rom the world;
that, consequently, "all their social, and all their public
affections, lose their natural warmth and vigour," whilst their
selfish passions are cherished and strengthened, being kept in
constant play by literary rivalship. It is to be hoped, that there
are men of the most extensive learning and genius, now living, who
could, from their own experience, assure us that those are obsolete
observations, no longer applicable to modern human nature. At all
events, we, who refer so much to education, are hopefully of opinion,
that education can prevent these evils, in common with _almost_ all
the other evils of life. It would be an errour, fatal to all
improvement, to believe that the cultivation of the understanding,
impedes the exercise of the social affections. Obviously, a man, who
secludes himself from the world, and whose whole life is occupied with
abstract studies, cannot enjoy any pleasure from his social
affections; his admiration of the dead, is so constant, that he has no
time to feel any sympathy with the living. An individual, of this
ruminating species, is humorously delineated in Mrs. D'Arblay's
Camilla. Men, who are compelled to unrelenting labour, whether by
avarice, or by literary ambition, are equally to be pitied. They are
not models for imitation; they sacrifice their happiness to some
strong passion or interest. Without this ascetic abstinence from the
domestic and social pleasures of life, surely persons may cultivate
their understandings, and acquire, even by mixing with their
fellow-creatures, a variety of useful knowledge.

An ingenious theory[84] supposes the exercise of any of our faculties,
is always attended with pleasure, which lasts as long as that exercise
can be continued without fatigue. This pleasure, arising from the due
exercise of our mental powers, the author of this theory maintains to
be the foundation of our most agreeable sentiments. If there be any
truth in these ideas, of how many agreeable sentiments must a man of
sense be capable! The pleasures of society must to him increase in an
almost incalculable proportion; because, in conversation, his
faculties can never want subjects on which they may be amply
exercised. The dearth of conversation, which every body may have felt
in certain company, is always attended with mournful countenances, and
every symptom of ennui. Indeed, without the pleasures of conversation,
society is reduced to meetings of people, who assembl