To return to our Englishman, I told you he appeared to have a truly
great and intrepid soul; but that he was rather sensible than
agreeable. You seem almost of the same opinion, and then, with that
air of masculine superiority, always visible in our humble admirers,
you reproach me with being a woman once in my life; as if a woman
ought ever to belie her sex.
Have you forgot our dispute, when we were reading your _Republic of
Plato_, about the moral distinction between the sexes? I have still
the same difficulty to suppose there can be but one common model of
perfection for two beings so essentially different. Attack and
defence, the impudence of the men, and female modesty, are by no means
effects of the same cause as the philosophers have imagined; but
natural institutions which may be easily accounted for, and from which
may be deduced every other moral distinction. Besides, the designs of
nature being different in each, their inclinations, their perceptions
ought necessarily to be directed according to their different views:
to till the ground, and to nourish children, require very opposite
tastes and constitutions. A higher stature, stronger voice and
features, seem indeed to be no indispensable marks of distinction; but
this external difference evidently indicates the intention of the
Creator in the modification of the mind. The soul of a perfect woman
and a perfect man ought to be no more alike than their faces. All our
vain imitations of your sex are absurd; they expose us to the ridicule
of sensible men, and discourage the tender passions we were made to
inspire. In short, unless we are near six foot high, have a bass
voice, and a beard upon our chins, we have no business to pretend to
be men.
What novices are you lovers in the art of reproaching! You accuse me
of a fault which I have not committed, or of which, however, you are
as frequently guilty as myself; and you attribute it to a defeat of
which I am proud. But in return for your plain dealing, suffer me to
give you my plain and sincere opinion of your sincerity. Why then, it
appears to be a refinement of flattery, calculated, under the disguise
of an apparent freedom of expression, to justify to yourself the
enthusiastic praises which, upon every occasion, you are so liberally
pleased to bestow on me. You are so blinded by my imaginary
perfections, that you can discover no real ones to excuse your
prepossessions in my favour.