No one would surely speak with levity of human sorrows; and it is impossible not to revere the grief which is excited by the irreparable loss of relatives and friends. Yet there was something in the dogmas and maxims of the author of P⸺ J⸺, so very extraordinary, representing so contemptuously the tender ties of nature, and what have hitherto been regarded as the strong obligations of duty, that his conduct after his domestic privation, necessarily excited some degree of wonder.
There were so many vulnerable parts in Mrs. W.’s character and conduct, the principles which she avowed, and the system of education which she recommended: the maxims which she vindicated, were so dangerous to female virtue, and so obnoxious to the universal sentiments of the wise and good, that on her decease, much and unreserved discussion concerning her took place. The result was undoubtedly not very honourable to her fair fame as a woman, whatever it might be to her reputation as an author. To have been consistent with himself, and with his writings, the philosopher might have been expected to have disregarded all these animadversions as unworthy of his notice, and beneath the dignity of his character. Far otherwise. Nature, it may be presumed, triumphed over philosophy. He was the victim of rage and resentment. He who had contended that man was a mere machine, that every thing which happens is the result of absolute necessity, that gratitude, the relative affections, parental love, filial duty, &c. are vices—bounced and raved at the “calumnies which the virulence of a party spirit hitherto unexampled, had, on the occasion of her death, poured upon the memory of the most excellent and admirable woman that it was ever his lot to know.” He went even further still. Not satisfied with his own weapons, he employed those of certain intemperate and injudicious friends, whose skill and adroitness in wielding them were not only inferior to his own, but who exposed their own inefficiency, as well as the weakness of the cause they so precipitately undertook to defend.
The following character of this extraordinary woman appeared not long after her death, and with this, the article relating to her may not improperly conclude.
“She was a woman of strong intellect, and of ungovernable passions. To the latter, when once she had given the reins, she seems to have yielded on all occasions with little scruple, and as little delicacy. She appears in the strongest sense a voluptuary and sensualist, but without refinement. We compassionate her errors, and respect her talents, but our compassion is lessened by the mischievous tendency of her doctrines and example; and our respect is certainly not extended or improved, by her exclaiming against prejudices, of some of the most dangerous of which, she was herself perpetually the victim, by her praises of virtue, the sanctity of which she habitually violated, and by her pretences to philosophy, whose real mysteries she did not understand, and the dignity of which, in various instances, she sullied and disgraced.”
Multa in muliebrem levitatem cœpit jactare. Quam facile adamarent. Quam cito etiam Philorum obliviscerentur. Nullamque esse feminam tam pudicam, quæ non peregrina usque ad furorem averteretur.
CHAPTER LIII.
Of the same school, and not improbably a proselyte to the same doctrines, was
H⸺ M⸺ W⸺.
What and how great a contrast is exhibited between this female’s first appearance on the theatre of the public, and her last fatal ending! Lively, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable, of pleasing person, simple and gentle manners, without pride, or asserting any pretensions to distinction, she received the respect and attention of many of the most considerable persons in this country, both for talent and for rank. What is she now? If she lives, (and whether she does or not, few know, and nobody cares) she is a wanderer—an exile, unnoticed and unknown.