ave persuaded them of the truth
of this notable maxim, that rakes make the best husbands,
than which, as experience abundantly testifies, nothing can
be more false. A rake, indeed, may be a good husband while
the honey-moon lasts, for so long, perhaps, may novelty have
a charm; but when that is ended, the lust of variety, the
distinguishing characteristic of a rake, haunts him
incessantly, like a ghost, and soon extinguishes all his
principles of love, justice, and generosity. It is true,
indeed, the proverb goes, that a reformed rake makes the
best husband. It may be so, but then it is a truth of equal
importance with this, that a pick-pocket going to the
gallows is an honest man. His hands are tied behind him, and
he has it not in his power to be otherwise; in the same
manner a reformed rake is honest, because he has lost the
ability to be otherwise, and he naturally fondles and doats
upon his wife, that she may overlook deficiencies in more
essential articles. He acts entirely from the same
principles with those profuse and liberal old keepers, who
are said to pay for what they cannot do.

Should we now examine how you have succeeded in contriving
your characters, so as to be fit objects of imitation, if
virtuous, and if vicious, so as to be proper examples for
deterring others from the like practices, we shall find the
principal ones extremely faulty, generally quite destitute
of poetical probability, and in a word, far short of the
Homeric standard. Homer's characters are for the most part
drawn beyond the life; but the art with which he has reduced
them to truth, and probability, is surprising. He has
prodigiously exaggerated the bodily strength of Ajax, but
then he has rendered all probable, by representing him of
dull and heavy intellects. For it is a fact, that, with
bulky unwieldy force, we generally connect the idea of a
slow understanding. How consistently prudent is Ulysses,
thro' the whole of his character; we never see him err thro'
rashness, but rather commit faults, thro' an over caution.
How wonderfully are we reconciled to the great garrulity of
the venerable Nestor, which would be inexcusable, did we not
reflect, at the same time, on his extreme old age, of which
the poet never fails to remind us? How readily do we excuse
the ferocity of Achilles, when we reflect that the generous
youth prefers a short life, with fame and reputation, to a
length of days, with peace and happiness? How artfully a