sixth sense. We have left a race of creatures, whose love is as
delicate and affectionate as the passion which an alderman feels
for a turtle. We find ourselves among beings, whose love is a
purely disinterested emotion,--a loyalty extending to passive
obedience,--a religion, like that of the Quietists, unsupported
by any sanction of hope or fear. We see nothing but despotism
without power, and sacrifices without compensation.

We will give a few instances. In Aurengzebe, Arimant, governor
of Agra, falls in love with his prisoner Indamora. She rejects
his suit with scorn; but assures him that she shall make great
use of her power over him. He threatens to be angry. She
answers, very coolly:

"Do not: your anger, like your love, is vain:
Whene'er I please, you must be pleased again.
Knowing what power I have your will to bend,
I'll use it; for I need just such a friend."

This is no idle menace. She soon brings a letter addressed to
his rival,--orders him to read it,--asks him whether he thinks it
sufficiently tender,--and finally commands him to carry it
himself. Such tyranny as this, it may be thought, would justify
resistance. Arimant does indeed venture to remonstrate:--

"This fatal paper rather let me tear,
Than, like Bellerophon, my sentence bear."

The answer of the lady is incomparable:--