whenever [221] 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 diſ⯑countenance their circulation, or expoſe their abſurdity. Nor was this liberality of conduct without its reward: Charieſſa had the ſatisfaction of perceiving, that ſhe con⯑ciliated 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 com⯑poſure, and, in the cloſe of it, with that calm and chearful devotion which had diſtinguiſhed her life, ſhe reſigned her bene⯑volent [222] ſpirit to the great parent of all be⯑nevolence.

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, with⯑out beſtowing a ſigh of regret, or a ſen⯑tence of praiſe, on the merits of Charieſſa.

It was, undoubtedly, the warm and ge⯑nuine ſpirit of charity, in the ſcriptural comprehenſive ſenſe of that word, which gave ſo ſtrong an effect to the ſimple cha⯑racter 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 par⯑ticularly belong to her ſex and her ſtation, [223] we might almoſt ſay, that Charieſſa was an abſolute ſtranger: ſhe had no ear for mu⯑ſic, no taſte for painting, no talents for any elaborate and graceful works of the needle; ſhe had no paſſion for books, and had there⯑fore contracted ſo ſlender an acquaintance with polite literature, that, in common diſ⯑courſe, ſhe adopted many terms of provincial vulgarity: yet, ſo admirably did chearfulneſs and good-nature atone for all her defi⯑ciencies, 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 neighbour⯑hood, who, though infinitely more opulent, was not half ſo much reſpected, that Cha⯑rieſſa had a very weak underſtanding: but if to avoid all the little jealouſies, ſuſpi⯑cions, 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 [224] the moſt eſſential duties with regularity, devoid of oſtentation; if, in ſhort, to enjoy and to diſtribute the valuable, though tranſi⯑tory happineſs of this world, and at the ſame time to ſecure the permanent and in⯑eſtimable felicity of that which is an⯑nounced 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 hap⯑pineſs 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, in⯑deed, be allowed, that few ancient virgins poſſeſs the comfortable affluence of Cha⯑rieſſa; yet her excellence aroſe not from [225] external circumſtances; with a much hum⯑bler 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 vir⯑tue, which conduces moſt to human happi⯑neſs, equally within the reach and cultiva⯑tion 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 eſti⯑mated by the weight of what ſhe gives; and the mite of the indigent Old Maid, like that of the poor widow, may be ſupe⯑rior in real merit to the moſt ſplendid do⯑nation. Charity is a theme, on which the ſublimeſt ſpirits have ſo often and ſo ably diſcourſed; it is a virtue of ſuch acknow⯑ledged value and luſtre, that to ſpeak far⯑ther [226] in its praiſe may appear like an at⯑tempt

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 happen⯑ing to periſh, before it could properly ſettle on the flowers that ſhould afford its wealth, the vacant cell may unluckily become the [227] abode of that drone Indifference, or of the waſp Malignity. To ſpeak in leſs figura⯑tive language:—the want of proper objects to engage and employ that fund of tender⯑neſs, 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 appre⯑hend that, which originates in the heart, muſt be the moſt depreſſing. The pains of diſappointed hunger and thirſt are un⯑doubtedly 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 [228] imagined, were not charity, who has the power of ſupplying even the tendereſt rela⯑tion, and of giving children to the child⯑leſs —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 diſap⯑pointment, 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 [229] 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 ut⯑terly withered, and thoſe of friendſhip very thinly ſcattered—to make charity her fa⯑vourite 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 preca⯑rious 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 com⯑pliments on the deſign and tendency of my work in general, by which my vanity was more flattered than it may become me, as a [230] philoſopher, to confeſs, my friend proceeded in the following manner:— ‘There ap⯑pears 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 falſe⯑hood of that vulgar and illiberal preju⯑dice, 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, com⯑pletely 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 cele⯑brate ſome characters, who, without any tincture of Romiſh ſuperſtition, have de⯑voted [231] themſelves to a life of virginity, from the pure and ſublime motives of friendſhip and affection. I have my⯑ſelf,’ 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 Mele⯑tina. Eminent as they are in diſinte⯑reſted 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, de⯑voted 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 [232] 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 diſor⯑der. The poor girl haſtened home in the moſt painful anxiety, which was con⯑verted 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 [233] conſtitution, or the immediate care of Providence, preſerved the generous Me⯑letina 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 for⯑titude, 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 pro⯑tector, found only a poor babbling idiot; whoſe ſituation appeared to her the more deplorable, becauſe, though he had ut⯑terly loſt a ſolid and a brilliant under⯑ſtanding, he ſeemed to retain all his be⯑nevolent affections. By one peculiarity which attended him, ſhe was ſingularly affected; and, perhaps, it made her re⯑ſolve on the extraordinary ſacrifice, which ſhe has offered to his calamity. The pe⯑culiarity I ſpeak of was this: he not only diſcovered great ſatisfaction in the ſight of his ſiſter, though utterly unable to [234] 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 Mele⯑tina. 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 ex⯑periments did not ſucceed; but two me⯑dical friends of Meletina, who took a ge⯑nerous intereſt in her health and happi⯑neſs, engaged to correct this peculiarity in her poor ſenſeleſs brother, and con⯑vinced 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 unſuc⯑ceſsful attempts to correct the obſtinate habit of the affectionate idiot; ſhe deter⯑mined [235] to irritate him no farther, but to make an entire ſacrifice of her own con⯑venience and pleaſure to the tranquillity of this unfortunate being. She felt a tender and melancholy delight in pro⯑moting his peace and comfort; but the time now arrived, in which the force and purity of her ſiſterly attachment was ex⯑poſed 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 fa⯑mily 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 af⯑fection; but, after they had given to each other a long and circumſtantial account [236] 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 enu⯑merated the many reaſons that inclined her to ſuch a painful ſacrifice, with all the ſimple and pathetic eloquence of an⯑gelic virtue. Her lover, who poſſeſſed that melting tenderneſs of heart, which often accompanies heroic courage, liſ⯑tened to all her arguments with a ſilent though paſſionate admiration, and, inſtead of attempting to detach her thoughts from the deplorable condition of her bro⯑ther, 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 [237] Meletina. For ſome time ſhe could an⯑ſwer 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 af⯑fectionate young ſoldier endeavoured to ſhake her reſolution, by every argument that the truth and ardour of his paſſion [238] could poſſibly ſuggeſt. Meletina was in⯑flexible; 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 ac⯑ceptance of that hand, which ſhe now re⯑jected only from the juſt ſcruples of ge⯑nuine 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, how⯑ever, whether his paſſion was diminiſhed by its deſpair of being gratified, or whe⯑ther 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 [239] diſquietude, had not the chance of war put an early period to his life: a muſket⯑ball 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 him⯑ſelf, conſider both the time and the man⯑ner 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 ap⯑parel. Nor is there any oftentation in this peculiarity of her dreſs; for her at⯑tendance on her brother is ſtill ſo uni⯑form, 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 affec⯑tionate caſt of her temper, ſhe takes a [240] 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 chear⯑ful. 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 un⯑reſerved, and has a peculiar pleaſure in talking over the extraordinary occur⯑rences of her early life. This circle, in⯑deed, is ſmall, though it is juſtly eſteemed an honour to ſhare the friendſhip of Me⯑letina, and thoſe who poſſeſs it have the happineſs of knowing, perhaps, the moſt [241] ſingular and moſt intereſting of ancient virgins.’

‘If any one might diſpute this pre-emi⯑nence 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 wor⯑thy 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 mode⯑rate fortune and a numerous family. An⯑gelica grew up in the moſt affectionate intimacy with all the children of her ex⯑cellent 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 [242] countenance and a majeſtic perſon. An⯑gelica 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 ani⯑mated 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 beau⯑tiful 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 man⯑ners, to whom we will give the name of Eumenes, became a very aſſiduous vi⯑ſiter 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 at⯑tentive to Angelica, and often alone with [243] 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 affec⯑tion, had too much confidence in his ward to apprehend ſuch an event: but he began to think, that a ſerious and mu⯑tual 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 aſſi⯑duity, and ſeemed to court the ſociety of Angelica. The old gentleman was, how⯑ever, miſtaken in one part of his conjec⯑ture; for Eumenes only ſought the com⯑pany 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 con⯑ceived for him the tendereſt affection; which, with her uſual frankneſs, ſhe de⯑termined [244] 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 con⯑verſe in private with her father on its important contents. The letter was from Eumenes. It contained a paſſionate de⯑claration of his attachment to Fauſtina, and a very romantic plan to facilitate their ſpeedy marriage. What the feel⯑ings 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 [245] to make his agitated daughter ſmile again, by treating the propoſal as, a jeſt, and de⯑claring that he would conſent to the union of two tender romantic lovers, as ſoon as they could marry without a pro⯑ſpect 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 Eu⯑menes and Fauſtina; ſhe interceded for their being immediately allowed to form the happineſs of each other, and, to ob⯑viate 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 admira⯑tion and ridicule; Eumenes and Fauſtina regarded it with the moſt ſerious grati⯑tude, but at the ſame time rejected the too generous offer, with a reſolution ſo noble and ſincere, that it increaſed the ar⯑dent [246] deſire which Angelica felt, to make her own eaſy fortune the ſole inſtrument of their general happineſs: but all her li⯑beral efforts for this purpoſe were as libe⯑rally 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 Eu⯑menes, 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 appre⯑hend 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 treſ⯑paſs [247] on the rules of oeconomical diſcre⯑tion. Eumenes was unexpectedly pre⯑ſented to one of the moſt valuable livings in the kingdom, by a nobleman, who pro⯑feſſed 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 de⯑light, 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 [248] higheſt pleaſure that human life can be⯑ſtow, in the ſhare which her friends al⯑lowed 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 in⯑tercourſe with her, they continued to re⯑gard 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:’

‘This generous Old Maid diſplayed alſo in her will, which ſhe compoſed her⯑ſelf, many touching marks of her affec⯑tionate ſpirit.—The houſe in which ſhe reſided, ſhe left as a little legacy to Fauſtina, and requeſted her friends to re⯑move [259] into it upon her deceaſe, that Fauſtina might not be expoſed to a more painful removal, if ſhe ſhould hap⯑pen to ſurvive her huſband. As ſhe knew that a compliance with this requeſt would lead her friends into ſome depreſ⯑ſive ſenſations, ſhe contrived to furniſh them with an engaging though melan⯑choly occupation, by requeſting them to build a kind of monument to herſelf, under the form of a little temple to Friend⯑ſhip, on a favourite ſpot in the garden.’

‘Nothing, perhaps, can equal the un⯑common 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 Eu⯑menes ſeem to think no pleaſure equal to that of doing juſtice to her merit, and proclaiming their unexampled obligations to their departed friend.’

[260]SUCH is the hiſtory of theſe two amiable ancient virgins, which I have now given to my reader, with the ſanction of the bene⯑volent critic, to whom we are indebted for an acquaintance with ſuch intereſting vir⯑tue. 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 pre⯑ſented to us many ſimilar examples of ten⯑der magnanimity.

But, as I have remarked already, the ſiſterhood has unhappily had no herald to immortaliſe their perfections, except, in⯑deed, 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 pe⯑riod. [261] I ſhall ſpeak at large in the ſubſequent part of this Eſſay. I ſhall there, to the ut⯑moſt of my abilities, collect all the ſcatter⯑ed rays of light, with which antiquity can ſupply me, for the illuſtration of my inte⯑reſting ſubject. To rival the curious re⯑ſearches of our preſent moſt celebrated an⯑tiquarians, 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.