[In the following review, the anonymous critic celebrates Memoirs of Modern Philosophers as a well-written, humorous, and effective tool for the anti-Jacobin cause. The reviewer later admits that he did not know the author's identity until halfway through writing the review.]

We will endeavour to offer to our readers something like an outline of the story of this excellent work; in doing which we shall occasionally make such extracts as will afford them an opportunity of forming their own judgment, on what we esteem the first novel of the day.

Bridgetina Botherim, daughter of the late Rector of—, is the heroine of the tale. She is described as one of those young ladies, who, disregarding all the old-fashioned female excellencies by which the women of this country have been so eminently distinguished, has devoted herself to the study and practice of Godwinian and Wolstonecraftian philosophy.

In the midst of a party, collected at the house of Mrs. Botherim, rushes Mr. Glib, the philosophizing bookseller of the village, who—

skipping at once up to Bridgetina, ‘Good news!’ cried he, ‘citizen Miss. Glorious news! We shall have rare talking now! There is Mr. Myope, and the Goddess of Reason, and Mr. Vallaton, all come down upon the top of the heavy coach. There they are at my house taking a snack, all as hungry as so many cormorants. I was in such a hurry to tell you, that I left the shop to take care of itself, and off I ran. Just as I was at the door, up comes a wench for the patent styptic for Mr. Plane, the carpenter, who, she said, had met with a doleful accident—but would not go back. Bid him exert his energies, my dear, said I: that's it! energies do all! And off I came, as you see, without gartering my stockings. But never mind, come along. The Goddess of Reason longs to give you the fraternal embrace; faith, and a comely wench she is, that's certain. But let us be off, I have not a moment to spare, and I can't go without you.’

‘Mr. Myope! and the Goddess of Reason! and Mr. Vallaton! and all!’ exclaimed Bridgetina, ‘you make me too happy! Lead me to the enlightened groupe,’ continued she, rising from her chair, or rather getting off it, (for as she was rather taller sitting than standing, she could not well be said to rise when she assumed the latter posture). ‘Lead me to the enlightened groupe; I would not lose a moment of their converse for the world; the injury would be incalculable.’

Mrs. Botherim, observing her daughter's motion, laid down the tea-pot to expostulate.

‘You would not go now, sure, my dear?’ cried she; ‘you cannot possibly think of leaving this here company, who are all of our own inwiting: and who, though they may not be quite so learned in that there philosophy, seeing that it is but a new sort of a thing, as a body may say; yet you know, my dear, it would be one of the most rudest things in the world to run away from them.’

To this expostulation, which was made in a low voice, Bridgetina replied aloud—

‘And do you think I am now at liberty to remain here? I wonder, mamma, how you can speak so ridiculously? Have I not told you again and again, that I am under the necessity of preferring the motive that is most preferable? The company, if they are not very ignorant indeed, must know that my going instantly to Mr. Glib's is a link in the glorious chain of causation, generated in eternity, and which binds me now to act exactly as I do.’ So saying, she put her arm in Mr. Glib's, and hurried off as fast as the shortness of her legs would permit.

At Mr. Glib's she finds Mr. Myope, and Mr. Vallaton, two steady promoters of the new system of things; the former accompanied by the strumpet who officiated at Paris as the Goddess of Reason; the latter, whom we presume is intended for the hero of the story, appears to be attracted into the country by his passion for the person, or property, or both, of Julia Delmond, the daughter of an officer in the neighbourhood, whose affections he has gained by first perverting her understanding. As this young lady makes a melancholy and prominent figure in the work, we give the following extract, as characteristic of her, as well as off Vallaton. During a conversation between Glib and the latter,

Julia herself, the charming Julia, appeared. Never did she look more lovely. The small straw hat which was carelessly tied under her chin with a bow of pink ribbons, had been so far driven back by the wind, as to display the auburn ringlets that in profusion played upon her lovely cheeks; those cheeks, where the animated bloom of nature set all poetical comparison at defiance. Mr. Vallaton was the last person to whom she addressed herself; but the blush that overspread her countenance, plainly denoted that he was not the most indifferent to her heart. Mr. Vallaton likewise reddened; but who, so little skilled in physiognomy as not to have perceived, in the different shades of the colour that overspread each countenance, the difference of the sensation by which it was produced? Whilst the pleasure of beholding the object of an innocent affection heightened the glow in the cheek of modesty, and sweetly sparkled in the eye; the passions that flushed the countenance of the deep designer, were evidently of far grosser birth.

The fraternal embrace (that laudable institution, and most excellent contrivance for banishing all reserve betwixt the sexes) being over, Mr. Vallaton began to complain, in exaggerated terms, of the length of time she had kept him in suspense about her coming.

‘I could not get away sooner, indeed,’ cried Julia, eager to justify herself from the charge of unkindness. ‘You know,’ continued she, ‘the general bad state of my father's health; but he has been indisposed even more than usual for this last fortnight: and when he is ill, nothing appears to soothe his pain so much as my reading to him; and knowing the pleasure it affords him, I cannot possibly be so undutiful as to deprive him of it.’

‘Duty!’ repeated Mr. Vallaton, ‘How can a mind so enlightened as Julia's talk of duty, that bugbear of the ignorant? I would almost as soon hear you talk of gratitude.’

‘Indeed,’ answered Julia, ‘I cannot help thinking that there is some regard due to duty. You know how kind my father has ever been to me. My mother, too; whose very soul seems wrapt up in me, who knows no pleasure but in promoting mine. Is it possible that I do not owe them some duty? Gratitude you have convinced me is out of the question; but indeed I cannot help thinking that there is in this case something due to duty.’

‘And is this,’ retorted Mr. Vallaton, in a chiding tone, ‘is this all the progress you have made in the new philosophy?¹ Do you not know, that duty is an expression merely implying the mode in which any being may be best employed for the general good? And how, I pray you, does your humouring these old people conduce to that great purpose? Ah, Julia! there are other methods in which you might employ your time far more beneficially.’

By such a wretch was the wretched, unsuspecting, Julia betrayed to ruin, misery, and death; but we will not anticipate. His history, to this time of his appearance, is given with great ability, and proves him in a higher degree worthy the appellation of an adept in modern philosophy.

Vallaton having informed Julia that he was found, by the lady who had educated him, “in a white basket, lined with quilted pink satin,” and that “on his infant robes” were embroidered the letters A. V. she conceives the romantic idea of introducing him to General Villers and his lady, as their long lost son. To accomplish this, she proposes to her father that she should call upon the General, and secretly determines within herself to take Vallaton with her. This scheme, to the great discomfiture of Julia, ends as might be expected, in the detection of Vallaton by one of the party at the General's, who declares him to have exhibited formerly in the character of a hair-dresser. This unfortunate discovery occasions them immediately to quit the house; and, in driving her home, the philosopher's mind being too deeply engaged to attend to his horse, he overturns the chair, by which accident both are so bruised as to be under the necessity of being carried to a farmhouse. Here we must leave them, to introduce to our readers some other characters of a different complexion, and these are Dr. Orwell, the rector of—, and his daughters, and Mr. Sydney the dissenting minister, residing in the same place, and his son Dr. Henry Sydney, a young physician. These excellent people strictly performing the duties of religion and morality are admirably contrasted, with the unprincipled disciples of Godwin and his wife. Henry Sydney is the lover of Harriet Orwell, and is beloved by her: Bridgetina is, also, to make the character of a true female citizen complete, anxiously desirous to be useful, and sighs in her turn for Henry. Her various schemes and amorous advances for the accomplishment of her purpose form a most interesting and amusing portion of the work.

In a visit of Mrs. Botherim and Bridgetina to Mr. Sydney's, where the whole party are met, there is some well supported conversation in which the heroine shines with her usual lustre. Walking afterwards into the hay-field, “where every face wore the appearance of chearfulness and contentment, Bridgetina thus addresses the happy rustics:

‘Miserable wretches!’ exclaimed Bridgetina; ‘how doth the injustice under which you groan, generate the spirit of virtuous indignation in the breasts of the enlightened.’

‘What d'ye say, Miss?’ said an old man who imagined her eyes were directed toward him, though in reality she was stedfastly looking in Henry's face—‘What d'ye say, Miss,’ repeated he, ‘about any one's being miserable?’

‘I say,’ returned Bridgetina, ‘that you ought to be truly wretched.’

‘And why so, Miss? what has I done to deserve to be wretched? I works as hardly, and I gets as good wages, as any man in the parish; my wife has good health, and we never lost a child. What should make me wretched?’

‘Miserable depravity!’ cried Bridgetina, ‘how abject that mind which can boast of its degradation! Rejoice in receiving wages! No wonder that gratitude, that base and immoral principle, should be harboured in such a breast!’

‘Why, Miss,’ returned the man, considerably irritated by her harangue, ‘I would have you to know as how that I don't understand being made game of; and if you mean for to say that I have no gratitude, I defy your malice. I am as grateful for a good turn as any man living. I would go ten miles at midnight upon my bare feet to serve young Mr. Sydney there, who saved my poor Tommy's life in the small-pox: poor fellow, he's remembers it still—don't ye Tommy? Aye that a does; and if thou ever forgets it thou art no true son of thy father's.’

Here Mrs. Martha interposed, and by a few kind words allayed the resentment which the declamation of Bridgetina had enkindled. She then invited our heroine to walk with her, and as soon as they were out of the hearing of the labourers, asked her what was her motive for thinking that poor man so miserable?

‘And are not all miserable?’ said Bridgetina. ‘Are not all who live in this deplorable state of distempered civilization miserable, and wretched, and unhappy?’

It is not necessary to say that these stupid plagiarisms of the heroine are combated by Mrs. Martha, the sister of Dr. Orwell, with sound sense, and irrefutable argument.

Having thus shortly given our readers some idea of the other personages of the drama, we return to Julia, who, attended by Dr. Sydney, and nursed by Harriet Orwell, is confined at the farm-house to which she was at first carried—happy had it been for her had a broken limb been the only evil brought upon her by her attachment to modern philosophers. This day so unhappy to Julia, was by Bridgetina marked as the most auspicious of her existence. Among a variety of books received by Glib from his correspondent in London, was a copy of Valliant's tour in Africa. This work produced, among the party at Glib's, the following conversation:

‘See here!’ said he, ‘See here, Citizen Myope, all our wishes fulfilled! All our theory realized! Here is a whole nation of philosophers, all as wise as ourselves! All on the high road to perfectibility! All enjoying the proper dignity of man! Things just as they ought! No man working for another! All alike! All equal! No laws! No government! No coercion! Every one exerting his energies as he pleases! Take a wife to-day: leave her again to-morrow! It is the very essence of virtue, and the quintessence of enjoyment!’

‘Alas!’ replied Mr. Myope, ‘I fear this desirable state of things is reserved for futurity. Ages must elapse before mankind will be sufficiently enlightened to be sensible of the great advantage of living as you describe.’

‘No, no’, cried Glib, ‘ages need not elapse. It is all known to the Hottentots. All practised by the Gonoquais hoard. Only just listen.’

‘In a country where there is no difference in birth or rank, (as is the case in Gonoquais) every inhabitant is necessarily on an equality.’

‘The very ground-work of perfectibility!’ cried Bridgetina, ‘that is certain; but go on.

‘Luxury²and vanity, which in more polished countries consume the largest fortunes, create a thousand unhappy distinctions entirely unknown to these savages; their desires are bounded by real wants, nor are they excluded from the means of gratifying them; and these means may be, and are effectually pursued by all: thus the various combinations of pride for the aggrandizement of families, all the schemes of heaping fortune on fortune in the same coffer, being utterly unknown; no intrigues are created, no oppression practised, in fine, no crimes instigated.’

‘O learned and amiable Hottentots!’ exclaimed Bridgetina, ‘by what means—’

‘Stay a little, Miss, and only listen to this passage about their marriages,’ said Glib, resuming his book.

‘The formalities of these marriages consist in the promises made by each party to live together as long as they find it convenient; the engagement made, the young couple from that moment become man and wife.—’

‘O enviable state of society!’ exclaimed Bridgetina, ‘O—’

‘Do not interrupt me, Miss, till I have finished the passage.—As I have hinted before, they live together as long as harmony subsists between them; for should any difference arise, they make no scruple of separation, but part with as little ceremony as they meet; and each one, free to form other connections, seeks elsewhere a more agreeable partner. These marriages, founded on reciprocal inclinations, have ever a happy issue; and as love is their only cement, they require no other motive for parting than indifference.’

‘Mark that, citizens! No other motive for parting than indifference. Who would not wish to live in that blessed country? But here is a still further proof of their progress in philosophy. You never meet among the Gonoquais with men who apply themselves to any particular kind of work, in order to satisfy the caprice of others. The woman who desires to lie soft will fabricate her own mat. She who has a wish to be clothed, will instruct a man to make a habit. The huntsman who would have good weapons, can depend on those of his own making; and the lover is the only architect of the cabin that is to contain his future mistress.³’

‘Why this is the very state of perfection to which we all aspire!’ cried Mr. Myope, in extacy. ‘It is the sum and substance of our philosophy. What illustrious proofs of human genius may we expect to find in a society thus wisely constituted, a society in which leisure is the inheritance of every one of its members?’

‘It is evident,’ cried Bridgetina, ‘that the author of our illustrious system is entirely indebted to the Hottentots for his sublime idea of the Age of Reason. Here is the Age of Reason exemplified; here is proof sufficient of the perfectibility of man!’

We have not given here the whole of this very admirable illustration of Godwinian philosophy; for however desirous we might be to do it, it would occupy too much of our Number fully to gratify, even our own wishes on the subject. In our opinion it is a consistent and true picture, and we give the author our best thanks for his very happy exposition of its absurd and wicked doctrines. The discussion concludes with the determination of the whole party “to embark for the only place to which, in this distempered state of civilization, a philosopher can resort with any hopes of comfort. Let us seek,” said he, “an asylum among those kindred souls. Let us form a horde in the neighbourhood of Haabas; and, from the deserts of Africa, send forth those rays of philosophy which shall enlighten all the habitable globe.”

The confinement of Julia at the farm-house, from under the protection of her father, gave the insidious Vallaton full opportunity of effecting his nefarious purposes. Proposals of marriage being made to Captain Delmond for her union with Major Minden, assist the designs of the hero. The tyranny of parental authority, and the glory of being among the number of those who resist the institutions of a “distempered state of civilization,” are the motives which he urges for the renunciation of all filial duties. The struggle is great, and extremely well supported; but love and vanity finally prevail, and she flies to his arms and, of course, to misery.

The scheme of sailing to the Cape still appears to proceed. We shall give the circular letter of Citizen Myope, in quality of Secretary.

To Citizen ——— of ———

Who is there deserving of the title of philosopher, that does not feel the aggravated evils which the present odious institutions of society impose on its wretched victim? Who is there among the enlightened, the men without a God, that does not wish to escape from this world of misery, where the prejudices of mankind are ever preparing for him the bitter draught of obloquy and contempt? Are not all our energies wasted in the fruitless lamentation of irremediable evils; and our powers blunted, and rendered obtruse, by the obstacles which the unjust institutions of society throw in the way of perfectibility?

Who is there among us, whom the unequal distribution of property does not fill with envy, resentment, and despair? Who is there among us, that cannot recollect the time when he secretly called in question the arbitrary division of property established in society, and felt inclined to appropriate to his own use many things, the possession of which appeared to him desirable?⁴ And yet for these noble and natural sentiments, (when reduced to action) the unjust and arbitrary institutions of society have prepared prisons and fetters! The odious system of coercion is exerted to impose the most injurious restraints on these salutary flights of genius; and property is thus hemmed in on every side.

Nor is the endeavour to get rid of the encumbrances by which we are weighed down, less abortive, or attended with consequences less deplorable.

Has any of us, in the ferment of youthful passion, bound himself by marriage? In vain does he struggle to throw off the yoke; he is bound by the chains of this absurd and immoral institution, and restrained from seeking in variety the renovating charm of novelty, that rich magazine from which the materials of knowledge are to be derived.

Who would not gladly escape from this scene of misery? Who would not rejoice to anticipate that reasonable state of society, with all those improvements which true philosophy will, in the course of a few ages, generate throughout the world?

Is he at a loss where to fly? Does he fear that the debasing restraint imposed by religion, and laws, and notions of government, will meet him in every direction, and pursue him to the farthest corner of the world? Let him rejoice to learn, that there is yet a refuge for philosophy; that there is now a region where the whole of our glorious system is practised in its full extent. In the interior parts of Africa an exalted race of mortals is discovered, who so far from having their minds cramped in the fetters of superstition, and their energies restrained by the galling yoke of law, do not so much as believe in a Supreme Being, and have neither any code of laws, nor any form of government!

Let us join this pure and enlightened race! Let us hasten to quit the corrupt wilderness of ill-constituted society, the rank and rotten soil from which every finer shrub draws poison as it grows.⁵ Let us seek in the philosophical society of the Hottentots that happier field and purer air, where talents and sentiments may expand into virtue, and germinate into general usefulness.

Does any female citizen groan under the slavish and unnatural yoke of parental authority, or to wish to shake off the chains of the odious and immoral institution, to which so much of the depravity of the world may be traced? Let her embrace the opportunity that is now offered, to obtain the glorious boon of liberty: let her hasten to become a member of that society, where her virtues will be duly honoured, and her energies expand in the wide field of universal utility.

Is any philosopher thoroughly convinced of the truth of these gloomy representations of the present virtue-smothering state of society, which he has been at so much pains to propagate? In the bosom of the Gonoquais horde, let him seek an asylum from the oppressive hand of political institution, and from all obligations to the observance of that common honesty which is a non-conductor to all the sympathies of the human heart.⁶

As in the dark and gloomy wilderness which we at present so unfortunately inhabit, there is no possibility of moving without money, a sum must of necessity be raised to freight a ship, and lay in requisites for the voyage. Contributions for this purpose will be received by Citizen Vallaton, who has generously undertaken the conduct of the important enterprize. As it is probable that many philosophers may not be provided with specie, from such as have it not in their power to contribute their quota in cash, any sort of goods will be received that can be converted into articles of general utility. As an example worthy of imitation, we here think it necessary to inform our fellow-citizens, that Citizen Glib has bestowed the whole of his circulating library upon the society. The superfluous books, such as history, travels, natural philosophy, and divinity, are to be sold for the benefit of the fund. The novels and metaphysical essays are reserved for the instruction of the philosophers.

By order of the Hottentotian Committee,

Ben. Myope, Sec.

In the mean time, the heroine of the tale is tormenting herself, and Henry Sidney, with her passion, the origin of which is most admirably well given by herself in a conversation with Julia. Part of it we offer to our readers as an excellent imitation of that vicious and detestable stuff which has issued from the pen of M—y H——s. Indeed the whole character of Bridgetina so strongly resembles that of this impassioned Godwinian, that it is impossible to be mistaken.

‘Is it possible that Henry Sidney can really have engaged your affections?’ ‘Possible!’ said Bridgetina, ‘it is not only possible, but literally and demonstrably true. The history of my sensations are equally interesting and instructive. You will there see, how sensation generates interest, interest generates passions, passions generate powers; and sensations, passions, powers, all working together, produce associations, and habits, and ideas, and sensibilities. O Julia! Julia! what a heart-moving history is mine.’

It was almost impossible even for Julia to refrain from laughing at the figure of Bridgetina, as she pronounced these words. Every feature screwed into formality, and every distorted limb sprawling in affected agitation, she presented such an apparent antidote to the tender passion, that the mention of love from her lips had in it something irresistibly ridiculous. It was with some difficulty that Julia could sufficiently command her voice to desire her to proceed; which at length, after stretching her craggy neck, wiping the rheum from her eyes, and fixing them on the sharp point of her turned-up nose, she said as follows:—‘The remoter causes of those associations which formed the texture of my character, might, I know, very probably be traced to some transaction in the feraglio of the Great Mogul, or to some spirited and noble enterprize of the Cham of Tartary; but as the investigation would be tedious, and, for want of proper data, perhaps impracticable, I shall not go beyond my birth, but content myself with arranging under seven heads (I love to methodise) the seven generating causes of the energies which stamp my individuality, observing, that it is by a proper attention to these fine and evanescent strokes, that the knowledge of mind is alone to be attained. The first of these characters forming eras was the hour of my birth. The midwife who was to attend my mother, happening to be a mile or two out of town, her delay suddenly excited an energetic impetuosity which scorned to wait for her arrival, and generated a noble spirit of independence, which brought me into the world without assistance. About two hours after I was born, the germ of other passions was produced. The nurse, who from some early associations had acquired a habit of getting drunk, let me fall upon the floor. A torrent of resentment and indignation gushed upon my heart, and the bitter tears that followed were a certain indication of the important consequences which that accident was to have upon my future life. The third power-inspiring era is still more worthy of attention. It was, indeed, the fountain-head of all my feelings, the source of those sensibilities and propensities, which have been the springs of every action, the cause of every movement of it; my soul is therefore well worthy the attention of every philosophic mind, of every lover of minute investigation. Not to keep you in suspense, (a thing ill-suited to the energy of my character) I hasten to inform you, that my mother not being able to suckle me herself, a young woman was brought into the house to be my wet-nurse who some months before had borne a child to the parish-clerk. He kept a little day-school in Muddy-lane; and Jenny, whose education had been neglected in her infancy, had resorted to him to learn to read, and soon became so enamoured of literature, that from one of those associations so natural to the human mind, she conceived a tender passion for her instructor.’—‘Imagination lent its aid, and an importunate sensibility, panting for good unalloyed, compleated the seduction.’⁷ ‘With her milk I greedily absorbed the delicious poison which circulated through every vein; and love of literature, and importunate sensibility, became from thenceforth the predominant features of my character. Early did the fruits of the associations thus formed expand to view: by the time I was four years old, I would have listened for hours to the story of little Red Ridinghood; and on a particular investigation of this important era, I have learned from an old domestic, that I could actually, at the age of five years, repeat the whole history of the Glass Slipper, without missing a single word!’

She then proceeds to state some other trifling circumstances, among which is her attachment to an apothecary, on whose marriage to another she thus describes her own sensations.

‘How shall I describe my sufferings! How shall I recount the salt, the bitter tears I shed! I yearn to be useful, (cried I) but the inexpressible yearnings of a soul which pants for general utility, is, by the odious institutions of a distempered civilization, rendered abortive. O divine Philosophy! by thy light I am taught to perceive that happiness is the only true end of existence. To be happy, it is necessary for me to love! Universal benevolence is an empty sound. It is individuality that sanctifies affection. But chained by the cruel fetters which unjust and detested custom has forged for my miserable and much-injured sex, I am not at liberty to go about in search of the individual whose mind would sweetly mingle with mine. Barbarous fetters! cruel chains! odious state of society! Oh, that the age of reason were but come, when no soft-souled maiden shall sigh in vain!

‘In this joyless, comfortless, desponding state, I for some time remained. As I never at any time debased myself by houshold cares, never attended to any sort of work, I always enjoyed the inestimable privilege of leisure. Always idle, always unemployed, the fermentation of my ideas received no interruption. They expanded, generated, increased. The society of the philosophers gave a fresh supply to the fuel of my mind. I became languid, restless, impatient, miserable. But a mind of great powers cannot long remain in a state of inactivity; its sensations are ever ready to be called forth. The romantic, frenzied feelings of sensibility will soon generate an opportunity for their own exertion.

‘Happening to visit Maria Sydney after the death of her mother, she shewed me a letter she had just received from Henry. The sentiments were so tender, so delicate, so affectionate, I perceived in every word the traces of a mind formed for the pure delightful congeniality of mutual tenderness. A thousand instances of his particular attention to me, the last time he was at home, rushed upon my mind. In going out to walk with his sister through the fields, I remembered having once stuck upon the top of a stile, which I vainly endeavoured to get over, till Henry sprung to my assistance, and with manly energetic fervour tore my petticoat from the stump in which it was entangled. Why did I not then perceive the tender emotion of his soul! why was I blind to such a proof of sensibility and affection! The letter, the important eventful letter, roused me from my lethargic slumber; every word thrilled through the fibres of my heart. It awaked the sleeping extacies of my soul. I inhaled the balmy sweetness which natural unsophisticated affection sheds through the human heart. O Henry! Henry! cried I, I perceive it is with thine my mind was formed to mingle. Thou art, from henceforth, the sovereign arbiter of my fate!

‘The hour, the wished-for extatic hour of his return at length arrived. Excited by his sensations, he hurried to our house the morning after his arrival; and in his looks, his manner, gave the most unequivocal proofs of the tender sentiments that inspired his mind. But still a mysterious reserve seals his lips. Why does he not speak? Why does he not avow a passion so ennobling, so worthy, so natural, and ah! so fully returned! Female foibles, shrinking delicacies, why do you make me hesitate to begin the subject? Why should I blush to inform him of my affection? O dear, often kissed relique! (pulling up something that suspended by a ribbon from her bosom) precious deposit! chosen confidante of my tenderness! how often hast thou been witness to the convulsive struggling sigh! How often has thy bright face been dimmed by the dear, delicious, agonizing tears, which have stolen from my eyes!’

Our readers will, perhaps, think that our extracts from this novel are already of sufficient length; of this we are ourselves aware; but we could not resist the inclination of affording to our friends, who are not in the habit of perusing works of this description, an opportunity of knowing that all the female writers of the day are not corrupted by the voluptuous dogmas of Mary Godwin, or her more profligate imitators.

We shall, as briefly as possible, relate the remainder of the story of this work. Dr. Sidney proceeds to London to pursue his profession; to which place, in the true spirit of the modern doctrines, he is followed by Bridgetina. Like Mr. F——d, he declines all her advances; and she, in imitation of M——y H——s, writes to him the following philosophical love-letter:

YOU tell me I have no share in your affection. You even hint that you love another; but you are mistaken if you think this makes any alteration in the decided part I have taken. No:—I have reasoned, I have investigated, I have philosophised upon the subject; and am more than ever determined to persevere in my attacks upon your heart. The desire of being beloved, of inspiring sympathy, is congenial to the human mind. I will inspire sympathy; nor can I believe it compatible with the nature of mind, that so many strong and reiterated efforts should be made in vain. Man does right in pursuing interest and pleasure. It argues no depravity. This is the fable of superstition.⁸ My interest, my pleasure, is all centered in your affections; therefore I will pursue you, nor shall I give over the pursuit, say what you will. I know the power of argument, and that in the end the force of reason must prevail. Why should I despair of arguing you into love? Do I want energy? Am I deficient in eloquence? No. On you, therefore, beloved and ah! too cruel Henry, on you shall all my energy and all my eloquence be exerted; and I make no doubt that in the end my perseverance shall be crowned with success. It is your mind I wish to conquer, and mind must yield to mind. Can the mind of my rival be compared with mine? Can she energize as I do? Does she discuss? Does she argue? Does she investigate with my powers? You cannot say so; and therefore it plainly follows she is less worthy of your love.

The apprehension of embarrassment with regard to fortune may be another obstacle that you may haply start. But this, likewise, I can obviate. Read the inclosed; and you will perceive that there is a scheme on foot, which will accelerate the progress of happiness and philosophy through the remotest regions of the habitable globe. Fly this dismal, dirty hogstye of depraved and corrupt civilization; and let us join ourselves to the enlightened race, who already possess all those essentials which philosophy teaches to expect in the full meridian of the Age of Reason. Let us, my Henry, in the bosom of this happy people, who worship no God, who are free from the restraint of laws and forms of government, enjoy the blessings of equality and love. You will not then need to ‘look blank and disconsolate when you hear of the health of your friends.’ ‘Pain, sickness, and anguish, will not then be your harvest;’ nor will you then, as now, ‘rejoice to hear that they have fallen on any of your acquaintance.’⁹ There are no physicians among the Hottentots.—There you shall enjoy the blessing of leisure; and the powers of your mind, not blunted by application to any particular science, shall germinate into general usefulness. Oh, happy time! and in that time happy, thrice happy, shall be your

Bridgetina Botherim.

After a variety of interesting adventures, natural, and well related, this work concludes with the marriage of Dr. Sydney with Harriet Orwell, and the return of Bridgetina to her mother. Poor Julia, having been seduced and deserted by Vallaton, (who is guillotined in Paris) dies by poison of her own administering. It seems to be the intention of the author to exhibit here the fallacy of all principles which have not their foundation in religion. Had the education of Julia been grounded on the doctrines of Christianity, instead of the vapid rules of modern honour, instilled into her by her father, with such an understanding as she possessed, she would neither have been overcome by the plausible inanity, and superficial reasoning of such a wretch as Vallaton, nor would she have attempted to expiate the crimes of filial ingratitude and prostitution by the commission of suicide. Among the rest of the characters all due poetical justice is distributed; but as they are not immediately concerned in the main design of the work, they necessarily excite not that interest which is produced by the philosophical portraits.

Since writing the first part of this review, we have learnt the name of the author of the work. The public, that part of it, at least, with whom novels form the great portion of amusement, is infinitely obliged to her for this admirable exposition of Godwinian principles, and the more so, for having given it in the form of a novel; for the same means by which the poison is offered, are, perhaps, the best by which their antidote may be rendered efficacious. It will in this shape find its way into the circulating libraries of the country, whence is daily issued such a pestiferous portion of what are termed enlightened and liberal sentiments. We could without difficulty point out for whom, in our opinions, the characters were delineated; but conceiving that we have no possible right to involve the fair author in the evils that might arise from such a declaration, we shall leave it to each to discover his, or her own face, in the glass. The gentle and tender original of Bridgetina once thus addressed the author of Political Justice—“Pray Mr. G——— when will the nation be ruined? I want some vivid emotions:”—To your sampler, to your sampler; poor wretched, infatuated creature, and by honourable and becoming exertions endeavour to acquire that peace of mind which you can never attain in your present worthless, nay, unprincipled, pursuits. We have been thus particular in our notice of this last character, because we know that some lamentable effects have arisen from her novels.

This work is written in an excellent stile, and altogether does great credit to the literary acquirements of the author. We should be happy to meet her again, and on the same subject. The philosophical harvest is great; and the hand that thus condescends to the irksome, though meritorious, labour of plucking up and burning the weeds, deserves the thanks of her country, and the honour of being classed with the most unexceptionable female writer of the times.¹⁰

We are sorry to see a publication calculated to be so eminently beneficial, charged so high as one guinea; not that we think the sum beyond the value of the work, but that it will check the extent of its circulation, and of course impede its progress towards “general utility.”

Notes

1. The frequent plagiarisms of our author have been particularly objected to by some of my learned friends; who informed me, that by perusing the works of Mr. Godwin, and some of his disciples, I should be enabled to detect the stolen passages, which it would be but honest to restore to the right owner. Alas! they knew not what a heavy talk they imposed on me. If I have failed in its execution, I humbly hope Mr. Godwin and his friends will accept of this apology; and while they recognise, in the speeches of Mr. Vallaton, the expressions they have themselves made use of, that they will have the goodness to forgive me, for not having always correctly pointed out the page from whence they have been taken.—Editor.

2. See Vaillant's Travels, Vol. ii.

3. The curious reader may, if he please, compare the passage quoted from Vaillant with the eighth chapter of the eighth book of Political Justice, Vol, ii. octavo edition; and he will not be surprised that Citizen Glib should be struck with the coincidence.

4. Pol. Jus. vol. i. 4to. edit. p. 80.

5. See Caleb Williams.

6. See Godwin's Enquirer.

7. See Emma Courtnay, a philosophical novel; to which Miss Botherim seems indebted for some of her finest thoughts.

8. See Emma Courtnay.

9. See the Characteristics of a Physician, in the Enquirer.

10. Hannah More.