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In Continuation.

My good father-in-law being &longs;o
&longs;trenuous in proving the eligibility of reading
&longs;atire, had &longs;pun out, what he called his
new idea, to &longs;uch a metaphyfical nicety, that
he unhappily dimini&longs;hed the number of his
hearers; for Mrs. Bourn, to whom he directed his di&longs;cour&longs;e, had taken down a book
and was reading to her&longs;elf, and Mi&longs;s was
diverting her&longs;elf with the cuts in Gay's Fables.

A CONSIDERABLE &longs;ilence en&longs;ued, which
Worthy fir&longs;t broke, by a&longs;king Mrs. Bouru
what book &longs;he had in her hand. Every

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one's attention was alarmed at this important
enquiry. Mrs. Bourn, with little difficulty,
found the title page, and began to
read, “A Sentimental Journey through France
and Italy, by Mr. Yorick.”

“I DO not like the title,” &longs;aid Mi&longs;s Bourn.

“WHY, my dear!” apo&longs;trophized the
mother, “you are mi&longs;taken—it is a very famous
book.”

“WHY, my dear!” retorted the daughter,
“It is &longs;entimental—I abominate every
thing that is &longs;entimental—it is &longs;o unfashionable
too.”

“I NEVER knew before,” &longs;aid Mr.
Holmes, “that wit was &longs;ubject to the caprice
of fa&longs;hion.”

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“WHY 'Squire Biily,” returned Mi&longs;s,
“who is ju&longs;t arrived from the centre of politeness
and fa&longs;hion, &longs;ays the bettermo&longs;t genil
never read any &longs;entimental books—&longs;o you
&longs;ee &longs;entiment is out of date.”

THE company rofe to go out.—

“SENTIMENT out of date!” cries Worthy,
repeating the words of Mi&longs;s Bourn, and
taking the book from her mother, as &longs;he
walked towards the door—“Sentiment out
of date—alas! poor Yorick—may thy pages
never be foiled by the fingers of prejudice.”
He continued his addre&longs;s to the book, as they
went out, in the &longs;ame Shandean tone—“The&longs;e
anti&longs;entimentali&longs;ts would bani&longs;h thee from
the &longs;ociety of all books! Unto what a pitiful
&longs;ize are the race of readers dwindled!

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Surely the&longs;e antis have no more to do with thee,
than the gods of the Canaanites—In character and under&longs;tanding they are alike—eyes
have they, but they &longs;ee not—ears have they,
but they hear not, neither is there any knowledge
to be found in them.” “It is hardly
worth while to beat it into them,” &longs;aid
my father-in-law, “&longs;o let us follow the company.”

WE did &longs;o—they walked towards the
hou&longs;e, and Worthy and my&longs;elf brought up
the rear.

I COULD not but remark, as we went on,
that Mi&longs;s Bourn had &longs;poken the &longs;entiments
of many of her &longs;ex;—“and whence,” &longs;aid
I to Worthy, “ari&longs;es this dete&longs;tation of books
in &longs;ome of us females, and why are they

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enemies to any thing that may be called sentiment
and conver&longs;ation: I grant it often
happens there is &longs;uch rapidity of &longs;peeches that
one may be at a lo&longs;s to di&longs;tingui&longs;h the speakers;
but why is there &longs;uch a calm &longs;ilence,
&longs;hould an unfortunate &longs;entiment inadvertantly—

“I WILL tell you,” interrupted he, “You
all read, and it is from the books which engage
your attention, that you generally imbibe
your ideas of the principal &longs;ubjects discussed
in company—now, the books which
employ your hours of &longs;tudy, happen to be
Novels; and the &longs;ubjects contained in the&longs;e
Novels are commonly confined to dre&longs;s, balls,
vi&longs;iting, and the like edifying topicks; does it
not follow, that the&longs;e mu&longs;t be the &longs;ubjects

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of your conver&longs;ation? I will not di&longs;pute
whether the Novel makes the woman, or the
woman makes the Novel; or whether they
are written to engage your attention, or
flatter your vanity. I believe the re&longs;ult will
&longs;hew they depend, in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure, upon
each other; and an uninformed woman,
by reading them, only augments the number
of her futile ideas. The female mind, notwithstanding,
is competent to any ta&longs;k, and the
accompli&longs;hments of an elegant woman depend
on a proper cultivation of her intelligent
powers; a barrennefs—a &longs;terility of
conver&longs;ation—immediately di&longs;covers where
this cultivation is wanting.”

“GIVE me leave,” an&longs;wered I, “to efpouse
the cau&longs;e of this cla&longs;s of females. Tell

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me candidly, Mr. Worthy, whether that insipid
flattery, perhaps &longs;acrificed at the expense
of truth, does not mi&longs;guide many of
us into erroneous paths? You declare we
are hand&longs;ome—and your conduct demonstrates
you to be more &longs;olicitous for the possession
of beautiful, than of mental charms.
Hence is the deluded female per&longs;uaded of
the force of her fa&longs;cinating powers, and
vainly imagines one glance of her eye sufficient
to reduce a million of hearts whenever
&longs;he choo&longs;es: Her aims, therefore, are
confined to the decoration of her per&longs;on, and
her views centre &longs;olely in fini&longs;hing her&longs;elf in
tho&longs;e attractive, allpowerful graces, with
which you declare your&longs;elves to be enchanted.
How then are they to be cen&longs;ured for neglecting
to improve, and to adorn the mind,

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when your adulation diverts their attention
to an external object?”

“I JOIN with you,” replied Worthy, “in
calling it in&longs;ipid flattery—and the vain coxcomb,
the powdered beau, the in&longs;ignificant
petit maitre, are tho&longs;e who make u&longs;e of it.
Will women of real merit, and &longs;ound &longs;en&longs;e,
believe, what is &longs;aid by them to be their real
&longs;entiments?—No—There mu&longs;t be a congeniality
in the minds of tho&longs;e who give and
receive flattery—Has not the vain coquette
as much inclination to be thought a godde&longs;s,
as the empty admirer to declare her &longs;o?

“FLATTERY is become a kind of epidemical
di&longs;temper; many run into it, perhaps,
without de&longs;igning it, or only through civility.
There are &longs;ome women who expect it—

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who dre&longs;s to be admired—and who deem it
a mark of impolitene&longs;s and rudene&longs;s in men,
who do not pay them the tribute of compliment
and adulation. A man of &longs;en&longs;e may
comply with their expectation—he will &longs;till
think them agreeable playthings, to divert
him at an hour of relaxation; but I cannot
&longs;uppo&longs;e he will entertain any ferious
thoughts of a more permanent connexion.

“MAY we not conclude the&longs;e things to
be productive of many evils that happen in
&longs;ociety—do they not frighten all &longs;entiment
from conver&longs;ation—introduce affectation—
pride—envy—clande&longs;tine marriages—elopements—
divi&longs;ion of families—and ultimately
terminate in the ruin of very many innocent,
but inconfiderate females?”

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BY this time we had got into the hou&longs;e,
and our company &longs;oon after departed, leaving
us at full lei&longs;ure to contemplate on the
many wrong ideas entertained, and fallacious
&longs;teps pur&longs;ued by the generality of mankind,
in the &longs;entimental part of female education.

Adieu!