by all corrupters, from old Satan, to the lowest of his servants.
Yet, to speak in the language of a person I am bound to honour, he is
deemed a prudent man; that is to say a good manager.

Then I cannot but confess, that now I like not anybody better,
whatever I did once.

He is no fox-hunter: he keeps a pack indeed; but prefers not his
hounds to his fellow-creatures. No bad sign for a wife, I own. He
loves his horse; but dislikes racing in a gaming way, as well as all
sorts of gaming. Then he is sober; modest; they say, virtuous; in
short, has qualities that mothers would be fond of in a husband for
their daughters; and for which perhaps their daughters would be the
happier could they judge as well for themselves, as experience
possibly may teach them to judge for their future daughters.

Nevertheless, to own the truth, I cannot say I love the man: nor, I
believe, ever shall.

Strange! that these sober fellows cannot have a decent sprightliness,
a modest assurance with them! Something debonnaire; which need not be
separated from that awe and reverence, when they address a woman,
which should shew the ardour of their passion, rather than the
sheepishness of their nature; for who knows not that love delights in
taming the lion-hearted? That those of the sex, who are most
conscious of their own defect in point of courage, naturally require,
and therefore as naturally prefer, the man who has most of it, as the
most able to give them the requisite protection? That the greater
their own cowardice, as it would be called in a man, the greater is
their delight in subjects of heroism? As may be observed in their