to the same theme from Dublin, April 1779: “As to Mecklenburgh Street, you are quite wide of the mark. In spite of all your devotees, I am still of opinion that it is in the power of a man of resolution to be in or out of love, just as he thinks proper. The difficulty does not lie in succeeding in the attempt, but in making it. I am glad, however, that your resolution is not put to the test, and that the lady remains upon this side (Ireland) of the water.”
Poor Malone! what sympathy can the devoted but unlucky lover expect from his own, the coarser part of creation? Smiles, perhaps, or sneers, or other provoking proofs of indifference. They are too busy in matters of profit or worldly advancement for those deeper and unseen emotions which once shook their own firmness, but have been forgotten or thrown off as the folly of youth. But how different is it with woman! From her the sufferer may expect gentleness, kindness, and sympathy to soothe those feelings which, perhaps, cannot be healed. She can understand the distractions which encumber such a state. The life of man is business—to earn the bread he eats, or keep the station in society which he holds. The life of a woman is love—love for her parents, her husband, her children; the indulgence in short of those softer and devoted feelings which make her the comforter and civilizer of human life. And upon her, in the persons of two most attached sisters, devolved by unwearied assiduity the duty of cheering the sorrows of an amiable brother.
