THE Arabian proverb, Shut the windows that the house may be light, is supposed to contain some great mystery; and indeed it must be confessed that it has very much the air of a paradox: but whatever explication the wise and the learned may give to this sentence, it seems not unaptly applied to that gay part of my own sex so improperly called fine ladies, the business of whose lives it is to dress, to play at cards, to simper in the drawing-room, to languish at an opera, and coquet at a play, whose eyes being perpetually dazzled by the glare of folly and impertinence, are too weak to bear the steady ray of reason: their minds therefore are always dark; and ignorance, like a thick cloud, wraps them up in impenetrable gloom. To such as these then I will suppose the Arabian sage cries, Shut the windows that the house may be light
The fine lady has no other use for her eyes but to sparkle and languish; reading would spoil their lustre, and incroach upon that precious time which is all devoted to pleasure. What advantage can she derive from books? will they teach her how to improve her complexion, and repair the ravages made by time in her face? Can morality, learning, and wit, instruct one who exercises her memory only upon cards, and has sufficient employment for her judgment, in chusing a suit of ribbons, or a brocade? Who never knew, what it was to think seriously for a single moment; and whose mind can entertain no other ideas but what dress and quadrille inspire.
Yet of such poor materials as these a coquet is made, one who lays claim to boundless dominion, who expects to subject all hearts to her sway, and dispense happiness and misery, life and death, with a smile or frown.
That a creature so despicable as this is capable of doing a great deal of mischief, the following letter will shew; and I do not doubt but by publishing it I shall oblige my readers as much as the unhappy writer who makes it her request.