Suppoſing, for a moment, that the ſoul is not immortal, and that man was only created for the preſent ſcene,—I think we ſhould have reaſon to complain that love, infantile fondneſs, ever grew inſipid and pallid upon the ſenſe. Let us eat, drink, and love, for to-morrow we die, would be, in fact, the language of reaſon, the morality of life; and who but a fool would part with a reality for a fleeting ſhadow? But, if awed by obſerving the improvable powers of the mind, we disdain to confine our wiſhes or thoughts to ſuch a comparatively mean field of action; that only appears grand and important, as it is connected with a boundleſs proſpect and ſublime hopes, what neceſſity is there for falſehood in conduct, and why muſt the sacred majeſty of truth be violated to detain a deceitful good that ſaps the very foundation of virtue? Why muſt the female mind be tainted by coquetiſh arts to gratify the ſenſualiſt, and prevent love from ſubſiding into friendſhip, or compaſſionate tenderneſs, when there are not qualities on which friendship can be built? Let the honeſt heart ſhew itſelf, and reaſon teach paſſion to submit to neceſſity; or, let the dignified purſuit of virtue and knowledge raiſe the mind above thoſe emotions which rather imbitter than ſweeten the cup of life, when they are not reſtrained within due bounds.
I do not mean to allude to the romantic paſſion, which is the concomitant of genius.—Who can clip its wing? But that grand paſſion not proportioned to the puny enjoyments of life, is only true to the ſentiment, and feeds on itſelf. The paſſions which have been celebrated for
their