Yet while all their cares are contracted, and all their feelings absorbed, within the compass of their own skin, such people seem often convinced, that they themselves are of the most humane dispositions, and the most extensive benevolence, upon no better foundation, than because they have felt themselves affected by the artful distresses of a romance, and because they could shed a few barren tears at a tragedy. If to these symptoms of sensibility, they can add, that of having occasionally given a guinea when the contribution has been set a going, or have parted with a little superfluous money to free themselves from importunity, they have then carried benevolence to the utmost length of _their_ idea of that virtue. They have no notion of any thing beyond this; nor would they make one active exertion, postpone a single party of pleasure, or in any shape interrupt the tranquillity of their own indolence, to perform the most essential service (I will not say to a friend, such people can have none) to any of the human race. There are many exceptions, but in general those persons who are exposed to _the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune_, who have experienced the base indifference of mankind, and have in some degree _felt what wretches feel_, are endued with the truest sympathy, and enter, with the most lively sensibility, into the situation of the unfortunate. Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco, said Dido, who had been obliged to fly from her country, to Æneas, who had been witness to the destruction of his. Dido and Æneas!—How in the name of wandering have we got into their company? I could no more have guessed at this, than at the subject of one of Montaigne’s Essays from the title. We set out, I believe, with something about France;—but you cannot expect that I should attempt to take up a thread which is left so far behind. Adieu. LETTER IX. Paris.