THE LADY's POCKET LIBRARY CONTAINING:
- 1. MISS MORE'S ESSAYS.
- 2. DR. GREGORY'S LEGACY TO HIS DAUGHTERS.
- 3. LADY PENNINGTON'S UNFORTUNATE MOTHER'S ADVICE TO HER DAUGHTERS.
- 4. MARCHIONESS OF LAMBERT'S ADVICE OF A MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER.
- 5. MRS. CHAPONE'S LETTER ON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER.
- 6. SWIFT'S LETTER TO A YOUNG LADY NEWLY MARRIED.
- 7. MOORE'S FABLES FOR THE FEMALE SEX.
PHILADELPHIA: FROM THE PRESS OF MATHEW CAREY, NO. 118, MARKET-STREET. MARCH 20, M.DCC.XCII.
To the LADIES of the UNITED STATES.
THE Editor of this publication hopes, from the established reputation of the several tracts of which it is composed, that it will be found a more complete system for the instruction of the female world, than perhaps any other extant.
A volume under the present title was lately published in England and Ireland, and had a most rapid sale, having been purchased by almost every lady of taste in those kingdoms. To this volume, the Editor has added Miss More's essays—Mrs. Chapone's letter on the government of the temper— and Swift's letter to a young lady newly married. These have considerably enhanced its value—and he doubts not, the ladies on this side the Atlantic will be as generous in their encouragement of a work intended for their advantage, as those in England and Ireland have been.
Philadelphia, March 20, 1792.
THE LADIES' LIBRARY. MISS MORE'S ESSAYS.
INTRODUCTION.
IT is with the utmost diffidence that the following pages are submitted to the inspection of the public: yet, however the limited abilities of the author may have prevented her from succeeding to her wish, in the execution of her present attempt, she humbly trusts that the uprightness of her intention will procure it a candid and favourable reception. These little essays are chiefly calculated for the younger part of her own sex, who, she flatters herself, will not esteem them the less, because they were written immediately for their service. She by no means pretends to have composed a regular system of morals, or a finished plan of conduct: she has only endeavoured to make a few remarks on such circumstances as seemed to her susceptible of some improvement, and on such subjects as she imagined were particularly interesting to young ladies, on their first introduction into the world. She hopes they will not be offended, if she has occasionally pointed out certain qualities, and suggested certain tempers and dispositions, as peculiarly feminine, and [Page 6] hazarded some observations, which naturally arose from the subject, on the different characters which mark the sexes. And here again she takes the liberty to repeat that these distinctions cannot be too nicely maintained; for besides those important qualities common to both, each sex has its respective, appropriated qualifications, which would cease to be meritorious, the instant they ceased to be appropriated. Nature, propriety, and custom have prescribed certain bounds to each; bounds which the prudent and the candid will never attempt to break down; and indeed it would be highly impolitic to annihilate distinctions from which each acquires excellence, and to attempt innovations by which both would be losers.
Women, therefore, never understand their own interests so little, as when they affect those qualities and accomplishments, from the want of which they derive their highest merit. "The porcelain clay of human kind," says an admired writer, speaking of the sex. Greater delicacy evidently implies greater fragility; and this weakness, natural and moral, clearly points out the necessity of a superior degree of caution, retirement, and reserve.
If the author may be allowed to keep up the allusion of the poet just quoted, she would ask, if we do not put the finest vases, and the costliest images in places of the greatest security, and most remote from any probability of accident or destruction? By being so situated, they find their protection in their weakness, and their safety in their delicacy. This metaphor is far from being used with a design of placing young ladies in a trivial, unimportant light: it is only introduced to insinuate, that where there is more beauty, and more weakness, there should be greater circumspection and superior prudence.
Men, on the contrary, are formed for the more public exhibitions on the great theatre of human life. Like the stronger and more substantial wares, they derive no injury, and lose no polish, by being always exposed, and engaged in the constant commerce [Page 7] of the world. It is their proper element, where they respire their natural air, and exert their noblest powers, in situations which call them into action. They were intended by Providence for the bustling scenes of life— to appear terrible in arms, useful in commerce, shining in counsels.
The author fears it will be hazarding a very bold remark, in the opinion of many ladies, when she adds, that the female mind, in general, does not appear capable of attaining so high a degree of perfection in science, as the male. Yet she hopes to be forgiven, when she observes also, that as it does not seem to derive the chief portion of its excellence from extraordinary abilities of this kind, it is not at all lessened by the imputation of not possessing them. It is readily allowed, that the sex have lively imaginations, and those exquisite perceptions of the beautiful and defective, which come under the denomination of taste. But pretensions to that strength of intellect, which is requisite to penetrate into the abstruser walks of literature, it is presumed they will readily relinquish. There are green pastures, and pleasant vallies, where they may wander with safety to themselves, and delight to others. They may cultivate the roses of imagination, and the valuable fruits of morals and criticism: but the steeps of Parnassus, few, comparatively, have attempted to scale with success. And when it is considered, that many languages, and many sciences, must contribute to the perfection of poetical composition, it will appear less strange. The lofty epic, the pointed satire, and the more daring and successful flights of the tragic Muse, seem reserved for the bold adventurers of the other sex.
Nor does this assertion, it is apprehended, at all injure the interests of the women; they have other pretensions, on which to value themselves, and other qualities much better calculated to answer their particular purposes. We are enamoured of the soft strains of the Sicilian and the Mantuan Muse, while, to the sweet notes of the pastoral reed, they sing [Page 8] the contentions of the shepherds, the blessings of love, or the innocent delights of rural life. Has it ever been ascribed to them as a defect, that their eclog [...]es do not treat of active scenes, of busy cities, and of wasting war? No: their simplicity is their perfection; and they are only blamed when they have too little of it.
On the other hand, the lofty bards, who strung their bolder harps to higher measures, and sung the Wrath of Peleus' son, and Man's first disobedience, have never been censured for want of sweetness and refinement. The sublime, the nervous, and the masculine, characterise their compositions; as the beautiful, the soft, and the delicate, mark those of the others. Grandeur, dignity, and force, distinguish the one species; ease, simplicity, and purity the other. Both shine from their native, distinct, unborrowed merits, not from those which are foreign, adventitious, and unnatural. Yet those excellencies, which make up the essential and constituent parts of poetry, they have in common.
Women have generally quicker perceptions: men have juster sentiments.—Women consider how things may be prettily said; men how they may be properly said.—In women, (young ones at least) speaking accompanies, and sometimes precedes reflexion; in men, reflexion is the antecedent.—Women speak to shine or to please; men, to convince or confute.— Women admire what is brilliant; men what is solid. Women prefer an extemporaneous sally of wit, or a sparkling effusion of fancy, before the most accurate reasoning, or the most laborious investigations of facts. In literary composition, women are pleased with point, turn, and antithesis; men with observation, and a just deduction of effects from their causes. Women are fond of incident, men of argument.— Women admire passionately; men approve cautiously.—One sex will think it betrays a want of feeling to be moderate in their applause; the other will be afraid of exposing a want of judgment by being in raptures with any thing.—Men refuse to give way to [Page 9] the emotions they actually feel, while women sometimes affect to be transported beyond what the occasion will justify.
As a farther confirmation of what has been advanced on the different bent of the understanding in the sexes, it may be observed, that we have heard of many female wits, but never of one female logician—of many admirable writers of memoirs, but never of one chronologer.—In the boundless and aerial regions of romance, and in that fashionable species of composition which succeeded it, and which carries a nearer approximation to the manners of the world, the women cannot be excelled: this imaginary soil they have a peculiar talent for cultivating; because here, ‘Invention labours more, and judgment less.’
The merit of this kind of writing consists in the vrai-semblance to real life, as to the events themselves, with a certain elevation in the narrative, which places them, if not above what is natural, yet above what is common. It farther consists in the art of interesting the tender feelings, by a pathetic representation of those minute, endearing, domestic circumstances, which take captive the soul before it has time to shield itself with the armour of reflexion. To amuse, rather than to instruct, or to instruct indirectly by short inferences, drawn from a long concatenation of circumstances, is at once the business of this sort of composition, and one of the characteristics of female genius *.
In short, it appears that the mind in each sex has some natural kind of bias, which constitutes a distinction [Page 10] of character, and that the happiness of both depends, in a great measure, on the preservation and observance of this distinction. For where would be the superior pleasure and satisfaction resulting from mixed conversation, if this difference were abolished? If the qualities of both were invariably and exactly the same, no benefit or entertainment would arise from the tedious and insipid uniformity of such an intercourse; whereas considerable advantages are reaped from a select society of both sexes. The rough angles and asperities of male manners are imperceptibly filed, and gradually worn smooth, by the polishing of female conversation, and the refining of female taste; while the ideas of women acquire strength and solidity, by their associating with sensible, intelligent, and judicious men.
On the whole, (even if fame be the object of pursuit) is it not better to succeed as women, than to fail as men? To shine, by walking honourably in the road which nature, custom, and education seem to have marked out, rather than to counteract them all, by moving awkwardly in a path diametrically opposite? To be good originals, rather than bad imitators? In a word, to be excellent women, rather than indifferent men?
On Dissipation.
Dolgie certe, allegrezze incerte!
AS an argument in favour of modern manners, it has been pleaded, that the softer vices of luxury and dissipation, belong rather to gentle and yielding tempers, than to such as are rugged and ferocious: that they are vices which increase civilization, and tend to promote refinement, and the cultivation of humanity.
But this is an assertion, the truth of which the experience of all ages contradicts. Nero was not less a tyrant for being a siddler; he * who wished the whole Roman people had but one neck, that he might [Page 11] dispatch them at a blow, was himself the most debauched man in Rome; and Sydney and Russel were condemned to bleed under the most barbarous, though most dissipated and voluptuous reign, that ever disgraced the annals of Britain.
The love of dissipation is, I believe, allowed to be the reigning evil of the present day. It is an evil which many content themselves with regretting, without seeking to redress. A dissipated life is censured in the very act of dissipation; and prodigality of time is as gravely declaimed against at the card table, as in the pulpit.
The lover of dancing censures the amusements of the theatre for their dulness, and the gamester blames them both for their levity. She, whose whole soul is swallowed up in " opera extaci [...]s," is astonished, that her acquaintance can spend whole nights in preying, like harpies, on the fortunes of their fellow creatures; while the grave, sober sinner, who passes her pale and anxious vigils, in this fashionable sort of pillaging, is no less surprised how the other can waste her precious time in hearing sounds for which she has no taste, in a language she does not understand
In short, every one seems convinced, that the evil so much complained of does really exist somewhere, though all are inwardly persuaded that it is not with themselves. All desire a general reformation; but few will listen to proposals of particular amendment; the body must be restored, but each limb begs to remain as it is; and accusations, which concern all, will be likely to affect none. They think that sin, like matter, is divisible, and that what is scattered among so many, cannot materially affect any one; and thus individuals contribute separately to that evil which they in general lament.
The prevailing manners of an age depend more than we are aware, or are willing to allow, on the conduct of the women; this is one of the principal hinges on which the great machine of human society turns. Those, who allow the influence which female [Page 12] graces have, in contributing to polish the manners of men, would do well to reflect how great an influence female morals must also have on their conduct. How much then is it to be regretted, that the ladies should ever sit down contented to polish, when they are able to reform—to entertain, when they might instruct, and to dazzle for an hour, when they are candidates for eternity!
Under the dispensation of Mahomet's law, indeed, these mental excellencies cannot be expected; because the women are shut out from all opportunities of instruction, and excluded from the endearing pleasures of a delightful and equal society; and, as a charming poet sings, are taught to believe, that
These act consistently, in studying none but exterior graces, in cultivating only personal attractions, and in trying to lighten the intolerable burden of time, by the most frivolous and vain amusements. They act in consequence of their own blind belief, and the tyranny of their despotic masters; for they have neither the freedom of a present choice, nor the prospect of a future being.
But in this land of civil and religious liberty, where there is as little despotism exercised over the minds, as over the persons of women, they have every liberty of choice, and every opportunity of improvement; and how greatly does this increase their obligation to be exemplary in ther general conduct, attentive to the government of their families, and instrumental to the good order of society!
She who is at a loss to find amusements at home, can no longer apologize for her dissipation abroad, by saying she is deprived of the benefit and the pleasure of books; and she who regrets being doomed to a state of dark and gloomy ignorance, by the injustice, [Page 13] or tyranny of men, complains of an evil which does not exist.
It is a question [...]requently in the mouths of illiterate and dissipated females—"What good is there in reading? To what end does it conduce?" It is, however, too obvious to need insisting on, that unless perverted, as the best things may be, reading answers many excellent purposes, besides the great leading one, and is perhaps the safest remedy for dissipation. She who dedicates a portion of her leisure to useful reading, feels her mind in a constant progressive state of improvement, while the mind of a dissiputed woman is continually losing ground. An active spirit rejoiceth, like the sun, to run his daily course, while indolence, like the dial of Ahaz, goes backwards. The advantages which the understanding receives from polite literature, it is not here necessary to enumerate; its effects on the moral temper is the present object of consideration. The remark may perhaps be thought too strong, but I believe it is true, that, next to religious influences, an habit of study is the most probable preservative of the virtue of young persons. Those who cultivate letters have rarely a strong passion for promiscuous visiting, or dissipated society: study, therefore, induces a relish for domestic life, the most desirable temper in the world for women. Study, as it rescues the mind from an inordinate fondness for gaming, dress, and public amusements, is an economical propensity▪ for a lady may read at much less expense than she can play at cards▪ as it requires some application, it gives the mind an habit of industry; as it is a relief against that mental disease, which the French emphatically call ennui, it cannot fail of being beneficial to the temper and spirits, I mean in the moderate degree in which ladies are supposed to use it; as an enemy to indolence, it becomes a social virtue; as it demands the full exertion of our talents, it grows a rational duty; and, when directed to the knowledge of the Supreme Being, and his laws, it rises into an [...] of religion.
[Page 14]The rage for reformation commonly shows itself in a violent zeal for suppressing what is wrong, rather than a prudent attention to establish what is right: but we shall never obtain a fair garden merely by rooting up weeds; we must also plant flowers; for the natural richness of the soil we have been clearing will not suffer it to lie barren; but whether it shall be vainly or beneficially prolific, depends on the culture. What the present age has gained on one side, by a more enlarged and liberal way of thinking, seems to be lost on the other, by excessive freedom and unbounded indulgence. Knowledge is not, as heretofore, confined to the dull cloyster, or the gloomy college, but disseminated, to a certain degree, among both sexes and almost all ranks. The only misfortune is, that these opportunities do not seem to be so wisely improved, or turned to so good an account as might be wished. Books of a pernicious, idle, and frivolous sort, are too much multiplied, and it is from the very redundancy of them, that true knowledge is so scarce, and the habit of dissipation so much increased.
It has been remarked, that the prevailing character of the present age is not that of gross immorality: but if this is meant of those in the higher walks of life, it is easy to discern, that there can be but little merit in abstaining from crimes which there is but little temptation to commit. It is, however, to be feared, that a gradual defection from piety, will in time draw after it all the bad consequences of more active vice; for whether mounds and fences are suddenly destroyed by a sweeping torrent, or worn away through gradual neglect, the effect is equally destructive. As a rapid fever and a consuming [...]ectic are alike fatal to our natural health, so are flagrant immorality and torpid indolence to our moral well being.
The philosophical doctrine of the slow recession of bodies from the sun, is a lively image of the reluctance with which we first abandon the light of virtue. The beginning of folly, and the first entrance on a [Page 15] dissipated life, cost some pangs to a well disposed heart; but it is surprising to see how soon the progress ceases to be impeded by reflexion, or slackened by remorse. For it is in moral as in natural things; the motion in minds as well as bodies is accelerated by a nearer approach to the centre, to which they are tending. If we recede slowly at first setting out, we advance rapidly in our future course: and to have begun to be wrong, is already to have made a great progress.
A constant habit of amusement relaxes the tone of the mind, and renders it totally incapable of application, study, or virtue. Dissipation not only indisposes its votaries to every thing useful and excellent, but disqualifies them for the enjoyment of pleasure itself. It softens the soul so much, that the most superficial employment becomes a labour, and the slightest inconvenience an agony. The luxurious Sybarite must have lost all sense of real enjoyment, and all relish for true gratification, before he complained that he could not sleep, because the rose-leaves lay double under him.
Luxury and dissipation, soft and gentle as their approaches are, and silently as they throw their silken chains about the heart, enslave it more than the most active and turbulent vices. The mightiest conquerors have been conquered by those unarmed foes: the flowery fetters are fastened before they are felt. The blandishments of Circe were more fatal to the mariners of a [...]lysses, than the strength of Polypheme or the brutality of the [...]aestrigons. Hercules, after he had cleansed the Augean stable, and performed all the other labours enjoined him by Euristheus, found himself a slave to the softness of the heart; and he, who wore a club and a lion's skin in the cause of virtue, condescended to the most effeminate employments to gratify a criminal weakness. Hannibal, who vanquished mighty nations, was himself overcome by the love of pleasure; and he who despised cold, and want, and danger, and death on the Alps, was conquered and undone by the dissolute indulgences of Capua.
[Page 16]Before the hero of the most beautiful and virtuous romance that ever was written, I mean Telemachus, landed on the island of Cyprus, he unfortunately lost his prudent companion, Mentor, in whom wisdom is so finely personified. At first he beheld with horror the wanton and dissolute manners of the voluptuous inhabitants; the ill effects of their example were not immediate: he did not fall into the commission of glaring enormities; but his virtue was secretly and imperceptibly undermined; his heart was softened by their pernicious society, and the nerve of resolution was slackened: he every day beheld with diminished indignation the worship which was offered to Venus; the disorders of luxury and prophaneness became less and less terrible, and the infectious air of the country enfeebled his courage, and relaxed his principles. In short, he had ceased to love virtue long before he thought of committing actual vice; and the duties of a manly piety were burdensome to him, before he was so debased as to offer perfumes, and burn incense on the altar of the licentious goddess *.
‘Let us crown ourselves with rose buds before they be withered,’ said Solomon's libertine. Alas! he did not reflect, that they withered in the very gathering. The roses of pleasure seldom last long enough to adorn the brow of him who plucks them; for they are the only roses which do not retain their sweetness after they have lost their beauty.
[Page 17]The heathen poets often pressed on their readers the necessity of considering the shortness of life, as an incentive to pleasure and voluptuousness; lest the season for indulging in them should pass unimproved. The dark and uncertain notions, not to say the absolute disbelief, which they entertained of a future state, is the only apology that can be offered for this reasoning. But while we censure their tenets, let us not adopt their errors; errors which would be infinitely more inexcusable in us, who, from the clearer views which revelation has given us, shall not have their ignorance or their doubts to plead. It were well if we availed ourselves of that portion of their precept, which inculcates the improvement of every moment of our time, but not like them to dedicate the moments so redeemed to the pursuit of sensual and perishable pleasures, but to the securing of those which are spiritual in their nature, and eternal in their duration.
If, indeed, like the miserable * beings imagined by Swift, with a view to cure us of the irrational desire after immoderate length of days, we were condemned to a wretched earthly immortality, we should have an excuse for spending some portion of our time in dissipation, as we might then pretend, with some colour of reason, that we proposed, at a distant period, to enter on a better course of action. Or if we never formed any such resolution, it would make no material difference to beings, whose state was already unalterably fixed. But of the scanty portion of days assigned to our lot, not one should be lost in weak and irresolute procrastination.
Those who have not yet determined on the side of vanity, who, like Herculus, (before he knew the queen of Lydia, and had learnt to spin) have not resolved on their choice between VIRTUE and PLEASURE, may reflect, that it is still in their power to imitate that hero in his noble choice, and in his virtuous rejection. They may also reflect with grateful [Page 18] triumph, that christianity furnishes them with a better guide than the tutor of Alcides, and with a surer light than the doctrines of pagan philosophy.
It is far from my design severely to condemn the innocent pleasures of life; I would only beg leave to observe, that those which are criminal should never be allowed; and that even the most innocent will, by immoderate use, soon cease to be so.
The women of this country were not sent into the world to shun society, but to embellish it; they were not designed for wilds and solitudes, but for the amiable and endearing offices of social life. They have useful stations to fill, and important characters to sustain. They are of a religion which does not impose penances, but enjoins duties; a religion of perfect purity, but of perfect benevolence also. A religion which does not condemn its followers to indolent seclusion from the world, but assigns them the more dangerous though more honourable province, of living uncorrupted in it. In fine, a religion, which does not direct them to fly from the multitude, that they may do nothing, but which positively forbids them to follow a multitude to do evil.
On Conversation.
IT has been advised, and by very respectable authorities too, that in conversation women should carefully conceal any knowledge or learning they may happen to possess. I own with submission, that I do not see either the necessity or propriety of this advice. For if a young lady has that discretion and modesty, without which all knowledge is little worth, she will never make an ostentatious parade of it, because she will rather be intent on acquiring more, than on displaying what she has.
I am at a loss to know why a young female is instructed to exhibit, in the most advantageous point of view, her skill in music, her singing, dancing, taste in dress, and her acquaintance with the most [...]ashionable games and amusements, while her piety [Page 19] is to be anxiously concealed, and her knowledge affectedly disavowed, lest the former should draw on her the appellation of an enthusiast, or the latter that of a pedant.
In regard to knowledge, why should she forever affect to be on her guard, lest she should be found guilty of a small portion of it? She need be the less solicitous about it, as it seldom proves to be so very considerable as to excite astonishment or admiration: for, after all the acquisitions which her talents and her studies have enabled her to make, she will, generally speaking, be found to have less of what is called learning, than a common school boy.
It would be to the last degree presumptuous and absurd, for a young woman to pretend to give the ton to the company—to interrupt the pleasure of others, and her own opportunity of improvement, by talking when she ought to listen—or to introduce subjects out of the common road, in order to show her own wit, or to expose the want of it in others: but were the sex to be totally silent when any topic of literature happens to be discussed in their presence, conversation would lose much of its vivacity and society would be robbed of one of its most inte [...] esting charms.
How easily and effectually may a well-bred woman promote the most useful and elegant conversation, almost without speaking a word! for the modes of speech are scarcely more variable than the modes of silence. The silence of listless ignorance, and the silence of sparkling intelligence, are perhaps as separately marked, and as distinctly expressed, as the same feelings could have been by the most unequivocal language. A woman, in a company where she has the least influence, may promote any subject by a profound and invariable attention, which shows that she is pleased with it, and by an illuminated countenance, which proves she understands it. This obliging attention is the most flattering encouragement in the world to men of sense and letters, to continue any topic of instruction or entertainment [Page 20] they happen to be engaged in: it owed its introduction perhaps to accident, the best introduction in the world for a subject of ingenuity, which, though it could not have been formally proposed without ped [...]ntry, may be continued with ease and good humour; but which will be frequently and effectually stopped by the liftlessness, inattention, or whispering of silly girls, whose weariness betrays their ignorance, and whose impatience exposes their ill-breeding. A polite man, however deeply interested in the subject on which he is conversing, catches at the slightest hint to have done: a look is a sufficient intimation, and if a pretty simpleton, who sits near him, seems distraite, he puts an end to his remarks, to the great regret of the reasonable part of the company, who perhaps might have gained more improvement by the continuance of such a conversation, than a week's reading would have yielded them; for it is such company as this, that give an edge to each other's wit, "as iron sharpeneth iron."
That silence is one of the great arts of conversation is allowed by Cicero himself, who says, there is not only an art, but even an eloquence in it. And this opinion is confirmed by a great modern *, in the following little anecdote from one of the ancients:
When many Grecian philosophers had a solemn meeting before the ambassador of a foreign prince, each endeavoured to show his parts by the brilliancy of his conversation, that the ambassador might have something to relate of the Grecian wisdom. One of them, offended, no doubt, at the loquacity of his companions, observed a profound silence; when the ambassador, turning to him, asked, ‘But what have you to say, that I may report it?’ He made this laconic, but very pointed reply: ‘Tell your king that you have found one among the Greeks who knew how to be silent.’
There is a quality infinitely more intoxicating to the female mind than knowledge; this is wit, the [Page 21] most captivating, but the most dreaded of all talents: the most dangerous to those who have it, and the most feared by those who have it not. Though it is against all the rules, yet I cannot find in my heart to abuse this charming quality. He who is grown rich without it, in safe and sober dulness, shuns it as a disease, and looks upon poverty as its invariable concomitant. The moralist declaims against it, as the source of irregularity; and the frugal citizen dreads it more than bankruptcy itself; for he considers it as the parent of extravagance and beggary. The cynic will ask of what use it is? Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet it is allowed as an object of innocent amusement and delightful recreation. A woman who possesses this quality, has received a most dangerous present, perhaps not less so than beauty itself: especially if it be not sheathed in a temper peculiarly inoffensive, chastised by a most correct judgment, and restrained by more prudence than falls to the common lot.
This talent is more likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for as wit is the immediate property of its possessor, and learning is only an acquaintance with the knowledge of other people, there is much more danger, that we should be vain of what is our own, than of what we borrow.
But wit, like learning, is not near so common a thing as is imagined. Let not, therefore, a young lady be alarmed at the acuteness of her own wit, any more than at the abundance of her own knowledge. The great danger is, lest she should mistake pertness, flippancy, or imprudence, for this brilliant quality, or imagine she is witty, only because she is indiscreet. This is very frequently the case; and this makes the name of wit so cheap, while its real existence is so rare.
Lest the flattery of her acquaintance, or an overweening opinion of her own qualifications, should lead some vain and petulant girl into a false notion that she has a great deal of wit, when she has only a redundancy of animal spirits, she may not find it useless [Page 22] to attend to the definition of this quality, by o [...] who had as large a portion of it, as most individuals could ever boast:
But those who actually possess this rare talent, cannot be too abstinent in the use of it. It often makes admirers, but it never makes friends; I mean, where it is the predominant feature; and the unprotected and defenceless state of womanhood calls for friendship more than for admiration. She who does not desire friends, has a sordid and insensible soul; but she who is ambitious of making every man her admirer, has an invincible vanity, and a cold heart.
But to dwell only on the side of policy, a prudent woman, who has established the reputation of some genius, will sufficiently maintain it, without keeping her faculties always on the stretch, to say good things. Nay, if reputation alone be her object, she will gain a more solid one by her forbearance; as the wiser part of her acquaintance will ascribe it to the right motive, which is, not that she has less wit, but that she has more judgment.
The fatal fondness for indulging a spirit of ridicule, and the injur [...]ous and irreparable consequences which sometimes attend the too prompt reply, can never be too seriously or too severely condemned. Not to offend is the first step towards pleasing. To give pain is as much an offence against humanity, as against good breedi [...] and surely it is as well to abstain from an action because it is sinful, as because it is unpolite. In company, young ladies would do well, before they speak, to reflect, if what they are [Page 23] going to say may not distress some worthy persons present, b [...] wounding them in their persons, families, connexions, or religious opinions. If they find it will touch them in either of these, I would advise them to suspect, that what they are going to say, is not so very good a thing as they at first imagined. Nay, if even it was one of those bright ideas, which Venus has imbued with a fifth part of her nectar, so much greater will be their merit in suppressing it, if there was a probability it might offend▪ [...]ndeed if they have the temper and prudence to make such a previous reflexion, they will be more richly rewarded by their own inward triumph, at having suppressed a lively but severe remark, than they could have been with the dissembled applauses of the whole company, who, with that complaisant deceit, which good breeding too much authorises, affect openly to admire what they secretly resolve never to forgive.
I have always been delighted with the story of the little girl's eloquence, in one of the children's tales, who received from a friendly fairy the gift, that at every word she uttered, pinks, roses, diamonds, and pearls, should drop from her mouth. The hidden moral appears to be this, that it was the sweetness of her temper which produced this pretty fanciful effect: for when her malicious sister desired the same gift from the good natured tiny intelligence, the venom of her own heart converted it into poisonous and loathsome reptiles.
A man of sense and breeding will sometimes join in the laugh, which has been raised at his expense, by an ill-natured repartee: but if it was very cutting, and one of that shocking sort of truths, which, as they can scarcely be pardoned even in private, ought never to be uttered in public, he does not laugh because he is pleased, but because he wishes to conceal how much he is hurt. As the sarcasm was uttered by a lady, so far from seeming to resent it, he will be the first to commend it; but nothwithstanding that, he will remember it as a trait of malice, when the whole company shall have forgotten [Page 24] it as a stroke of wit. Women are so far from being privileged by their sex to say unhandsome or cruel things, that this is the very circumstance which renders them more intolerable. When the arrow is lodged in the heart, it is no relief to him who is wounded, to reflect, that the hand which shot him was a fair one.
Many women, when they have a favourite point to gain, or an earnest wish to bring any one over to their opinion, often use a very disingenuous method: they will state a case ambiguously, and then avail themselves of it, in whatever manner shall best answer their purpose; leaving your mind in a state of indecision as to their real meaning, while they triumph in the perplexity they have given you, by the unfair conclusions they draw, from premises equivocally stated. They will also frequently argue from exceptions instead of rules, and are astonished when you are not willing to be contented with a prejudice, instead of a reason.
In a sensible company of both sexes, where women are not restrained by any other reserve than what their natural modesty imposes—and where the intimacy of all parties authorises the utmost freedom of communication—should any one enquire what were the general sentiments on some particular subject, it will, I believe, commonly happen that the ladies, whose imaginations have kept pace with the narration, have anticipated its end, and are ready to deliver their sentiments on it, as soon as it is finished. While some of the male hearers, whose minds were busied in settling the propriety, comparing the circumstances, and examining the consistencies of what was said are obliged to pause and discriminate, before they think of answering. Nothing is so embarrassing as a variety of matter; and the conversation of women is often more perspicuous, because it is less laboured.
A man of deep reflexion, if he does not keep up an intimate commerce with the world, will be sometimes so entangled in the intricacies of intense [Page 25] thought, that he will have the appearance of a confused and perplexed expression; while a sprightly woman will extricate herself with that lively and "rash dexterity," which will almost always please, though it is very far from being always right. It is easier to confound than to convince an opponent; the former may be effected by a turn that has more happiness than truth in it. Many an excellent reasoner, well skilled in the theory of the schools, has felt himself discomfited by a reply, which, though as wide of the mark, and as foreign to the question, as can be conceived, has disconcerted him more than the most startling propositon, or the most accurate chain of reasoning could have done; and he has borne the laugh of his fair antagonist, as well as of the whole company, though he could not but feel, that his own argument was attended with the fullest demonstration: so true it is, that it is not always necessary to be right, in order to be applauded.
But let not a young lady's vanity be too much elated with this false applause, which is given, not to merit, but to her sex: she has not, perhaps, gained a victory, though she may be allowed a triumph; and it should humble her to reflect, that the tribute is paid, not to her strength, but to her weakness. It is worth while to discriminate between that applause, which is given from the complaisance of others, and that which is paid to our own merit.
Where great sprightliness is the natural bent of the temper, girls should endeavour to habituate themselves to a custom of observing, thinking, and reasoning. I do not mean that they should devote themselves to abstruse speculation, or the study of logic; but she, who is accustomed to give a due arrangement to her thoughts, to reason justly and pertinently, on common affairs, and judiciously to deduce effects from their causes, will be a better logician tha [...] some of those who claim the name, because they have studied the art: this is being "learned without the rules;" the best definition, perhaps, of that sort of literature which is properest for [Page 26] the sex. That species of knowledge, which appears to be the result of reflexion rather than of science, sits peculiarly well on women. It is not uncommon to find a lady, who, though she does not know a rule of syntax, scarcely ever violates one; and who constucts every sentence she utters, with more propriety than many a learned dunce, who has every rule of Aristotle by heart, and who can lace his own thread-bare discourse with the golden shreds of Cicero and Virgil.
It has been objected, and I fear with some reason, that female conversation is too frequently tinctured with a censorious spirit, and that ladies are seldom apt to discover much tenderness for the errors of a fallen sister. ‘If it be so, it is a grievous fault.’ No arguments can justify, no pleas can extenuate it To exult over the miseries of an unhappy creature is inhuman: not to compassionate them is unchristian. The worthy part of the sex always express themselves humanely on the failings of others, in proportion to their own undeviating goodness.
And here I cannot help remarking, that young women do not always carefully distinguish between running into the error of detraction, and its opposite extreme of indiscriminate applause. This proceeds from the false idea they entertain, that the direct contrary to what is wrong, must be right. Thus the dread of being only suspected of one fault, makes them actually guilty of another. The desire of avoiding the imputation of envy, impels them to be insincere; and to establish a reputation for sweetness of temper and generosity, they affect sometimes to speak of very indifferent characters with the most extravagant applause. With such the hyperbole is a favourite figure; and every degree of comparison, but the superlative, is rejected, as cold and inexpressive. But this habit of exaggeration greatly weakens their credit, and destroys the weight of their opinion on other occasions; for people very soon discover what [Page 27] degree of faith is to be given both to their judgment and veracity. And those of real merit will no more be flattered by that approbation, which cannot distinguish the value of what it praises, than the celebrated painter must have been at the judgment passed on his works by an ignorant spectator, who, being asked what he thought of such and such very capital but very different pieces, cried out in an affected rapture, "All alike! all alike!"
It has been proposed to the young, as a maxim of supreme wisdom, to manage so dexterously in conversation, as to appear to be well acquainted with subjects, of which they are totally ignorant; and this, by affecting silence in regard to those, on which they are known to excel.—But why counsel this disingenuous fraud? Why add to the numberless arts of deceit, this practice of deceiving, as it were, on a settled principle? If to disavow the knowledge they really have, be a culpable affectation, then certainly to insinuate an idea of their skill where they are actually ignorant, is a most unworthy artifice.
But of all the qualifications for conversation, humility, if not the most brilliant, is the safest, the most amiable, and the most feminine. The affectation of introducing subjects, with which others are unacquainted, and of displaying talents superior to the rest of the company, is as dangerous as it is foolish.
There are many, who never can forgive another for being more agreeable and more accomplished than themselves, and who can pardon any offence rather than an eclipsing merit. Had the nightingale in the fable conquered his vanity, and resisted the temptation of showing a fine voice, he might have escaped the talons of the hawk. The melody of his singing was the cause of his destruction; his merit brought him into danger, and his vanity cost him his life.
On Envy.
"ENVY," says Lord Bacon, "has no holidays." There cannot, perhaps, be a more lively and striking description of the miserable state of mind those endure, who are tormented with this vice. A spirit of emulation has been supposed to be the source of the greatest improvements; and there is no doubt but the warmest rivalship will produce the most excellent effects; but it is to be feared, that a perpetual state of contest will injure the temper so essentially, that the mischief will hardly be counter-balanced by any other advantages. Those, whose progress is the most rapid, will be apt to despise their less successful competitors, who, in return, will feel the bitterest resentment against their more fortunate rivals. Among persons of real goodness, this jealousy and contempt can never be equally felt; because every advancement in piety will be attended with a proportionable encrease of humility, which will lead them to contemplate their own improvements with modesty, and to view with charity the miscarriages of others.
When an envious man is melancholy, one may ask him, in the words of Bion, what evil has befallen himself, or what good has happened to another? This last is the scale by which he principally measures his felicity, and the very smiles of his friends are so many deductions from his own happiness. The wants of others are the standard by which he rates his own wealth; and he estimates his riches not so much by his own possessions, as by the necessities of his neighbours.
[Page 29]When the malevolent intend to strike a very deep and dangerous stroke of malice, they generally begin the most remotely in the world, from the subject nearest their hearts. They set out with commending the object of their envy for some trifling quality or advantage, which it is scarcely worth while to possess: they next proceed to make a general profession of their own good will and regard for him; thus artfully removing any suspicion of their design, and clearing all obstructions for the insidious stab they are about to give: for who will [...]uspect them of an intention to injure the object of their peculiar and professed esteem? the hearer's belief of the fact grows in proportion to the seeming reluctance with which it is told, and to the conviction he has, that the relater is not influenced by any private pique, or personal resentment; but that the confession is extorted from him sorely against his inclination, and purely on account of his zeal for truth.
Anger is less reasonable and more sincere than envy.—Anger breaks out abruptly; envy is a great prefacer: anger wishes to be understood at once; envy is fond of remote hints and ambiguities; but, obscure as its oracles are, it never ceases to deliver them till they are perfectly comprehended: anger repeats the same circumstances over again; envy invents new ones at every fresh recital: anger gives a broken, vehement, and interrupted narrative; envy tells a more consistent and more probable, though a falser tale: anger is excessively imprudent; for it is impatient to disclose every thing it knows; envy is discreet; for it has a great deal to hide: anger never consults times or seasons; envy waits for th [...] lucky moment, when the wound it meditates may be made the most exquisitely painful, and the most incurably deep: anger uses more invective; envy does more mischief: simple anger soon runs itself out of breath, and is exhausted at the end of its tale; but it is for that chosen period that envy has treasured up the most barbed arrow in its whole quiver: anger puts a man out of himself; but the truly malicious generally [Page 30] preserve the appearance of self-possession, or they could not so effectually injure.—The angry man sets out by destroying his whole credit with you at once; for he very frankly confesses his abhorrence and detestation of the object of his abuse; while the envious man carefully suppresses all his own share in the affair.—The angry man d [...]feats the end of his resentment, by keeping himself continually before your eyes, instead of his enemy; while the envious man artfully brings forward the object of his malice, and keeps himself out of sight.—The angry man talks loudly of his own wrongs; the envious of his adversary's injustice.—A passionate person, if his resentments are not complicated with malice, divides his time between sinning and sorrowing; and as the irascible passions cannot constantly be at work, his heart may sometimes get a holiday.—Anger is a violent act, envy a constant habit:—no one can be always angry, but he may be always envious:—an angry man's enmity (if he be generous) will subside when the object of his resentment becomes unfortunate; but the envious man can extract food from his malice out of calamity itself, if he finds his adversary bea [...]s it with dignity, or is pitied or assisted in it. The rage of the passionate man is totally extinguished by the death of his enemy: but the hatred of the malicious is not buried even in the grave of his rival: he will envy the good name he has left behind him; he will envy him the tears of his widow, and the prosperity of his children, the esteem of his friends, the praises of his epitaph—nay, the very magnificence of his funeral.
"The ear of jealousy heareth all things," (says the wise man) frequently I believe more than is uttered, which makes the company of persons infected with it still more dangerous.
When you tell those of a malicious turn, any circumstance that has happened to another, though they perfectly know of whom you are speaking, they often affect to be at a loss, to forget his name, or to misapprehend you in some respect or other; and this, [Page 31] merely to have an apportunity of slily gratifying their malice, by mentioning some unhappy defect or personal infirmity he labours under; and not contented "to tack his every error to his name," they will by way of farther explanation, have recourse to the faults of his father, or the misfortunes of his family; and this, with all the seeming simplicity and candour in the world, merely for the sake of preventing mistakes, and to clear up every doubt of his identy.—If you are speaking of a lady, for instance, they will perhaps embellish their enquiries, by asking, if you mean her, whose great grandfather was a bankrupt, though she has the vanity to keep a chariot, while others who are much better born walk on foot; for they will afterwards recollect, that you may possibly mean her cousin, of the same name, whose mother was suspected of such or such an indiscretion, though the daughter had the luck to make her fortune by marrying, while her betters are overlooked.
To hint at a fault, does more mischief than speaking out; for whatever is left for the imagination to finish, will not fail to be overdone: every hiatus will be more than filled up, and every pause more than supplied. There is less malice, and less mischief too, in telling a man's name, than the initials of it; as a worthier person may be involved in the most disgraceful suspicions by such a dangerous ambiguity.
It is not uncommon for the envious, after having attempted to deface the fairest character so industriously, that they are afraid you will begin to detect their malice, to endeavour to remove your suspicions effectually, by assuring you, that ‘what they have just related is only the popular opinion; they themselves can never believe things are so bad as they are said to be; for their part, it is a rule with them always to hope the best. It is their way never to believe or report ill of any one. They will, however, mention the story in all companies, that they may do their friend the service of protesting their disbelief of it.’ More reputations [Page 32] are thus hinted away by false friends, than are openly destroyed by public enemies. An if, or a but, or a mortified look, or a languid defence, or an ambiguous shake of the head, or a hasty word affectedly recalled, will demolish a character more effectually, than the whole artillery of malice, when openly levelled against it.
It is not that envy never praises: No, that would be making a public profession of itself, and advertising its own malignity; whereas the greatest success of its efforts depends on the concealment of their end. When envy intends to strike a stroke of Machiavelian policy, it sometimes affects the language of the most exaggerated applause; though it generally takes care, that the subject of its panegyric shall be a very indifferent and common character, so that it is well aware none of its praises will stick.
It is the unhappy nature of envy not to be contented with positive misery, but to be continually aggravating its own torments, by comparing them with the felicities of others. The eyes of envy are perpetually fixed on the object which disturbs it, nor can it avert them from it, though to procure itself the relief of a temporary forgetfulness. On seeing the innocence of the first pair,
As this enormous sin chiefly instigated the revolt, and brought on the ruin, of the angelic spirits, so it is not improbable, that it will be a principal instrument of misery in a future world, for the envious to compare their desperate condition with the happiness of the children of God, and to heighten their actual wretchedness by reflecting on what they have lost.
Perhaps envy, like lying and ingratitude, is practised with more frequency, because it is practised with impunity; but there being no human laws against these crimes, is so far from an inducement to [Page 33] commit them, that this very consideration would be sufficient to deter the wise and good, if all others were ineffectual; for of how heinous a nature must those sins be, which are judged above the reach of human punishment, and are reserved for the final justice of God himself!
On the Danger of Sentimental or Romantic Connexions.
AMONG the many evils which prevail under the sun, the abuse of words is not the least considerable. By the influence of time, and the perversion of fashion, the plainest and most unequivocal may be so altered, as to have a meaning assigned them almost diametrically opposite to their original signification.
The present age may be termed, by way of distinction, the age of sentiment, a word, which, in the implication it now bears, was unknown to our plain ancestors. Sentiment is the varnish of virtue, to conceal the deformity of vice; and it is not uncommon for the same persons to make a jest of religion, to break through the most solemn ties and engagements, to practise every art of latent fraud and open seduction, and yet to value themselves on speaking and writing sentimentally.
But this resined jargon, which has infected letters, and tainted morals, is chiefly admired and adopted by young ladies of a certain turn, who read sentimental books, write sentimental letters, and contract sentimental friendships.
Error is never likely to do so much mischief, as when it disguises its real tendency, and puts on an engaging and attractive appearance. Many a young woman, who would be shocked at the imputation of an intrigue, is extremely flattered at the idea of a sentimental connexion, though perhaps with a dangerous and designing man, who, by putting on this mask of plausibility and virtue, disarms her of her prudence, lays her apprehensions asleep, and involves her in misery— misery the more inevitable, because [Page 34] unsuspected. For she who apprehends no danger, will not think it necessary to be always upon her guard; but will rather invite than avoid the ruin, which comes under so specious and so fair a form.
Such an engagement will be infinitely dearer to her vanity, than an avowed and authorized attachment; for one of these sentimental lovers will not scruple very seriously to assure a credulous girl, that her unparalleled merit entitles her to the adoration of the whole world, and that the universal homage of mankind is nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms. No wonder then she should be so easily prevailed on to believe, that an individual is captivated by perfections which might enslave a million. But she should remember, that he, who endeavours to intoxicate her with adulation, intends one day most effectually to humble her. For an artful man has always a secret design to pay himself in future for every present sacrifice. And this prodigality of praise, which he now appears to lavish with such thoughtless profusion, is, in fact, a sum economically laid out to supply his future necessities: of this sum he keeps an exact estimate, and at some distant day promises himself the most exorbitant interest for it. If he has address and conduct, and the object of his pursuit much vanity, and some sensibility, he seldom fails of success; for so powerful will be his ascendency over her mind, that she will soon adopt his notions and opinions. Indeed it is more than probable she possessed most of them before, having gradually acquired them in her initiation into the sentimental character. To maintain that character with dignity and propriety, it is necessary she should entertain the most elevated ideas of disproportionate alliances, and disinterested love; and consider fortune, rank, and reputation, as mere chimerical distinctions and vulgar prejudices.
The lover, deeply versed in all the obliquities of fraud, and skilled to wind himself into every avenue of the heart, which indiscretion has left unguarded, soon discovers on which side it is most accessible. He [Page 35] avails himself of this weakness by addressing her in a language exactly consonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own weapons, and opposes rhapsody to sentiment. He professes so sovereign a contempt for the paltry concerns of money, that she thinks it her duty to reward him for so generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully advances of his own unworthiness, is considered by her as a fresh demand, which her gratitude must answer. And she makes it a point of honour to sacrifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to regard. These professions of humility are the common artifice of the vain; and these protestations of generosity the refuge of the rapacious. And among its many smooth mischiefs, it is one of the sure and successful frauds of sentiment, to affect the most frigid indifference to those external and pecuniary advantages, which it is its great and real object to obtain.
A sentimental girl very rarely entertains any doubt of her personal beauty; for she has been daily accustomed to contemplate it herself, and to hear of it from others. She will not therefore be very solicitous for the confirmation of a truth so self-evident; but she suspects, that her pretensions to understanding are more likely to be disputed, and, for that reason, greedily devours every compliment offered to those perfections, which are less obvious and more refined. She is persuaded that men need only open their eyes to decide on her beauty, while it will be the most convincing proof of the taste, sense, and elegance of her admirer, that he can discern and flatter those qualities in her. A man of the character here supposed, will easily insinuate himself into her affections, by means of this latent but leading foible, which may be called the guiding clue to a sentimental heart. He will affect to overlook that beauty which attracts common eyes, and ensnares common hearts, while he will bestow the most delicate praises on the beauties of her mind, and finish the climax of adulation, by hinting that she is superior to it.
But nothing, in general, can end less delightfully than these sublime attachments, even where no acts of seduction are ever practised, but they are suffered, like mere sublunary connexions, to terminate in the vulgar catastrophe of marriage. That wealth, which lately seemed to be looked on with ineffable contempt by the lover, now appears to be the principal attraction in the eyes of the husband: and he, who but a few short weeks before, in a transport of sentimental generosity, wished her to have been a village maid, with no portion but her crook and her beauty, and that they might spend their days in pastoral love and innocence, has now lost all relish for the Arcadian life, or any other life in which she must be his companion.
On the other hand, she who was lately ‘An angel call'd, and angel-like ador'd,’ is shocked to find herself at once stripped of all her celestial attributes. This late divinity, who scarcely yielded to her sisters of the sky, now finds herself of less importance in the esteem of the man she has chosen, than any other mere mortal woman. No longer is she gratified with the tear of counterfeited passion, the sigh of dissembled rapture, or the language of premeditated adoration. No longer is the altar of her vanity loaded with the oblations of fictitious fondness, the incense of falsehood, or the sacrifice of flattery.—Her apotheosis is ended! She feels herself degraded from the dignities and privileges of a goddess, to all the imperfections, vanities, and weaknesses of a slighted woman, and a neglected wife. Her faults, which were so lately overlooked, or mistaken for virtues, are now, as Cassius says, set in a note-book. The passion, which was vowed eternal, lasted only a few short weeks, and the indifference, which was so far from being included in the bargain, that it was not so much as suspected, follows them [Page 37] through the whole tiresome journey of their insipid, vacant, joyless existence.
Thus much for the completion of the sentimental history. If we [...]ace it back to its beginning, we shall find, that a damsel of this cast had her head originally turned by pernicious reading, and her insanity confirmed by imprudent friendships. She never fails to select a beloved confidante of her own turn and humour, though, if she can help it, not quite so handsome as herself. A violent intimacy ensues, or, to speak the language of sentiment, an intimate union of souls immediately takes place, which is wrought to the highest pitch, by a secret and voluminous correspondence, though they live in the same street, or perhaps in the same house. This is the fuel which principally feeds and supplies the dangerous flame of sentiment. In this correspondence the two friends encourage each other in the falsest notions imaginable. They represent romantic love as the great important business of human life, and describe all the other concerns of it as too low and paltry to merit the attention of such elevated beings, and fit only to employ the daughters of the plodding vulgar. In these letters, family affairs are misrepresented, family secrets divulged, and family misfortunes aggravated. They are filled with vows of eternal amity, and protestations of never-ending love. But interjections and quotations are the principal embellishments of these very sublime epistles. Every panegyric contained in them is extravagant and hyperbolical, every censure exaggerated and excessive. In a favourite, every frailty is heightened into a perfection, and in a foe, degraded into a crime. The dramatic poets, especially the most tender and romantic, are quoted in almost every line, and every pompous or pathetic thought is forced to give up its natural and obvious meaning, and, with all the violence of misapplication, is compelled to suit some circumstance of imaginary woe of the fair transcriber. Alicia is not too mad for her heroics, nor Monimia too mild for her soft emotions.
[Page 38]Fathers have flinty hearts, is an expression worth an empire, and is always used with peculiar emphasis and enthusiasm. For a favourite topic of these epistles is the groveling spirit and sordid temper of the parents, who will be sure to find no quarter at the hands of their daughters, should they presume to be so unreasonable as to direct their course of reading, interfere in their choice of friends, or interrupt their very important correspondence. But as these young ladies are fertile in expedients, and as their genius is never more agreeably exercised than in finding resources, they are not without their secret exultation, in case either of the above interesting events should happen, as they carry with them a certain air of tyranny and persecution which is very delightful. For a prohibited correspondence is one of the great incidents of a sentimental life— and a letter clandestinely received, the supreme felicity of a sentimental lady.
Nothing can equal the astonishment of these soaring spirits, when their plain friends or prudent relations presume to remonstrate with them on any impropriety in their conduct. But if these worthy people happen to be somewhat advanced in life, their contempt is then a little softened by pity, at the reflexion that such very antiquated, poor creatures should pretend to judge what is fit or unfit for ladies of their great refinement, sense, and reading. They consider them as wretches utterly ignorant of the sublime pleasures of a delicate and exalted passion; as tyrants whose authority is to be contemned, and as spies whose vigilance is to be eluded. The prudence of these worthy friends they term suspicion, and their experience dotage. For they are persuaded, that the face of things has so totally changed, since their parents were young, that though they might then judge tolerably for themselves, yet they are now (with all their advantages of knowledge and observation) by no means qualified to direct their more enlightened daughters; who, if they have made a great progress in the sentimental walk, will [Page 39] be no more influenced by the advice of their mother, than they would go abroad in her laced pinner, or her brocade suit.
But young people never show their folly and ignorance more conspicuously, than by this over confidence in their own judgment, and this haughty disdain of the opinion of those who have known more days. Youth has a quickness of apprehension, which it is very apt to mistake for an acuteness of penetration. But youth, like cunning, though very conceited, is very short-sighted, and never more so than when it disregards the instructions of the wise, and the admonitions of the aged. The same vices and follies influenced the human heart in their day, which influence it now, and nearly in the same manner. One, who well knew the world and its various vanities, has said: ‘The thing which hath been, it is that which shall be, and that which is done is that which shall be done, and there is no new thing under the sun.’
It is also a part of the sentimental character, to imagine that none but the young and the beautiful have any right to the pleasures of society, or even to the common benefits and blessings of life. Ladies of this turn also affect the most lofty disregard for useful qualities and domestic virtues; and this is a natural consequence; for as this sort of sentiment is only a word for idleness, she who is constantly and usefully employed, has neither leisure nor propensity to cultivate it.
A sentimental lady principally values herself on the enlargement of her notions, and her liberal way of thinking. This superiority of soul chiefly manifests itself in the contempt of these minute delicacies and little decorums, which, trifling as they may be thought, tend at once to dignify the character, and to restrain the levity of the younger part of the sex.
Perhaps the error here complained of, originates in mistaking sentiment and principle for each other. Now I conc [...]ive them to be extremely different. Sentiment [Page 40] is the virtue of ideas, and principle the virtue of action. Sentiment has its seat in the head, principle in the heart. Sentiment suggests fine harangues and subtile distinctions; principle conceives just notions, and performs good actions in consequence of them. Sentiment refines away the simplicity of truth and the plainness of piety; and, as a celebrated wit * has remarked of his no less celebrated cotemporary, gives us virtue in words and vice in deeds. Sentiment may be called the Athenian who knew what was right, and principle the Lacedemonian who practised it.
But these qualities will be better exemplified by an attentive consideration of two admirably drawn characters of [...]ilton, which are beautifully, delicately, and distinctly marked. These are, Belial, who may not improperly be called the Demon of Sentiment; and Abdiel, who may be termed the Angel of Principle.
Survey the picture of Belial, drawn by the sublimest hand that ever held the poetic pencil.
Here is a lively and exquisite representation of art, subtilty, wit, fine breeding, and polished manners: on the whole, of a very accomplished and sentimental spirit.
Now turn to the artless, upright, and unsophisticated Abdiel,
But it is not from these descriptions just and striking as they are, that their characters are so perfectly known, as from an examination of their conduct through the remainder of this divine work; in which it is well worth while to remark the consonancy of their actions, with what the above pictures seem to promise. It will also be observed, that the contrast between them is kept up throughout, with the utmost exactness of delineation, and the most animated strength of colouring. On a review it will be found, that Belial talked all, and Abdiel did all. The former,
In Abdiel you will constantly find the eloquence of action. When tempted by the rebellious angels, with what retorted scorn, with what honest indignation he deserts their multitudes, and retreats from their contagious society!
No wonder he was received with such acclamations of joy by the celestial powers, when there was
And afterwards, in a close contest with the archfiend,
[Page 42]What was the effect of this courage of the vigilant and active seraph?
Abdiel had the superiority of Belial as much in the warlike combat, as in the peaceful counsels.
But notwithstanding I have spoken with some asperity against sentiment, as opposed to principle, yet I am convinced, that true genuine sentiment (not the sort I have been describing) may be so connected with principle, as to bestow on it its brightest lustre, and its most captivating graces. And enthusiasm is so far from being disagreeable, that a portion of it is perhaps indispensably necessary in an engaging woman. But it must be the enthuasiasm of the heart, not of the senses▪ it must be the enthusiasm which grows up with a feeling mind, and is cherished by a virtuous education—not that which is compounded of irregular passions, and artificially refined by books of unnatural fiction and improbable adventure. I will even go so far as to assert, that a young woman cannot have any real greatness of soul, or true clevation of principle, if she has not a tincture of what the vulgar would call Romance, but which persons of a certain way of thinking will discern to p [...]oceed from those fine feelings, and that charming sensibility, without which, though a woman may be worthy, yet she can never be amiable.
But this dangerous merit cannot be too rigidly watched, as it is very apt to lead those who possess it into inconveniences from which less interesting characters are happily exempt. Young women of strong sensibility may be carried by the very [...]miableness of this temper, into the most al [...]rming extremes. Their tastes are passions. They love and [Page 43] hate with all their hearts, and scarcely suffer themselves to feel a reasonable preference, before it strengthens into a violent attachment.
When an innocent girl, of this open, trusting, tender heart, happens to meet with one of her own sex and age, whose address and manners are engaging, she is instantly seized with an ardent desire to commence a friendship with her. She feels the most lively impatience at the restraints of company, and the decorums of ceremony. She longs to be alone with her, longs to assure her of the warmth of her tenderness, and generously ascribes to the fair stranger all the good qualities she feels in her own heart, or ra [...]her all those which she has met with, in her reading, dispersed in a variety of heroines. She is persuaded, that her new friend unites them all in herself, because she carries in her prepossessing countenance the promise of them all. How cruel and how censorious would this inexperienced girl think her mother was, who should venture to hint, that the agreeable unknown had defects in her temper, or exceptions in her character! She would mistake these hints of discretion for the insinuations of an uncharitable disposition. At first she would perhaps listen to them with a generous impatience, and afterwards with a cold and silent disdain. She would despise them as the effect of prejudice, misrepresentation, or ignorance. The more aggravated the censure, the more vehemently would she protest in secret, that her friendship for this dear injured creature (who is raised much higher in her esteem by such injurious suspicions) shall know no bounds, as she is assured it can know no end.
Yet this trusting confidence, this honest indiscretion, is, at this early period of life, as amiable as it is natural; and will, if wisely cultivated, produce, at its proper season, fruits infinitely more valuable than all the guarded circumspection of premature, and therefore artificial prudence. Men, I believe, are seldom struck with these sudden prepossessions in favour of each other. They are not so unsuspecting, [Page 44] nor so easily led away by the predominance of fancy. They engage more warily, and pass through the several stages of acquaintance, intimacy, and confidence, by flower gradations; but women, if they are sometimes deceived in the choice of a friend, enjoy even then an higher degree of satisfaction, than if they never trusted. For to be always clad in the burdensome armour of suspicion, is more painful and inconvenient, than to run the hazard of suffering now and then a transient injury.
But the above observations only extend to the young and the inexperienced; for I am very certain, that women are capable of as faithful and as durable friendship as any of the other sex. They can enter not only into all the enthusiastic tenderness, but into all the solid fidelity of attachment. And if we cannot oppose instances of equal weight with those of Nysus and Euryalus, Theseus and Pirithous, Pylades and Orestes, let it be remembered, that it is because the recorders of those characters were men, and that the very existence of them is merely poetical.
On True and False Meekness.
A LOW voice and soft address are the common indications of a well-bred woman, and should seem to be the natural effects of a meek and quiet spirit; but they are only the outward and visible signs of it: for they are no more meekness itself, than a red coat is courage, or a black one devotion.
Yet nothing is more common than to mistake the sign for the thing itself; nor is any practice more frequent, than that of endeavouring to acquire the exterior mark, without once thinking to labour after the interior grace. Surely this is beginning at the wrong end, like attacking the symptom, and neglecting the disease. To regulate the features, while the soul is in tumults, or to command the voice, while the passions are without restraint, is as idle as throwing odours into a stream when the source is polluted.
[Page 45]The sapient king, who knew better than any man the nature and the power of beauty, has assured us, that the temper of the mind has a strong influence upon the features: "Wisdom maketh the face to shine," says that exquisite judge; and surely no part of wisdom is more likely to produce this amiable effect, than a placid serenity of soul.
It will not be difficult to distinguish the true from the artificial meekness. The former is universal and habitual; the latter, local and temporary. Every young female may keep this rule by her, to enable her to form a just judgment of her own temper: if she is not as gentle to her chambermaid, as she is to her visitor, she may rest satisfied, that the spirit of gentleness is not in her.
Who would not be shocked and disappointed to behold a well-bred young lady, soft and engaging as the doves of Venus, displaying a thousand graces and attractions to win the hearts of a large company— and the instant they are gone, to see her look mad as the Pythian maid, and all the frightened graces driven from her furious countenance, only because her gown was brought home a quarter of an hour later than she expected, or her riband sent half a shade lighter or darker than she ordered?
All men's characters are said to proceed from their servants; and this is more particularly true of ladies: for as their situations are more domestic, they lie more open to the inspection of their families, to whom their real characters are easily and perfectly known; for they seldom think it worth while to practise any disguise before those, whose good opinion they do not value, and who are obliged to submit to their most insupportable humours, because they are paid for it.
Among women of breeding, the exterior of gentleness is so uniformly assumed, and the whole manner is so perfectly level and uni, that it is next to impossible for a stranger to know any thing of their true dispositions by conversing with them: and even the very features are so exactly regulated, that physiognomy, [Page 46] which may sometimes be trusted among the vulgar, is, with the polite, a most lying science.
A very termagant woman, if she happens also to be a very artful one, will be conscious she has so much to conceal, that the dread of betraying her real temper, will make her put on an over-acted softness, which, from its very excess, may be distinguished from the natural by a penetrating eye. That gentleness is ever liable to be suspected for the counterfeited, which is so excessive as to deprive people of the proper use of speech, and motion, or which, as [...] says, makes them lisp and amble, and nickname [...]'s creatures.
The countenance and manners of some very fashionable persons may be compared to the inscriptions on their monuments, which speak nothing but good of what is within; but he who knows any thing of the world, or of the human heart, will no more trust to the countenance than he will depend on the epitaph.
Among the various artifices of factitious meekness, one of the most frequent and most plausible, is that of affecting to be always equally delighted with all persons and all characters. The society of these languid beings is without confidence; their friendship without attachment; and their love without affection, or even preference. This insipid mode of conduct may be safe; but I cannot think it has either taste, sense, or principle in it.
These uniformly smiling and approving ladies, who have neither the noble courage to reprehend vice, nor the generous warmth to bear their honest testimony in the cause of virtue, conclude every one to be ill-natured who has any penetration, and look upon a distinguishing judgment as want of tenderness. But they should learn, that this discernment does not always proceed from an uncharitable temper, but from that long experience and thorough knowledge of the world, which lead these who have it, to scrutinize into the conduct and disposition of men, before they trust entirely to those fair appearances, [Page 47] which sometimes veil the most insidious purposes.
We are perpetually mistaking the qualities and dispositions of our own hearts. We elevate our failings into virtues, and qualify our vices into weaknesses: and hence arise so many false judgments respecting meekness. Self-ignorance is at the root of all this mischief. Many ladies complain, that, for their part, their spirit is so meek they can bear nothing; whereas, if they spoke truth, they would say, their spirit is so high and unbroken, that they can bear nothing. Strange▪ to plead their meekness as a reason why they cannot endure to be crossed, and to produce their impatience of contradiction▪ as a proof of their gentleness!
Meekness, like most other virtues, has certain limits, which it no sooner exceeds than it becomes criminal. Servility of spirit is not gentleness, but weakness; and if allowed, under the specious appearances it sometimes puts on, will lead to the most dangerous compliances. She who hears innocence maligned without vindicating it, falsehood asserted without contradicting it, or religion prophaned without resenting it, is not gentle, but wicked.
To give up the cause of an innocent, injured friend, if the popular cry happens to be against him, is the most disgraceful weakness. This was the case of Madame de Maintenon. She loved the character and admired the talents of Racine; she caressed him while he had no enemies, but wanted the greatness of mind, or rather the common justice, to protect him against their resentment, when he had; and her favourite was abandoned to the suspicious jealousy of the king, when a prudent remonstrance might have preserved him.—But her tameness, if not absolute connivance in the great massacre of the protestants, in whose church she had been bred, is a far more guilty instance of her weakness; an instance which, in spite of all her devotional zeal and incomparable prudence, will disqualify her from shining in the annals of good women, however she may be [Page 48] entitled to figure among the great and the fortunate. Compare her conduct with that of her undaunted and pious countryman and cotemporary, Bougi, who, when Louis would have prevailed on him to renounce his religion for a commission or a government, nobly replied, "If I could be persuaded to betray my God for a marshal's staff, I might betray my king for a bribe of much less consequence."
Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active and passive—if it will not enable us to subdue our own passions and resentments, as well as qualify us to bear patiently the passions and resentments of others.
Before we give way to any violent emotion of anger, it would, perhaps, be worth while to consider the value of the object which excites it, and to reflect for a moment, whether the thing we so ardently desire, or so vehemently resent, be really of as much importance to us, as that delightful tranquillity of soul, which we renounce in pursuit of it. If, on a fair calculation, we find we are not likely to get as much as we are sure to lose, then, putting all religious considerations out of the question, common sense and human policy will tell us, we have made a foolish and unprofitable exchange. Inward quiet is a part of one's self; the object of our resentment may be only a matter of opinion; and certainly, what makes a portion of our actual happiness ought to be too dear to us, to be sacrificed for a trifling, foreign, perhaps imaginary good.
The most pointed satire I remember to have read, on a mind enslaved by anger, is an observation of Seneca's. "Alexander," said he, ‘had two friends, Clitus and Lysimachus; the one he exposed to a lion, the other to himself: he who was turned loose to the beast, escaped; but Clitus was murdered: for he was turned loose to an angry man.’
A passionate woman's happiness is never in her own keeping: it is the sport of accident, and the slave of events. It is in the power of her acquaintance, her servants, but chiefly of her enemies; and all her comforts lie at the mercy of others. So far from [Page 49] being willing to learn of him who was meek and lowly, she considers meekness as the want of a becoming spirit, and lowliness as a despicable and vulgar meanness. And an imperious woman will so little covet the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, that it is almost the only ornament she will not be solicitous to wear. But resentment is a very expensive vice. How dearly has it cost its votaries, even from the sin of Cain, the first offender in this kind! "It is cheaper (says a pious writer) to forgive, and save the charges."
If it were only for mere human reasons, it would turn to a better account to be patient: nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like a spirit of forbearance: the return of rage for rage cannot be so effectually provoking. True gentleness, like an impenetrable armour, repels the most pointed shafts of malice: they cannot pierce through this invulnerable shield, but either fall hurtless to the ground, or return, to wound the hand that shot them.
A meek spirit will not look out of itself for happiness, because it finds a constant banquet at home; yet, by a sort of divine alchymy, it will convert all external events to its own profit, and be able to deduce some good, even from the most unpromising; it will extract comfort and satisfaction from the most barren circumstances: ‘It will suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock.’
But the supreme excellence of this complacent quality is, that it naturally disposes the mind where it resides, to the practice of every other that is amiable. Meekness may be called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels every obstruction, and smooths every difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their progress.
The peculiar importance and value of this amiable virtue may be farther seen in its permanency. Honours and dignities are transient— beauty and riches frail and fugacious, to a proverb. Would not the truly wise, therefore, wish to have some one possession, which they might call their own in the severest [Page 50] exigencies? But this wish can only be accomplished by acquiring and maintaining that calm and absolute self-possession, which, as the world had no hand in giving, so it cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power, take away.
Thoughts on the Cultivation of the Heart and Temper in the Education of Daughters.
I HAVE not the foolish presumption to imagine, that I can offer any thing new on a subject, which has been so successfully treated by many learned and able writers. I would only, with all possible deference, beg leave to hazard a few short remarks on that part of the subject of education, which I would call the education of the heart. I am well aware, that this part also has not been less skilfully and forcibly discussed than the rest, though I cannot at the same time, help remarking, that it does not appear to have been so much adopted into common practice.
It appears then, that notwithstanding the great and real improvements, which have been made in the affair of female education, and notwithstanding the more enlarged and generous views of it, which prevail in the present day, there is still a very material defect, which it is not, in general, enough the object of attention to remove. This defect seems to consist in this, that too little regard is paid to the disposition of the mind; that the indications of the temper are not properly cherished; nor the affections of the heart sufficiently regulated.
In the first education of girls, as far as the customs, which fashion establishes, are right, they should undoubtedly be followed. Let the exterior be made a considerable object of attention; but let it not be the principal, let it not be the only one. Let the graces be industriously cultivated; but let them not be cultivated at the expense of the virtues.—Let the arms, the head, the whole person be carefully polished; but let not the heart be the only portion of the human anatomy, which shall be totally overlooked.
[Page 51]The neglect of this cultivation seems to proceed as much from a bad taste, as fro [...] a false principle. The generality of people form their judgment of education by slight and sudden appearances, which is certainly a wrong way of determining [...] Music, dancing, and languages, gratify those who teach them, by perceptible and almost immediate [...]ffects▪ and when there happens to be no imbecility in the pupil, nor deficiency in the master, every superficial observer can, in some measure, judge of the progress. The effects of most of these accomplishments address themselves to the senses; and there are more who can see and hear, than there are, who can judge and reflect.
Personal perfection is not only more obvious, it is also more rapid; and even in very accomplished characters, elegance usually precedes principle.
But the heart, that natural seat of evil propensities, that little troublesome empire of the passions, is led to what is right by slow motions and imperceptible degrees. It must be admonished by reproof, and allured by kindness. Its liveliest advances are frequently impeded by the obstinacy of prejudice, and its brightest promises often obscured by the tempests of passion. It is slow in its acquisition of virtue, and reluctant in its approaches to piety.
There is another reason, which proves this mental cultivation to be more important, as well as more difficult, than any other part of education. In the usual fashionable accomplishments, the business of acquiring them is almost always getting forwards, and one difficulty is conquered, before another is suffered to show itself; for a prudent teacher will level the road his pupil is to pass and smooth the inequalities which might retard her progress.
But in morals, (which should be the greatest object constantly kept in view) the task is far more difficult. The unruly and turbulent desires of the heart are not so obedient; one passion will start up, before another is suppressed. The subduing Hercules cannot cut off the heads so often as the prolific hydra [Page 52] can produce them, nor fell the stubborn Antaeus, so fast as he can recruit his strength, and rise in vigourous and repeated opposition.
If all the accomplishments could be bought at the price of a single virtue, the purchase would be infinitely dear! And, however startling it may sound, I think it is, notwithstanding, true, that the labours of a good and wise mother, who is anxious for her daughter's most important interests, will seem to be at variance with those of her instructors. She will, doubtless, rejoice at her progress in any polite art, but she will rejoice with trembling:—humility and piety form the solid and durable basis, on which she wishes to raise the superstructure of the accomplishments; while the accomplishments themselves are frequently of such an unsteady nature, that if the foundation is not secured, in proportion as the building is enlarged, it will be overloaded and destroyed by those very ornaments which were intended to embellish what they have contributed to [...]in.
The more ostensible qualifications should be carefully regulated, or they will be in danger of putting to flight the modest train of retreating virtues, which cannot safely subsist before the bold eye of public observation, or bear the bolder tongue of impudent and audacious flattery. A tender mother cannot but feel an honest triumph, in contemplating those excellencies in her daughter which deserve applause; but she will also shudder at the vanity which that applause may excite, and at those hitherto unknown ideas which it may awaken.
The master, (it is his interest, and perhaps his duty,) will naturally teach a girl to set her improvements in the most conspicuous point of light. S [...] faire valoir is the great principle industriously inculcated into her young heart, and seems to be considered as a kind of fundamental maxim in education. It is, however, the certain and effectual seed, from which a thousand yet unborn vanities will sprin [...] ▪ This dangerous doctrine (which yet is not without its uses) will be counteracted by the prudent moth [...], [Page 53] not in so many words, but by a watchful and scarcely perceptible dexterity. Such a one will be more careful to have the talents of her daughter cultivated, than exhibited.
One would be led to imagine, by the common mode of female education, that life consisted of one universal holiday, and that the only contest was, who should be best enabled to excel in the sports and games that were to be celebrated on it. Merely ornamental accomplishments will but indifferently qualify a woman to perform the duties of life, though it is highly proper she should possess them, in order to furnish the amusements of it. But is it right to spend so large a portion of life without some preparation for the business of living? A lady may speak a little French and Italian, repeat a few passages in a thea [...]ical tone, play and sing, have her dressing-room [...]ung with her own drawings, and her person covered with her own tambour work, and may, notwithstanding, have been very badly educated. Yet I am far from attempting to depreciate the value of these qualifications: they are most of them not only highly becoming, but often indispensibly necessary; and a polite education cannot be perfected without them. But as the world seems to be very well apprised of their importance, there is the less occasion to insist on their utility. Yet, though well-bred young women should learn to dance, sing, recite, and draw, the end of a good education is not, that they may become dancers, singers, players, or painters; its real object is to make them good daughters, good wives, good mistresses, good members of society, and good christians. The above qualifications, therefore, are intended to adorn their leisure, not to employ their lives; for an amiable and wise woman will always have something better to value herself on, than these advantages, which, however captivating, are still but subordinate parts of a truly excellent character.
But I am afraid parents themselves sometimes contribute to the error of which I am complaining. [Page 54] Do they not often set a higher value on those acquisitions which are calculated to attract observation, and catch the eye of the multitude, than on those which are valuable, permanent, and internal? Are they not sometimes more solicitous about the opinion of others, respecting their children, than about the real advantage and happiness of the children themselves? To an injudicious and superficial eye, the best educated girl may make the least brilliant figure, as she will probably have less flippancy in her manner, and less repartee in her expression; and her acquirements, to borrow bishop Sprat's idea, will be rather enamelled than embossed. But her merit will be known, and acknowledged by all wh [...] come near enough to discern, and have taste enough to distinguish. It will be understood and admired by the man, whose happiness she is one day to make, whose family she is to govern, and whose children she is to educate. He will not seek for her in the haunts of dissipation; for he knows he shall not find her there: but he will seek for her in the bosom of retirement, in the practice of every domestic virtue, in the exercise of every amiable accomplishment, exerted in the shade, to enliven retirement, to heighten the endearing pleasures of social intercourse, and to embellish the narrow circle of family delights. To this amiable purpose, a truly good and well educated young lady will dedicate more elegant accomplishments, instead of exhibiting them to attract admiration, or depress inferiority.
Young girls, who have more vivacity than understanding, will often make a sprightly figure in conversation. But this agreeable talent for entertaining others, is frequently dangerous to themselves, nor is it by any means to be desired or encouraged very early in life. This immaturity of wit it helped on by frivolous reading, which will produce its effect in much less time than books of solid instruction: for the imagination is touched sooner than the understanding; and effects are more rapid as they are more pernicious. Conversation should be the result [Page 55] of education, not the precursor of it. It is a golden fruit, when suffered to grow gradually on the tree of knowledge; but if precipitated by forced and unnatural means, it will in the end become vapid, in proportion as it is artificial.
The best effects of a careful and religious education are often very remote: they are to be discovered in future scenes, and exhibited in untried connexions. Every event of life will be putting the heart into fresh situations, and making demands on its prudence, its firmness, its integrity, or its piety. Those, whose business it is to form it, can foresee none of these situations: yet, as far as human wisdom will allow, they must enable it to provide for them all, with an humble dependence on the divine assistance. A well-disciplined soldier must learn and practise all his evolutions, though he does not know on what service his leader may command him, by what foe he shall be attacked, nor what mode of combat the enemy may use.
One great art of education consists in not suffering the feelings to become too acute by unnecessary awakening, nor too obtuse by the want of exertion. The former renders them the source of calamity, and totally ruins the temper: while the latter blunts and debases them, and produces a dull, cold, and selfish spirit. For the mind is an instrument, which, if wound too high, will lose its sweetness, and if not enough strained, will abate of its vigour.
How cruel is it to extinguish by neglect or unkindness, the precious sensibility of an open temper, to chill the amiable glow of an ingenuous soul, and to quench the bright flame of a noble and generous spirit! These are of higher worth than all the documents of learning, of dearer price than all the advantages, which can be derived from the most refined and artificial mode of education.
But sensibility and delicacy, and an ingenuous temper make no part of education, exclaims the pedagogue—they are reducible to no class—they come under no article of instruction—they belong neither [Page 56] to languages nor to music. What an error! They are a part of education, and of infinitely more value ‘Than all their pedant discip [...]ne e'er knew.’ It is true, they are ranged under no class, but they are superior to all; they are of more esteem than languages or music; for they are the language of the heart, and the music of the according passions. Yet this sensibility is, in many instances, so far from being cultivated, that it is not uncommon to see those who affect more than usual sagacity, cast a smile of supercilious pity, at any indication of a warm, generous, or enthusiastic temper in the lively and the young: as much as to say, ‘they will know better, and will have more discretion when they are older.’ But every appearance of amiable simplicity, or of honest shame, Nature's has [...]y conscience, will be dear to sensible hearts; they will carefully cherish every such indication in a young female: for they will perceive, that it is this temper, wisely cultivated, which will one day make her enamoured of the loveliness of virtue, and the beauty of holiness: from which she will acquire a taste for the doctrines of religion, and a spirit to perform the duties of it. And those, who wish to make her ashamed of this charming temper, and seek to dispossess her of it, will, it is to be feared, give her nothing better in exchange. But whoever reflects at all, will easily discern how carefully this enthusiasm is to be directed, and how judiciously its redundancies are to be lopped away.
Prudence is not natural to children: they can, however, substitute art in its stead. But is it not much better, that a girl should discover the faults incident to her age, than conceal them under this dark and impenetrable veil? I could almost venture to assert, that there is something more becoming in the very errors of nature, where they are undisguised, than in the affectation of virtue itself, where the reality is wanting. And I am so far from being an admirer of prodigies, that I am extremely apt [Page 57] to suspect them; and am always infinitely better pleased with nature, in her more common modes of operation. The precise and premature wisdom, which some girls have cunning enough to assume, is of a more dangerous tendency than any of their natural failings can be; as it effectually covers those secret bad dispositions, which, if they displayed thmeselves, might be rectified. The hypocrisy of assuming virtues, which are not inherent in the heart, prevents the growth and disclosure of those real ones, which it is the great end of education to cultivate.
But if the natural indications of the temper are to be suppressed and stifled, where are the diagnosties, by which the state of the mind is to be known? The wise Author of all things, who did nothing in vain, doubtless intended them as symptoms, by which to judge of the diseases of the heart; and it is impossible diseases should be cured before they are known. If the stream be so cut off, as to prevent communication, or so choaked up as to defeat discovery, how shall we ever reach the source, out of which are the issues of life?
This cunning, which of all the different dispositions girls discover, is most to be dreaded, is increased by nothing so much as by fear. If those about them express violent and unreasonable anger at every trivial offence, it will always promote this temper, and will very frequently create it, where there was a natural tendency to frankness. The indiscreet transports of rage, which many betray on every slight occasion, and the little distinction they make between venial errors and premeditated crimes, naturally dispose a child to conceal, what she does not however care to suppress. Anger in one will not remedy the faults of another; for how can an instrument of sin cure sin? If a girl is kept in a state of perpetual and slavish terror, she will, perhaps, have artifice enough to conceal those propensities which she knows are wrong, or those actions which she thinks are most obnoxious to punishment. [Page 58] But, nevertheless, she will not cease to indulge those propensities, and to commit those actions, when she can do it with impunity.
Good dispositions, of themselves, will go but a very little way, unless they are confirmed into good principles. And this cannot be effected but by a careful course of religious instruction, and a patient and laborious cultivation of the moral temper.
But, though girls should not be treated with unkindness, nor the first openings of the passions blighted by cold severity; yet I am of opinion, that young females should be accustomed, very early in life, to a certain degree of restraint. The natural cast of character, and the moral distinctions between the sexes, should not be disregarded, even in childhood. That bold, independent, enterprising spirit, which is so much admired in boys, should not, when it happens to discover itself in the other sex, be encouraged, but suppressed. Girls should be taught to give up their opinions betimes, and not pertinaciously to carry on a dispute, even if they should know themselves to be in the right. I do not mean, that they should be robbed of the liberty of private judgment, but that they should by no means be encouraged to contract a contentious or contradictory turn. It is of the greatest importance to their future happiness, that they should acquire a submissive temper, and a forbearing spirit; for it is a lesson which the world will not fail to make them frequently practise, when they come abroad into it; and they will not practise it the worse, for having learnt it the sooner. These early restraints, in the limitation here meant, are so far from being an effect of cruelty, that they are the most indubitable marks of affection, and are the more meritorious, as they are severe trials of tenderness. But all the beneficial effects, which a mother can expect from this watchfulness, will be entirely defeated, if it is practised occasionally, and not habitually, and if it ever appears to be used to gratify caprice, ill-humour or resentment.
Those, who have children to educate, ought to be [Page 59] extremely patient: it is indeed a labour of love. They should reflect, that extraordinary talents are neither essential to the well-being of society, nor to the happiness of individuals. If that had been the case, the beneficent Father of the universe would not have made them so rare. For it is as easy for an Almighty Creator to produce a Newton, as an ordinary man; and he could have made those powers common which we now consider as wonderful, without any miraculous exertion of his omnipotence, if the existence of many Newtons had been necessary to the perfection of his wise and gracious plan.
Surely, therefore, there is more piety, as well as more sense, in labouring to improve the talents which children actually have, than in lamenting that they do not possess supernatural endowments, or angelic perfections. A passage of lord Bacon's furnishes an admirable incitement for endeavouring to carry the amiable and christian grace of charity to its farthest extent, instead of indulging an over-anxious care for more brilliant but less important acquisitions. ‘The desire of power in excess caused the angels to fall; the desire of knowledge in excess caused man to fall; but in charity is no excess; neither can men nor angels come into danger by it.’
A girl who has docility will seldom be found to want understanding enough for all the purposes of a social, a happy, and an useful life. And when we behold the tender hope of fond and anxious love, blasted by disappointment, the defect will as often be discovered to proceed from the neglect or the error of cultivation, as from the natural temper; and those who lament the evil, will sometimes be found to have occasioned it.
It is as injudicious for parents to set out with too sanguine a dependence on the merit of their children, as it is for them to be discouraged at every repulse. When their wishes are defeated in this or that particular instance, where they had treasured up some darling expectation, this is so far from being a reason [Page 60] for relaxing their attention, that it ought to be an additional motive for redoubling it. Those, who hope to do a great deal, must not expect to do every thing. If they know any thing of the malignity of sin, the blindness of prejudice, or the corruption of the human heart, they will also know, that that heart will always remain, after the very best possible education, full of infirmity and imperfection. Extraordinary allowances, therefore, must be made for the weakness of nature in this its weakest stake. After much is done, much will remain to do, and much, very much, will still be left undone. For this regulation of the passions and affections cannot be the work of education alone, without the concurrence of divine grace operating on the heart. Why then should parents repine, if their efforts are not always crowned with immediate success? They should consider, that they are not educating cherubs and seraphs, but men and women— creatures, who at their best estate are altogether vanity: how little then can be expected from them in the weakness and imbecility of infancy! I have dwelt on this part of the subject the longer, because I am certain that many, who have set out with a warm and active zeal, have cooled on the very first discouragement, and have afterwards almost totally remitted their vigilance, through a criminal kind of despair.
Great allowances must be made for a profusion of gaiety, loquacity, and even indiscretion in children, that there may be animation enough left to supply an active and useful character, when the first fermentation of the youthful passions is over, and the redundant spirits shall come to subside.
If it be true, as a consummate judge of human nature has observed, ‘That not a vanity is given in vain,’ it is also true, that there is scarcely a single passion, which may not be turned to some good account, if prudently rectified, and skilfully turned into the road [Page 61] of some neighbouring virtue. It cannot be violently bent, or unnaturally forced towards an object of a totally opposite nature, but may be gradually inclined towards a correspondent but superior affection. Anger, hatred, resentment, and ambition, the most restless and turbulent passions which shake and distract the human soul, may be led to become the most active opposers of sin, after having been its most successful instruments. Our anger, for instance, which can never be totally subdued, may be made to turn against ourselves, for our weak and imperfect obedience—our hatred, against every species of vice—our ambition, which will not be discarded, may be ennobled: it will not change its name, but its object; it will despise what it lately valued, nor be contented to grasp at less than immortality.
Thus the joys, fears, hopes, desires, all the passions and affections, which separate in various currents from the soul, will, if directed into their proper channels, after having fertilised wherever they have flowed, return again to swell and enrich the parent source.
That the very passions which appear the most uncontroulable and unpromising, may be intended in the great scheme of Providence, to answer some important purpose, is remarkably evidenced in the character and history of saint Paul. A remark on this subject by an ingenious old Spanish writer, which I will here take the liberty to translate, will better illustrate my meaning.
‘To convert the bitterest enemy into the most zealous advocate, is the work of God for the instruction of man. Plutarch has observed, that the medical science would be brought to the utmost perfection, when poison should be converted into physic. Thus, in the mortal disease of Judaism and idolatry, our blessed Lord converted the adder's venom of [...]ul the persecutor, into that cement which made Paul the chosen vessel. That manly activity, that restless ardor, that burning zeal for the law of his fathers, that ardent thirst [Page 62] for the blood of christians, did the Son of God find necessary in the man who was one day to become the defender of his suffering people *.’
To win the passions, therefore, over to the cause of virtue, answers a much nobler end than their extinction would possibly do, even if that could be effected. But it is their nature never to observe a neutrality; they are either rebels or auxilaries; and an enemy subdued is an ally obtained. If I may be allowed to change the allusion so soon, I would say, that the passions also resemble fires, which are friendly and beneficial when under proper direction; but if suffered to blaze without restraint, they carry devastation along with them, and, if totally extinguished, leave the benighted mind in a state of cold and comfortless inanity.
But in speaking of the usefulness of the passions, as instruments of virtue, envy and lying must always be excepted: these, I am persuaded, must either go on in still progressive mischief, or else be radically cured before any good can be expected from the heart which has been infected with them. For I never will believe that envy, though passed through all the moral strainers, can be refined into a virtuous emulation, or lying improved into an agreeable turn for innocent invention. Almost all the other passions may be made to take an amiable hue: but these two must either be totally extirpated, or be always contented to preserve their original deformity, and to wear their native black.
On the Importance of Religion to the Female Character.
VARIOUS are the reasons why the greater part of mankind cannot apply themselves to arts or letters. Particular studies are only suited to the capacities of particular persons. Some are incapable of applying to them from the delicacy of their sex, some from the unsteadiness of youth, and others from the imbecility of age. Many are precluded [Page 63] by the narrowness of their education, and many by the straitness of their fortune. The wisdow of God is wonderfully manifested in this happy and well-ordered diversity, in the powers and properties of his creatures; since by thus admirably suiting the agent to the action, the whole scheme of human affairs is carried on with the most agreeing and consistent economy, and no chasm is left for want of an object to fill it, exactly suited to its nature.
But in the great and universal concerns of religion, both sexes, and all ranks, are equally interested. The truly catholic spirit of christianity accommodates itself, with an astonishing condescension, to the circumstances of the whole human race. It rejects none on account of their pecuniary wants, their personal infirmities, or their intellectual deficiencies. No superiority of parts is the least recommendation, nor is any depression of fortune the smallest objection. None are too wise to be excused from performing the duties of religion, nor are any too poor to be excluded from the consolations of [...]ts promises.
If we admire the wisdom of God, in having furnished different degrees of intelligence, so exactly adapted to their different destinations, and in having fitted every part of his stupendous work, not only to serve its own immediate purpose, but also to contribute to the beauty and perfection of the whole: how much more ought we to adore that goodness which has perfected the divine plan, by appointing one wide, comprehensive, and universal means of salvation—a salvation, which all are invited to partake —by a means which all are cap [...]ble of using—which nothing but voluntary blindness can prevent our comprehending, and nothing but wilful error can hinder us from embracing.
The muses are coy, and will only be wooed and won by some highly-favoured suitors. The sciences are lofty, and will not stoop to the reach of ordinary capacities. But ‘wisdom (by which the royal preacher means piety) is a saving spirit: she is [Page 64] easily seen of them that love her, and found of all such as seek her.’ Nay, she is so accessible and condescending, ‘that she preventeth them that desire her, making herself first known unto them.’
We are told by the same animated writer, that "wisdom is the breath of the power of God." How infinitely superior, in grandeur and sublimity, is this description to the origin of the wisdom of the heathens, as described by their poets and mythologists! In the exalted strains of the Hebrew poetry we read, that ‘wisdom is the brightness of the everlasting light, the unspotted mirror of the power of God, and the image of his goodness.’
The philosophical author of The defence of learning observes, that knowledge has something of venom and malignity in it, when taken without its proper corrective, and what that is, the inspired saint Paul teaches us, by placing it as the immediate antidote: Knowledge puffeth up, but charity edifieth. Perhaps, it is the vanity of human wisdom, unchastised by this correcting principle, which has made so many infidels. It may proceed from the arrogance of a selfsufficient pride, that some philosophers disdain to acknowledge their belief in a Being, who has judged proper to conceal from them the infinite wisdom of his counsels; who, (to borrow the lofty language of the man of Uz) refused to consult them when he laid the foundations of the earth, when he shut up the sea with doors, and made the clouds the garment thereof.
A man must be an infidel either from pride, prejudice, or bad education: he cannot be one unawares, or by surprise; for infidelity is not occasioned by sudden impulse or violent temptation. He may be hurried by some vehement desire into an immoral action, at which he will blush in his cooler moments, and which he will lament, as the s [...]d effect of a spirit unsubdued by religion: but infidelity is a calm, considerate act, which cannot plead the weakness of the heart, or the seduction of the senses. Even good men frequently fail in their duty through the infirmities [Page 65] of nature, and the allurements of the world; but the infidel errs on a plan, on a settled and deliberate principle.
But though the minds of men are sometimes fatally infected with this disease, either through unhappy prepossession, or some of the other causes above mentioned: yet I am unwilling to believe, that there is in nature so monstrously incongruous a being, as a female infidel. The least reflexion on the temper, the character, and the education of women, makes the mind revolt with horror from an idea so improbable, and so unnatural.
May I be allowed to observe, that, in general, the minds of girls seem more aptly prepared, in their early youth, for the reception of serious impressions, than those of the other sex, and that their less exposed situations, in more advanced life, qualify them better for the preservation of them? The daughters (of good parents I mean) are often more carefully instructed in their religious duties, than the sons, and this from a variety of causes. They are not so soon sent from under the parental eye into the bustle of the world, nor so early exposed to the contagion of bad example: their hearts are naturally more flexible, soft, and liable to any kind of impression the forming hand may stamp on them; and lastly, as they do not receive the same classical education with boys, their feeble minds are not obliged at once to receive and separate the precepts of christianity, and the documents of pagan philosophy. The necessity of doing this perhaps somewhat weakens the serious impressions of young men, at least till the understanding is formed, and confuses their ideas of piety, by mixing them with so much heterogeneous matter. They only casually read, or hear read, the scriptures of truth, while they are obliged to learn by heart, construe and repeat the poetical fables of the less than human gods of the ancients. And as the excellent author of The internal evidence of the christian religion observes, ‘Nothing has so much contributed to corrupt the true spirit [Page 66] of the christian institution, as that partiality which we contract, in our earliest education, for the manners of pagan antiquity.’
Girls, therefore, who do not contract this early partiality, ought to have a clearer notion of their religious duties: they are not obliged, at an age when the judgment is so weak, to distinguish between the doctrines of Zeno, of Epicurus, and of Christ; and to embarrass their minds with the various morals which were taught in the porch, in the academy, and on the mount.
It is presumed, that these remarks cannot possibly be so misunderstood, as to be construed into the least disrespect to literature, or a want of the highest reverence for a learned education, the basis of all elegant knowledge: they are only intended, with all proper deference, to point out to young women, that however inferior their advantages of acquiring a knowledge of the belles-lettres are to those of the other sex; yet it depends on themselves not to be surpassed in this most important of all studies, for which their abilities are equal, and their opportunities, perhaps, greater.
But the mere exemption from infidelity is so small a part of the religious character, that I hope no one will attempt to claim any merit from this negative sort of goodness, or value herself merely for not being the very worst thing she possibly can be. Let no mistaken girl fancy she gives a proof of her wit by her want of piety, or that a contempt of things serious and sacred will exalt her understanding, or raise her character even in the opinion of the most avowed male infidels. For one may venture to affirm, that with all their profligate ideas, both of women and of religion, neither Bolingbroke, Wharton, Buckingham, nor even lord Chesterfield himself, would have esteemed a woman the more for her being irreligious.
With whatever ridicule a polite free-thinker may affect to treat religion himself, he will think it necessary his wife should entertain different notions of [Page 67] it. He may pretend to despise it as a matter of opinion, depending on creeds and systems; but, if he is a man of sense, he will know the value of it, as a governing principle, which is to influence her conduct and direct her actions. If he sees her unaffectedly sincere in the practice of her religious duties, it will be a secret pledge to him, that she will be equally exact in fulfilling the conjugal; for he can have no reasonable dependence on her attachment to him, if he has no opinion of her fidelity to GOD; for she who neglects first duties, gives but an indifferent proof of her disposition to fill up inferior ones; and how can a man of any understanding, (whatever his own religious professions may be) trust that women with the care of his family, and the education of his children, who wants herself the best incentive to a virtuous life, the belief that she is an accountable creature, and the reflexion that she has an immortal soul?
Cicero spoke it as the highest commendation of Cato's character, that he embraced philosophy, not for the sake of disputing like a philosopher, but of living like one. The chief purpose of christian knowledge is to promote the great end of a christian life. Every rational woman should, no doubt, be able to give a reason of the hope that is in her; but this knowledge is best acquired, and the duties consequent on it best performed, by reading books of plain piety and practical devotion, and not by entering into the endless feuds, and engaging in the unprofitable contentions of partial controversialists. Nothing is more unamiable than the narrow spirit of party zeal, nor more disgusting than to hear a woman deal out judgments, and denounce vengeance against any one, who happens to differ from her in some opinion, perhaps of no real importance, and which, it is probable, she may be just as wrong in rejecting, as the object of her censure is in embracing. A furious and unmerciful female bigot wanders as far beyond the limits prescribed to her sex, as a Thalestris or a Joan d'Arc. Violent debate has made as few converts [Page 68] as the sword, and both these instruments are particularly unbecoming, when wielded by a female hand.
But though no one will be frightened out of their opinions, yet they may be persuaded out of them: they may be touched by the affecting earnestness of serious conversation, and allured by the attractive beauty of a consistently serious life. And while a young woman ought to dread the name of a wrangling polemic, it is her duty to aspire after the honourable character of a sincere christian. But this dignified character she can by no means deserve, if she is ever afraid to avow her principles, or ashamed to defend them. A profligate, who makes it a point to ridicule every thing which comes under the appearance of formal instruction, will be disconcerted at the spirited yet modest rebuke of a pious young woman. But there is as much efficacy in the manner of reproving prophaneness, as in the words. If she corrects it with moroseness, she defeats the effect of her remedy, by her unskilful manner of administring it. If, on the other hand, she affects to defend the insulted cause of God, in a faint tone of voice, and studied ambiguity of phrase, or with an air of levity, and a certain expression of pleasure in her eyes, which proves she is secretly delighted with what she pretends to censure, she injures religion much more than he did, who publicly prophaned it; for she plainly indicates, that she either does not believe, or does not respect what she professes. The other attacked it as an open foe; she betrays it as a false friend. No one pays any regard to the opinion of an avowed enemy: but the desertion or treachery of a professed friend, is dangerous indeed!
It is a strange notion, which prevails in the world, that religion only belongs to the old and the melancholy, and that it is not worth while to pay the least attention to it, while we are capable of attending to any thing else. They allow it to be proper enough for the clergy, whose business it is, and for [Page 69] the aged, who have not spirits for any business at all. But till they can prove, that none except the clergy and aged die, it must be confessed that this is most wretched reasoning.
Great injury is done to the interests of religion, by placing it in a gloomy and unamiable light. It is sometimes spoken of, as if it would actually make a handsome woman ugly, or a young one wrinkled. But can any thing be more absurd, than to represent the beauty of holiness as the source of deformity?
There are few, perhaps, so entirely plunged in business, or absorbed in pleasure, as not to intend, at some future time, to set about a religious life in good earnest. But then they consider it as a kind of dernier ressort, and think it prudent to defer flying to this disagreeable refuge, till they have no relish left for any thing else. Do they forget, that to perform this great business well, requires all the strength of their youth, and all the vigour of their unimpaired capacities? To confirm this assertion, they may observe how much the slightest indisposition, even in the most active season of life, disorders every faculty, and disqualifies them for attending to the most ordinary affairs; and then let them reflect how little able they will be to transact the most important of all business, in the moment of excruciating pain, or in the day of universal debility.
When the senses are palled with excessive gratification—when the eye is tired with seeing, and the ear with hearing—when the spirits are so [...]unk, that the grasshopper is become a burden—how shall the blunted apprehension be capable of understanding a new science, or the worn-out heart be able to relish a new pleasure?
To put off religion till we have lost all taste for amusement—to refuse listening to the ‘voice of the charmer,’ till our enfeebled organs can no longer listen to the voice of ‘singing men and singing women,’ —and not to devote our days to heaven, till we have "no pleasure in them" ourselves, is but a [...] [Page 70] ungracious offering. And it is a wretched sacrifice to the God of heaven, to present him with the remnants of decayed appetites, and the leavings of extinguished passions.
Miscellaneous Observations on Genius, Taste, good Sense, &c. *
GOOD sense is as different from genius, as perception is from invention; yet, though distinct qualities, they frequently subsist together. It is altogether opposite to wit, but by no means inconsistent with it. It is not science; for there is such a thing as unlettered good sense; yet, though it is neither wit, learning, nor genius, it is a substitute for each, where they do not exist, and the perfection of all where they do.
Good sense is so far from deserving the apellation of common sense, by which it is frequently called, that it is perhaps one of the rarest qualities of the human mind. If, indeed, this name is given it in respect to its peculiar suitableness to the purposes of common life, there is great propriety in it. Good sense appears to differ from taste, in this, that taste is an instantaneous decision of the mind, a sudden relish of what is beautiful, or disgust at what is defective, in an object, without waiting for the slower confirmation of the judgment. Good sense is, perhaps, that confirmation, which establishes a suddenly conceived idea, or feeling, by the powers of comparing and reflecting. They differ also in this, that taste seems to have a more immediate reference to arts, to literature, and to almost every object of the senses; while good sense rises to moral excellence, [Page 71] and exerts its influence on life and manners. Taste is fitted to the perception and enjoyment of whatever is beautiful in art or nature: good sense, to the improvement of the conduct, and the regulation of the heart.
Yet the term, good sense, is used indiscriminately to express either a finished taste for letters, or an invariable prudence in the affairs of life. It is sometimes applied to the most moderate abilities, in which case, the expression is certainly too strong: and at others to the most shining, when it is as much too weak and inadequate. A sensible man is the usual, but unappropriated phrase, for every degree in the scale of understanding, from the sober mortal, who obtains it by his decent demeanor and solid dullness, to him whose talents qualify him to rank with a Bacon, a Harris, or a Johnson.
Genius is the power of invention and imitation. It is an incommunicable faculty: no art or skill of the possessor can bestow the smallest portion of it on another; no pains or labour can reach the summit of perfection, where the seeds of it are wanting in the mind: yet it is capable of infinite improvement where it actually exists, and is attended with the highest capacity of communicating instruction, as well as delight to others.
It is the peculiar property of genius to strike out great or beautiful things: it is the felicity of good sense not to do absurd ones. Genius breaks out in splendid sentiments and elevated ideas: good sense confines its more circumscribed, but perhaps more useful walk, within the limits of prudence and propriety.
[Page 72]This is, perhaps, the finest picture of human genius that ever was drawn by a human pencil. It presents a living image of a creative imagination, or a power of inventing things which have no actual existence.
With superficial judges, who, it must be confessed, make up the greater part of the mass of mankind, talents are only liked or understood to a certain degree. Lofty ideas are above the reach of ordinary apprehensions: the vulgar allow those who possess them, to be in a somewhat higher state of mind than themselves; but of the vast gulph which separates them, they have not the least conception. They acknowledge a superiority; but of its extent they neither know the value, nor can conceive the reality. It is true, the mind, as well as the eye, can take in objects larger than itself; but this is only true of great minds: for a man of low capacity, who considers a consummate genius, resembles one, who seeing a column for the first time, and standing at too great a distance to take in the whole of it, concludes it to be flat; or, like one unacquainted with the first principles of philosophy, who, finding the sensible horizon appear a plain surface, can form no idea of the spherical form of the whole, which he does not see, and laughs at the account of antipodes, which he cannot comprehend.
Whatever is excellent is also rare; what is useful is more common. How many thousands are born qualified for the coarse employments of life, for one who is capable of excelling in the fine arts! yet so it ought to be; because our natural wants are more numerous, and more importunate, than the intellectual.
Whenever it happens, that a man of distinguished talents has been drawn by mistake, or precipitated by passion, into any dangerous indiscretion; it is common for those, whose coldness of temper has supplied the place, and usurped the name, of prudence, to boast of their own steadier virtue, and triumph in their own superior caution; only because [Page 73] they have never been assailed by a temptation strong enough to surprise them into error. And with what a visible appropriation of the character to themselves, do they constantly conclude, with a cordial compliment to common sense! They point out the beauty and usefulness of [...]his quality so forcibly and explicitly, that you cannot possibly mistake whose picture they are drawing with so flattering a pencil. The unhappy man, whose conduct has been so feelingly arraigned, perhaps acted from good, though mistaken motives—at least, from motives of which his censurer has not capacity to judge: but the event was unfavourable, nay the action might be really wrong, and the vulgar maliciously take the opportunity of this single indiscretion, to lift themselves nearer on a level with a character, which, except in this instance, has always thrown them at the most disgraceful and mortifying distance.
The elegant biographer of Collins, in his affecting apology for that unfortunate genius, remarks, ‘That the gifts of imagination bring the heaviest ta [...] on the vigilance of reason; and to bear those fac [...]lties with unerring rectitude, or invariable propriety, requires a degree of firmness, and of cool attention, which does not always attend the higher gifts of the mind: yet difficult as nature herself seems to have rendered the task of regularity to genius, it is the supreme consolation of dullness, and of folly, to point with gothic triumph to those excesses which are the overflowing of faculties they never enjoyed.’
What the greater part of the world mean by common sense, will be generally found, on a closer enquiry, to be art, fraud, or selfishness! That sort of saving prudence which makes men extremely attentive to their own safety, or profit—diligent in the pursuit of their own pleasures or interests—and perfectly at their ease as to what becomes of the rest of mankind. Furious, where their own property is concerned, philosophers when nothing but the good of others is at stake, and perfectly resigned under all calamities but their own.
[Page 74]When we see so many accomplished wits of the present age, as remarkable for the decorum of their lives, as for the brilliancy of their writings, we may believe, that next to principle, it is owing to their good sense, which regulates and chastises their imginations. The vast conceptions which enable a true genius to ascend the sublimest heights, may be so connected with the stronger passions, as to give it a natu [...]l tendency to fly off from the strait line of regular [...]; till good sense, acting on the fancy, makes it gravitate powerfully towards that virtue which is its proper centre.
Add to this, when it is considered with what imperfection the divine wisdom has thought fit to stamp every thing human, it will be found, that excellence and infirmity are so inseparably wound up in each other, that a man derives the soreness of temper, and irritability of nerve, which makes him uneasy to others, and unhappy in himself, from those exquisite feelings, and that elevated pitch of thought, by which, as the apostle expresses it, on a more serious occasion, he is, as it were, out of the body.
It is not astonishing, therefore, when the spirit is carried away by the magnificence of its own ideas, ‘Not touch'd, but rapt—not weaken'd, but inspir'd,’ that the frail body, which is the natural victim of pain, disease, and death, should not always be able to follow the mind in its aspiring flights, but should be as imperfect as if it belonged only to an ordinary soul.
Besides, might not providence intend to humble human pride, by presenting to our eyes so mortifying a view of the weakness and infirmity of even his best work? Perhaps man, who is already but a little lower than the angels, might, like the revolted spirits, totally have shaken off obedience and submission to his Creator, had not God wisely tempered human excellence with a certain consciousness of its own imperfection. But though this inevitable alloy of weakness may frequently be found in the best characters, [Page 75] yet how can that be the source of triumph and exaltation to any, which, if properly weighed, must be the deepest motive of humiliation to all? A good-natured man will be so far from rejoicing, that he will be secretly troubled, whenever he reads that the greatest Roman moralist was tainted with avarice, and the greatest British philosopher with venality.
It is remarked by Pope, in his essay on criticism, that, ‘Ten censure wrong, for one that writes amiss.’ But I apprehend it does not therefore follow, that to judge is more difficult than to write. If this were the case, the critic would be superior to the poet, whereas it appears to be directly the contrary. ‘The critic, (says the great champion of Shakespeare) but fashions the body of a work; the poet must add the soul, which gives force and direction to its actions and gestures.’ It should seem, that the reason why so many more judge wrong, than write ill, is because the number of readers is beyond all proportion greater than the number of writers. Every man who reads, is, in some measure, a critic, and, with very common abilities, may point out real faults and material errors in a very well written book: but it by no means follows, that he is able to write any thing comparable to the work which he is capable of censuring. And unless the numbers of those who write, and of those who judge, were more equal, the calculation seems not to be quite fair.
A capacity for relishing works of genius is the indubitable sign of good taste. But if a proper disposition and ability to enjoy the compositions of others, entitle a man to the claim of reputation, it is still a far inferior degree of merit to his who can invent and produce those compositions, the bare disquisition of which gives the critic no small share of fame.
The president of the royal academy, in his admirable discourse on imitation, has set the folly of depending on unassisted genius, in the clearest light; [Page 76] and has shown the necessity of adding the knowledge of others, to our own native powers, in his usual striking and masterly manner. "The mind," says he, ‘is a barren soil—is a soil soon exhausted, and will produce no crop, or only one, unless it be continually fertilized, and enriched with foreign matter.’
Yet it has been objected, that study is a great enemy to originality; but even if this were true, it would perhaps be as well that an author should give us the ideas of still better writers, mixed and assimilated with the matter in his own mind, as those crude and undigested thoughts, which he values under the notion that they are original. The sweetest honey neither tastes of the rose, the honey-suckle, nor the carnation, yet it is compounded of the very essence of them all.
If in the other fine arts, this accumulation of knowledge is necessary, it is indispensably so in poetry. It is a fatal rashness for any one to trust too much to his own stock of ideas. He must invigorate them by exercise, polish them by conversation, and increase them by every species of elegant and virtuous knowledge, and the mind will not fail to reproduce with interest those seeds, which are sown in it by study and observation. Above all, let every one guard against the dangerous opinion, that he knows enough: an opinion that will weaken the energy and reduce the powers of the mind, which, though once perhaps vigorous and effectual, will be sunk to a state of literary imbecility, by cherishing vain and presumptuous ideas of its own independence.
For instance, it may not be necessary that a poet should be deeply skilled in the Linnaean system; but it must be allowed, that a general acquaintance with plants and flowers will furnish him with a delightful and profitable species of instruction. He is not obliged to trace nature in all her nice and varied operations, with the minute accuracy of a Boyle, or the laborious investigation of a Newton; but his good sense will point out to him, that no inconsiderable [Page 77] portion of philosophical knowledge is requisite to the completion of his literary character. The sciences are more independent, and require little or no assistance from the graces of poetry: but poetry, if she would charm and instruct, must not be so haughty; she must be contented to borrow of the sciences, many of her choicest allusions; and many of her most graceful embellishments; and does it not magnify the character of true poesy, that she includes within herself all the scattered graces of every separate art?
The rules of the great masters in criticism may not be so necessary to the forming a good taste, as the examination of those original mines from whence they drew their treasures of knowledge.
The three celebrated essays on the art of poetry do not teach so much by their laws as by their examples; the dead letter of their rules is less instructive than the living spirit of their verse. Yet these rules are to a young poet, what the study of logarithms is to a young mathematician; they do not so much contribute to form his judgment, as afford him the satisfaction of convincing him that he i [...] right. They do not preclude the difficulty of the operation; but at the conclusion of it, furnish him with a f [...]ller demonstration that he has proceeded on proper principles. When he has well studied the masters in whose schools the first critics formed themselves, and fancies he has caught a spark of their divine flame, it may be a good method to try his own compositions by the test of the critic rules, so far, indeed, as the mechanism of poetry goes. If the examination be fair and candid, this trial, like the touch of Ithuriel's spear, will detect every latent error, and bring to light every favourite failing.
Good taste always suits the measure of its admiration to the merit of the composition it examines. It accommodates its praises, or its censure, to the excellence of a work, and appropriates it to the nature of it. General applause, or indiscriminate abuse, is [Page 78] the sign of a vulgar understanding. There are certain blemishes which the judicious and good-natured reader will candidly overlook. But the false sublime, the tumour which is intended for greatness, the distorted figure, the puerile conceit, and the incongruous metaphor, these are defects for which scarcely any other kind of merit can atone. And yet there may be more hope of a writer (especially if he be a young one) who is now and then guilty of some of these faults, than of one who avoids them all, not through judgment, but feebleness, and who, instead of deviating into error, is continually falling short of excellence. The mere absence of error implies that moderate and inferior degree of merit with which a cold heart and a phlegmatic taste will be better satisfied than with the magnificent irregularities of exalted spirits. It stretches some minds to an uneasy extension, to be obliged to attend to compositions superlatively excellent; and it contracts liberal souls to a painful narrowness to descend to books of inferior merit. A work of capital genius, to a man of an ordinary mind, is the bed of Procrustes to one of a short stature; the man is too little to fill up the space assigned him, and undergoes the torture in attempting it: and a moderate, or low production to a man of bright talents, is the punishment inflicted by Mezentius; the living spirit has too much animation to endure patiently to be in contact with a dead body.
Taste seems to be a sentiment of the soul, which gives the bias to opinion; for we feel before we reflect. Without this sentiment, all knowledge, learning, and opinion, would be cold, inert materials; whereas they become active principles when stirred, kindled, and inflamed by this animating quality.
There is another feeling, which is called enthusiasm. The enthusiasm of sensible hearts is so strong, that it only yields to the impulse with which striking objects act on it; but such hearts help on the effect by their own sensibility. In a scene where Shakespeare and Garrick give perfection to each other, the feeling heart does not merely accede to [Page 79] the delirium they occasion: it does more; it is enamoured of it; it solicits the delusion; it sues to be deceived, and grudgingly cherishes the sacred treasure of its feelings. The poet and performer concur in carrying us ‘Beyond this visible diurnal sphere.’ They bear us aloft in their airy course, with unresisted rapidity, if they meet not with any obstruction from the coldness of our own feelings. Perhaps only a few fine spirits can enter into the detail of their writing and acting: but the multitude do not enjoy less acutely, because they are not able philosophically to analyse the sources of their joy or sorrow. If the others have the advantage of judging, these have at least the privilege of feeling: and it is not from complaisance to a few leading judges, that they burst into peals of laughter, or melt into delightful agony; their hearts decide, and that is a decision from which there lies no appeal. It must, however, be confessed, that the nicer separations of character, and the lighter and almost imperceptible shades which sometimes distinguish them, will not be intimately relished, unless there be a consonancy of taste as well as feeling in the spectators; though, where the passions are principally concerned, the prophane vulgar come in for a larger portion of the universal delight, than critics and connoisseurs are willing to allow them.
Yet enthusiasm, though the natural concomitant of genius, is no more genius itself, than drunkenness is cheerfulness: and that enthusiasm, which discovers itself on occasions not worthy to excite it, is the mark of a wretched judgment and a false taste.
Nature produces innumerable objects: to imitate them, is the province of genius; to direct those imitations, is the property of judgment; to decide on their effects, is the business of taste. For taste, who sits as supreme judge on the productions of genius, is not satisfied when she merely imitates nature; she must also, says an ingenious French writer, imitate [Page 80] beautiful nature. It requires no less judgment to reject than to choose, and genius might imitate what is vulgar, under pretence that it was natural, if taste did not carefully point out those objects which are most proper for imitation. It also requires a very nice discernment to distinguish verisimilitude from truth; for there is a truth in taste nearly as conclusive as demonstration in mathematics.
Genius, when in full impetuosity of its career, often touches on the very brink of error; and is, perhaps, never so near the verge of the precipice, as when indulging its sublimest flights. It is in those great, but dangerous moments, that the curb of vigilant judgment is most wanting: while safe and sober dulness observes one tedious and insipid round of tiresome uniformity, and steers equally clear of eccentricity and of beauty. Dulness has few redundancies to retrench, few luxuriancies to pru [...]e, and few irregularities to smooth. These, though errors, are the errors of genius, for there is rarely redundancy without plenitude, or irregularity without greatness. The excesses of genius may easily be retrenched, but the deficiencies of dulness can never be supplied.
Those, who copy from others, will doubtless be less excellent than those who copy from nature. To imitate imitators, is the way to depart too far from the great original herself. The later copies of an engraving retain fainter and fainter traces of the subject, to which the earlier impressions bore so strong a resemblance.
It seems very extraordinary, that it should be the most difficult thing in the world to be natural; and that it should be harder to hit off the manners of real life, and to delineate such characters as we converse with every day, than to imagine such as do not exist. But caricature is much eas [...]r than an exact outline—and the colouring of fancy less difficult than that of truth.
People do not always know what taste they have, till it is awakened by some corresponding object; nay, genius itself is a fire, which in many minds [Page 81] would never blaze, if not kindled by some external cause.
Nature, that munificent mother, when she bestows the power of judging, accompanies it with the capacity of enjoying. The judgment, which is clear sighted, points out such objects as are calculated to inspire love; and the heart instantaneously attaches itself to whatsoever is lovely.
In regard to literary reputation, a great deal depends on the state of learning in the particular age or nation, in which an author lives. In a dark and ignorant period, moderate knowledge will entitle its possessor to a considerable share of fame; whereas, to be distinguished in a polite and lettered age, requires striking parts and deep erudition.
When a nation begins to emerge from a state of mental darkness, and to strike out the first rudiments of improvement, it chalks out a few strong but incorrect sketches, gives the rude out-lines of general art, and leaves the filling up to the leisure of happier days, and the refinement of more enlightened times. Their drawing is a rude Sbozzo, and their poetry wild minstrelsy.
Perfection of taste is a point which a nation no sooner reaches, than it overshoots; and it is more difficult to return to it, after having passed it, than it was to attain, when they fell short of it. Where the arts begin to languish after having flourished, they seldom, indeed, fall back to their original barbarism: but a certain feebleness of exertion takes place, and it is more difficult to recover them from this dying languor to their proper strength, than it was to polish them from their former r [...]deness; for it is a less formidable undertaking, to refine barbarity, than to stop decay: the first may be laboured into elegance; but the latter will rarely be strengthened into vigour.
Taste exerts itself at first but feebly and imp [...]rfectly; it is repressed and kept back by a croud of the most discouraging prejudices: like an infant prince, who, though born to reign, yet holds an idle sceptre, [Page 82] which he has not power to use, but is obliged to see with the eyes, and hear through the ears of other men.
A writer of correct taste will hardly ever go out of his way, even in search of embellishment; he will study to attain the best end by the most natural means; for he knows that what is not natural cannot be beautiful, and that nothing can be beautiful out of its own place; for an improper situation will convert the most striking beauty into a glaring defect. When, by a well-connected chain of ideas, or a judicious succession of events, the reader is snatched to ‘Thebes or Athens,’ what can be more impertinent than for the poet to obstruct the operation of the passion he has just been kindling, by introducing a conceit which contradicts his purpose, and interrupts his business! Indeed, we cannot be transported, even in idea, to those places, if the poet does not manage so adroitly as not to make us sensible of the journey: the instant we feel we are travelling, the writer's art fails, and the delirium is at an end.
Proserpine, says Ovid, would have been restored to her mother Ceres, had not Ascalaphus seen her stop to gather a golden apple, when the terms of her restoration were, that she should taste nothing. A story pregnant with instruction for lively writers, who, by neglecting the main business, and going out of the way for false gratifications, lose sight of the end they should principally keep in view. It was this false taste that introduced the numberless concetti, which disgrace the brightest of the Italian poets; and this is the reason, why the reader only feels short and interrupted snatches of delight, in perusing the brilliant but unequal compositions of Ariosto, instead of that unbroken and undiminished pleasure, which he constantly receives from Virgil, from Milton, and generally from Tasso. The first mentioned Italian is the Atalanta, who will interrupt the most eager career, to pick up the glittering mischief; while the Mantuan and the British bards, like Hippomenes, press on warm in the pursuit, and unseduced by temptation.
[Page 83]A writer of real taste will take great pains in the perfection of his style, to make the reader believe that he took none at all. The writing, which appears to be most easy, will be generally found to be least imutable. The most elegant verses are the most easily retained; they fasten themselves on the memory, without its making any effort to preserve them, and we are apt to imagine, that what is remembered with ease, was written without difficulty.
To conclude: genius is a rare and precious gem, of which few know the worth; it is fitter for the cabinet of the connoisseur, than for the commerce of mankind. Good sense is a bank-bill, convenient for change, negociable at all times, and current in all places. It knows the value of small things, and considers that an aggregate of them makes up the sum of human affairs. It elevates common concerns into matters of importance, by performing them in the best manner, and at the most suitable season. Good sense carries with it the idea of equality, while genius is always suspected of a design to impose the burden of superiority; and respect is paid to it with that reluctance which always attends other imposts, the lower orders of mankind generally repining most at demands, by which they are least liable to be affected.
As it is the character of genius to penetrate with a lynx's beam into unfathomable abysses and uncreated worlds, and to see what is not, so it is the property of good sense to distinguish perfectly, and judge accurately what realy is. Good sense has not so piercing an eye, but it has as clear a sight. It does not penetrate so deeply, but as far as it does see, it discerns distinctly. Good sense is a judicious mechanic, who can produce beauty and convenience out of suitable means; but genius (I speak with reverence of the immeasurable distance) bears some remote resemblance to the divine architect, who produced perfection of beauty without any visible materials, who spake, and it was created; who said, let it be, and it was.
THE LADIES' LIBRARY. GREGORY'S LEGACY TO HIS DAUGHTERS.
PREFACE.
THAT the subsequent letters were written by a tender father, in a declining state of health, for the instruction of his daughters, and not intended for the public, is a circumstance which will recommend them to every one who considers them in the light of admonition and advice. In such domestic intercourse, no sacrifices are made to prejudices, to customs, to fashionable opinions. Paternal love, paternal care, speak their genuine sentiments, undisguised and unrestained. A father's zeal for his daughter's improvement, in whatever can make a woman amiable, with a father's quick apprehension of the dangers that too often arise, even from the attainment of that very point, suggest his admonitions, and render him attentive to a thousand little graces and decorums, which would escape the nicest moralist who should undertake the subject on uninterested speculation. Every faculty is on the alarm, when the objects of such tender affection are concerned.
In the writer of these letters, paternal tenderness and vigilance were doubled, as he was at that time sole parent; death having before deprived the young [Page 86] ladies of their excellent mother. His own precarious state of health inspired him with the most tender solicitude for their future welfare; and though he might have concluded, that the impressions made by his instructions and uniform example could never be effaced from the memory of his children, yet his anxiety for their orphan condition suggested to him this method of continuing to them those advantages.
The editor is encouraged to offer this treatise to the public, by the very favourable reception which the rest of his father's works have met with. The comparative view of the state of man and other animals, and the essay on the office and duties of a physician, have been very generally read; and, if he is not deceived by the partiality of his friends, he has reason to believe they have met with general approbation.
In some of those tracts, the author's object was to improve the taste and understanding of his reader; in others, to mend his heart; in others, to point out to him the proper use of philosophy, by showing its application to the duties of common life. In all his writings, his chief view was the good of his fellow-creatures; and as those among his friends, in whose taste and judgment he most confided, think the publication of this small work will contribute to that general design, and at the same time do honour to his memory, the editor can no longer hesitate to comply with their advice, in communicating it to the public.
Introduction.
YOU had the misfortune to be deprived of your mother at a time of life when you were insensible of your loss, and could receive little benefit either from her instruction or her example. Before this comes to your hands, you will likewise have lost your father.
I have had many melancholy reflexions on the forlorn [Page 87] and helpless situation you must be in, if it should please God to remove me from you, before you arrive at that period of life, when you will be able to think and act for yourselves. I know mankind too well; I know their falsehood, their dissipation, their coldness to all the duties of friendship and humanity. I know the little attention paid to helpless infancy. You will meet with few friends disinterested enough to do you good offices, when you are incapable of making them any return, by contributing to their interest or their pleasure, or even to the gratification of their vanity.
I have been supported under the gloom naturally arising from these reflexions, by a reliance on the goodness of that providence which has hitherto preserved you, and given me the most pleasing prospect of the goodness of your dispositions; and by the secret hope, that your mother's virtues will entail a blessing on her children.
The anxiety I have for your happiness, has made me resolve to throw together my sentiments relating to your future conduct in life. If I live for some years, you will receive them with much greater advantage, suited to your different geniuses and dispositions. If I die sooner, you must receive them in this very imperfec [...] manner,—the last proof of my affection.
You will all remember your father's fondness, when perhaps every other circumstance relating to him is forgotten. This remembrance, I hope, will induce you to give a serious attention to the advices I am now going to leave with you. I can request this attention with the greater confidence, as my sentiments, on the most interesting points that regard life and manners, were entirely correspondent to your mother's, whose judgment and taste I trusted much more than my own.
You must expect that the advices which I shall give you, will be very imperfect, as there are many nameless delicacies in female manners, of which none but a woman can judge. You will have one advantage [Page 88] by attending to what I am going to leave with you; you will hear, at least for once in your lives, the genuine sentiments of a man who has no interest in flattering or deceiving you. I shall throw my reflexions together without any studied order, and shall only, to avoid confusion, range them under a few general heads.
You will see, in a little treatise of mine just published, in what an honourable point of view I have considered your sex,—not as domestic drudges, or the slaves of our pleasures, but as our companions and equals—as designed to soften our hearts and polish our manners—and, as Thomson finely says,
I shall not repeat what I have there said on this subject, and shall only observe, that from the view I have given of your natural character and place in society, there arises a certain propriety of conduct, peculiar to your sex. It is this peculiar propriety of female manners, of which I intend to give you my sentiments, without touching on those general rules of conduct by which men and women are equally bound.
While I explain to you that system of conduct which I think will tend most to your honour and happiness, I shall, at the same time, endeavour to point out those virtues and accomplishments which render you most respectable and most amiable in the eyes of my own sex.
Religion.
THOUGH the duties of religion, strictly speaking, are equally binding on both sexes, yet certain differences in their natural character and education, render some vices in your sex particularly odious. The natural hardness of our hearts, and strength of our passions, inflamed by the uncontrouled licence we are too often indulged with in our youth, are apt to render our manners more dissolute, and make us less [Page 89] susceptible of the finer feelings of the heart. Your superior delicacy, your modesty, and the usual severity of your education, preserve you, in a great measure, from any temptation to those vices to which we are most subjected. The natural softness and sensibility of your dispositions particularly fit you for the practice of those duties where the heart is chiefly concerned. And this, along with the natural warmth of your imagination, renders you peculiarly susceptible of the feelings of devotion.
There are many circumstances in your situation that peculiarly require the supports of religion, to enable you to act in them with spirit and propriety. Your whole life is often a life of suffering. You cannot plunge into business, or dissipate yourselves in pleasure and riot, as men too often do, when under the pressure of misfortunes. You must bear your sorrows in silence, unknown and unpitied. You must often put on a face of serenity and cheerfulness, when your hearts are torn with anguish, or sinking in despair. Then your only resource is in the consolations of religion. It is chiefly owing to these, that you bear domestic misfortunes better than we do.
But you are sometimes in very different circumstances, that equally require the restraints of religion. The natural vivacity, and perhaps the natural vanity of your sex, is very apt to lead you into a dissipated state of life, that deceives you under the appearance of innocent pleasure; but which in reality wastes your spirits, impairs your health, weakens all the superior faculties of your minds, and often sullies your reputations. Religion, by checking this dissipation, and rage for pleasure, enables you to draw more happiness, even from those very sources of amusement, which, when too frequently applied to, are often productive of satiety and disgust.
Religion is rather a matter of sentiment than reasoning. The important and interesting articles of faith are sufficiently plain. Fix your attention on these, and do not meddle with controversy. If you get into that, you plunge into a chaos, from which [Page 90] you will never be able to extricate yourselves. It spoils the temper, and, I suspect, has no good effect on the heart.
Avoid all books and all conversations that tend to shake your faith on those great points of religion which should serve to regulate your conduct, and on which your hopes of future and eternal happiness depend.
Never indulge yourselves in ridicule on religious subjects, nor give countenance to it in others by seeming diverted with what they say. This, to people of good-breeding, will be a sufficient check.
I wish you to go no further than the scriptures for your religious opinions. Embrace those you find clearly revealed. Never perplex yourselves about such as you do not understand, but treat them with silent and becoming reverence. I would advise you to read only such religious books as are addressed to the heart, such as inspire pious and devout affections, such as are proper to direct you in your conduct, and not such as tend to entangle you in the endless maze of opinions and systems.
Be punctual in the stated performance of your private devotions, morning and evening. If you have any sensibility or imagination, this will establish such an intercourse between you and the Supreme Being, as will be of infinite consequence to you in life. It will communicate an habitual cheerfulness to your tempers, give a firmness and steadiness to your virtue, and enable you to go through all the vicissitudes of human life with propriety and dignity.
I wish you to be regular in your attendance on public worship, and in receiving the communion. Allow nothing to interrupt your public or private devotions, except the performance of some active duty in life, to which they should always give place. In your behaviour at public worship, observe an exemplary attention and gravity.
That extreme strictness which I recommend to you in these duties, will be considered by many of your acquaintance as a superstitious attachment to forms; [Page 91] but in the advices I give you on this and other subjecte, I have an eye to the spirit and manners of the [...]. There is a levity and dissipation in the present [...]nners, a coldness and listlessness in whatever re [...]ates to religion, which cannot fail to infect you, unless you purposely cultivate in your minds a contrary bias, and make the devotional taste habitual.
Avoid all grimace and ostentation in your religious duties. They are the usual cloaks of hypocrisy; at least they show a weak and vain mind.
Do not make religion a sub [...]ect of common conversation in mixed companies. When it is introduced, rather seem to decline it. At the same time, never suffer any person to insult you by any foolish ribaldry on your religious opinions, but show the same resentment you would nat [...]ally do on being offered any other personal insult. But the surest way to avoid this, is by a modest reserve or the subject, and by using no freedom with others about their religious sentiments.
Cultivate an enlarged charity for all mankind, however they may differ from you in their religious opinions. That difference may probably arise from causes in which you had no sha [...] [...] from which you can derive no merit.
Show your regard to religion by a distinguishing respect to all its ministers, of whatever persuasion, who do not, by their lives, dishonour their profession; but never allow them the direction of your consciences, lest they taint you with the narrow spirit of their party.
The best effect of your religion will be a diffusive humanity to all in distress. Set apart a certain proportion of your income as sacred to charitable purposes. But in this, as well as in the practice of every other duty, carefully avoid ostentation. Vanity is always defeating her own purposes. Fame is one of the natural rewards of virtue. Do not pursue her, and she will follow you.
Do not confine your charity to giving money. You may have many opportunities of showing a tender and [Page 92] compassionate spirit, where your money is not wanted. There is a false and unnatural refinement in sensibility, which makes some people shun the sight of every object in distress. Never indulge this, especially where your friends or acquaintances are concerned. Let the days of their misfortunes, when the world forgets or avoids them, be the season for you to exercise your humanity and friendship. The sight of human misery softens the heart, and makes it better: it checks the pride of health and prosperity, and the distress it occasions, is amply compensated by the consciousness of doing your duty, and by the secret endearment which nature has annexed to all our sympathetic sorrows.
Women are greatly deceived, when they think they recommend themselves to our sex, by their indifference about religion. Even those men who are themselves unbelievers, dislike infidelity in you. Every man, who knows human nature, connects a religious taste in your sex with softness and sensibility of heart; at least; we always consider the want of it as a proof of that hard and masculine spirit, which, of all your faults, we dislike the most. Besides, men consider your religion as one of their principal securities for that female virtue in which they are most interested. If a gentleman pretends an attachment to any of you, and endeavours to shake your religious principles, be assured he is either a fool, or has designs on you, which he dares not openly avow.
You will probably wonder at my having educated you in a church different from my own. The reason was plainly this: I looked on the differences between our churches to be of no real importance, and that a preference of one to the other was a mere matter of taste. Your mother was educated in the church of England, and had an attachment to it; and I had a prejudice in favour of every thing she liked. It never was her desire, that you should be baptised by a clergyman of the church of England, or be educated in that church. On the contrary, the delicacy of her regard, to the smallest circumstance that could affect [Page 93] me in the eye of the world, made her anxiously insist it might be otherwise. But I could not yield to her in that kind of generosity. When I lost her, I became still more determined to educate you in that church; as I feel a secret pleasure in doing every thing that appears to me to express my affection and veneration for her memory. I draw but a very faint and imperfect picture of what your mother was, while I endeavour to point out what you should be. *
Conduct and Behaviour.
ONE of the chief beauties, in a female character, is that modest reserve, that retiring delicacy, which avoids the public eye, and is disconcerted even at the gaze of admiration. I do not wish you to be insensible to applause; if you were, you must become, if not worse, at least less amiable women: but you may be dazzled by that admiration which yet rejoices your hearts.
When a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm of beauty. That extreme sensibility which it indicates, may be a weakness and incumbrance in our sex, as I have too often felt, but in yours it is peculiarly engaging. Pedants, who think themselves philosophers, ask why a woman should blush, when she is conscious of no crime? It is a sufficient answer, that nature has made you to blush when you are guilty of no fault, and has forced us to love you, because you do so.—Blushing is so far from being necessarily an attendant on guilt, that it is the usual companion of innocence.
This modesty, which I think so essential in your sex, will naturally dispose you to be rather silent in company, especially in a large one.—People of sense and discernment will never mistake such silence for dullness. One may take a share in conversation without uttering a syllable. The expression in the countenance [Page 94] shows it, and this never escapes an observing eye.
I should be glad that you had an easy dignity in your behaviour at public places, but not that confident ease, that unabashed countenance, which seems to set the company at defiance. If, while a gentleman is speaking to you, one of superior rank addresses you, do not let your eager attention and visible preference betray the flutter of your heart: let your pride on this occasion preserve you from that meanness, into which your vanity would sink you. Consider that you expose yourselves to the ridicule of the company, and affront one gentleman only to swell the triumph of another, who perhaps thinks he does you honour in speaking to you.
Converse with men even of the first rank with that dignified modesty which may prevent the approach of the most distant familiarity, and consequently prevent them from feeling themselves your superiors.
Wit is the most dangerous talent you can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good nature; otherwise it will create you many enemies. Wit is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy; yet they are seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who possess it, become intoxicated, and lose all self-command.
Humour is a different quality. It will make your company much solicited; but be cautious how you indulge it. It is often a great enemy to delicacy, and a still greater one to dignity of character. It may sometimes gain you applause, but will never procure you respect.
Be even cautious of displaying your good sense. It will be thought you assume a superiority over the rest of the company. But if you happen to have any learning, keep it a profound secret, especially from the men, who generally look with a jealous and malignant eye on a woman of great parts, and a cultivated understanding.
A man of real genius and candour is far superior to this meanness; but such a one will seldom fall in [Page 95] your way; and if by accident he should, do not be anxious to show the full extent of your knowledge. If he has any opportunities of seeing you, he will soon discover it himself; and if you have any advantages of person or manner, and keep your own secret, he will probably give you credit for a grea [...] deal more than you possess. The great art of pleasing in conversation consists in making the company pleased with themselves. You will more readily hear than talk yourselves into their good graces.
Beware of detraction, especially where your own sex are concerned. You are generally accused of being particularly addicted to this vice—I think, unjustly. Men are equally guilty of it when their interests interfere. As your interests more frequently clash, and as your feelings are quicker than ours, your temptations to it are more frequent: for this reason be particularly tender of the reputation of your own sex, especially when they happen to rival you in our regard. We look on this as the strongest proof of dignity and true greatness of mind.
Show a compassionate sympathy to unfortunate women, especially to those who are rendered so by the villainy of men. Indulge a secret pleasure, I may say pride, in being the friends and refuge of the unhappy, but without the vanity of showing it.
Consider every species of indelicacy in conversation, as shameful in itself, and as highly disgusting to us. All double entendre is of this sort. The dissoluteness of men's education allows them to be diverted with a kind of wit, which yet they have delicacy enough to be shocked at, when it comes from your mouths, or even when you hear it without pain and contempt.—Virgin purity is of such a delicate nature, that it cannot bear certain things without contamination. It is always in your power to avoid these. No man, but a brute or a fool, will insult a woman with conversation which he sees gives her pain; nor will he dare to do it, if she resent the injury with a becoming spirit. There is a dignity in conscious virtue, which is able to awe the most shameless and abandoned of men.
[Page 96]You will be reproached perhaps with prudery. By prudery is usually meant an affectation of delicacy: Now I do not wish you to affect delicacy; I wish you to possess it: at any rate, it is better to run the risk of being thought ridiculous than disgusting.
The men will complain of your reserve. They will assure you, that a franker behaviour would make you more amiable. But, trust me, they are not sincere when they tell you so. I acknowledge, that on some occasions it might render you more agreeable as companions, but it would make you less amiable as women—an important distinction, which many of your sex are not aware of. After all, I wish you to have great ease and openness in your conversation; I only point out some considerations which ought to regulate your behaviour in that respect.
Have a sacred regard to truth. Lying is a mean and despicable vice. I have known some women of excellent parts, who were so much addicted to it, that they could not be trusted in the relation of any story, especially if it contained any thing of the marvellous, or if they themselves were the heroines of the tale. This weakness did not proceed from a bad heart, but was merely the effect of vanity, or an unbridled imagination. I do not mean to censure that lively embellishment of a humourous story, which is only intended to promote innocent mirth.
There is a certain gentleness of spirit and manners extremely engaging in your sex—not that indiscriminate attention, that unmeaning simper, which smiles on all alike. This arises either from an affectation of softness, or from perfect insipidity.
There is a species of refinement in luxury, just beginning to prevail among the gentlemen of this country, to which our ladies are yet as great strangers as any women upon earth; I hope, for the honour of the sex, that they may ever continue so; I mean, the luxury of eating. It is a despicable, selfish vice in men; but in your sex it is beyond expression indelicate and disgusting.
[Page 97]Every one, who remembers a few years back, is sensible of a very striking change in the attention and respect formerly paid by the gentlemen to the ladies: their drawing-rooms are deserted: and after dinner and supper, the gentlemen are impatient till they retire. How they came to lose this respect, which nature and politeness so well entitle them to, I shall not here particularly enquire. The revolutions of manners in any country depend on causes very various and complicated. I shall only observe, that the behaviour of the ladies in the last age was very reserved and sta [...]ely. It would now be reckoned ridiculously stiff and formal. Whatever it was, it had certainly the effect of making them more respected.
A fine woman, like other fine things in nature, has her proper point of view, from which she may be seen to most advantage. To fix this point requires great judgment, and an intimate knowledge of the human heart. By the present mode of female manners, the ladies seem to expect that they shall regain their acendency over us—by the fullest display of their personal charms—by being always in our eye at public places—by conversing with us, with the same unreserved freedom as we do with one another —in short, by resembling us as nearly as they possibly can.—But a little time and experience will show the folly of this expectation and conduct.
The power of a fine woman over the hearts of men, of men of the finest parts, is even beyond what she conceives. They are sensible of the pleasing illusion; but they cannot, nor do they wish to dissolve it. But if she is determined to dispel the charm, [...] certainly is in her power; she may soon reduce the angel to a very ordinary girl.
There is a native dignity in ingenuous modesty to be expected in your sex, which is your natural protection from the familiarities of the men, and which you should feel previous to the reflexion, that it [...] your interest to keep yourselves sacred from all personal freedoms. The many nameless charms and endearments [Page 98] of beauty should be reserved to bless the arms of the happy man to whom you give your heart, but who, if he has the least delicacy, will despise them if he knows that they have been prostituted to fifty men before him. The sentiment, that a woman may allow all innocent freedoms, provided her virtue is secure, is both grossly indelicate and dangerous, and has proved fatal to many of your sex.
Let me now recommend to your attention that elegance, which is not so much a quality itself, as the high polish of every other. It is what diffuses an ineffable grace over every look, every motion, every sentence you utter; it gives that charm to beauty, without which it generally fails to please. It is partly a personal quality, in which respect it is the gift of nature; but I speak of it principally as a quality of the mind. In a word, it is the perfection of taste in life and manners—every virtue and every excellency in their most graceful and amiable forms.
You may perhaps think, that I want to throw every spark of nature out of your composition, and to make you entirely artificial. Far from it. I wish you to possess the most perfect simplicity of heart and manners. I think you may possess dignity without pride, affability without meanness, and simple elegance without affectation. Milton had my idea, when he says of Eve,
Amusements.
EVERY period of life has amusements which are natural and proper to it. You may indulge the variety of your tastes in these, while you keep within the bounds of that propriety which is suitable to your sex.
Some amusements are conducive to health; as various kinds of exercise: some are connected with qualities really useful; as different kinds of women's [Page 99] work, and all the domestic concerns of a family: some are elegant accomplishments; as dress, dancing, music, and drawing. Such books as improve your understanding, enlarge your knowledge, and cultivate your taste, may be considered in a higher point of view than mere amusements. There are a variety of others, which are neither useful nor ornamental, such as play of different kinds.
I would particularly recommend to you those exercises that oblige you to be much abroad in the open air, such as walking, and riding on horseback. This will give vigour to your constitutions, and a bloom to your complexions. If you accustom yourselves to go abroad always in chairs and carriages, you will soon become so enervated, as to be unable to go out of doors without them. They are, like most articles of luxury, useful and agreeable when judiciously used; but, when made habitual, they become both insipid and pernicious.
An attention to your health is a duty you owe to yourselves and to your friends. Bad health seldom fails to have an influence on the spirits and temper. The finest geniuses, the most delicate minds, have very frequently a correspondent delicacy of bodily constitution, which they are too apt to neglect. Their luxury lies in reading and late hours, equal enemies to health and beauty.
But though good health be one of the greatest blessings of life, never make a boast of it, but enjoy it in grateful silence. We so naturally associate the idea of female softness and delicacy with a corespondent delicacy of constitution, that when a woman speaks of her great strength, her extraordinary appetite, her ability to bear excessive fatigue, we recoil at a description in a way she is little aware of.
The intention of your being taught needle-work, knitting, and such like, is not on account of the intrinsi [...] value of all you can do with your hands, which is tr [...]fling, but to enable you to judge more perfectly of that kind of work, and to direct the execution of it in others. Another principal end is to enable you [Page 100] to fill up, in a tolerably agreeable way, some of the many solitary hours you must necessarily pass at home. It is a great article in the happiness of life, to have your pleasures as independent of others as possible.
By continually gadding abroad, in search of amusement, you lose the respect of all your acquaintances, whom you oppress with those visits, which, by a more discreet management, might have been courted.
The domestic economy of a family is entirely a woman's province, and furnishes a variety of subjects for the exertion both of good sense and good taste. If you ever come to have the charge of a family, it ought to engage much of your time and attention; nor can you be excused from this by any extent of fortune, though, with a narrow one, the ruin that follows the neglect of it may be more immediate.
I am at the greatest loss what to advise you in regard to books. There is no impropriety in your reading history, or cultivating any art or science to which genius or accident lead you. The whole volume of nature lies open to your eye, and furnishes an infinite variety of entertainment. If I was sure that nature had given you such strong principles of taste and sentiment as would remain with you, and influence your future conduct, with the utmost pleasure would I endeavour to direct your reading in such a way as might form that taste to the utmost perfection of truth and elegance. ‘But when I reflect how easy it is to warm a girl's imagination, and how difficult deeply and permanently to affect her heart—how readily she enters into every refinement of sentiment, and how easily she can sacrifice them to vanity or convenience’ —I think I may very probably do you an injury by artificially creating a taste, which, if nature never gave it you, would only serve to embarrass your future conduct. I do not want to make you any thing: I want to know what nature has made you, and to perfect you o [...] her plan. I do not wish you to have sentiments that might perplex you; I wish you to have sentiments that may uniformly and steadily guide you, and such [Page 101] as your hearts so thoroughly approve, that you would not forego them for any consideration this world could offer.
Dress is an important article in female life. The love of dress is natural to you, and therefore it is proper and reasonable. Good sense will regulate your expense in it; and good taste will direct you to dress in such a way, as to conceal any blemishes, and set off your beauties, if you have any, to the greatest advantage. But much delicacy and judgment are required in the application of this rule. A fine woman shows her charms to most advantage, when she seems most to conceal them. The finest bosom in nature is not so fine as what imagination forms. The most perfect elegance of dress appears always the most easy, and the least studied.
Do not confine your attention to dress to your public appearances. Accustom yourselves to an habitual neatness, so that in the most careless undress, in your most unguarded hours, you may have no reason to be ashamed of your appearance. You will not easily believe how much we consider your dress as expressive of your characters. Vanity, levity, slovenliness, folly, appear through it. An elegant simplicity is an equal proof of taste and delicacy.
In dancing, the principal points you are to attend to, are ease and grace. I would have you to dance with spirit; but never allow yourselves to be so far transported with mirth, as to forget the delicacy of your sex. Many a girl dancing in the gaiety and innocence of her heart, is thought to discover a spirit she little dreams of.
I know no entertainment that gives such pleasure to any person of sentiment or humour, as the theatre. But I am sorry to say, there are few English comedies a lady can see, without a shock to delicacy. You will not readily suspect the comments gentlemen make on your behaviour on such occasions. Men are often best acquainted with the most worthless of your sex, and from them too readily form their judgment of the rest. A virtuous girl often hears very indelicate [Page 102] things with a countenance no-wise emba [...]rassed, because in truth she does not understand them. Yet this is, most ungenerously, ascribed to that command of features, and that ready presence of mind, which you are thought to possess in a degree far beyond us▪ or, by still more malignant observers, it is ascribed to hardened effrontery.
Sometimes a girl laughs with all the simplicity of unsuspecting innocence, for no other reason but being infected with other people's laughing: she is then believed to know more than she should do. If she does happen to understand an improper thing, she suffers a very complicated distress; she feels her modesty hurt in the most sensible manner, and at the same time is ashamed of appearing conscious of the injury. The only way to avoid these inconveniencies, is never to go to a play that is particularly offensive to delicacy. Tragedy subjects you to no such distress. Its sorrows will soften and ennoble your hearts.
I need say little about gaming, the ladies in this country being as yet almost strangers to it. It is a ruinous and incurable vice; and as it leads to all the selfish and turbulent passions, is peculiarly odious in your sex. I have no objection to your playing a little at any kind of game, as a variety in your amusements, provided that what you can possibly lose is such a trifle as can neither interest you, nor hurt you.
In this, as well as in all important points of conduct, show a determined resolution and steadiness. This is not in the least inconsistent with that softness and gentleness so amiable in your sex. On the contrary, it gives that spirit to a mild and sweet disposition, without which it is apt to degenerate into insipidity. It makes you respectable in your own eyes, and dignifies you in ours.
Friendship, Love, Marriage.
THE luxury and dissipation that prevail in genteel life, as they corrupt the heart in many respects, so they render it incapable of warm, sincere, and [Page 103] steady friendship. A happy c [...]oice of friends will be of the utmost consequence to you, as they may assist you by their advice and good offices. But the immediate gratification which friendship affords to a warm, open, and ingenuous heart, is of itself a sufficient motive to court it.
In the choice of your friends, have your principal regard to goodness of heart and fidelity. If they also possess taste and genius, that will still make them more agreeable and useful companions. You have particular reason to place confidence in those who have shown affection for you in your early days, when you were incapable of making them any return. This is an obligation for which you cannot be too grateful. When you read this, you will naturally think of your mother's friend, to whom you owe so much.
If you have the good fortune to meet with any who deserve the name of friends, unbosom yourselves to them with the most unsuspicious confidence. It is one of the world's maxims, never to trust any person with a secret, the discovery of which could give you any pain: but it is the maxim of a little mind and a cold heart, unless where it is the effect of frequent disappointments and bad usage. An open temper, if restrained but by tolerable prudence, will make you, on the whole, much happier than a reserved, suspicious one, although you may sometimes suffer by it. Coldness and distrust are but the too certain consequences of age and experience: but they are unpleasant feelings, and need not be anticipated before their time.
But however open you may be in talking of your affairs, never disclose the secret of one friend to another. These are sacred deposits, which do not belong to you, nor have you any right to make use of them.
There is another case, in which I suspect it is proper to be secret, not so much from motives of prudence, as delicacy; I mean in love matters. Though a woman has no reason to be ashamed of an attachment [Page 104] to a man of merit, yet nature, whose authority is superior to philosophy, has annexed a sense of shame to it. It is even long before a woman of delicacy dares avow to her own heart that she loves; and when all the subterfuges of ingenuity to conceal it from herself fail, she feels a violence done both to her pride and to her modesty. This, I should imagine, must always be the case where she is not sure of a return to her attachment.
In such a situation, to lay the heart open to any person whatever, does not appear to me consistent with the perfection of female delicacy. But perhaps I am in the wrong. At the same time I must tell you, that, in point of prudence, it concerns you to attend well to the consequences of such a discovery. These secrets, however important in your own estim [...]ion, may apper very trifling to your friend, who possibly will not enter into your feelings, but may rather consider them as a subject of pleasantry. For this reason, love secrets are of all others the worst kept. But the consequences to you may be very serious, as no man of spirit and delicacy ever valued a heart much hacknied in the ways of love.
If, therefore, you must have a friend to pour out your heart to, be sure of her honour and secrecy. Let her not be a married woman, especially if she lives happily with her husband. There are certain unguarded moments, in which such a woman, though the best and worthiest of her sex, may let hints escape, which, at other times, or to any other person than her husband, she would be incapable of; nor will a husband in this case feel himself under the same obligation of secrecy and honour, as if you had put your confidence originally in himself, especially on a subject which the world is apt to treat so lightly.
If all other circumstances are equal, there are obvious advantages in your making friends of one another. The ties of blood, and your being so much united in one common interest, form an additional bond of union to your friendship. If your brothers should have the good fortune to have hearts susceptible [Page 105] of friendship, to possess truth, honour, sense, and delicacy of sentiment, they are the fittest and most unexceptionable confidants. By placing confidence in them, you will receive every advantage which you could hope for from the friendship of men, without any of the inconveniencies that attend such connexions with our sex.
Beware of making confidants of your servants. Dignity not properly understood very readily degenerates into pride, which enters into no friendship, because it cannot bear an equal, and is so fond of flattery as to grasp at it even from servants and dependants. The most intimate confidants, therefore, of proud people, are valets-de-chambre and waiting women. Show the utmost humanity to your servants; make their situation as comfortable to them as possible: but if you make them your confidants, you spoil them, and debase themselves.
Never allow any person, under the pretended sanction of friendship, to be so familiar as to lose a proper respect to you. Never allow them to teaze you on any subject that is disagreeable, or where you have once taken your resolution. Many will tell you, that this reserve is inconsistent with the freedom which friendship allows: but a certain respect is as necessary in friendship as in love. Without it you may be liked as a child, but you will never be beloved as an equal.
The temper and disposition of the heart in your sex make you enter more readily and warmly into friendships than men. Your natural propensity to it is so strong, that you often run into intimacies which you soon have sufficient cause to repent of; and this makes your friendships so very fluctuating.
Another great obstacle to the sincerity, as well as steadiness of your friendships, is the great clashing of your interests, in the pursuits of love, ambition, or vanity. For these reasons, it would appear, at first view, more eligible for you to contract your friendships with the men. Among other obvious advantages of an easy intercourse between the two sexes, [Page 106] it occasions an emulation and exertion in each to excel and be agreeable; hence their respective excellencies are mutually communicated and blended. As their interests in no degree interfere, there can be no foundation for jealousy, or suspicion of rivalship. The friendship of a man for a woman is always blended with tenderness, which he never feels for one of his own sex, even where love is in no degree concerned. Besides, we are conscious of a natural title you have to our protection and good offices, and therefore we feel an additional obligation of honour to serve you, and to observe an inviolable secrecy, whenever you confide in us.
But apply these observations with great caution. Thousands of women of the best hearts and finest parts have been ruined by men who approach them under the specious name of friendship. But supposing a man to have the most undoubted honour, yet his friendship to a woman is so near a-kin to love, that if she be very agreeable in her person, she will probably very soon find a lover, where she only wished to meet a friend. Let me here, however, warn you against that weakness so common among vain women—the imagination, that every man, who takes particular notice of you, is a lover. Nothing can expose you more to ridicule than the taking up a man on the suspicion of being your lover, who perhaps never once thought of you in that view, and giving yourselves those airs so common among all silly women on such occasions.
There is a kind of unmeaning gallantry much practised by some men, which, if you have any discernment, you will find really very harmless. Men of this sort will attend you to public places, and be useful to you by a number of little observances, which those of a superior class do not so well understand, or have not leisure to regard, or perhaps are too proud to submit to. Look on the compliments of such men as words of course, which they repeat to every agreeable woman of their acquaintance. There is a familiarity they are apt to assume, which a proper dignity in your behaviour will be easily able to check.
[Page 107]There is a different species of men whom you may like as agreeable companions, men of worth, taste, and genius, whose conversation, in some respects, may be superior to what you generally meet with among your own sex. It will be foolish in you to deprive yourselves of an useful and agreeable acquaintance, merely because idle people say he is your lover. Such a man may like your company, without having any design on your person.
People whose sentiments, and particularly whose tastes correspond, naturally like to associate together, although neither of them have the most distant view of any further connexion. But as this similarity of minds often gives rise to a more tender attachment than friendship, it will be prudent to keep a watchful eye over yourselves, lest your hearts become too far engaged before you are aware of it. At the same time, I do not think that your sex, at least in this part of the world, have much of that sensibility which disposes to such attachments. What is commonly called love among you is rather gratitude, and a partiality to the man who prefers you to the rest of your sex; and such a man you often marry, with little of either personal esteem or affection. Indeed, without an unusual share of natural sensibility, and very peculiar good fortune, a woman in this country has very little probability of marrying for love. *
It is a maxim laid down among you, and a very prudent one it is, that love is not to begin on your part; but is entirely to be the consequence of our attachment to you. Now, supposing a woman to have sense and taste, she will not find many men to whom she can possibly be supposed to bear any considerable share of esteem. Among these few, it is very great chance if any of them distinguishes her particularly. Love, at least with us, is exceedingly capricious, and will not always fix, where reason says it should. But supposing one of them should become particularly [Page 108] attached to her, it is still extremely improbable that he should be the man in the world her heart most approves of.
As, therefore, nature has not given you that unlimited range in your choice which we enjoy, she has wisely and benevolently assigned to you a greater flexibility of taste on this subject. Some agreeable qualities recommend a gentleman to your common good liking and friendship. In the course of his acquaintance, he contracts an attachment to you. When you perceive it, it excites your gratitude: this gratitude rises into a preference: and this preference, perhaps, at last advances to some degree of attachment, especially if it meets with crosses and difficulties; for these, and a state of suspense, are very great incitements to attachment, and are the food of love in both sexes. If attachment was not excited in your sex in this manner, there is not one of a million of you, that could ever marry with any degree of love.
A man of taste and delicacy marries a woman, because he loves her more that any other. A woman of equal taste and delicacy marries him because she esteems him, and because he gives her that preference. But if a man unfortunately becomes attached to a woman whose heart is secretly pre-engaged, his attachment, instead of obtaining a suitable return, is particularly offensive; and if he persists to teaze her, he makes himself equally the object of her scorn and aversion.
The effects of love among men are diversified by their different tempers. An artful man may counterfeit every one of them so easily, as to impose on a young girl of an open, generous, and feeling heart, if she be not extremely on her guard. The finest parts in such a girl may not always prove sufficient for her security. The dark and crooked paths of cunning are unsearchable and inconceivable to an honourable and elevated mind.
The following, I apprehend, are the most genuine effects of an honourable passion among the men, and [Page] [Page 109] the most difficult to counterfeit. A man of delicacy often betrays his passion by his too great anxiety to conceal it, especially if he has little hopes of success. True love, in all its stages, seeks concealment, and never expects success. It renders a man not only respectful, but timid to the highest degree, in his behaviour to the woman he loves. To conceal the awe she inspires him with, he may sometimes affect pleasantry; but it sits aukwardly on him, and he quickly relapses into seriousness, if not into dullness. He magnifies all her real perfections in his imagination, and is either blind to her failings, or converts them into beauties. Like a person conscious of guilt, he is jealous that every eye observes his; and to avoid this, he shuns all the little observances of common gallantry.
His heart and his character will be improved in every respect by his attachment. His manners will become more gentle, and his conversation more agreeable: but diffidence and embarrassment will always make him appear to disadvantage in the company of his mistress. If the fascination continue long▪ it will totally depress his spirits, and extinguish every active, vigorous, and manly principle of his mind. You will find this subject beautifully and pathetically painted in Thomson's Spring.
When you observe, in a gentleman's behaviour, these marks which I have described above, reflect seriously what you are to do. If his attachment be agreeable to you, I leave you to do as nature, good sense, and delicacy shall direct you. If you love him, let me advise you never to discover to him [...]he full extent of your love, no not although you marry him. That sufficiently shows your preference, which is all he is entitled to know. If he has delicacy, he will ask for no stronger proof of affection, for your sake; if he has sense, he will not ask it for his own. This is an unpleasant truth; but it is my duty to let you know it. Violent love cannot subsist, at least cannot be expressed, for any time together, on both sides; otherwise the certain consequence, however [Page 110] concealed, is satiety and disgust. Nature in this case has laid the reserve on you.
If you see evident proofs of a gentleman's attachment, and are determined to shut your heart against him, as you ever hope to be used with generosity by the person who shall engage your own heart, treat him honourably and humanely. Do not let him linger in a miserable suspense; but be anxious to let him know your sentiments with regard to him.
However people's hearts may deceive them, there is scarcely a person that can love for any time, without at least some distant hope of success. If you really wish to undeceive a lover, you may do it in a variety of ways. There is a certain species of easy familiarity in your behaviour, which may satisfy him, if he has any discernment left, that he has nothing to hope for. But perhaps your particular temper may not admit of this: you may easily show that you want to avoid his company; but if he be a man whose friendship you wish to preserve, you may not choose this method, because then you lose him in every capacity. You may get a common friend to explain matters to him, or fall on many other devices, if you be seriously anxious to put him out of suspense.
But if you be resolved against every such method, at least do not shun opportunities of letting him explain himself. If you do this, you act barbarously and unjustly. If he brings you to an explanation, give him a polite, but resolute and decisive answer. In whatever way you convey your sentiments to him, if he is a man of spirit and delicacy, he will give you no further trouble, nor apply to your friends for their intercession. This last is a method of courtship, which every man of spirit will disdain. He will never whine nor sue for your pity: that would mortify him almost as much as your scorn. In short, you may possibly break such a heart, but you can never bend it. Great pride always accompanies delicacy, however concealed under the appearance of the utmost gentleness and modesty, and is the passion of all others the most difficult to conquer.
[Page 111]There is a case where a woman may coquette justifiably to the utmost verge which her conscience will allow. It is where a gentleman purposely declines to make his addresses, till such time as he thinks himself perfectly sure of her consent. This, at bottom, is intended to force a woman to give up the undoubted privilege of her sex, the privilege of refusing; it is intended to force her to explain herself, in effect, before the gentleman deigns to do it, and by this means to oblige her to violate the modesty and delicacy of her sex, and to invert the clearest order of nature. All this sacrifice is proposed to be made merely to gratify a most despicable vanity in a man, who would degrade the very woman whom he wishes to make his wife.
It is of great importance to distinguish whether a gentleman who has the appearance of being your lover, delays to speak explicitly, from the motive I have mentioned, or from a diffidence inseparable from true attachment. In the one case, you can scarcely use him too ill; in the other, you ought to use him with great kindness: and the greatest kindness you can show him, if you are determined not to listen to his addresses, is to let him know it as soon as possible.
I know the many excuses with which women endeavour to justify themselves to the world, and to their own consciences, when they act otherwise. Sometimes they plead ignorance, or at least uncertainty, of the gentleman's real sentiments. That may sometimes be the case. Sometimes they plead the decorum of their sex, which enjoins an equal behaviour to all men, and forbids them to consider any man as a lover till he has directly told them so. Perhaps few women carry their ideas of female delicacy and decorum so far as I do. But I must say, you are not entitled to plead the obligation of these virtues, in opposition to the superior ones of gratitude, justice, and humanity. The man is entitled to all these, who prefers you to the rest of your sex, and perhaps whose greatest weakness is this very preference. [Page 112] The truth of the matter is, vanity, and the love of admiration, is so prevailing a passion among you, that you may be considered to make a very great sacrifice whenever you give up a lover, till every art of coquetry fails to keep him, or till he forces you to an explanation. You can be fond of the love, when you are indifferent to, or even when you despise the lover.
But the deepest and most artful coquetry is employed by women of superior taste and sense, to engage and fix the heart of a man whom the world and whom they themselves esteem, although they are firmly determined never to marry him. But his conversation amuses them, and his attachment is the highest gratification to their vanity: nay, they can sometimes be gratified with the utter ruin of his fortune, fame, and happiness. God forbid I should ever think so of all your sex! I know many of them have principles, have generosity and dignity of soul, that elevate them above the worthless vanity I have been speaking of.
Such a woman, I am persuaded, may always convert a lover, if she cannot give him her affections, into a warm and steady friend, provided he is a man of sense, resolution, and candour. If she explain herself with a generous openness and freedom, he must feel the stroke as a man; but he will likewise bear it as a man: what he suffers, he will suffer in silence. Every sentiment of esteem will remain: but love, though it requires very little food, and is easily surfeited with too much, yet it requires some. He will view her in the light of a married woman; and though passion subsides, yet a man of a candid and generous heart always retains a tenderness for a woman he has once loved, and who has used him well, beyond what he feels for any other of her sex.
If he has not confided his own secret to any body, he has an undoubted title to ask you not to divulge it. If a woman choose to trust any of her companions with her own unfortunate attachments, she may, as it is her own affair alone: but if she has any generosity [Page 113] or gratitude, she will not betray a secret which does not belong to her.
Male coquetry is much more inexcusable than female, as well as more pernicious; but it is rare in this country. Very few men will give themselves the trouble to gain or retain any woman's affections, unless they have views on them either of an honourable or dishonourable [...]ind. Men employed in the pursuits of business, ambition, or pleasure, will not give themselves the trouble to engage a woman's affections, merely from the vanity of conquest, and of triumphing over the heart of an innocent and defenceless girl. Besides, people never value much what is entirely in their power. A man of parts, sentiment, and address, if he lay aside all regard to truth and humanity, may engage the hearts of fifty women at the same time, and may likewise conduct his coquetry with so much art, as to put it out of the power of any of them to specify a single expression that could be said to be directly expressive of love.
This ambiguity of behaviour, this art of keeping one in suspense, is the great secret of coquetry in both sexes. It is the more cruel in us, because we can carry it to what length we please, and continue it as long as we please, without your being so much as at liberty to complain or expostulate; whereas we can break our chain, and force you to explain, whenever we become impatient of our situation.
I have insisted the more particularly on this subject of courtship, because it may most readily happen to you at that early period of life, when you can have little experience or knowledge of the world; when your passions are warm, and your judgments not arrived at such full maturity as to be able to correct them. I wish you to possess such high principles of honour and generosity, as will render you incapable of deceiving, and at the same time to possess that [...]ute discernment which may secure you against being deceived.
A woman in this country, may easily prevent the first impressions of love; and every motive of prudence [Page 114] and delicacy should make her guard her heart against them, till such time as she has received the most convincing proofs of the attachment of a man of such merit, as will justify a reciprocal regard. Your hearts, indeed, may be shut inflexibly and permanently against all the merit a man can possess. That may be your misfortune, but cannot be your fault. In such a situation, you would be equally unjust to yourself and your lover, if you gave him your hand, when your heart revolted against him. But miserable will be your fate, if you allow an attachment to steal on you before you are sure of a return; or, what is infinitely worse, where there are wanting those qualities which alone can insure happiness in a married state.
I know nothing that renders a woman more despicable, than her thinking it essential to happiness to be married. Besides the gross indelicacy of the sentiment, it is a false one, as thousands of women have experienced. But if it were true, the belief that it is so, and the consequent impatience to be married, is the most effectual way to prevent it.
You must not think from this, that I do not wish you to marry; on the contrary, I am of opinion, that you may attain a superior degree of happiness in a married state, to what you can possibly find in any other. I know the forlorn and unprotected situation of an old maid, the chagrin and peevishness which are apt to infect their tempers, and the great difficulty of making a transition, with dignity and cheerfulness, from the period of youth, beauty, admiration, and respect, into the calm, silent, unnoticed retreat of declining years.
I see some unmarried women, of active, vigorous minds, and great vivacity of spirits, degrading themselves; sometimes by entering into a dissipated course of life, unsuitable to their years, and exposing themselves to the ridicule of girls, who might have been their grand-children; sometimes by oppressing their acquaintances by impertinent intrusions into their private affairs; and sometimes by being the propagators [Page 115] of scandal and defamation. All this is owing to an exuberant activity of spirit, which, if it had found employment at home, would have rendered them respectable and useful members of society.
I see other women, in the same situation, gentle, modest, blessed with sense, taste, delicacy, and every milder feminine virtue of the heart, but of weak spirits, bashful, and timid; I see such women sinking into obscurity and insignificance, and gradually losing every elegant accomplishment; for this evident reason, that they are not united to a partner who has sense, and worth, and taste, to know their value; one who is able to draw forth their concealed qualities, and show them to advantage; who can give that support to their feeble spirits, which they stand so much in need of; and who, by his affection and tenderness, might make such a woman happy, in exerting every talent, and accomplishing herself in every elegant art that could contribute to his amusement.
In short, I am of opinion, that a married state, if entered into from proper motives of esteem and affection, will be the happiest for yourselves, make you most respectable in the eyes of the world, and the most useful members of society: but I confess I am not enough of a patriot, to wish you to marry for the good of the public;—I wish you to marry for no other reason but to make yourselves happier. When I am so particular in my advices about your conduct, I own my heart beats with the fond hopes of making you worthy the attachment of men who will deserve you, and be sensible of your merit. But heaven forbid you should ever relinquish the ease and independence of a single life, to become the slaves of a fool or a tyrant's caprice.
As these have always been my sentiments, I shall do you but justice, when I leave you in such independent circumstances, as may lay you under no temptation to do from necessity what you would never do from choice. This will likewise save you from that cruel mortification to a woman of spirit, the suspicion [Page 116] that a gentleman thinks he does you an honour or a favour, when he asks you for his wife.
If I live till you arrive at that age when you shall be capable to judge for yourselves, and do not strangely alter my sentiments, I shall act towards you in a very different manner from what most parents do. My opinion has always been, that when that period arrives, the parental authority ceases.
I hope I shall always treat you with that affection and easy confidence which may dispose you to look on me as your friend; in that capacity alone I shall think myself entitled to give you my opinion; in the doing of which, I should think myself highly criminal, if I did not, to the utmost of my power, endeavour to divest myself of all personal vanity, and all prejudices in favour of my particular taste. If you did not choose to follow my advice, I should not, on that account, cease to love you as my children: though my right to your obedience was expired, yet I should think nothing could release me from the ties of nature and humanity.
You may, perhaps, imagine, that the reserved behaviour which I recommend to you, and your appearing seldom at public places, must cut off all opportunities of your being acquainted with gentlemen; I am very far from intending this. I advise you to no reserve, but what will render you more respected and beloved by our sex. I do not think public places suited to make people acquainted together: they can only be distinguished there by their looks and external behaviour; but it is in private companies alone, where you can expect easy and agreeable conversation, which I should never wish you to decline. If you do not allow gentlemen to become acquainted with you, you can never expect to marry with attachment on either side. Love is very seldom produced at first sight, at least it must have, in that case, a very unjustifiable foundation. True love is founded on esteem, in a correspondence of tastes and sentiments, and steals on the heart imperceptibly.
There is one advice I shall leave you, to which I [Page 117] beg your particular attention:—Before your affections come to be in the least engaged to any man, examine your tempers, your tastes, and your hearts, very severely, and settle in your own minds, what are the requisites to your happiness in a married state; and, as it is almost impossible that you should get every thing you wish, come to a steady determination what you are to consider as essential, and what may be sacrificed.
If you have hearts disposed by nature for love and friendship, and possess those feelings which enable you to enter into all the refinements and delicacies of these attachments, consider well, for heaven's sake, and as you value your future happiness, before you give them any indulgence. If you have the misfortune (for a very great misfortune it commonly is to your sex) to have such a temper and such sentiments deeply rooted in you, if you have spirit and resolution to resist the solicitations of vanity, the persecution of friends (for you will have lost the only friend that would never persecute you,) and can support the prospect of the many inconveniences attending the state of an old maid, which I formerly pointed out, then you may indulge yourselves in that kind of sentimental reading and conversation which is most correspondent to your feelings.
But if you find, on a strict self-examination, that marriage is absolutely essential to your happiness, keep the secret inviolable in your own bosoms, for the reasons I formerly mentioned: but shun, as you would do the most fatal poison, all that species of reading and conversation which warms the imagination, which engages and softens the heart, and raises the taste above the level of common life: if you do otherwise, consider the terrible conflict of passions this may afterwards raise in your breasts.
If this refinement once takes deep root in your minds, and you do not obey its dictates, but marry from vulgar and mercenary views, you may never be able to eradicate it entirely, and then it will embitter all your married days. Instead of meeting with [Page 118] sense, delicacy, tenderness, a lover, a friend, an equal companion, in a husband, you may be tired with insipidity and dulness; shocked with indelicacy, or mortified by indifference. You will find none to compassionate, or even understand your sufferings; for your husbands may not use you cruelly, and may give you as much money for your clothes, personal expense, and domestic necessaries, as is suitable to their fortunes. The world would therefore look on you as unreasonable women, and that did not deserve to be happy, if you were not so. To avoid these complicated evils, if you are determined at all events to marry, I would advise you to make all your reading and amusements of such a kind, as do not affect the heart nor the imagination, except in the way of wit or humour.
I have no view by these advices to lead your tastes; I only want to persuade you of the necessity of knowing your own minds, which, though seemingly very easy, is what your sex seldom attain on many important occasions in life, but particularly on this of which I am speaking. There is not a quality I more anxiously wish you to possess, than that collected, decisive spirit, which rests on itself, which enables you to see where your true happiness lies, and to pursue it with the most determined resolution. In matters of business, follow the advice of those who know them better than yourselves, and in whose integrity you can confide: but in matters of taste, that depend on your own feeling, consult no one friend whatever, but consult your own hearts.
If a gentleman makes his addresses to you, or gives you reason to believe he will do so, before you allow your affections to be engaged, endeavo [...]r, in the most prudent and secret manner, to procure from your friends every necessary piece of information concerning him; such as his character for sense, his morals, his temper, fortune▪ and family; whether it is distinguished for parts and worth, or for folly, knavery, and loathsome hereditary diseases. When your friends inform you of these, they have fulfilled their [Page 119] duty. If they go farther, they have not that deference for you, which a becoming dignity on your part would effectually command.
Whatever your views are in marrying, take every possible precaution to prevent their being disappointed. If fortune and the pleasures it brings, are your aim, it is not sufficient that the settlements of a jointure and children's provisions be ample, and properly secured; it is necessary that you should enjoy the fortune during your own life. The principal security you can have for this, will depend on your marrying a good-natured, generous man, who despises money, and who will let you live where you can best enjoy that pleasure, that pomp and parade of life, for which you married him.
From what I have said, you will easily see that I could never pretend to advise whom you should marry; but I can with great confidence advise whom you should not marry.
Avoid a companion that may entail any hereditary disease on your posterity, particularly (that most dreadful of all human calamities) madness. It is the height of imprudence to run into such a danger, and, in my opinion, highly criminal.
Do not marry a fool; he is the most intractable of all animals; he is led by his passions and caprices, and is incapable of hearing the voice of reason. It may probably, too, hurt your vanity to have husbands for whom you have reason to blush and tremble every time they open their lips in company. But the worst circumstance that attends a fool, is his constant jealousy of his wife being thought to govern him. This renders it impossible to lead him; and he is continually doing absurd and disagreeable things, for no other reason but to show he dares do them.
A rake is always a suspicious husband, because he has only known the most worthless of your sex. He likewise entails the worst diseases on his wife and children, if he has the misfortune to have any.
If you have a sense of religion yourselves, do not think of husbands who have none. If they have tolerable [Page 120] understandings, they will be glad that you have religion, for their own sakes, and for the sake of their families; but it will sink you in their esteem. If they are weak men, they will be continually teazing and shocking you about your principles.—If you have children, you will suffer the most bitter distress, in seeing all your endeavours to form their minds to virtue and piety, all your endeavours to secure their present and eternal happiness, frustrated and turned into ridicule.
As I look on your choice of a husband to be of the greatest consequence to your happiness, I hope you will make it with the utmost circumspection. Do not give way to a sudden sally of passion, and dignify it with the name of love.—Genuine love is not founded in caprice; it is founded in nature, on honourable views, on virtue, on similarity of tastes and sympathy of souls.
If [...]ou have these sentiments, you will never marry any one, when you are not in that situation, in point of fortune, which is necessary to the happiness of either of you. What that competency may be, can only be determined by your own tastes. It would be ungenerous in you to take advantage of a lover's attachment, to plunge him into distress; and if he has any honour, no personal gratification will ever tempt him to enter into any connexion which will render you unhappy. If you have as much between you, as to satisfy all your demands, it is sufficient.
I shall conclude with endeavouring to remove a difficulty which must naturally occur to any woman of reflexion on the subject of marriage. What is to become of all those refinements of delicacy, that dignity of manners, which checked all familiarities, and suspended desire in respectful and awful admiration? In answer to this, I shall only observe, that if motives of interest or vanity have had any share in your resolutions to marry, none of these chimerical notions will give you any pain: nay, they will very quickly appear as ridiculous in your own eyes, as they probably always did in the eyes of your husbands. [Page 121] They have been sentiments which have floated in your imagination, but have never reached your hearts. But if these sentiments have been truly genuine, and if you have had the singular happy fate to attach those who understand them, you have no reason to be afraid.
Marriage, indeed, will at once dispel the enchantment raised by external beauty; but the virtues and graces that first warmed the heart, that reserve and delicacy which always left the lover something further to wish, and often made him doubtful of your sensibility or attachment, may and ought ever to remain. The tumult of passion will necessarily subside: but it will be succeeded by endearment, that affects the heart in a more equal, more sensible, and tender manner. But I must check myself, and not indulge in descriptions, that may mislead you, and that too sensibly awake the remembrance of my happier days, which, perhaps, it were better for me to forget for ever.
I have thus given you my opinion on some of the most important articles of your future life, chiefly calculated for that period when you are just entering the world. I have endeavoured to avoid some peculiarities of opinion, which, from their contradiction to the general practice of the world, I might reasonably have suspected were not so well founded. But, in writing to you, I am afraid my heart has been too full, and too warmly interested, to allow me to keep this resolution. This may have produced some embarrassments and some seeming contradictions. What I have written has been the amusement of some solitary hours, and has served to divert some melancholy reflexions.—I am conscious I undertook a task to which I was very unequal; but I have discharged a part of my duty.—You will, at least, be pleased with it, as the last mark of your father's love and attention.
THE LADIES' LIBRARY. An unfortunate Mother's Advice to her absent Daughters, in a Letter to Miss Pennington.
WAS there any probability that a letter from me would be permitted to reach your hand alone, I should not have chosen this least eligible method of writing to you. The public is no way concerned in family affairs, and ought not to be made a party in them; but my circumstances are such, as lay me under the necessity of either communicating my sentiments to the world, or of concealing them from you: the latter would, I think, be the breach of an indispensable duty, which obliges me to waive the impropriety of the former.
A long train of events, of a most extraordinary nature, conspired to remove you very early from the tender care of an affectionate mother. You were too young to be able to form any right judgment of her conduct; and since that time it is very probable that it has been represented to you in a most unfavourable light. The general prejudice against me I never gave myself the useless trouble of any endeavour to remove. I do not mean to infer from hence, that the opinion of [Page 124] others is of no material consequence; on the contrary, I would advise you always to remember, that, next to the consciousness of acting right, the public voice should be regarded; and to endeavour by a prudent behaviour, even in the most trifling instances, to secure it in your favour. The being educated in a different opinion, was a misfortune to me. I was indeed early and wisely taught, that virtue was the one thing necessary, and that without it no happiness could be expected either in this, or in any future stat [...] of existence; but, with this good principle, a mistaken one was at the same time inculcated, namely, that the self-approbation arising from conscious virtue was alone sufficient; and, that the censures of an ill-natured world, ever ready to calumniate, when not founded on truth, were beneath the concern of a person whose actions were guided by the superior motive of obedience to the will of heaven.
This notion, strongly imbibed before reason had gained sufficient strength to discover its fallacy, was the cause of an inconsiderate conduct in my subsequent life, which marked my character with a disadvantageous impression. To you I shall speak with the most unreserved sincerity, not concealing a fault which you may profit by the knowledge of; and therefore I freely own, that in my younger years, satisfied with keeping strictly within the bounds of virtue, I took a foolish pleasure in exceeding those of prudence, and was ridiculously vain of indulging a latitude of behaviour, into which others of my age were afraid of launching: but then, in justice to myself, I must at the same time declare, that this freedom was only taken in public company; and so extremely cautious was I of doing any thing which appeared to me a just ground for censure, that I call heaven to witness, your father was the first man whom I ever made any private assignation with, or even met in a room alone; nor did I tak [...] that liberty with him till the most solemn mutual engagement, the matrimonial ceremony, had bound us to each other. My behaviour, then, he has frequently since acknowledged, fully [Page 125] convinced him I was not only innocent of any criminal act, but of every vicious thought; and that the outward freedom of my deportment, which proceeded merely from a great gaiety of temper, and from a very high flow of spirits, never broke (if the expression may be allowed) into the formal rules of decorum. To sum up the whole in a few words, my private conduct was what the severest prude could not condemn; my public, such as the most finished coquet alone would have ventured upon: the latter only could be known to the world, and consequently, from thence must their opinion be taken. You will therefore easily be sensible, that it would not be favourable to me; on the contrary, it gave a general prejudice against me: and this has been since made use of as an argument to gain credit to the malicious falsehoods laid to my charge. For this reason, convinced by long experience that the greater part of mankind are so apt to receive, and so willing to retain a bad impression of others, that, when it is once established, there is hardly a possibility of removing it through life; I have, for some years past, silently acquiesced in the dispensations of providence, without attempting any justification of myself; and, being conscious that the infamous aspersions cast on my character were not founded on truth, I have sat down content with the certainty of an open and perfect acquittal of all vicious dispositions, or criminal conduct, at that great day, when all things shall appear as they really are, and when both our actions, and the most secret motives for them, will be made manifest to men and angels.
Had your father been among the number of those who were deceived by appearances, I should have thought it my duty to leave no method unessayed to clear myself in his opinion; but that was not the case. He knows that many of those appearances which have been urged against me, I was forced to submit to, not only from his direction, but by his absolute command; which, contrary to reason and to my own interest, I was, for more than tw [...]lve years, weak enough implicitly [Page 126] to obey; and that others, even since our separation, were occasioned by some particular instances of his behaviour, which rendered it impossible for me to act with safety in any other manner. To him I appeal for the truth of this assertion, who is conscious of the meaning that may hereafter be explained to you. Perfectly acquainted with my principles and with my natural disposition, his heart, I am convinced, never here condemned me. Being greatly incensed that my father's will gave to me an independent fortune; which will, he imagined, I was accessary to, or at least that I could have prevented; he was thereby laid open to the arts of designing men, who, having their own interest solely in view, worked him up into a desire of revenge, and from thence, upon probable circumstances, into a public accusation: though that public accusation was supported only by the single testimony of a person, whose known falsehood had made him a thousand times declare that he would not credit her oath in the most trifling incident; yet, when he was disappointed of the additional evidence he might have been flattered with the hope of obtaining, it was too late to recede. This I sincerely believe to be the truth of the case, though I too well know his tenacious temper, to expect a present justification; but, whenever he shall arrive on the verge of eternity, if Reason holds her place at the awful moment, and if religion has then any power on his heart, I make no doubt, he will at that time acquit me to his children; and with truth he must then confess, that no part of my behaviour to him ever deserved the treatment I have met with.
Sorry am I to be under the necessity of pointing out faults in the conduct of another, which are, perhaps, long si [...]ce repented of, and ought in that case to be as much forgotten as they are most truly forgiven. Heaven knows, that, so far from retaining any degree of resentment in my heart, the person breathes not, whom I wish to hurt, or to whom I would not this moment render every service in my power. The injuries which I have sustained, had I no children, should contentedly be buried in silence till the great day of retribution; [Page 127] but, in justice to you, to them, and myself, it is incumbent on me, as far as possible, to efface the false impressions, which by such silence, might be fixed on your mind, and on those of your brothers and sisters, whom I include with you. To this end, it will be necessary to enter into a circumstantial history of near fifteen years, full of incidents of a nature so uncommon as scarcely to be credible. This, I am convinced, will effectually clear me, in your opinion, of the imputations I now lie under; and it will prove, almost to a demonstration, the true cause of those proceedings against me that were couched under pretended motives, as injurious to my reputation as they were false in themselves.
But this must be deferred some time longer. You are all yet too young to enter into things of this kind, or to judge properly of them. When a few years shall, by ripening your understandings, remove this objection, you shall be informed of the whole truth, most impartially and without disguise. 'Till then suspend your belief of all that may have reached your ears with regard to me, and wait the knowledge of those facts, which my future letters will reveal for your information.
Thus much I thought it necessary to premise concerning myself, though foreign to the design of this epistle, which is only to remind you that you have still an affectionate mother, who is anxious for your welfare, and desirous of giving you some advice with regard to your conduct in life. I would lay down a few precepts for you, which, if attended to, will supply as far as it is in my power to supply, the deprivation of a constant and tender maternal care. The address is to you in particular, your sisters being yet too young to receive it; but my intention is for the equal service of you all.
You are just entering, my dear girl, into a world full of deceit and falsehood, where few persons or things appear in their true character. Vice hides her deformity with the borrowed garb of virtue; and, though discernible to an intelligent and careful observer, [Page 128] by the unbecoming awkwardness of her deportment under it, she passes on thousands undetected. Every present pleasure usurps the name of happiness, and as such deceives the unwary pursuer. Thus one general mask disguises the whole face of things; and it requires a long experience, and a penetrating judgment, to discover the truth. Thrice happy they, whose docile tempers improve from the instructions of maturer age, and who thereby attain some degree of this necessary knowledge, while it may be useful in directing their conduct!
The turn which your mind may now take, will fix the happiness or misery of your future life; and I am too nearly concerned for your welfare, not to be most solicitously anxious that you may be early led into so just a way of thinking, as will be productive to you of a prudent, rational behaviour, and which will secure to you a lasting felicity. You were old enough before our separation, to convince me that heaven has not denied you a good natural understanding. This, if properly cultivated, will set you above that trifling disposition, too common among the female world, which makes youth ridiculous, maturity insignificant, and old age contemptible. It is therefore needless to enlarge on that head, since good sense is there the best adviser; and, without it, all admonitions or directions on the subject would be as fruitless as to lay down rules for the conduct or for the actions of an ideot.
There is no room to doubt but that sufficient care will be taken to give you a polite education; but a religious one is still of greater consequence. Necessary as the former is for your making a proper figure in the world, and for your being well accepted in it, the latter is yet more so, to secure to you the approbation of the greatest and best of Beings; on whose favour depends your everlasting happiness. Let therefore your duty to GOD be ever the first and principal object of your care. As your Creator and Governor, he claims adoration and obedience; as your Father and Friend, he demands submissive duty and affection. [Page 129] Remember that from this common parent of the universe you received your life; that to his general providence you owe the continuance of it; and to his bounty you are indebted for all the health, ease, advantages, or enjoyments, which help to make that life agreeable. A sense of benefits received naturally inspires a grateful disposition, with a desire of making suitable returns. All that can here be made, for innumerable favours every moment bestowed, is a thankful acknowledgment, and a willing obedience. In these be never wanting. Make it an invariable rule to begin and end the day with a solemn address to the Deity. I mean not by this, what is commonly, with too much propriety, called saying of prayers, namely, a customary repetition of a few good words, without either devotion or attention; than which nothing is more inexcusable and affrontive to the Deity; it is the homage of the heart that can alone be accepted by him. Expressions of our absolute dependence on, and of our entire resignation to him— thanksgivings for the mercies already received—petitions for those blessings it is fit for us to pray for—and intercessions for all our fellow creatures, compose the principal parts of this duty; which may be comprized in a very few words, or may be more enlarged upon, as the circumstances of time and disposition may render most suitable; for it is not the length, but the sincerity and attention of our prayers that will make them efficacious. A good heart, joined to a tolerable understanding, will seldom be at a loss for proper words with which to clothe these sentiments: and all persons being best acquainted with their own particular circumstances, may reasonably be supposed best qualified for adapting their petitions and acknowledgments to them; but for those who are of a different opinion, there are many excellent forms of prayer already composed. Among these, none that I know of, are equal to doctor Hoadley's, the late bishop of Winchester, which I recommend to your perusal and use. In the preface to them, you [Page 130] will find better instructions on this head, than I am capable of giving; and to these I refer you.
It is acknowledged that our petitions cannot in any degree alter the intention of a being, who is in himself invariable, and without a possibility of change: all that can be expected from them is, that, by bettering ourselves, they will render us more proper objects of his favourable regard: and this must necessarily be the result of a serious, regular, and constant discharge of this branch of our duty; for it is scarcely possible to offer up our sincere and fervent devotions to heaven every morning and evening, without leaving on our minds such useful impressions as will naturally dispose us to a ready and cheerful obedience, and will inspire a filial fear of offending, the best security virtue can have. As you value your own happiness, let not the force of bad examples ever lead you into an habitual disuse of secret prayer; nor let an unpardonable negligence so far prevail on you, as to make you rest satisfied with a formal, customary, inattentive repetition of some w [...]l-chosen words: let your heart and attention always go with your lips; and experience will soon convince you, that this permission of addressing the supreme being is the most valuable prerogative of human nature; the chief, nay the only support under all the distresses and calamities to which this state of sin and misery is liable; the highest rational satisfaction the mind is capable of on this side the grave; and the best preparative for everlasting happiness beyond it. This is a duty ever in your own power; and therefore you only will be culpable by the omission of it.
Public worship may not always be so: but whenever it is, do not wilfully neglect the service of the church, at least on Sundays; and let your behaviour there be adapted to the solemnity of the place, and to the intention of the meeting. Regard neither the actions nor the dress of others: let not your eyes rove in search of acquaintance; but in the time of divine service avoid, as much as possible, all complimental [Page 131] civilities, of which there is too great an intercourse, in most of our churches. Remember that your only business there is to pay a solemn act of devotion to Almighty God, and let every part of your conduct be suitable to this great end. If you hear a good sermon, treasure it in your memory, that you may reap all the benefit it was capable of imparting; if you should hear but an indifferent one, some good things must be in it; retain those, and let the remainder be buried in oblivion. Ridicule not the preacher, who, no doubt, has done his best, and who is rather the object of pity than of contempt, for having been placed in a situation of life, to which his talents were not equal: he may perhaps be a good man, though he is not a great orator.
I would also recommend to you the early and frequent participation of the communion, or what is commonly called receiving the sacrament, as the indispensible duty of every christian. There is no institution of our religion more simple, plain, and intelligible than this, as delivered to us by our Saviour: and most of the elaborate treatises written on the subject have served only to puzzle and to disturb weak minds, by throwing the dark veil of superstition and of human invention over a plain, positive command, given by him in so explicit a manner as to be easily comprehended by the meanest capacity, and which is doubtless in the power of all his sincere followers to pay an acceptable obedience to. Nothing has more contributed to the neglect of this duty, than the numerous well-meaning books that have been written to enjoin a month's or a week's preparation, as previously necessary to the due performance of it: by these means filling the minds of many with needless terror, putting it even out of the power of some to receive it at all, and inducing great numbers to rest satisfied with doing it only once or twice a year, on some high festival; whereas it was certainly the constant custom of the aposties and primitive christians on every Sunday; and it ought to be received by us as often as it is administered in the [Page 132] church we frequent, which in most places is but once in a month. Nor do I think it excusable, at any time, to turn our backs upon the table we see prepared for that purpose, on pretence of not being fit to partake worthily of it. The best, the only true preparation for this, and for every other part of religious duty, is a good and virtuous life, by which the mind is constantly kept in such a devotional frame, as to require but a little recollection to be suited to any particular act of worship or of obedience that may occasionally offer: and without a good and virtuous life, there cannot be a greater or more fatal mistake than to suppose that a few days or weeks spent in humiliation and prayer will render us at all the more acceptable to the Deity, or that we should be thereby better fitted for any one instance of that duty which we must universally pay, to be either approved by him, or to be advantageous to ourselves: I would not therefore advise you to read any of those weekly preparatives, which are too apt to lead the mind into error, by teaching it to rest in a mere shadow of piety, wherein there is nothing rationally satisfactory. The best books which I have ever met with on this subject, are bishop Hoadly's Plain account of the nature and end of the sacrament of the Lord's supper, and Nelson's Great duty of frequenting the christian sacrifice. To the former are annexed the prayers which I before mentioned: these are well worth your attentive perusal: the design of the institution is therein fully explained, agreeable both to scripture and to reason; stript of that veil of mystery which has been industriously thrown over it by designing or by mistaken men; and it is there laid as plainly open to every capacity, as it was at first left us by our great master. Read these books with due attention: you will there find every necessary instruction concerning the right, and every reasonable inducement to the constant and to the conscientious performance of it.
The sincere practice of religious duties naturally leads to the proper discharge of the social, which [Page 133] may be all comprehended in that one great general rule of doing unto others as you would they should do unto you; but of these more particularly hereafter. —I shall first give you my advice concerning employment, it being of great moment to set out in life in such a method as may be useful to yourself and beneficial to others.
Time is invaluable; its loss is irretrievable! The remembrance of having made an ill use of it must be one of the sharpest tortures to those who are on the brink of eternity! and what can yield a more unpleasing retrospect, than whole years idled away in an irrational, insignificant manner, examples of which are continually before our eyes! Look on every day as a blank sheet of paper put into your hands to be filled up: remember the characters will remain to endless ages, and that they never can be expunged; be careful therefore not to write any thing but what you may read with pleasure a thousand years after. I would not be understood in a sense so strict as might debar you from any innocent amusement, suitable to your age, and agreeable to your inclination. Diversions, properly regulated, are not only allowable, they are absolutely necessary to youth, and are never criminal, but when taken to excess; that is, when they engross the whole thought, when they are made the chief business of life: they then give a distaste to every valuable employment, and by a sort of infatuation, leave the mind in a state of restless impatience from the conclusion of one 'till the commencement of another. This is the unfortunate disposition of many. Guard most carefully against it, for nothing can be attended with more pernicious consequences. A little observation will convince you that there is not, among the human species, a set of more miserable beings, than those who cannot live out of a constant succession of diversions. These people have no comprehension of the more satisfactory pleasure to be found in retirement: thought is insupportable, and consequently solitude must be intolerable to them; they are a burden to themselves, [Page 134] and a pest to their acquaintance, by vainly seeking for happiness in company, where they are seldom acceptable: I say vainly, for true happiness exists only in the mind; nothing foreign can give it. The utmost to be attained by what is called a gay life, is a short forgetfulness of misery, to be felt with accumulated anguish in every interval of reflexion. This restless temper is frequently the product of a too eager pursuit of pleasure in the early part of life, to the neglect of those valuable improvements which would lay the foundation of a more solid and permanent felicity. Youth is the season for diversions; but it is also the season for acquiring knowledge, for fixing useful habits, and for laying in a stock of such well-chosen materials, as may grow into a serene happiness, which will increase with every added year of life, and will bloom in the fullest perfection in the decline of it. The great art of education consists in assigning to each its proper place, in such a manner that the one shall never become irksome by intrenching on the other.—Our separation having taken from me the pleasing task of endeavouring, to the best of my ability, to suit them occasionally, as might be most conducive both to your profit and pleasure, it only remains for me to give you general rules, which, indeed, accidents may make it necessary sometimes to vary; those however must be left to your own discretion; and I am convinced you have a sufficient share of understanding to be very capable of making advantageously such casual regulations for yourself, if the inclination is not wanting.
It is an excellent method to appropriate the morning wholly to improvement; the afternoon may then be allowed to diversions. Under this last head, I place company, books of the amusing kind, and entertaining productions of the needle, as well as plays, balls, cards, &c. which more commonly go by the name of diversions: the afternoon, and evening till supper, may by these be employed with innocence and propriety; but let not one of them ever be suffered [Page 135] to intrude on the former part of the day, which should be always devoted to more useful employments. One half hour, or more, either before or immediately after breakfast, I would have you constantly give to the attentive perusal of some rationally pious author, or to some part of the New Testament, with which, and indeed with the whole scripture, you ought to make yourself perfectly acquainted, as the basis on which your religion is founded. From this practice you will reap more real benefit, than can be supposed by those who have never made the experiment. The other hours may be divided among those necessary and polite acquisitions which are suitable to your sex, age, and to your rank in life.—Study your own language thoroughly, that you may speak correctly, and write grammatically: do not content yourself with the common use of words, which custom has taught you from the cradle, but learn from whence they are derived, and what are their proper significations.— French you ought to be as well acquainted with as with English: and Italian might, without much difficulty, be added.—Acquire a good knowledge of history; that of your own country first, then of the other European nations; read them not with a view to amuse, but to improve your mind; and to that end make reflexions on what you have read, which may be useful to yourself, and will render your conversation agreeable to others.— Learn so much of geography as to form a just idea of the situation of places, mentioned in any author: and this will make history more entertaining to you.
It is necessary for you to be perfect in the first four rules of arithmetic: more you can never have occasion for, and the mind should not be burdened with needless application.— Music and drawing are accomplishments well worth the trouble of attaining, if your inclination and genius lead to either: if not, do not attempt them; for it will be only much time and great labour unprofitably thrown away; it being next to impossible to arrive at any degree of perfection in [Page 136] those arts, by the dint of perseverance only, if a good ear and a native genius be wanting.—The study of natural philosophy you will find both pleasing and instructive; pleasing, from the continual new discoveries to be made of the innumerably various beauties of nature, a most agreeable gratification of that desire of knowledge wisely implanted in the human mind; and highly instructive, as those discoveries lead to the contemplation of the great Author of nature, whose wisdom and goodness so conspicuously shine through all his works, that it is impossible to reflect seriously on them, without admiration and gratitude.
These, my dear, are but a few of those mental improvements I would recommend to you. Indeed there is no branch of knowledge that your capacity is equal to, and which you have an opportunity of acquiring, that, I think, ought to be neglected. It has been objected against all female learning, beyond that of household economy, that it tends only to fill the minds of the sex with a conceited vanity, which sets them above their proper business; occasions an indifference to, if not a total neglect of, their family affairs; and serves only to render them useless wives, and impertinent companions. It must be confessed, that some reading ladies have given but too much cause for this objection; and could it be proved to hold good throughout the sex, it would certainly be right to confine their improvements within the narrow limits of the nursery, of the kitchen, and the confectionary: but, I believe, it will, upon examination, be found, that such ill consequences proceed chiefly from too great an imbecility of mind to be capable of much enlargement, or from a mere affectation of knowledge, void of all reality. Vanity is never the result of understanding. A sensible woman will soon be convinced, that all the learning her utmost application can make her mistress of, will be, from the difference of education, in many points, inferior to that of a schoolboy: this reflexion will keep her always humble, and will be an effectual check to [Page 137] that loquacity which renders some women such insupportable companions.
The management of all domestic affairs is certainly the proper business of woman; and, unfashionably rustic as such an assertion may be thought, it is not beneath the dignity of any lady, however high her rank, to know how to educate her children, to govern her servants; how to order an elegant table with economy, and to manage her whole family with prudence, regularity, and method. If in these she is defective, whatever may be her attainments in any other kinds of knowledge, she will act out of character; and, by not moving in her proper sphere, she will become rather the object of ridicule than of approbation. But I believe it may with truth be affirmed, that the neglect of these domestic concerns has much more frequently proceeded from an exorbitant love of diversions, from a ridiculous fondness for dress and gallantry, or from a mistaken pride, that has placed such duties in a servile light, from whence they have been considered as fit only for the employment of dependants, and below the attention of a fine lady, than from too great an attachment to mental improvements: yet, from whatsoever cause such a neglect proceeds, it is equally unjustifiable. If any thing can be urged in vindication of a custom unknown to our ancestors, which the prevalence of fashion has made so general among the modern ladies; I mean, that of committing to the care and discretionary power of different servants, the sole management of family affairs: nothing, certainly, can be alleged in defence of such an ignorance, in things of this nature, as renders a lady incapable of giving proper directions on all occasions; an ignorance, which, in ever so exalted a station, will render her contemptible, even to those servants, on whose understanding and fidelity she, in fact, becomes dependent for the regularity of her house, for the propriety, elegance, and frugality of her table: which last article is seldom regarded by such sort of people, who too frequently impose on those by whom they are [Page 138] thus implicitly trusted. Make yourself, therefore, so thoroughly requainted with the most proper method of conducting a family, and with the necessary expense which every article, in proportion to their number, will occasion, that you may come to a reasonable certainty of not being materially deceived, without the ridiculous drudgery of following your servants continually, and meanly peeping into every obscure corner of your house: nor is this at all difficult to attain, as it requires nothing more than an attentive observation.
It is of late, in most great families, become too much the custom, to be long upon the books of every tradesman they employ. To assign a reason for this is foreign to my purpose; but I am certain it would, in general, be better both for themselves, and for the people they deal with, never to be on them at all; and what difficulty or inconvenience can arise, in a well-regulated family, from commissioning the steward or house-keeper to pay for every thing at the time when it is brought in? This obsolete practice, though in itself very laudable, is not at present, and perhaps never may be again, authorised by fashion: however, let it be a rule with you to contract as few debts as possible: most things are to be purchased both better in their kind, and at a lower price, by paying for them at the time of purchasing. But if, to avoid the supposed trouble of frequent trifling disbursements, you choose to have the lesser articles thrown together in a bill, let a note of the quantity and price be brought with every such parcel: file these notes, compare them with the bill when delivered in, and let such bills be regularly paid every quarter: for it is not reasonable to expect, that a tradesman should give longer credit, without making up the interest of his money by an advanced price on what he sells: and be assured, if you find it inconvenient to pay at the end of three months, that inconvenience must arise from living at too great an expense, and will consequently increase in six months, and grow still greater at the end of the year. By [Page 139] making short payments, you will become the sooner sensible of such a mistake, and you will find it at first more easy to retrench any supernumeraries than after having been long habituated to them.
If your house is superintended by an house-keeper, and your servants are accountable to her, let your house-keeper be accountable to yourself, and let her be entirely governed by your directions. Carefully examine her bills, and suffer no extravagances or unnecessary articles to pass unnoticed. Let these bills be brought to you every morning: what they contain will then be easily recollected without burdening your memory; and your accounts being short will be adjusted with less trouble and with more exactness. Should you at any time have an upper servant, whose family and education were superior to that state of subjection to which succeeding misfortunes may have reduced her, she ought to be treated with peculiar indulgence: if she has understanding enough to be conversible, and humility enough always to keep her proper distance, lessen, as much as possible, every painful remembrance of former prospects, by looking on her as an humble friend, and making her an occasional companion. But never descend to converse with those whose birth, education, and early views in life were not superior to a state of servitude; their minds being in general suited to their station, they are apt to be intoxicated by any degree of familiarity, and to become useless and impertinent. The habit, which very many ladies have contracted, of talking to and consulting with their women, has so spoiled that set of servants, that few of them are to be met with, who do not commence their service by giving their unasked opinion of your person, dress, or management, artfully conveyed in the too generally accepted vehicle of flattery; and, if they are allowed in this, they will next proceed to offer their advice on any occasion that may happen to discompose or ruffle your temper: check, therefore, the first appearance of such impertinence, by a reprimand sufficiently severe to prevent a repetition of it.
[Page 140]Give your orders in a plain, distinct manner, with good nature joined to a steadiness that will show they must be punctually obeyed. Treat all your domestics with such mildness and affability, that you may be served rather out of affection than fear. Let them live happily under you. Give them leisure for their own business, time for innocent recreation, and more especially for attending the public service of the church, to be instructed in their duty to God; without which you have no right to expect the discharge of that owing to yourself. When wrong, tell them calmly of their faults; if they amend not after two or three such rebukes, dismiss them: but never descend to passion and scolding, which is inconsistent with a good understanding, and beneath the dignity of a gentlewoman.
Be very exact in your hours, without which there can be no order in your family; I mean those of rising, eating, &c. Require from your servants punctuality in these, and never be yourself the cause of breaking through the rules you have laid down, by [...]ferring breakfast, putting back the dinner, or letting it grow cold on the table, to wait your dressing; a custom by which many ladies introduce confusion, and bring their orders into neglect. Be always drest at least half an hour before dinner. Having mentioned this important article, I must be allowed a little digression on the subject.
Whatever time is taken up in dress, beyond what is necessary to decency and cleanliness, may be looked upon, to say no worse, as a vacuum in life. By decency, I mean such a habit as is suitable to your rank and fortune: an ill-placed finery, inconsistent with either, is not ornamental but ridiculous. A compliance with fashion, so far as to avoid the affectation of singularity, is necessary: but to run into the extreme of fashions, more especially those which are inconvenient, is the certain proof of a weak mind. Have a better opinion of yourself, than to suppose you can receive any additional merit from the adventitious ornaments of dress. Leave the study of the [Page 141] toilet to those who are adapted to it; I mean that insignificant set of females, whose whole life from the cradle to the coffin, is but a varied scene of trifling, and whose intellectuals fit them not [...]or any thing beyond it. Such as these may be allowed to pass whole mornings at their looking-glass, in the important business of suiting a set of rib [...]nds, adjusting a few curls, or determining the position of a [...] one, perhaps, of th [...] most innocent ways of idling. But let as small a po [...]on of your time as possible be taken up in dressing. Be always perfectly clean and neat, both in your person and clothes: equally so when alone, as in company. Look upon all beyond this as immaterial in itself, any further than as the different ranks of mankind have made some distinction in habit generally esteemed necessary; and remember, that it is never the dress, however sumptuous, which reflects dignity and honour on the person: it is the rank and merit of the person that give consequence to the dress. But to return:—
It is your own steadiness and example of regularity that alone can preserve uninterrupted order in your family. If, by forgetfulness or inattention, you at any time suffer your commands to be disobeyed with impunity, your servants will grow upon such neglect into a habit of carelessness, till repeated faults, of which this is properly the source, rouse you into anger, which an even hand would never have made necessary. Be not whimsical or capricious in your likings: approve with judgment, and condemn with reason; that acting right may be as certainly the means of obtaining your favour, as the contrary of incurring your displeasure.
From what has been said, you will see, that in order to the proper discharge of your domestic duties, it is absolutely necessary for you to have a perfect knowledge of every branch of household economy, without which you can neither correct what is wrong, approve what is right, nor give directions with propriety. It is the want of this knowledge, that reduces many a fine lady's family to a state of [Page 142] the utmost confusion and disorder, on the sudden removal of a managing servant, till the place is supplied by a successor of equal ability. How much out of character, how ridiculous must a mistress of a family appear, who is entirely incapable of giving practical orders on such an occasion! Let that never be your case! Remember, my dear, this is the only proper temporal business assigned you by Providence, and in a thing so indispensably needful, so easily attained, where so little study o [...] application is necessary to arrive at the most commendable degree of it, the want even of perfection is almost inexcusable. Make yourself mistress of the theory, that you may be able the more readily to reduce it into practice; and when you have a family to command, let the care of it always employ your principal attention, and let every part of it be subjected to your own inspection.
If you rise early, a custom I hope you have not left off since you were with me, if you waste no unnecessary time in dressing, and if you conduct your house in a regular method, you will find many vacant hours unfilled by this material business; and no objection can be made to your employing those in such improvements of the mind, as are m [...]st suitable to your genius and inclination. I believe no man of understanding will think, that, under such regulations, a woman will either make a less agreeable companion, a less useful wife, a less careful mother, or a worse mistress of a family, for all the additional knowledge her industry and application can acquire.
The morning being always thus advantageously engaged, the latter part of the day, as I before said, may be given to relaxation and amusement. Some of these hours may be very agreeably and usefully employed by entertaining books; a few of which, in the English language, I will mention to you, as a specimen of the kind I would recommend to your perusal; and I shall include some others, religious and instructive.
- [Page 143]Mason on Self Knowledge
- Economy of Human Life
- Seneca's Morals
- Epictetus's Morals
- Cicero's Offices
- Collier's Antoninus
- Hoadly's Sermons
- Seed's Sermons
- Sherlock's Sermons
- Sterne's Sermons
- Fordyce's Sermons
- Rollin's Belles Lettres
- Nature Displayed
- The Spectator
- The Guardian
- The Female Spectator
- The Rambler
- The Idler
- The Adventurer
- The World
- Cicero's Familiar Letters
- Pliny's Letters
- Fitzoiborne's Letters
- Telemachus
- The Vicar of Wakefield
- Guthrie's Geographical Grammar
- Potter's Antiquities of Greece
- Rollin's Ancient History
- Kennett's Antiquities of Rome
- Hooke's Roman History
- Hume's History of England
- Robertson's Works
- Milton's Poetical Works
- Pope's Works
- — Homer
- Thomson's Works
- Young's Works
- Mrs. Rowe's Works
- Langhorne's Works
- Moore's Fables for the Female Sex
- Tales of the Genii
- Dodsley's Collection of Poems.
To the above list the editor of this volume begs leave to add the following books, most of which have appeared since lady P.'s letter was first printed:
- Blair's Sermons
- Franklin's Sermons
- White's Sermons
- Walker's Sermons
- West on the Resurrection
- Lord Littleton on the Conversion of St. Paul
- Miss Talbot's Reflexions and Essays
- Dr. Watts on the improvement of the Mind
- Mrs. Chapone's Letters and Miscellanies
- The Mirror, 2 vols.
- The Lounger, 2 vols.
- The Observer
- Hayley's Triumphs of Temper
- Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia
- Female Reader
- Speaker, 2 vols.
- [Page 144]Mrs. Trimmer's Works
- Works of Madame de Genlis
- Marchioness de Lambert's Works, 2 vols.
- Miss Burney's Eveilna, 2 vols. and Cecilia, 3 vols.
- Mrs. Smith's Emmeline, 2 vols.
- General Biographical Dictionary, 12 vols. 8 vo.
- Shakespeare's Plays
- Johnson's Poets, 75 vols. with their Lives
- Miss More's Poems, and Prose Pieces
- Ethelinde, 3 vols.
- Miss Bowdler's Essays, &c.
- Elegant Extracts, in Prose and Verse, 2 vols.
From these you may form a judgment of that sort of reading which will be both useful and entertaining to you. I have named only those practical sermons, which, I thought, would more directly influence your conduct in life. Our rule of faith should be taken from the scripture alone, which we must understand for ourselves; therefore the controverted opinions of others serve, in general, rather to puzzle than to improve the mind.
Of novels and romances, very few are worth the trouble of reading: some of them, perhaps, do contain a few good morals; but they are not worth the finding, where so much rubbish is intermixed. Their moral parts, indeed, are like small diamonds among mountains of dirt and trash, which, after you have found them, are too inconsiderable to answer the pains of coming at; yet, ridiculous as these fictitious tales generally are, they are so artfully managed as to excite an idle curiosity to see the conclusion, by which means the reader is drawn on, through a tiresome length of foolish adventures, from which neither knowledge, pleasure, or profit, can accrue, to the common catastrophe of a wedding. The most I have met with of these writings, to say no worse, it is little better than the loss of time to peruse. But some of them have more pernicious consequences. By drawing characters that never exist in life, by representing persons and things in a false and extravagant light, and by a series of improbable causes [Page 145] bringing on impossible events, they are apt to give a romantic turn to the mind, which is often productive of great errors in judgment, and of fatal mistakes in conduct. Of this I have seen frequent instances, and therefore advise you scarcely ever to meddle with any of them.
In justice, however, to a late ingenious author, this letter must not be reprinted, without my acknowledging that, since the last edition was published, I have accidentally met with one exception to my general rule, namely, The Vicar of Wakefield. That novel is equally entertaining and instructive, without being liable to any of the objections that occasioned the above restriction. This possibly may not be the only exceptionable piece of the kind; but as I have not met with any other, among a number I have perused, a single instance does not alter my opinion of that sort of writing; and I still think, the chance is perhaps a thousand to one against the probability of obtaining the smallest degree of advantage from the reading any of them, as well as that very few are to be found, from which much injury may not be received.
Works of the needle, that employ the fancy, may, if they suit your inclination, be sometimes a pretty amusement: but let this employment never extend to large pieces, beyond what can be accomplished by yourself without assistance. There is not a greater extravagance under the specious name of good housewifery, than the furnishing of houses in this manner. Whole apartments have been seen thus ornamented by the supposed work of a lady, who, perhaps, never shaded two leaves in the artificial forest, but has paid four times its value to the several people employed in bringing it to perfection. The expense of these tedious pieces of work I speak of experimentally, having, many years past, undertaken one of them, which, when finished, was not worth fifteen pounds; and by a computation since made, it did not cost less than fifty, in the hire and maintenance of the people employed in it. This, indeed, [Page 146] was at the age of seventeen, when the thoughtless inexperience of youth could alone excuse such a piece of folly.— Embroideries in gold, silver, or shades of silk, come within a narrower compass. Works of that kind, which may, without calling in expensive assistance, or tiring the fancy, be finished in a summer, will be a well-chosen change of amusement, and may, as there are three of you, be made much more agreeable, by one alternately reading aloud, while the other two are thus employed.—All kinds of what is called plain-work, though no very polite accomplishment, you must be so well versed in, as to be able to cut out, make, and mend your own linen. Some fathers, and some husbands, choose to have their daughters and their wives thus attired in the labour of their own hands, and, from a mistaken notion, believe this to be the great criterion of frugal economy. Where that happens to be the inclination or opinion of either, it ought always to be readily complied with: but, exclusive of such a motive, I see no other that makes the practical part necessary to any lady; excepting, indeed, where there is such a narrowness of fortune as admits not conveniently the keeping a servant, to whom such exercises of the needle much more properly appertain.
The theatre, which, by the indefatigable labour of the inimitable Mr. Garrick, has been brought to very great perfection, will afford you an equally rational and improving entertainment. Your judgment will not now be called in question, your understanding affronted, nor will your modesty be offended by the indecent ribaldry of those authors, who, to their defect in wit, have added the want of good sense and of good manners. Faults of this kind, which, from a blameable compliance with a corrupted taste, have sometimes crept into the works of good writers, are, by his prudent direction, generally rectified or omitted on the stage. You may now see many of the best plays performed in the best manner. Do not, however, go to any that you have not before heard the character of: be present only at those [Page 147] which are approved by persons of understanding and virtue, as calculated to answer the proper end of the theatre, namely, that of conveying instruction in the most pleasing method. Attend to the sentiment, apply the moral, and then you cannot, I think, pass an evening in a more useful, or in a more entertaining diversion.
Dancing may also take its turn, as a healthful exercise, as it is generally suitable to the taste and gaiety of young minds.
Part of the hours appropriated to relaxation must of necessity be less agreeably taken up in the paying and receiving visits of mere ceremony and civility; a tribute, by custom authorized, by good manners enjoined. In these, when the conversation is only insignificant, join in it with an apparent satisfaction. Talk of the elegance of a birth-day suit, the pattern of a lace, the judicious assortment of jewels, the cut of a ruffle, or the set of a sleeve, with an unaffected ease; not according to the rank they hold in your estimation, but proportioned to the consequence they may be of in the opinion of those you are conversing with. The great art of pleasing is to appear pleased with others; suffer not then an ill-bred absence of thought, or a contemptuous sneer, ever to betray a conscious superiority of understanding, always productive of ill-nature and dislike. Suit yourself to the capacity and to the taste of your company, when that taste is confined to harmless trifles: but where it is so far depraved as to delight in cruel sarcasms on the absent, to be pleased with discovering the blemishes in a good character, or in repeating the greater faults of a bad one, religion and humanity in that case forbid the least degree of assent. If you have not any knowledge of the persons thus unhappily sacrificed to envy or to malice, and consequently are ignorant as to the truth or falsehood of such aspersions, always suspect them to be ill-grounded, or, at least, greatly exaggerated. Show your disapprobation by a silent gravity, and by taking the first opportunity to change the subject. But where any acquaintance [Page 148] with the character in question gives room for defending it, let not an ill-timed complaisance prevail over justice: vindicate injured innocence with all the freedom and warmth of an unrestrained benevolence; and where the faults of the guilty will admit of palliation, urge all that truth can allow in mitigation of error. From this method, besides the pleasure arising from the consciousness of a strict conformity to the great rule of doing as you would be done by, you will also reap to yourself the benefit of being less fre [...]uently pestered with themes ever painful to a humane disposition. If, unfortunately, you have some acquaintance, whose malevolence of heart no sentiment of virtue, no check of good-manners, can restrain from these malicious sallies of ill-nature, to them let your visits be made as seldom, and as short as decency will permit; there being neither benefit nor satisfaction to be found in such company, among whom only cards may be introduced with any advantage. On this account, it will be proper for you to know how to play at the games most in use; because it is an argument of great folly to engage in any thing without doing it well; but this is a diversion which, I hope, you will have no fondness for, as it is in itself, to say no worse, a very insignificant amusement.
With persons for whom you can have no esteem, good-breeding may oblige you to keep up an intercourse of ceremonious visits; but politeness enjoins not the length or frequency of them. Here inclination may be followed without a breach of civility: there is no tax upon intimacy but from choice; and [...] choice shou'd ever be founded on merit, the certainty whereof you cannot be too careful in previously examining. Great caution is necessary not to be deceived by spe [...]ious appearances. A plausible behaviour often, upon a superficial knowledge, creates a prepossession in favour of particulars, who, upon a nearer view, may be found to have no claim to esteem. The forming a precipitate judgment sometimes leads into an unwary intimacy, which it [Page 149] may prove absolutely necessary to break off: and yet that breach may be attended with innumerable inconveniences; nay, perhaps, with very material and lasting ill consequences: prudence, therefore, here enjoins the greatest circumspection.
Few people are capable of friendship; and still fewer have all the qualifications one would choose in a friend. The fundamental point is a virtuous disposition; but to that should be added a good understanding, a solid judgment, sweetness of temper, steadiness of mind, freedom of behaviour, and sincerity of heart. Seldom as these are to be found united, never make a bosom friend of any one greatly deficient in either. Be slow in contracting friendship, and invariably constant in maintaining it. Expect not many friends, but think yourself happy, if, through life, you meet with one or two who deserve that name, and have all the requisites for the valuable relation. Thi [...] may justly be deemed the highest blessing of mor [...]lity. Uninterrupted health has the general voice; but in my opinion, such an intercourse of friendship [...]s much deserves the preference, as the mental pleasures, both in nature and degree, exceed the corporeal. The weaknesses, the pains of the body may be inexpressibly alleviated by the conversation of a person, by affection endeared, by reason approved—whose tender sympathy partakes your afflictions, and shares your enjoyments—who is steady in the correction, but mild in the reproof of your faults—like a guardian angel, ever watchful to warn you of unforeseen danger, and, by timely admonitions, to prevent the mistakes incident to human frailty and to self-partiality: this is the true office of friendship. With such a friend, no state of life can be absolutely unhappy; but, destitute of some such connexion, heaven has so formed our nature for this intimate society, that amidst the affluence of fortune, and in the flow of uninterrupted health, there will be an aching void in the solitary breast, which can never otherwise know a plenitude of happiness.
[Page 150]Should the Supreme Disposer of all events bestow on you this superlative gift, to such a friend let your heart be ever unreservedly open. Conceal no secret thought, disguise no lat [...]nt weakness, but bare your bosom to the faithfu [...] probe of honest friendship, and shrink not, if it smarts beneath the touch; nor with tenacious pride dislike the person who freely dares to condemn some favourite foible; but, ever open to conviction, hear with attention, and receive with gratitude, the kind reproof that flows from tenderness. When sensible of a fault, be ingenuous in the confession; be sincere and steady in the correction of it.
Happy is her lot, who in a husband finds this invaluable friend! Yet so great is the hazard, so disproportioned the chances, that I could almost wish the dangerous die was never to be thrown for any of you: but as probably it may, let me conjure you all, my dear girls, if ever any of you take this most important step in life, to proceed with the utmost care and with deliberate circumspection. Fortune and family it is the sole province of your father to direct in: he, certainly, has always an undoubted right to a negative voice, though not to a compulsive one. As a child is very justifiable in the refusal of her hand, even to the absolute command of a father, where her heart cannot go with it; so is she extremely culpable in giving it, contrary to his approbation. Here I must take shame to myself; and for this unpardonable fault, I do justly acknowledge that the subsequent ill consequences of a most unhappy marriage were the proper punishment. This, and every other error in my own conduct, I do, and shall, with the utmost candour, lay open to you; sincerely praying that you may reap the benefit of my experience, and that you may avoid those rocks, which, either by carelessness, or sometimes, alas, by too much caution, I have split against! But to return:—
The chief point, to be regarded in the choice of a companion for life, is a really virtuous principle, an unaffected goodness of heart. Without this, you will [Page 151] be continually shocked by indecency, and pained by impiety. So numerous have been the unhappy victims to the ridiculous opinion, " A reformed libertine makes the best husband [...]" that, did not experience daily evince the contrary, one would believe it impossible for a girl, who has a tolerable degree of common understanding, to be made the dupe of so erroneous a position, which has not the least shadow of reason for its foundation, and which a small share of observation will prove to be false in fact. A man, who has been long conversant with the worst sort of women, is very apt to contract a bad opinion of, and a contempt for, the sex in general. Incapable of esteeming any, he is suspicious of all—jealous without cause—angry without provocation—and his own disturbed imagination is a continual source of ill humour. To this is frequently joined a bad habit of body, the natural consequence of an irregular life, which gives an additional sourness to the temper. What rational prospect of happiness can there be with such a companion? And that this is the general character of those who are called reformed rakes, observation will certify. But, admit there may be some exceptions, it is a hazard upon which no considerate woman would venture the peace of her whole future life. The vanity of those girls, who believe themselves capable of working miracles of this kind, and who give up their persons to men of libertine principles, upon the wild expectation of reclaiming them, justly deserves the disappointment which it will generally meet with; for, believe me, a wife is, of all persons, the least likely to succeed in such an attempt. Be it your care to find that virtue in a lover, which you must never hope to form in a husband. Good-sense and good-nature are almost equally requisite. If the former is wanting, it will be next to impossible for you to esteem the person, of whose behaviour you have cause to be ashamed; and mutual esteem is as necessary to happiness in the married state as mutual affection: without the latter, every day will bring with it some fresh cause of vexation; [Page 152] 'till repeated quarrels produce a coldness, which will settle into an irreconcileable aversion, and you will become not only each other's torment, but the object of contempt to your family and to your acquaintance.
This quality of good-nature is, of all others, the most difficult to be ascertained, on account of the general mistake of blending it with good-humour, as if they were in themselves the same; whereas, in fact, no two principles of action are more essentially different. And this may require some explanation.— By good-nature I mean, that true benevol [...]nce which partakes in the felicity of all mankind; which promotes the satisfaction of every individual within the reach of its ability; which relieves the distressed, comforts the afflicted, diffuses blessings, and communicates happiness, as far as its sphere of action can extend; and which, in the private seenes of life, will shine conspicuous in the dutiful son, the affectionate husband, the indulgent father, the faithful friend, and the compassionate master both to man and beast: while good humour is nothing more than a cheerful, pleasing deportment, arising either from a natural gaiety of mind, or from an affectation of popularity, joined to an affability of behaviour, the result of good-breeding, and a ready compliance with the taste of every company. This kind of mere good-humour is, by far, the most striking quality; 'tis frequently mistaken for, and complimented with, the superior name of real good-nature. A man by this specious appearance has often acquired that appellation, who, in all the actions of his private life, has been a morose, cruel, revengeful, sullen, haughty tyrant. Let them put on the cap, whose temples fit the galling wreath! On the contrary, a man of a truly benevolent disposition, and formed to promote the happiness of all round him, may sometimes, perhaps from an ill habit of body, an accidental vexation, or from a commendable openness of heart, above the meanness of disguise, be guilty of little sallies of peevishness, or of ill-humour, which, carrying the appearance of [Page 153] ill-nature, may be unjustly thought to proceed from it, by persons who are unacquainted with his true character, and who take ill-humour and ill-nature to be synonimous terms, though, in reality, they bear not the least analogy to each other. In order to the forming a right judgment, it is absolutely necessary to observe this distinction, which will effectually secure you from the dangerous error of taking the shadow for the substance; an irretrievable mistake, pregnant with innumerable consequent evils!
From what has been said, it plainly appears, that the crite [...] on of this amiable virtue is not to be taken from the general opinion; mere good-humour being, to all intents and purposes, sufficient in this particular to establish the public voice in favour of a man utterly devoid of every humane and benevolent affection of heart. It is only from the less conspicuous scenes of life, the more retired sphere of action, from the artless tenor of domestic conduct, that the real character can with any certainty be drawn. These, undisguised, proclaim the man: but, as they shun the glare of light, nor court the noise of popular applause, they pass unnoticed, and are seldom known 'till after an intimate acquaintance. The best method, therefore, to avoid deception in this case, is to lay no stress on outward appearances, which are too often fallacious, but to take the rule of judging from the simple, unpolished sentiments of those, whose dependent connexions give them an undeniable certainty; who not only see, but hourly feel the good or bad effects of that disposition to which they are subjected. By this I mean, that if a man is equally respected, esteemed, and beloved by his tenants, by his dependents and domestics—from the substantial farmer to the laborious peasant—from the proud steward to the submissive wretch, who, thankful for employment, humbly obeys the menial tribe—you may justly conclude he has that true good-nature, that real benevolence, which delights in communicating felicity, and enjoys the satisfaction it diffuses. But if by these he is despised and hated, served merely from a [Page 154] principle of fear, devoid of affection—which is very easily discoverable—whatever may be his public character, however favourable the general opinion, be assured, that his disposition is such as can never be productive of domestic happiness.—I have been the more particular on this head, as it is one of the most essential qualifications to be regarded, and of all others the most liable to be mistaken.
Never be prevailed with, my dear, to give your hand to a person, defective in these material points. Secure of virtue, of good-nature, and understanding in a husband, you may be secure of happiness. Without the two former, it is unattainable: without the latter, in a tolerable degree, it must be very imperfect.
Remember, however, that infallibility is not the property of man, or you may entail disappointment on yourself, by expecting what is never to be found. The best men are sometimes inconsistent with themselves. They are liable to be hurried, by sudden starts of passion, into expressions and actions which their cooler reason will condemn. They may have some oddities of behaviour, some peculiarities of temper; they may be subject to accidental ill-humour, or to whimsical complaints blemishes of this kind often shade the brightest character: but they are never destructive of mutual felicity, unless when they are made so by an improper resentment, or by an ill-judged opposition. Reason can never be heard by passion; the offer of it tends only to inflame the more. When cooled, and in his usual temper, the man of understanding, if he has been wrong, will suggest to himself all that could be urged against him: the man of good-nature will, un-upbraided, own his error: immediate contradiction is, therefore, wholly unserviceable, and highly imprudent; and after repetition equally unnecessary and injudicious. Any peculiarities in the temper or behaviour ought to be properly represented in the tenderest and in the most friendly manner, and if the representation of them is made discreetly, it will generally be well taken: but if they are so habitual as not easily to be altered, [Page 155] strike not too often upon the unharmonious string: rather let them pass as unobserved: such a chearful compliance will better cement your union; and they may be made easy to yourself, by reflecting on the superior good qualities by which these trifling faults are so greatly overbalanced.—You must remember, my dear, these rules are laid down, on the supposition of your being united to a person who possesses the three essential qualifications for happiness before-mentioned. In this case, no farther direction is necessary, but that you strictly perform the duty of a wife, namely, to love, to honour, and obey. The two first articles are a tribute so indispensibly due to merit, that they must be paid by inclination; and they naturally lead to the performance of the last, which will not only be an easy but a pleasing task, since nothing can ever be enjoined by such a person that is in itself improper, and few things will, that can with any reason be disagreeable to you.
Here should this subject end, were it not more than possible for you, after all that has been urged, to be led by some inferior motive, to the neglect of the primary caution; and that, either [...]rom an opinion too hastily entertained, from an unaccountable partiality, or from the powerful prevalence of persuasion, you may be unfortunately induced to give your hand to a man whose bad heart and morose temper, concealed by a well practised dissimulation, may render every flattering hope of happiness abortive.—May heaven, in mercy, guard you from this fatal error! Such a companion is the worst of all temporal ills; a deadly potion, that embitters eve [...]y social scene of life, damps every rising joy, and banishes that chearful temper which alone can give a true relish to the blessings of mortality. Most sincerely do I pray that this may never be your lot! and I hope your prudent circumspection will be sufficient to guard you from the danger. But the bare possibility of the event makes it not unnecessary to lay down a few rules for the maintaining some degree of ease, under such a deprivation of happiness. This is by far the most difficult [Page 156] part of my present undertakin [...]; it is hard to advise here, and still harder to p [...]ac [...]e the advice; the subject also is too extensive to be minutely treated within the compass of a letter, which must confine me to the most material points only; in these I shall give you the best directions in my power, very ardently wishing, that you may never have occasion to make use of them.
The being united to a man of irreligious principles makes it impossible to discharge a great part of the proper duty of a wife. To name but one instance, obedience will be rendered impracticable by frequent injunctions inconsistent with and contrary to the higher obligations of morality. This is not supposition, but is founded upon facts, which I have too often seen and can attest. Where this happens, the reasons for non-compliance ought to be offered in a plain, strong, good-natured manner; there is, at least, the chance of success from being heard; but should those reasons be rejected, or the hearing of them be refused, and silence on the subject enjoined—which is most probable, few people caring to hear what they know to be right, when determined not to appear convinced by it—obey the injunction, and urge not the argument farther: keep, however, steady to your principles, and suffer neither persuasion nor threats to prevail on you to act contary to them. All commands repugnant to the laws of christianity, it is your indispensible duty to disobey; all requests that are inconsistent with prudence, or incompatible with the rank and character which you ought to maintain in life, it is your interest to refuse. A compliance with the former would be criminal; a consent to the latter highly indiscreet; and it might thereby subject you to general censure: for a man capable of requiring from his wife what he knows to be in itself wrong, is equally capable of throwing the whole blame of such misconduct on her, and of afterwards upbraiding her for a behaviour, to which he will, upon the same principle, disown that he has been accessary. Many similar instances have come within the compass of my own observation. In [Page 157] things of a less material nature, that are neither criminal in themselves nor pernicious in their consequences, always acquiesce, if insisted on, however disagreeable they may be to your own temper and inclination. Such a compliance will evidently prove that your refusal in the other cases, proceeds not from a spirit of contradiction, but merely from a just regard to that superior duty, which can never be infringed with impunity. Passion may resent, but reason must approve this conduct; and therefore it is the mos [...] likely method, in time, to make a favourable impression. But, if you should fail of such success, you will at least enjoy that satisfactory self-approbation, which is the inseparable attendant of a truly religious and rational deportment.
Should the painful task of dealing with a morose, tyrannical temper be assigned you, there is little more to be recommended, than a patient submission to an evil which admits not of a remedy. Ill-nature is increased, obstinacy confirmed, by opposition: the less such a temper is contradicted, the more supportable will it be to those who are under its baneful influence. When all endeavours to please are ineffectual, and when a man seems determined to find fault with every thing, as if his chief pleasure consisted in tormenting those about him, it requires a more than common degree of patience and resolution to forbear uttering reproaches, which such a behaviour may be justly allowed to deserve: yet it is absolutely necessary to the maintaining any tolerable degree of ease, not only to restrain all expressions of resentment, but to withhold even those disdainful looks which are apt to accompany a contemptuous silence; and they both equally tend only to increase the malady. This infernal delight in giving pain is most unwearied in the search of matter for its gratification, and can either find, or unaccountably can form it, in almost all the occurrences of life; but, when suffered, unobstructed and unregarded, to run its malicious course, it will quickly vent its blunted arrows, and will die of disappointment; while all endeavours to appease, [Page 158] all complaints of unkindness, will but sharpen against yourself the weapon's edge, and, by proving your sensibility of the wound, will give the wished-for satisfaction to him who inflicts it. Prudence, in this case, directs more than ordinary circumspection, that every part of your behaviour may be as blameless as possible, even to the abstaining from the least appearance of evil; and after you have, to the utmost of your power, strove to merit approbation, expect not to meet with it: by these means you will escape the mortification of being disappointed, which, often repeated, is apt to give a gloomy sourness to the temper, incompatible with any degree of contentment. You must, so situated, learn to be satisfied with the consciousness of acting right, according to your best abilities, and, if possible, you should look with an unconcerned indifference on the reception of every unsuccessful attempt to please.
This, it must be owned, is a hard lesson of philosophy: it requires no less than an absolute command over the passions; but let it be remembered, that such a command will itself most amply recompense every difficulty: it will compensate every pain, which it may cost you to obtain it: besides, it is, I believe, the only way to preserve any tranquillity of mind, under so disagreeable a connexion.
As the want of understanding is by no art to be concealed, by no address to be disguised, it might be supposed impossible for a woman of sense to unite herself to a person whose defect, in this instance, must render that sort of rational society which constitutes the chief happiness of such an union, impossible; yet, here, how often has the weakness of female judgment been conspicuous! The advantages of great superiority in rank or fortune have frequently proved so irresistable a temptation, as, in opinion, to outweigh not only the folly but even the vices of its possessor: a grand mistake, ever tacitly acknowledged by a subsequent repentance, when the expected pleasures of affluence, equipage, and all the glittering pomp of useless pageantry have been experimentally [Page 159] found insufficient to make amends for the want of that constant satisfaction, which results from the social joy of conversing with a reasonable friend! But however weak this motive must be acknowledged, it is more excusable than another, which, I fear, has sometimes had an equal influence on the mind; I mean so great a love of sway, as to induce her to give the preference to a person of weak intellectuals, in hopes thereby of holding, uncontrouled, the reins of government. The expectation is, in fact, ill-grounded obstinacy: and pride being generally the companion of folly, the silliest people are usually the most tenacious of their opinions, and consequently, the hardest of all others to be managed: but admit the contrary, the principle is in itself bad: it tends to invert the order of nature, and to counteract the design of Providence.
A woman can never be seen in a more ridiculous light, than when she appears to govern her husband. If, unfortunately, the superiority of understanding is on her side, the apparent consciousness of that superiority betrays a weakness, that renders her contemptible in the sight of every considerate person, and it may, very probably, fix in his mind a dislike never to be eradicated. In such a case, if it should ever be your own, remember that some degree of dissimulation is commendable, so far as to let your husband's defect appear unobserved. When he judges wrong, never flatly contradict, but lead him insensibly into another opinion, in so discreet a manner that it may seem entirely his own; and let the whole credit of every prudent determination rest on him, without indulging the foolish vanity of claiming any merit to yourself. Thus a person of but an indifferent capacity may be so assisted as, in many instances, to shine with a borrowed lustre, scarcely distinguishable from the native, and, by degrees, he may be brought into a kind of mechanical method of acting properly, in all the common occurrences of life. Odd as this position may seem, it is founded in fact; and I have seen the method successfully practised by more than [Page 160] one person, where a weak mind, on the governed side, has been so prudently set off as to appear the sole director; like the statue of the Delphic god, which was thought to give forth its own oracles, while the humble priest, who lent his voice, was by the shrine concealed, nor sought a higher glory than a supposed obedience to the power he would be thought to serve.
From hence it may be inferred, that by a perfect propriety of behaviour, ease and contentment, at least, are attainable with a companion who has not the most exalted understanding: but then, virtue and good-nature are presupposed, or there will be nothing to work upon.
A vicious, ill-natured fool being so untractable and tormenting an associate, there needs only to add jealousy to the composition, to make the curse complete. This passion, once suffered to get footing in the heart, is hardly ever to be extirpated: it is a constant source of torment to the breast that gives it reception, and is an inexhaustible fund of vexation to the object of it. With a person of this unfortunate disposition, it is prudent to avoid the least appearance of concealment. A whisper in a mixed company, a message given in low voice to a servant, have, by the power of a disturbed imagination, been magnified into a material injury. Whatever has the air of secrecy raises terror in a mind naturally distrustful. A perfect, unreserved openness, both in conversation and behaviour, starves the anxious expectation of discovery, and may very probably lead into an habitual confidence, the only antidote against the poison of suspicion. It is easier to prevent than remove a received ill impression; and, consequently, it is much wiser to be sometimes deficient in little points of civility, which, however indifferent in themselves, may happen unaccountably to clash with the ease of a person, whose repose it is both your duty and interest to promote. It is much more commendable, contentedly to incur the censure of a trifling disposition, by a circumstantial, unasked relation of insignificant incidents, [Page 161] than to give any room for apprehending the least degree of reserve. Such a constant method of proceeding, together with a reasonable compliance, is the most likely to cure this painful turn of mind; for, by with-holding every support that could give strength to it, the want of matter to feed on may probably in time cause its extinction. If, unhappily, it is so constitutional, so interwoven with the soul as to become, in a manner, inseparably united with it, nothing remains but to submit patiently to the will of heaven, under the pressure of an unalterable evil; to guard carefully against the natural consequence of repeated undeserved suspicions, namely, a growing indifference, which too frequently terminates in aversion; and, by considering such a situation as a trial of obedience and resignation, to receive the comfort that must arise from properly exercising one of the most exalted of the christian virtues. I cannot dismiss this subject without adding a particular caution to yourself concerning it.
Jealousy is, on several accounts, still more inexcusable in a woman. There is not any thing that so much exposes her to ridicule, or so much subjects her to the insult of affrontive addresses: it is an inlet to almost every possible evil, the fatal source of innumerable indiscretions, the sure destruction of her own peace, and is frequently the bane of her husband's affection. Give not a momentary harbour to its shadow in your heart; fly from it, as from the face of a fiend, that would lead your unwary steps into a gulf of unalterable misery. When once embarked in the matrimonial voyage, the fewer faults you discover in your partner, the better. Never search after what it will give you no pleasure to find; never desire to hear what you will not like to be told; therefore avoid that tribe of impertinents, who, either from a malicious love of discord, or from the meaner, though less criminal motive of ingratiating themselves by gratifying the blameable curiosity of others, sow dissention wherever they gain admittance; and by telling unwelcome truths, or, more frequently, by insinuat [...]ng [Page 162] invented falsehoods, injure innocent people, disturb domestic union, and destroy the peace of families. Treat these emissaries of Satan with the contempt they deserve; hear not what they offer to communicate, but give them at once to understand, that you can never look on those as your friends, who speak in a disadvantageous manner of that person whom you would always choose to see in the most favourable light. If they are not effectually silenced by such rebukes, be inaccessible to their visits, and break off all acquaintance with such incorrigible pests of society, who will be ever upon the watch to seize an unguarded opportunity of disturbing your repose.
Should the companion of your life be guilty of some secret indiscretions, run not the hazard of being told by these malicious meddlers, what, in fact, it is better for you never to know: but if some unavoidable accident betrays an imprudent correspondence, take it for a mark of esteem, that he endeavours to conceal from you what he knows you must, upon a principle of reason and religion, disapprove: and do not, by discovering your acquaintance with it, take off the restraint which your supposed ignorance lays him under, and thereby, perhaps, give a latitude to undisguised irregularities. Be assured whatever accidental sallies the gaiety of inconsiderate youth may lead him into, you can never be indifferent to him, whilst he is careful to preserve your peace, by concealing what he imagines might be an infringement of it. Rest then satisfied, that time and reason will most certainly get the better of all faults which proceed not from a bad heart; and that, by maintaining the first place in his esteem, your happiness will be built on too firm a foundation to be easily shaken.
I have been thus particular on the choice of a husband, and on the material parts of conduct in a married life, because thereon depends not only the temporal, but often the eternal felicity of those who enter into that state; a constant scene of disagreement, of ill-nature and quarrels, necessarily unfitting the mind for every religious and social duty, by keeping it i [...] [Page 163] a disposition directly opposite to that christian piety, to that practical benevolence and rational composure, which alone can prepare it for everlasting happiness.
Instructions on this head, considering your tender age, may seem premature, and should have been deferred, 'till occasion called for them, had our situation allowed me frequent opportunities of communicating my sentiments to you; but that not being the case, I choose, in this epistle, at once to offer you my best advice in every circumstance of great moment to your well being, both here and hereafter, lest at a more proper season it may not happen to be in my power. You may defer the particular consideration of this part, 'till the design of entering into a new scene of life may make it useful to you; which, I hope, will not be for some years; an unhappy marriage being more generally the consequence of a too early engagement, before reason has gained sufficient strength to form a solid judgment, on which only a proper choice can be determined. Great is the hazard of a mistake, and irretrievable the effects of it! Many are the degrees between happiness and misery! Absolute misery, I will venture to affirm, is to be avoided by a proper behaviour, even under all the complicated ills of human life; but to arrive at that proper behaviour, requires the highest degree of christian philosophy. And who would voluntarily put themselves upon a state of trial so severe, in which not one of a thousand has been found able to come off victorious? Between this and positive happiness there are innumerable steps of comparative evil; each has its separate conflict, variously difficult, differently painful, under all which a patient submission and a conscious propriety of behaviour is the only attainable good. Far short, indeed, of possible temporal felicity is the ease arising from hence! Rest not content with the prospect of such ease, but fix on a more eligible point of view, by aiming at true happiness; and, take my word, that can never be found in a married state, without the three essential qualifications already mentioned, virtue, good-nature, and good-sense, in a husband. [Page 164] Remember, therefore, my dear girl, this repeated caution, if you ever resolve on marriage, never to give your hand to a man who wants either of them, whatever other advantages he may be possessed of; so shall you not only escape all those vexations which thousands of unthinking mortals hourly repent of having brought upon themselves; but, most assuredly, if it is not your own fault, you will enjoy that uninterrupted domestic harmony, in the affectionate society of a virtuous companion, which constitutes the highest satisfaction of human life. Such an union, founded on reason and religion, cemented by mutual esteem and tenderness, is a kind of faint emblem, if the comparison may be allowed, of the promised reward of virtue in a future state; and most certainly, it is an excellent preparative for it, by preserving a perfect equanimity, by keeping a constant composure of mind, which naturally lead to the proper discharge of all the religious and social duties of life, the unerring road to everlasting peace. The first have been already spoken to; it remains only to mention some few of the latter.
Among these, ECONOMY may, perhaps, be thought improperly placed; yet many of the duties we owe to society being often rendered impracticable by the want of it, there is not so much impropriety in ranking it under this head, as may at first be imagined. For instance, a man who lives at an expense beyond what his income will support, lays himself under a necessity of being unjust, by with-holding from his creditors what they have a right to demand from him as their due, according to all laws both human and divine: and thereby he often entails ruin on an innocent family, who, but for the loss sustained by his extravagance, might have comfortably subsisted on the profits of their industry. He likewise puts it out of his own power to give that relief to the indigent, which, by the laws of humanity, they have a right to expect; the goods of fortune being given, as a great divine excellently observes, for the use and support of others, as well as for the person on whom [Page 165] they are bestowed. These are surely great breaches of that duty we owe to our fellow-creatures, and are effects very frequently and naturally produced by the want of economy.
You will find it a very good method, so to regulate your stated expenses as to bring them always one-fourth part within your certain annual income: by these means you will avoid being at any time distressed by unforeseen accidents, and you will have it more easily in your power materially to relieve those who deserve assistance. But the giving trifling sums, indiscriminately, to such as appear necessitous, is far from being commendable; it is an injury to society; it is an encouragement to idleness, and helps to fill the streets with lazy beggars, who live upon misapplied bounty, to the prejudice of the industrious poor. These are useful members of the commonwealth; and on them such benefactions might be serviceably bestowed. Be sparing, therefore, in this kind of indiscriminate donations; they are too constantly an insignificant relief to the receivers, supposing them really in want; and, frequently repeated, they amount to a considerable sum in the year's account. The proper objects of charity are those, who by unavoidable misfortunes have fallen from affluent circumstances into a state of poverty and distress; those also, who, by unexpected disapointments in trade, are on the point of being reduced to an impossibility of carrying on that business, on which their present subsistence and their future prospect in life depend, from the incapacity of raising an immediate sum to surmount the difficulty; and those who, by their utmost industry, can hardly support their families above the miseries of want; or who, by age or by illness, are rendered incapable of labour. Appropriate a certain part of your income to the relief of these real distresses. To the first, give as largely as your circumstances will allow; to the second, after the example of an excellent prelate of our own church, lend, if it is in your power, a sufficient sum to prevent the threatened ruin, on condition of being repaid the [Page 166] loan, without interest, if Providence enables them, by future success, to do it with convenience. The same method may be used where indigence renders industry unavailable, by depriving it of the means to lay in a small original stock to be improved. Never take a note of hand or any acknowledgment of such loan, lest what you intended for a benefit, should be afterwards made the instrument of ruin to the receiver, by a different disposition in your successor. But such assistance ought not to be given to any, without a thorough knowledge of their character, and having good reason to believe them not only industrious, but strictly honest, which will be a sufficient obligation on them for the repayment: and the sums so repaid ought to be laid by, 'till an opportunity again offers of making them in like manner serviceable to others. The latter sort, who are able to work, may, by a small addition to the profits of their own labour, be rescued from misery, and may be put into a comfortable way of subsistence. Those who, by age or by infirmity, are rendered utterly incapable of supporting themselves, have an undoubted right, not only to the necessaries, but even to some of the conveniencies of life, from all, whom Providence has placed in the more happy state of affluence and independence.
As your fortune and situation are yet undetermined, I have purposely laid down such rules as may be adapted to every station. A large fortune gives greater opportunity of doing good, and of communicating happiness in a more extensive degree: but a small one is no excuse for with-holding a proportionate relief from real and deserving objects of compassion. To assist them is an indispensible duty of christianity. The first and great commandment is, to love God with all your heart; the second, to love your neighbour as yourself: Whoso seeth his brother in need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion, how dwelleth the love of God in him? or how the love of his neighbour? If deficient in these primary duties, vain are the hopes of acceptance, built on a partial [Page 167] obedience to the lesser branches of the law!—Inability is often pleaded as an excuse for the want of charity, by persons who make no scruple of daily lavishing on their pleasures, what, if better applied, might have made an indigent family happy through life. These persons lose sight of real felicity, by the mistaken pursuit of its shadow: the pleasures, which engross their attention, die in the enjoyment, are often succeeded by remorse, and always by satiety; whereas the true joy, the sweet complacency resulting from benevolent actions, increases by reflexion, and must be immortal as the soul. So exactly, so kindly is our duty more to coincide with our present as well as future interest, that incomparably more satisfaction will accrue to a considerate mind from denying itself even some of the agreeables of life, in order the more effectually to relieve the unfortunate, than could arise from a full indulgence of every temporal gratification.
However small your income may be, remember that a part of it is due to merit in distress. Set by an annual sum for this purpose, even though it should oblige you to abate some necessary expense to raise the fund: by this method, persons of slender fortune have been enabled to do much good, and to give happiness to many. If your stock will not admit of frequent draughts upon it, be the more circumspect with regard to the merit of those you relieve, that bounties, not in your power to repeat often, may not be misapplied. But if Providence, by a more ample fortune, should bless you with a larger ability of being serviceable to your fellow-creatures, prove yourself worthy of the trust reposed in you, by making a proper use of it. Wide as your influence can extend, turn the cry of distress and danger into the song of joy and safety; feed the hungry, clothe the naked, comfort the afflicted, give medicine to the sick, and, with either, bestow all the alleviation their unfortunate circumstances can admit of. Thus may you truly make a friend of the unrighteous mammon. Thus you may turn the perishable goods of fortune [Page 168] into everlasting blessings. Upon earth you will partake that happiness you impart to others; and you will lay up for yourself treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust can corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.
A person who has once experienced the advantages of a right action, will be led by the motive of present self-interest, as well as by future expectation, to the continuance of it. There is no injunction of christianity that a sincere christian, by obedience, will not find so calculated, as to be directly, in some measure, its own reward.
The forgiveness of injuries, to which is annexed the promise of pardon for our own offences, (and which is required by the gospel, not only so far as to forbear all kinds of retaliation, but also to render us equally disposed to serve with our utmost power those persons who have wilfully injured us, as if no such injury had been received from them) has by some been accounted a hard precept▪ yet the difficulty of it arises merely from, and is proportionable to, the badness of the heart by which it is so esteemed. A good disposition finds a superlative pleasure in returning good for evil; and, by an inexpressible satisfaction of mind in so doing, feels the present reward of obedience: whereas a spirit of revenge is incompatible with happiness, an implacable temper being a constant torment to its possessor; and the man who returns an injury, feels more real misery from the rancour of his own heart, than it is in his power to inflict upon another.
Should a friend wound you in the most tender part, by betraying a confidence reposed, prudence forbids the exposing yourself to a second deception, by placing any future trust in such a person. But though here all obligations of intimacy cease, those of benevolence and humanity remain still in full force, and are equally binding, and call for every act of service and assistance, even to the suffering a lesser evil yourself, in order to secure a much greater good to the person by whom you have been thus ill-used. This [Page 169] is in general allowed to be the duty of every individual to all, as a member of society; but it is particularly instanced in the present case, to show, that not even a breach of friendship, the highest of all provocations, will cancel the duty, at all times equally and unalterably binding—the duty of promoting both the temporal and eternal happiness of all your fellow creatures by every method in your power.
It has been by many thought impertinent at any time to offer unasked advice; the reason of which maybe chiefly owing to its being too frequently tendered with a supercilious air, that implies a conceited consciousness of superior wisdom: it is the manner, therefore, more than the thing itself, which gives disgust.
If those, with whom you have any degree of intimacy, are guilty of what to you appears either wrong or indiscreet, speak your opinion to them with freedom, though you should even lose a nominal friend by so doing. Silence makes you, in some measure, an accessary to the fault: but having thus once discharged your duty, rest there: they are to judge for themselves: to repeat such admonitions is both useless and impertinent, and they will then be thought to proceed rather from pride than from good nature. To the persons concerned only are you to speak your disapprobation of their conduct: when they are censured by others, say all that truth or probability will permit in their justification.
It often happens, that upon an accidental quarrel between friends, they separately appeal to a third person. In such case, alternately take the opposite side, alleging every argument in favour of the absent party, and placing the mistakes of the complainer in the strongest light. This method may probably at first displease, but is always right, as it is the most likely to procure a reconciliation. If that takes place, each, equally obliged, will thankfully approve your conduct: if not, you will have the satisfaction of, at least, endeavouring to have been the restorer of peace. A contrary behaviour, which generally proceeds [Page 170] from the mean desire of pleasing by flattery, at the expense of truth, often widens a trifling breach into open and irreconcileable enmity. People of this disposition are the worst sort of incendiaries, the greatest plague of human society, because the most difficult to be guarded against, from their always wearing the specious disguise of pretended approbation and friendship to the present, and equally deceitful resentment against the absent person or company.
To enumerate all the social duties would lead me too far; suffice it therefore, my dear, in a few words to sum up what remains.
Let truth ever dwell upon your tongue.
Scorn to flatter any, and despise the person who would practice so base an art upon yourself.
Be honestly open in every part of your behaviour and conversation.
All, with whom you have any intercourse, even down to the meanest station, have a right to civility and good-humour from you. A superiority of rank or fortune is no license for a proud, supercilious behaviour: the disadvantages of a dependant state are alone sufficient to labour under; 'tis both unjust and cruel to increase them, either by a haughty deportment, or by the unwarrantable exercise of a capricious temper.
Examine every part of your conduct towards others by the unerring rule of supposing a change of places. This will certainly lead to an impartial judgment. Do then what appears to you right, or, in other words, what you would th [...]y should do unto you; which comprehends every duty relative to society.
Aim at perfection, or you will never reach to an attainable height of virtue.
Be religious without hypocrisy, pious without enthusiasm.
Endeavour to merit the favour of God by a sincere and uniform obedience to whatever you know, or believe, to be his will; and should afflictive evils be permitted to cloud the sun-shine of your brightest days, receive them with submission; satisfied that a [Page 171] being equally wise, omniscient, and beneficent, at once sees and intends the good of his whole creation; and that every general or particular dispensation of his providence, towards the rational part of it, is so calculated as to be productive of ultimate happiness, which nothing but the misbehaviour of individuals can prevent to themselves.
This truth is surely an unanswerable argument for absolute resignation to the will of God; and such a resignation, founded upon reason and choice, not enforced by necessity, is unalterable peace of mind, fixed on too firm a basis to be shaken by adversity. Pain, poverty, ingratitude, calumny, and even the loss of those we hold most dear, may each transiently affect, but, united, cannot mortally wound it. Upon this principle, you will find it possible not only to be content, but cheerful, under all the disagreeable circumstances this state of probation is liable to; and, by making a proper use of them, you may effectually remove the garb of terror from the last of all temporal evils. Learn, then, with grateful pleasure to meet approaching death as the kind remover of every painful sensation, the friendly guide to perfect and to everlasting happiness.
Believe me, this is not mere theory. My own experience every moment proves the fact undeniably true. My conduct, in all those relations which still subsist with me, nearly as human imperfection will allow, is governed by the rules here laid down for you; and it produces the constant rational compos [...]re, which constitutes the most perfect felicity of human life: for with truth I can aver, that I daily feel incomparably more real satisfaction, more true contentment in my present retirement, than the gayest scenes of festive mirth ever afforded me. I am pleased with this life, without an anxious thought for the continuance of it; and am happy in the hope of hereafter exchanging it for a life infinitely better. My soul, unstained by the crimes unjustly imputed to me, most sincerely forgives the malicious authors of these imputations: it anticipates the future pleasure of an open [Page 172] acquittal, and, in that expectation, loses the pain of present and undeserved censure. By this is meant the instance that was made the supposed foundation for the last of innumerable injuries which I have received, through him, from whom I am conscious of having deserved the kindest treatment. Other faults, no doubt, I might have many; to him I had very few: nay, for several years, I cannot, upon reflexion, accuse myself of any thing but of a too absolute, too unreserved obedience to every injunction, even where plainly contrary to the dictates of my own reason. How wrong such a compliance was, has been clearly proved by many instances, in which it has been since most ungenerously and most ungratefully urged as a circumstantial argument against me.
It must, indeed, be owned, that for the two or three last years, tired with a long series of repeated insults, of a nature almost beyond the power of imagination to conceive, my temper became soured: a constant, fruitless endeavour to oblige was changed into an absolute indifference about it; and ill humour occasioned by frequent disappointment—a consequence I have experimentally warned you against— was perhaps sometimes too much indulged. How far the unequalled provocations may be allowed as an excuse for this, heaven only must determine, whose goodness has thought fit to release me from the painful situation; though by a method, at present, not the most eligible, as it is the cause of a separation from my children also, and thereby has put it out of my power to attend, in the manner I could have wished, to their education; a duty that inclination would have led me with equal care and pleasure more amply to fulfil, had they continued under my direction. But as Providence has thought fit otherwise to determine, contented I submit to every dispensation, convinced that all things are ordered for the best, and that they will, in the end, work together for good to them that fear God, and who sincerely endeavour to keep his commandments. If in these [Page 173] I err, I am certain it is owing to a mistake in the judgment, not to a defect of the will.
Thus have I endeavoured, my dear girl, in some measure, to compensate both to you and to your sisters the deprivation of a constant maternal care, by advising you according to my best ability, in the most material parts of your conduct through life, as particularly as the compass of a letter would allow me. May these few instructions be as serviceable to you as my wishes would make them! and may that Almighty being, to whom my daily prayers ascend for your preservation, grant you his heavenly benediction! May he keep you from all moral evil, lead you into the paths of righteousness and peace, and may he gi [...]e us all a happy meeting in that future state of un [...]lterable felicity, which is prepared for those who, by patient continuance in well-doing, seek after glory and immortality!
THE LADIES' LIBRARY. Advice of a Mother to her Daughter.
THE world has, in all ages, been very negligent in the education of daughters; all their care is laid out entirely upon the men; and, as if the women were a distinct species, they leave them to themselves without any helps, without thinking that they compose one half of the world; that the two sexes are necessarily united together by alliances; that the women make either the happiness or misery of the men, who always feel the want of having them reasonable; that they are a great means of the rise and ruin of families; that they are entrusted with the education of the children in their early youth, a season of life in which they receive the liveliest and deepest impressions. What would they have them inspire into their children, when, from their very infancy, they are left themselves in the hands of governantes, who, as they are generally taken out of the low world, inspire them with low sentiments, encourage all the timorous passions, and form them [...]o superstition instead of religion. 'Twould [...]e a subject worthier of their thoughts to contrive how to make certain virtues hereditary to their families, by conveying [Page 176] them down from the mother to the children, than how to secure their estates by entails. Nothing, therefore, is so much mistaken as the education which they give to young women: they design them to please; they give them no instructions but for the ornament and graces of the body; they flatter their self-love; they give them up to effeminacy, to the world and to false opinions; they give them no lectures of virtue and fortitude: surely it is unreasonable or rather downright madness to imagine that such an education should not turn to their prejudice.
It may be necessary, my daughter, to observe all the outward rules of decorum; but this is not enough to gain you the esteem of the world; 'tis the sentiments of the mind that form the character of a person; that lead the understanding; that govern the will; [...]at secure the reality and duration of all our virtues: but religion should be the principle and foundation of these sentiments. When religion is once engraven on our heart, all the virtues will naturally flow from that source; all the duties of life will be regularly practised in their respective order. 'Tis not enough for the conduct of young persons, to oblige them to do their duty; they must be brought to love it. Authority is a tyrant only over the outward behaviour; it has no sway over the inward sentiments. When one prescribes a conduct, we should represent the reasons and the motives of it, and give them a relish for what we advise them.
'Tis so much for our interest to practise virtue, that we should never consider it as our enemy, but rather as the source of happiness, of glory, and of peace.
You are just coming into the world: enter it, my daughter, with some principles: you cannot fortify yourself too much against what you will meet with there: bring along with you all your religion: nourish it in your heart by your sentiments; confirm it in your mind by proper reflexions, and by reading adapted to encourage it.
[Page 177]There is nothing more necessary, and indeed more happy for us than to keep up a sentiment that makes us love and hope; that gives us a prospect of an agreeable futurity; that reconciles all times; that insures all the duties of life; that answers for us to ourselves, and is our guarantee with regard to others. What a support will you find from religion under the misfortunes that threaten you! for a certain number of misfortunes must fall to your share. 'Twas a saying of one of the ancients, ‘That he wrapped himself up in the mantle of his virtue:’ Wrap yourself up in that of your religion; it will be a great help to you against the weakness of youth, and a sure refuge in your riper years.
Women, who have cultivated their understanding with nothing but the maxims of the world, are presented at last with an universal blank, and find themselves in a terrible want of thought and employment, the most irksome situation in life. As they advance in age, the world quits them, and reason tells them they should quit the world; but where must they go for relief? The time past furnishes us with regrets, the present with inquietudes, and the time to come with fears. Religion alone calms all our uneasiness, and comforts us under all misfortunes: by uniting you to God, it reconciles you with the world, and yourself too.
A young person, when she comes into the world, frames to herself an high notion of the happiness reserved for her. She sets herself to obtain it; 'tis the source of all her cares. She is always on the hunt after her notion, and in hopes of finding a perfect happiness: this is the occasion of lightness and inconstancy.
The pleasures of the world are deceitful; they promise more than they perform; the quest of them is full of anxiety: their enjoyment is far from yielding any true satisfaction, and their loss is attended with vexation.
To fix your desires, think that no solid or lasting happiness is to be found any where but in your own [Page 178] breast. Honours and riches have no charms that are lasting for any length of time: their possession extends our view, and gives us new desires. Pleasures, when they grow familiar, lose their relish. Before you have tasted them, you may do without them; whereas enjoyment makes that necessary to you, which was once superfluous, and you are worse at your ease than you were before. By enjoying them you grow used to them, and when you lose them, they leave you nothing but emptiness and want. What affects us sensibly is the passage from one circumstance of life to another; the interval between a miserable season and a happy one. The sense of pleasure wears off as soon as we grow habituated to it. 'Twould be a great advantage, if reason could at once lay before us all that is necessary for our happiness. Experience brings us back to ourselves; spare yourself that expense, [...]d lay it early down for a maxim, with a firmness and resolution to determine your conduct, that ‘true felicity consists in peace of mind, in reason, and in the discharge of our duty.’ Let us not fancy ourselves happy, my daughter, till we feel our pleasures of this sort flow from the bottom of our soul.
These reflexions seem too strong for a young person, and are proper for a riper age: however, I believe you are capable of them; and besides, I am instructing myself. We cannot engrave the precepts of wisdom too deeply in our hearts; the impressions that they make are always too light; but it can't be denied that such as use themselves to make reflexions, and fortify their hearts with principles, are in a fairer way to virtue than such as neglect them. If we are unhappy enough to be defective in the practice of our duty, let us at least not be wanting in our affection to it: let us then, my daughter, make use of these precepts for a continual help to our virtue.
'Tis commonly said, there are two prejudices with which every body must comply: religion and honour. 'Tis a wrong expression to call religion a prejudice. A prejudice is an opinion that may be subservient to [Page 179] error as well as truth; the term ought never to be applied but to things that are uncertain; and religion is not so.
Honour is, indeed, an invention merely human; yet nothing is more real than the evils that people suffer who would get rid of it; 'twould be dangerous to shake it off; we should rather do all we can to fortify a sentiment that ought to be a rule to our conduct, since nothing is more destructive of our quiet, or makes our life more unequal, than to think one way and act another. Possess your heart as much as is possible with sentiments for the conduct that you ought to observe; fortify this prejudice of honour in your mind; you cannot be too scrupulously nice on this subject.
Never warp in the least from these principles; never entertain a notion, as if the virtue of women was a virtue only enjoined by custom; nor allow yourself to think you have sufficiently discharged your obligations if you can but escape the eyes of the world. There are two courts before which you must inevitably appear in judgment, your conscience and the world; you may possibly get clear of the world, but you can never get clear of conscience. Secure her testimony in favour of your honesty; 'tis what you owe to yourself; but withal do not neglect the approbation of the public; for a contempt of reputation naturally leads to a contempt of virtue.
When you are a little acquainted with the world, you will find that there is no need of the sanctions and terror of laws to keep you within the bounds of your duty: the example of such as have deviated from it, and the calamities that have ever attended them, is enough to stop any inclination in the midst of its career; for there is no coquet but must own, if she would be sincere, that it is the greatest misfortune in the world to be forgotten and neglected.
Shame is a passion that might be of excellent advantage to us, if we managed it well: I do not mean that false shame which only serves to disturb our quiet, without being of any service to our behaviour; [Page 180] I speak of that which keeps us from evil, out of fear of dishonour: we must confess, this shame is sometimes the surest guard of the women's virtue; there are very few virtuous for virtue itself.
There are some great virtues, which, when they are carried to a certain degree, make a great many defects be overlooked; such as extraordinary valour in the men, and extreme modesty in the women. Agrippina, the wife of Germanicus, was excused of all her faults on account of her chastity. This princess was ambitious and haughty; but, says Tacitus, ‘all her passions were consecrated by her chastity.’
If you are sensible and nice in the point of reputation, if you are apprehensive of being attacked as to essential virtues, there is one sure mean to calm your fears, and satisfy your nicety; 'tis to be virtuous. Be sure always to keep well with yourself; 'tis a sure income of pleasures; and will gain you praise, and a good reputation besides; in a word, be but truly virtuous, and you'll find admirers enough.
The virtues that make a figure in the world do not fall to the women's share; their virtues are of a simple and peaceable nature: fame will have nothing to do with us. 'Twas a saying of one of the ancients, that "the great virtues are for the men!" he allows the women nothing but the single merit of being unknown; and ‘such as are most praised, (says he) are not always the persons that deserve it best; but rather such as are not talked of at all.’ The notion seems to me to be wrong; but to reduce this maxim into practice, I think it best to avoid the world and making a figure, which always strikes at modesty, and be contented with being one's own spectator.
The virtues of the women are difficult, because they have no help from glory to practise them. To live at home—to meddle with nothing but one's self and family—to be simple, just, and modest—are painful virtues, because they are obscure. One must have a great deal of merit, to shun making a figure, and a [Page 181] great deal of courage to bring one's self to be virtuous only to one's own eyes. Grandeur and reputation serve for supports to our weakness, for such, in reality, is our desire to distinguish and raise ourselves. The mind rests in the public approbation: but true glory consists in being satisfied without it. Let it not enter, then, into the motives of your actions: 'tis enough that it is the recompence of them.
Be assured, my daughter, that perfection and happiness cling together; that you can never be happy but by virtue, and scarcely ever unhappy but by ill conduct. Whosoever examine themselves strictly, will find that they never had any grievous affliction, but they occasioned it themselves by some fault, or by being wanting in some duty. Anxiety always follows the loss of innocence: but virtue is ever attended with an inward satisfaction, that is a constant spring of felicity to all its votaries.
Do not, however, imagine that your only virtue is modesty; there are abundance of women that have no notion of any other, and fancy, that by practising it they discharge all the duties of society: they think they have a right to neglect all the rest, and to be as proud and censorious as they please. Anne of Bretagne, a proud and imperious princess, made Lewis XII. suffer exceedingly; and the good prince was used to say when he submitted to her humour, "we must pay dear for the women's chastity." Make nobody pay for yours; think rather that it is a virtue which regards only yourself, and loses its greatest lustre, if it be not attended with the other virtues.
We should be very tender in our modesty; inward corruption passes from the heart to the mouth, and occasions loose discourse. The most violent passions have need of modesty to show themselves in a seducing form: it should distinguish itself in all your actions; it should set off and embellish all your person.
They say, that when Jove formed the passions, he assigned every one of them its distinct abode. Modesty [Page 182] was forgotten; and when she was introduced to him, he could not tell where to place her; she was therefore allowed to consort with all the rest. Ever since that time, she is inseparable from them▪ she is the friend of truth, and betrays the lie that d [...]res attack it; she is in a strict and intimate union with love: she always attends, and frequently discovers and proclaims it: love, in a word, loses his charms, whenever he appears without her: there is not a more glorious ornament for a young lady than modesty.
Let the chief part of your finery then be modesty: it has great advantages; it sets off beauty, and serves for a veil to ugliness: modesty is the supplement of beauty. The great misfortune of ugliness, is, that it smothers and buries the merit of women. People do not go to look in a forbidding figure for the engaging qualities of the mind and heart; 'tis a very difficult affair, when merit must make its way, and shine through a disagreeable outside.
You do not want graces to make you agreeable; but you are no beauty: this obliges you to lay up a stock of merit: the world will compliment you with nothing. Beauty has great advantages. One of the ancients said of it, that it was ‘a short tyranny, and the greatest privilege in nature; that handsome persons carry letters of recommendation in their looks.’
Beauty inspires a pleasing sentiment, which prepossesses people in its favour. If you have made no such impressions, you must expect to be taken to pieces. Take care that there be nothing in your air or manners to make any body think that you do not know yourself: an air of confidence, in an ordinary figure, is shocking enough. Let nothing in your discourse or dress look like art; at least, let it not be easy to find it out; the most refined art never lets itself be seen.
You are not to neglect the accomplishments and ornaments proper to make you agreeable; for women are designed to please; but you should rather think [Page 183] of acquiring a solid merit, than of employing yourself in trifling things. Nothing is shorter than the reign of beauty▪ nothing is more melancholy than the latter part of the lives of women, who never knew any thing but that they were handsome. If any body makes their court to you for the sake of your agreeable accomplishments, make their regards centre in friendship, and secure the continuance of that friendship by your merits.
'Tis a difficult matter to lay down any sure rules to please. The graces, without merit, cannot please long: and merit, without the graces, may command the esteem of men, but can never move them. Women, therefore, must have an amiable merit, and join the graces to the virtues. I do not confine the merit of women merely to modesty; I give it a much larger extent. A valuable woman exerts the manly virtues of friendship, probity, and honour, in the punctual discharge of all her obligations. An amiable woman should not only have the exterior graces but all the graces of the heart and fine sentiments of the mind. There is nothing so hard as to please, without being so intent upon it, that it shall look a little like coquetry. Women generally please the men of the world more by their faults than their good qualities. The men are for making their advantages of the weaknesses of amiable women: they would have nothing to do with their virtues; they do not care to esteem them; they had much rather be amused by persons of little or no merit, than be forced to admire such as are virtuous.
One must know human nature, if one designs to please. The men are much more affected with what is new, than with what is excellent: but the flower of novelty soon fades; what pleased when it was new, soon displeases when it grows common. To keep up this taste of novelty, we must have a great many resources and various kinds of merit within ourselves; we must not stick only at the agreeable ccomplishments: we must strike their fancy with a variety of graces and merits, to keep up their inclinations, and [Page 184] make the same object afford them all the pleasures of inconstancy.
Women are born with a violent desire to please. As they find themselves barred from all the ways that lead to glory and authority, they take another road to arrive at them, and make themselves amends by their agreeableness. Beauty imposes on the person that has it, and infatuates the soul; yet remember, that there is but a very small number of years difference between a fine woman and one that is no longer so. Get over this excessive desire to please; at least keep from showing it. We must not be extravagant in our dress, or let it take up all our time; the real graces do not depend on a studied finery: we must submit to the mode as a troublesome sort of slavery, but comply with it no more than we are obliged in decency. The mode would be reasonable, if it could be fixed to a point of perfection, convenience, and gracefulness; but to be always changing, is inconstancy, rather than politeness and a good taste.
A good taste avoids all excessive niceness; it treats little things as little ones, and gives itself very little trouble about them. Neatness is, indeed, agreeable, and deserves to be ranked among things that are graceful; but it commences littleness, when it is carried to an excess: it is a much better temper to be careless in things of little consequence, than to be too nice about them.
Young persons are very subject to the spleen; as they are quite destitute of knowledge, they run with eagerness towards sensible objects; their spleen, however, is the least evil they have to dread: excessive joys are no part of the train of virtue. All violent and moving pleasures are dangerous. Though one is discreet enough not to break through the rules of decency, and to keep within the bounds of modesty; yet when the heart is once moved with the pleasure it feels, a sort of softness diffuses itself over the soul, and takes away its relish for every thing that is called virtue; it stops and makes you cool in the practice of your duty. A young person does not see the consequences [Page 185] of this flattering poison, the least mischief of which is to disturb the quiet of life, to deprave the taste, and render all simple pleasure insipid. When one sees a young person happy enough not to have had her heart touched (as there is a natural disposition in us to a union, and this disposition has not been exercised), she easily complies, and gives herself naturally to the person designed for her.
Be very cautious on the article of plays, and the like public diversions. There is no dignity in showing one's self continually, nor is it an easy matter to preserve a strict modesty in a constant hurry of diversions. It is mistaking one's interest to frequent them: If you have beauty, you must not wear out the taste of the world by showing yourself continually: you must be still more reserved if you want graces to set you off; besides, the constant use of diversions lessens the relish of them.
When all your life has been spent in pleasures, and they come to leave you, either because your taste for them is over, or because your reason forbids you the enjoyment of them, your mind finds itself in a most uneasy situation for want of employment. If you would, therefore, have your pleasures and amusements last, use them only as diversions to relieve you after more serious occupations. Entertain yourself with your own reason; keep up that correspondence, and the absence of pleasures will not leave you any time upon your hands, nor any hankering after them.
It behoves us, therefore, to husband our tastes; there is no relishing life without them: but innocence only can preserve them in their integrity; irregularity is sure to deprave them.
When we have found a heart, we make an advantage of every thing, and turn it into a source of pleasures. We come frequently to pleasures with a sick's man's palate: we fancy ourselves nice, when we are only surfeited and out of taste. When we have not spoiled our mind and heart by sentiments that seduce the fancy, or by any flaming passion, it [Page 186] is easy to find delight; health and innocence are the true fountains of joy. But when we have had the misfortune to habituate ourselves to vehement pleasures, we become insensible to moderate ones. We spoil our taste by diversions, and use ourselves so much to violent pleasures, that we cannot take up with such as are simple and regular.
We should always dread such great emotions of the soul as leave us flat and out of sorts. Young persons have the greater reason to fear them, in that they are less capable of resisting what flatters their sense. "Temperance," said one of the ancients, "is the best caterer for luxury." With this temperance, which makes the health both of mind and body, one has always a pleasing and an equal joy; one has no need of diversions and expense; reading, work, and conversation, afford a purer joy than all the train of the greatest pleasures. In a word, innocent delights are of most advantage; they are always ready at hand; they are beneficent, and are never purchased at too dear a rate. Other pleasures flatter, but they do mischief: they alter the constitution of the mind, and spoil it like that of the body.
Be regular in all your views and in all your actions; it would be happy if our fortune was such as to make computation of our income unnecessary; but as yours is narrow, it obliges you to be regular. Be discreet in the article of your expenses; if you do not observe a moderation in them, you will soon see your affairs in disorder: as soon as you lay aside economy, you can answer for nothing.
Pompous living is the high road to ruin; and the ruin of people's fortune is almost always followed with corruption of manners: but in order to be regular, it is no way necessary to be covetous. Remember, that avarice is of little service, and dishonours a person infinitely. All that one should aim at, in a regular management, is to avoid the shame and injustice that always attend an irregular conduct. We must retrench superfluous expenses only to be in a better [Page 187] condition to afford such as decency, friendship, and charity engage us to make.
It is good order, and not the looking into little matters, that turns to any great account. Pliny, when he sent his friend back a bond for a considerable sum which his father owed him, with a general acquittance, told him, ‘I have but a small estate, and am obliged to be at great expenses; but my frugality serves for a fund to supply me wherewith to do the service that I render to my friends.’ Borrow from your fancies and diversions, that you may have something to gratify the sentiments of generosity, which every person of a genteel spirit ought to have.
Never mind the wants that vanity creates. "We must be" they say, "like others;" this like goes a vast way. Have a nobler emulation, and allow nobody [...]o have more honour, probity, and integrity than yourself. Be always sensible of the necessity of virtue: poorness of soul is worse than poverty of fortune.
Whilst you are young, form your reputation; raise your credit; put your affairs in order: you would have more trouble about it in another season of life. Charles the fifth used to say, that ‘fortune loved young folks.’ In the time of youth, all the world offer themselves to you, and lend you a helping hand: young people govern without thinking of it. But in more advanced age, you have no helps from any quarter; you have no longer that bewitching charm which has an influence on every body: you have nothing for you but reason and truth, which do not ordinarily govern the world.
"You are going," said Montaigne to some young people, ‘towards reputation and credit; but I am returning back.’ When you cease to be young, you have no acquisition left you to make, but in point of virtue. In all your undertakings and actions, always aim at the highest perfection; form no project, and set about nothing without saying to yourself, "Could not I do better?" By this means you will [Page 188] insensibly contract a habit of justice and virtue, which will make the practice thereof easier to you. Do what Seneca advised his friend Lucilius: "Choose," said he to him, ‘ [...]mong great men some one that you think is most to be admired: do nothing but in his presence; give him an account of all your actions.’ Happy the man that is esteemed enough to be pitched on for this purpose! This is the more easy, because young folks have a natural disposition to imitation. They run less hazard when they choose their patterns from antiquity, where we generally meet with none but great examples. Among the moderns it may have its inconveniences; the copies of them very rarely succeed. It has been said long ago, that every copy ought to tremble before its original; they never follow it but at a distance: and yet it takes away your natural character, which is generally the truest and the most simple. You are apt to grow negligent as to yourself, when you fix yourself to a model; besides, a great part of our faults come from imitation. Learn then to reverence and stand in awe of yourself: let your scrupulousness be your own censor.
Use all your application to make yourself happy in your station of life; improve all the means you have: you lose a thousand advantages for want of it. It is our attention, and comparing of things, that makes us happy.
The more address and capacity you have, the more will you make of your circumstances, and the more will you extend your pleasures. It is not possession that makes us happy; it is enjoyment; and enjoyment lies in attention.
If people knew how to enjoy themselves in their condition, they would not be troubled either with ambition or envy, and would be blessed with a perfect tranquillity: but we do not live enough in the present moment; our desires and hopes are always pushing us on towards futurity.
There are two sorts of madmen in the world; the one always live upon futurity, and feed themselves [Page 189] with nothing but hopes; and as they are not wise enough to calculate them rightly, they pass their lives in a continual mistake. Reasonable persons are never taken up with any desires, but such as are within their reach: they often gain their point, and though they should be mistaken, they would easily console themselves under the disappointment; they know likewife that our fondness for things wears off upon the possession of them, or ceases upon seeing the impossibility of obtaining what we desire: wise men always make themselves easy with such reflexions. There is another sort of madmen, that make too much of the present, and take no manner of care for futurity; they ruin their fortune, their reputation, and their taste of life, by not managing them discreetly. Men of sense join these two times together; they enjoy the present, and yet do not neglect the future.
It is a duty, my daughter, to employ our time; but what use do we make of it? Few people know how to value it as it deserves. ‘Account to yourself,’ says one of the ancients, ‘for every moment of your time; that after making a just use of the present, you may have less occasion for the future.’ Time flies with rapidity: learn to live, that is, to make a good use of your time; but life is spent too often in vain hopes, in quest of fortune, or in waiting for it. All mankind feel the vanity of their condition, always taken up without being ever satisfied. Remember, that life does not consist in the space of time that you live, but in the use you should make of it: consider, that you have a mind to cultivate and feed with truth—a heart to purify and regulate—and a religious worship to pay to the Deity.
As the first years of life are precious, remember, daughter, to make an advantageous use of them. While the mind easily receives impressions, embellish your memory with valuable things, and consider, that you are laying in a provision for your whole life. The memory is formed and improved by exercising it.
Curiosity is a sentiment that you should not stifle: it wants only to be managed, and placed on a right [Page 190] object. Curiosity is a knowledge begun, which makes you advance farther and quicker in the road of truth: it is a natural disposition that meets instruction halfway: it should not be stopped by laziness and love of ease.
It is very useful for young persons to employ their time in solid sciences; the Greek and Roman history elevate the mind, and raise the courage by the great actions that we see there related. We ought not to be ignorant of the history of our own country. I should not even blame a little philosophy, especially the new, if one has a capacity for it; it helps to give you a clear judgment, to distinguish your ideas, and to teach you to think justly. I would likewise have a little morality: by the bare reading of Cicero, Pliny, and others, one gets a taste for virtue: it makes an insensible impression on us, that is of great advantage to our morals. The inclination to vice is corrected by the example of so many virtues, and you will rarely find an evil disposition have any relish for this sort of reading. We do not love to see what is always upbraiding and condemning us.
As for languages, though a woman ought to be satisfied with speaking that of her own country, I should not thwart the inclination one might have for Latin. It opens you a gate to all the sciences: it lets you into conversation with the best part of the world in all ages. Women are ready enough to learn Italian: but I think it dangerous; it is the language of love: the Italian writers are not very correct; you see in all their works a jingle of words, and a loose imagination, inconsistent with a just way of thinking.
Poetry may produce some inconveniencies: I should however be loth to forbid the reading of the fine tragedies of Corneille: but the best of them often give you lectures of virtue, and leave you an impression of vice.
The reading of romances is still more dangerous: I would not have them much used; they inure the mind to falsehoods. Romances having no foundation of truth to support them, warm the imagination, impair [Page 191] modesty, put the heart in disorder, and if a young person have but the least disposition to tenderness, they hurry on and fire her inclination. One should not increase the charms and delusions of love; the more it is softe [...]ed, and the more modest it appears, the mo [...] dangerous it is. I would not forbid them; all prohibitions intrench upon liberty, and raise the desire: but we should, as much as we are able, use ourselves to so [...]id reading, which improve the understanding a [...]d fortify the heart: we cannot too carefully avoid such as leave impressions [...]ard to be effaced.
Moderate your fondness for extraordinary sciences; they are dangerous, and [...] teach one nothing but a vast deal of vanity: they depress the activity of the soul. If you have a very warm and active imagination, and a curiosity which nothing can stop, it is much better to employ these dispositions in the sciences, than to run the hazard of their being turned to serve your passions: but remember, that a young lady should have almost as nice a modesty in the article of sciences, as she has with regard to vice.
Guard yourself therefore against the inclination of setting up for a virtuoso; do not amuse yourself in running after vain sciences, and such as are above your reach. Our soul is much better qualified for enjoyment than it is for knowledge; we have all the knowledge that is proper and necessary for our well being; but we will not stick there; we are still running after truths that were not designed for us.
Before we engage in enquiries, that are above our capacities, we should know the just extent of our understanding, and what rule we should have for determing our persuasion: we should learn to distinguish between opinion and knowledge, and should have resolution enough to doubt, when we have no clear notion of things, as well as courage to be ignorant of what surpasses us.
The better to prevent a vain opinion of our capacity, and abate a confidence in our understanding, let us consider that the two principles of all our [Page 192] knowledge, reason and the senses, want sincerity, and often deceive us. The senses impose on reason; and reason misleads them in its turn. These are our two guides, and both of them lead us out of the way. Such reflexions should naturally put us out of conceit with abstracted sciences; it is much better for us to employ our time in useful points of knowledge.
Docility is a quality very necessary for a young person, who should never have much confidence in herself: but this docility must not be carried too far. In point of religion, indeed, it must submit to authority; but on any other subject it must receive nothing but from reason and evidence. By carrying docility too far, you do an injury to your reason; you make no use of your own judgment and understanding, which are impared for want of exercise. You set too narrow bounds to your ideas, when you confine them to those of other people. The testimony of men only deserves credit in proportion to the degree of certainty which they have acquired by examining into facts. There lies no prescription against truth: it is for all persons and all times. In a word, as a great man says, ‘To be a christian, one must believe implicitly: but to be a wise man, one must see clearly.’
Accustom yourself to exercise your understanding, and make more use of it than of your memory. We [...]ll our heads with the notions of other people, and take no care to form any of our own. We fancy that we have made a great progress, when we load our memory with histories and facts; but this is of very little service to perfect our understanding. We must use ourselves to thinking. The understanding extends and improves itself by exercise; yet few persons take care to exert i [...].
Among our sex the art of thinking is a sort of dormant talent. Historical facts, and the opinions of philosophers, will not defend you against a calamity that presses you: you will not find yourself much the stronger for them. When an affliction comes upon you, you have recourse to Seneca and Epictetus: [Page 193] Is it for their reason to give you consolation? Is it not rather the business of your own? Make use of your own stock; in the calm of life, make a proper provision against the time of affliction, which you are sure to meet with: you will find yourself much better supported by your own reason than by that of other people.
If you can govern your imagination, and make it submit to reason and truth, it will be a great step towards your perfection and happiness. Women are generally governed by their imagination; as they are not employed in any thing solid, and are not in the course of their lives troubled either with the care of their fortune, or the management of their affairs, they give themselves up entirely to their pleasures. Plays, dress, romances, and inclinations, all depend upon imagination. I know well enough, that if you keep it within due bounds, you take so much off from your pleasures; for imagination is the source of them; and the things that please us most, derive from her the charm and illusion in which all their agreeableness consists: but for one pleasure of her creating, what evils doth she not make us suffer? She stands continually between truth and us: Reason dares not show herself, where imagination bears the sway. We see only as she pleases; and those that are led by her, know what they suffer from her by woful experience. It would be a very happy composition to make with her, to give her back all her pleasures on condition that she made you feel none of her pains: in a word, there is nothing so inconsistent with happiness, as a fine, lively, and too heated imagination.
Possess yourself with a true notion of things, and take not up with the sentiments of the people: form your own judgment without giving into received opinions, and get over the prejudices of your infancy. When you feel yourself under any uneasiness, take the following method: I have found the use of it: Examine into the occasion of your trouble; strip it of all the disguise that is about it, and of all the embroidery [Page 194] of imagination, and you will find that it is generally nothing at all, or at least great allowances are to be made. Value things only according to their real worth. We have a great deal more reason to complain of our false notions than of our fortune; it is very frequently not so much things that hurt us, as the opinion we have of them.
In order to be happy, we must think rightly: we owe a great respect to the common opinions, when they concern religion; but we ought to think very differently from the vulgar in what regards morality and the happiness of life. By the vulgar, I mean every body that has a low and vulgar way of thinking; the court is filled with such sort of creatures; and the world talks of nothing but fortune and credit; all the cry there is, ‘Go on, make haste forward;’ whereas wisdom says, ‘Take up with simple things; choose an obscure but quiet life; get out of the hurry of the world; avoid a croud.’ Fame is not all the recompense of virtue; the main part of it lies in the testimony of your own conscience. A great virtue is surely enough to comfort you for the loss of a little glory.
Be assured, that the greatest science is to know how to be independent. "I have learnt," said one of the ancients, ‘to be my own friend, so I shall never be alone.’ You must provide yourself some resources against the inquietudes of life, and some equivalent for the goods you had depended on. Secure yourself a retreat and a place of refuge in your own breast; you can always return thither, and be sure to find yourself again. When the world is less necessary to you, it will have less power over you: when you do not, by some solid inclinations place your dependence on yourself, you depend upon every thing else.
Use yourself to solitude: there is nothing more useful and necessary to weaken the impression that sensible objects make upon us. You should therefore from time to time retire from the world to be alone. Assign some hours in the day for reading, and for [Page 195] making your own reflexions. "Reflexion," says a father of the church, ‘is the eye of the soul; it lets light and truth into it.’ — ‘I will lead him into solitude,’ says wisdom, ‘and there I will speak to his heart.’ It is there, indeed, where truth gives her instructions; where prejudices vanish, where prepossession wears off, and where opinion, that governs all, begins to lose its influence. When one considers the uselessness and insignificancy of life, one is forced to say with Pliny, ‘It is much better to pass one's life in doing nothing at all, than in doing trifles of nothing.’
I have told you already, daughter, that happiness consists in peace of mind: you cannot enjoy the pleasures of the mind without health of mind: every thing almost is a pleasure to a sound mind. If you would live with tranquillity, these are the rules you are to observe. The first is, not to give yourself up to things that please; to use them only occasionally; not to expect too much from the men, for fear of being disappointed; to be your own principal friend. Solitude too will insure you tranquillity, and is a friend to wisdom: it is within you, that peace and truth take up their abode. Avoid the great world; there is no security in it; it always awakens some sentiment or other that we had almost crushed; there are but too many people in it that encourage looseness; the more one converses with it, the more authority do one's passions gain: it is hard to resist the attack of vice, when it comes so well attended: in a word, one comes back from it much weaker, less modest, and more unjust, for having been among the men. The world easily instils its poison into tender souls. We should likewise shut up all the avenues to the passions; it is much easier to keep them off, than vanquish them; and though one should be happy enough to banish them, yet from the time that they made their impression, they make us pay dear for their abode. The first motions of them is what cannot be refused to nature; but she often carries her influence too far; and when you come to yourself again, you find abundant reason to repent.
[Page 196]One should always have some resources and last shifts: calculate your strength and your courage; and for this end, in all cases where you have any apprehensions, consider every thing at the worst. Wait for the misfortune that may happen to you with firmness: look it bravely in the face; view it in all its most terrible circumstances, and do not l [...]t yourself sink under it.
A favourite, raised to the height of grandeur, was showing his riches to a friend. As he took out a box, he said to him, ‘Here it is that my treasure lies.’ His friend pressed him to show it him, and he allowed him to open the box: there was nothing in it but an old ragged coat. His friend seemed surprised at it: the favourite said to him, ‘When fortune shall send me back to my original condition, I am ready for it.’ What a noble resource it is to consider every thing at the worst, and feel fortitude enough in one's self to stand the shock!
How strongly soever you wish for any thing, begin with examining the thing you wish: set before your eyes the good which it promises you, and the evils that follow it: remember the passage of Horace, ‘Pleasure goes before you, but keeps her retinue out of sight.’ You will cease to fear, as soon as ever you cease to desire. Depend upon it a wise man does not run after felicity, but makes his own happiness: it must be your own doing, and it is in your own power. Remember, that a very small matter will serve for all the real wants of life; but there must be an infinite deal to satisfy the imaginary wants of opinion; and that you will much sooner reduce your desires to the level of your fortune, than raise your fortune to the level of your desires. If honours and riches could satiate us, we might heap them up; but the thirst of them increases by acquiring them: he that desires most, is certainly the most indigent.
Young persons live upon hope. M. de la Rochefoucault says, ‘that it carries one an agreeable road to the end of life.’ It would be, indeed, short enough, if hope did not lengthen it; it is a very comfortable [Page 197] sentiment, but may prove dangerous, by occasioning you often a great many disappointments. The least evil that happens from it is, that we often lose what we possess, by waiting for what we desire.
Our self-love makes us blind to ourselves, and diminishes all our defects. We live with them as we do with the perfumes that we wear; we do not smell them; they only incommode others: to see them in their right light we must see them in other people. View your own [...]mperfections with the same eyes with which you view those of others: be always exact in keeping to this rule: it will accustom you to equity. Examine your own nature, and make the best of your defects: there is none of them but may be tacked to some virtues, and be made to favour them. Morality does not propose to destroy nature, but to perfect it. Are you vain-glorious? Make use of that sentiment to raise yourself above the weaknesses of your sex, and to avoid the faults that abase it. Every unruly passion has a pain and shame annexed to it, which solicit you to quit it. Are you timorous? Turn that weakness into prudence; let it keep you from exposing yourself. Are you lavish? Do you love to give? It is easy to turn prodigality into generosity. Give with choice and judgment; but do not neglect indifferent people: lend when it is necessary; but give to such as cannot return your kindness; by so doing you strike in with your inclination, and do good actions: there is no weakness, but, if you please, virtue can make a good use of it.
In the afflictions which befal you, and whic [...] make you sensible of your little stock of merit, instead of fretting and opposing the opinion that you have of yourself to the injustice which you pretend has been done you, consider that the persons who are the authors of it are better able to judge of you than you are yourself; that you should sooner believe them than self-love, which always flatters; and that with regard to what concerns yourself, your enemy is nearer truth than you are: that you should have no merit in your own eyes, but what you have in other [Page 198] people's. One has too great a disposition to flatter one's self, and men are too near themselves, to judge impartially in the case.
These are general precepts for opposing the vices of the mind: but your first care should be to perfect your heart and your sentiments: it depends on your heart to make your virtue sure and lasting; it is properly that which forms your character; and to make yourself mistress of it, observe this method. When you feel yourself agitated with a strong and violent passion, desire it to allow you a little time, and compound with your weakness. If, without hearing it a moment, you are for sacrificing every thing to your reason and your duty, there is room to fear that your passion may rebel, and grow stronger than ever. You are under its command, and must manage it with address: you will receive more help than you think, from such a conduct: you will find some sure remedies even in your passion. If it be that of hatred, you will see that you have not altogether so much reason to hate and revenge yourself, as you at first imagined. If, by misfortune, it be the contrary sentiment that has seized you, there is no passion which furnishes you surer remedies against itself.
If your heart has the misfortune to be attacked by love, these are the remedies to stop its progress: think that its pleasures are neither solid nor constant; they quit you; and if this was all the harm they would do you, 'tis enough. In passions, the soul proposes itself an object, and is more intimately united to it either by desire or enjoymemt, than it is to its own being; it places all its felicity in its possession, and all its misery in the loss of the object. Yet this felicity of the imagination, this good of the soul's choice, is neither solid nor lasting: it depends upon others; it depends upon yourself; and you cannot answer either for others or for yourself.
Love, in the beginning, offers you nothing but flowers, and hides all the danger from you; it imposes on you; it always takes some form which is not its own: the heart being in secret intelligence with [Page 199] it, conceals its inclination from you, for fear of alarming your reason and modesty. You fancy it a mere amusement; it is only the person's wit or good sense that pleases us. In a word, love is almost always unknown, till he has got the mastery. As soon as he comes to be felt, fly that instant, and hearken not to the complaints of your heart. Love is not rooted out of the soul with ordinary efforts; it has too many partizans within us: as soon as it has surprised you, every thing is on its side against you, and nothing will serve you against love. It is the most cruel situation a rational person can be in— where there is nothing to support you—where you have no spectator but yourself. You must summon up your courage immediately; and remember, that you must make a much more sorrowful use of it, if you yield to your passion in the least.
Reflect upon the fatal consequences of passions, and you will find but too many examples to instruct you: but we are often convinced of our mistake, without being cured of our passion. Reckon up, if possible, the evils that flow from love: it imposes on the reason; it fills the soul and the senses with trouble; it takes away the flower of innocence; it stuns virtue; it blasts the reputation, shame being almost always the consequence of love. Nothing debases you to such a degree, and sinks you so much below yourself, as the passions. They degrade you: there is nothing but reason that can maintain your dignity. It is far more unhappy to stand in need of one's courage to bear a misfortune, than to avoid it. The pleasure of doing one's duty is a comfort to you; but never applaud yourself, for fear of being humbled. Remember, that you carry your enemy about with you; adhere strictly to a conduct that may answer for you to yourself. Avoid plays and passionate representations; you must not see what you would not feel; music, poetry, all this is of the retinue of sensual pleasure. Use yourself to reading on solid subjects, to fortify your reason.
Do not converse with your imagination. It will [Page 200] paint love to you with all its charms. It is all seduction and illusion, when she makes the representation: there is always a great drawback, when you quit her to come to the reality. St. Augustine has given us a description of his condition, when he was inclined to quit love and pleasures. He says, that what he loved, presented itself to him under a charming figure: he represents what passed in his heart in such moving terms, that there is no reading it without danger. One must pass slightly over the pictures of pleasure; she is always to be feared, even at the very time we are taking measures against her; and when we are fullest of the disasters she has occasioned, we are still to mistrust ourselves. The passion is apt to get ground by the examining of one's self; forgetfulness is the only security to be taken against love. You must call yourself seriously to account, and say, ‘What do I mean to do with the inclination that is seizing me? Are not such and such misfortunes sure to attend me, if I have the weakness to yield to it?’
Borrow forces and succour from your enemy and the very nature of love. If you would not flatter him, he will supply you with them. Strip him of all the charms that your fancy gives him; lend him nothing; give him no favour; and you will see he will have but little left.—After this, think no more of him; take a firm resolution to fly from him; and depend-upon it, we are as strong as we resolve to be. Diversion and simple amusements are necessary; but we must shun all pleasures that affect the heart.
It is not always our faults that ruin us, but the manner of our conduct, after we have committed them. An humble acknowledgment of our faults disarms resentment, and stops the violence of anger. Women that have had the misfortune to deviate from their duty, to break through decorum, to part with their virtue and modesty, owe so much regard to custom, and ought to have such a sense of their breach of chastity, as to appear with a mortified air. It is a sort of satisfaction that the public expect from [Page 201] them; they are sure to remember your faults, whenever you appear to forget them. Repentance insures a change of your conduct; prevent the malignity which is natural to mankind; put yourself in the place that their pride allots you; they would have you humbled; and when you have made yourself so to their hands, they will have no more to say to you: but she that is proud after committing faults, calls them to mind, and makes them immortal.
Let us now pass, my daughter, to the social duties. I thought I was in the first place to draw you out of the common education and the prejudices of childhood, and that it was necessary to fortify your reason, and give you some solid principles to support you. I thought most of the disorders of life were owing to false opinions; that false opinions produced loose sentiments; and that when the understanding is not enlightened, the heart is exposed to passions; that there must be some truths fixed in the mind to preserve us from error; and that one must have some sentiments in the heart to keep out the passions. When you have once a knowledge of truth, and a love for justice, there is no danger of all the other virtues.
The first duty of civil life is to take care of others; such as live only for themselves, fall into contempt, and are neglected by every body. If you require too much from others, they will refuse you every thing, their friendship, their affections, and their services. Civil life is a mutual intercourse of good offices: the most valuable part of mankind go still further: by promoting the happiness of others, you insure your own; 'tis the truest politics to think in this manner.
Nothing can be more odious than people that make every body see that they live only for themselves. An extravagant self-love is the source of great crimes; some degrees lower it occasions vices: but let there be ever so little a spice of it in a person, it impairs all the virtues and charms of society.
'Tis impossible to make a friendship with persons who have a predominant self-love, and take care to show it: and yet we can nver strip ourselves of it entirely; [Page 202] as long as we are attached to life, we shall be attached to ourselves.
But there is a qualified self-love that is not exercised at the expense of others.
We fancy we exalt ourselves by depressing [...] equals: this makes us censorious and envious. Good [...] nature turns to more account than maligni [...]y. Do good when it is in your power; speak well of all the world, and never judge with rigour. Such acts of goodness and generosity, frequently repeated, will gain you at least a great and excellent reputation. All the world is engaged to commend you, to extenuate your defects, and enhance your good qualities. You should found your reputation upon your own virtues, and not upon the demerit of others: consider that their good qualities take nothing at all from you, and that the diminution of your reputation can be imputed to no body but yourself.
One of the things that contributes most to make us unhappy, is, that we depend too much upon the men; 'tis the source too of our injustice. We pick quarrels with them, not on account of what they owe us, or of what they have promised us, but on account of what we have hoped from them. We depend absolutely upon our hopes, which occasion us abundance of disappointments.
Be not rash in your judgments and give no ear to calumnies: never give in to the first appearance of things, nor be in haste to condemn any body. Remember that there are things probable which are not true, as there are things true, which are not probable.
We should, in our private judgments, imitate the equity of solemn judgments. Judges never decide without having examined, heard, and confronted the witnesses with the parties concerned. But we, without any commission, set up for umpires of reputation: and every proof is sufficient, every authority appears good, when the business is to condemn. Prompted by our natural malignity, we fancy that we give ourselves what we take away from others: hence arise [Page 203] animosities and enmities; for every thing is sure to be known.
Be equitable, therefore, in your judgments; the same justice that you do to others, they will return to you. Would you have them think and speak well of you, never speak ill of any body.
Civility, which is an imitation of charity, is another of the social virtues: it puts you above others, when you have it in a more eminent degree; but it is practised and maintained at the expense of self-love. Civility is always borrowing something from yourself, and turning it to the advantage of others. 'Tis one of the great bonds of society, and the only quality that makes one safe and easy in the intercourse of life.
We naturally love to govern; 'tis an unjust inclination. Whence have we our right to pretend to exalt ourselves above others? There is but one just and allowable superiority; 'tis that which virtue gives you; have more goodness and generosity than others: be beforehand with them, more in services than benefits; 'tis the way to raise yourself. A great disinterestedness makes you as independent, and raises you higher than the amplest fortune: nothing sinks us so much, as a fondness for our own interest.
The qualities of the heart have the greatest concern in the commerce of life. The understanding does not endear us to others; and you frequently see men very odious with great parts; they are for giving you a good opinion of themselves; they are for getting an ascendant over and depressing others.
Though humility has only been considered as a christian virtue, it must be owned to be a social virtue; and so necessary a one, that without it, 'tis a very ticklish matter to have to do with you. 'Tis the conceit that you have of yourself, which makes you maintain your rights with so much arrogance, and intrench on those of other people.
We must never be strict in calling any body to account. Exact civility does not insist on all that is due to you. Do not be afraid of being before-hand [Page 204] with your friends: if you have a mind to be a true friend, never insist on any thing too stiffly; but that your behaviour may not be inconsistent, as it expresses your inward disposition, make often serious reflexions on your weaknesses, and take yourself to pieces. This examination will make you entertain sentiments of humility for yourself, and of indulgence with regard to others.
Be humble without being bashful. Shame is a secret pride; and pride is an error with regard to one's own worth, and an injustice with regard to what one has a mind to appear to others.
Reputation is an advantage very desirable; but it is a weakness to court it with too much ardour, and do nothing but with a view to it. We ought to content ourselves with deserving it. We should not discourage sensibility for glory; 'tis the surest help we have to virtue; but the business is to make choice of true glory.
Accustom yourself to see what is above you without either admiration or envy; and what is below you without contempt. Do not let the pomp of greatness impose on you. None but little souls fall down and worship grandeur. Admiration is only due to virtue.
To use yourself to value men by their proper qualities, consider the condition of a person loaded with honours, dignities, and riches, who seems to want nothing at all, but really wants every thing, by being destitute of true goods, of those internal qualities that are necessary to the enjoyment and use of them. He suffers as much as if his poverty was real, so long as he has the sense of poverty, and is wishing for more. "There is nothing worse," says one of the ancients, ‘than poverty in the midst of riches, because the evil lies in the mind.’ The man that is in this situation, feels all the evils of opinion, without enjoying the goods of fortune. He is blinded by error, and tormented by his passions: while a reasonable person, who has nothing at all, but substitutes wise and solid reflexions to supply the place of riches and [Page 205] honours, enjoys a tranquillity which nothing can equal. The happiness of the one, and the misery of the other, come only from their different manner of thinking.
If you find yourself disposed to resentment and revenge, strive to keep down that sentiment; there is nothing so mean as to revenge one's self. If you meet with ill-treatment from any body, you owe them only contempt; 'tis a debt easy to be paid. If they have offended you only in slight matters, you owe them indulgence: but there are certain seasons in life, when you must meet with injuries—seasons when the friends for whom you have done most, fall foul upon and condemn you: in such a case, after having done all you can, to undeceive them, do not be obstinate in disputing with them. One ought to court the esteem of one's friends: but when you find people that will only view you through their prejudices▪ when you have disputes with such hot and fiery imaginations as will admit of nothing but what favours their injustice, you have nothing to do but retire and set your heart at rest. Do what you will, you'll get nothing from them but discontent. When you thus suffer from their ill-usage and shame of recanting, comfort yourself in your innocence, and the assurance that you have not offended. Think, that if your worth was not greater at the time they raised you, it is not at all less now they are for crushing you: you should, without being more mortified at it, pity them, and not be exasperated, if possible, but say, ‘They see in a wrong light.’ Consider that with good qualities one may at least get over resentment and envy. Let the hopes you draw from virtue, keep up your courage, and be your consolation.
Do not think of revenging yourself any way but by using more moderation in your conduct, than those that attack you, have malice. None but sublime souls are touched with the glory of pardoning injuries.
Set yourself to deserve your own esteem, the better to console yourself for the esteem which others deny you. You can allow yourself but one sort of vengeance; [Page 206] 'tis that of doing good to such as have offended you: 'tis the most exquisite revenge, and the only one that is allowable. You gratify your passion, and you intrench upon no virtue. Cesar has set us an example of it. His lieutenant Labienus deserted from him at a time that he stood in most need of him, and went over to Pompey, leaving great riches in Cesar's camp. Cesar sent them after him, with a message to tell him, ‘that was the manner of Cesar's revenge.’
'Tis prudent to make a good use of other people's faults, even when they do us mischief; but very often they only begin the wrongs, and we finish them; they give us indeed a right against themselves, but we make an ill use of it: we are for taking too much advantage of their faults. This is an injustice and a violence that makes the standers-by against us. If we suffered with moderation, all the world would be for us, and the faults of those that attack us, would be doubled by our patience.
When you know that your friends have not treated you as they ought, take no notice of it. As soon as ever you show that you perceive it, their malignity increases, and you give a loose to their hatred: whereas by dissembling it, you flatter their self-love; they enjoy the pleasure of imposing on you; they fancy themselves your superiors, as long as they are not discovered; they triumph in your mistake, and feel another pleasure in not ruining you quite. By not letting them see that you know them, you give them time to repent and come to themselves; and there needs nothing but a seasonable piece of service, and a different manner of taking things, to make them more attached to you than ever.
Be inviolable in your word. But to gain it an entire confidence, remember that you must be extremely scrupulous in keeping it. Show your regard to truth even in things indifferent; and consider that there is nothing so despicable as to deviate from it. 'Tis a common saying, that lying shows that people despise God, and stand in fear of man; and that the man [Page 207] who speaks truth, and does good, resembles the Diety. We should likewise avoid swearing; the bare word of an honest person should have all the credit and authority of an oath.
Politeness is a desire of pleasing: nature gives it, education and the world improve it. Politeness is a supplement to virtue. They say it came into the world, when that daughter of heaven abandoned it. In ruder times, when virtue bore a greater sway, they knew less of politeness: it came in with voluptuousness; it is the daughter of luxury and delicacy. It has been disputed, whether it approaches nearest to vice or virtue. Without pretending to decide the question, or define politeness: may I be allowed to speak my sentiments of it? I take it to be one of the greatest bonds of society, as it contributes most to the peace of it; 'tis a preparation to charity, and an imitation, too, of humility. True politeness is modest; and, as it aims to please, it knows that the way to carry its point, is to show that we do not prefer ourselves to others, but give them the first rank in our esteem.
Pride keeps us off from society: our self-love gives us a peculiar rank, which is always disputed with us. Such a high esteem of ourselves, as makes others feel it, is almost always punished with an universal contempt. Politeness is the art of reconciling agreeably what we owe to others, and what one owes to one's self; for these duties have their bounds, which when they exceed, 'tis flattery with regard to others, and pride with regard to yourself. It is the most seducing quality in nature.
The most polite persons have generally a good deal of sweetness in their conversation, and engaging qualities: 'tis the girdle of Venus; it sets off, and gives graces and charms to all that wear it; and with it, you cannot fail to please.
There are several degrees of politeness. You carry it to a higher point in proportion to the delicacy of your way of thinking. It distinguishes itself in all your behaviour, in your conversation, and even in your silence.
[Page 208]Perfect politeness forbids us to display our parts and talents with assurance; it even borders upon cruelty, to show one's self happy when we have certain misfortunes before our eyes. Conversation in the world is enough to polish our outward behaviour; but there must be a good deal of delicacy to form a politeness of mind. A nice politeness, formed with art and taste, will make the world excuse you a great many failings, and improve your good qualities. Such as are defective in point of behaviour, have the greater need of solid qualities, and make slower advances in gaining a reputation. In a word, politeness costs but little, and is of vast advantage.
Silence always becomes a young person. There is a modesty and dignity in keeping it; you sit in judgment upon others, and run no hazard yourself. But guard yourself against a proud and insulting silence; it should be the result of your prudence, and not the consequence of your pride. But as there is no holding our peace always, it is fit for us to know, that the principal rule for speaking well, is to think well.
When your notions are clear and distinct, your discourse will be so too; let a proper decorum and modesty run through it. In all your discourses, pay a regard to received customs and prejudices. Expressions declare the sentiments of the heart, and the sentiments form the behaviour.
Be particularly careful not to set up for a joker; 'tis an ill part to act; and by making others laugh, we seldom make ourselves esteemed. Pay a great deal more attention to others, than to yourself, and think how to set them out, rather than to shine yourself. We should learn how to listen to other people's discourse, and not betray an absence of mind either by our eyes or our manner. Never dwell upon stories. If you chance to tell any, do it in a genteel and close manner; let what you say be new, or at least give it a new turn. The world is full of people, that are dinning things into your ears, without saying any thing to entertain the mind. Whenever we speak, we should take care either to please or [Page 209] instruct. When you call for the attention of the company, you should make them amends by the agr [...] ableness of what you say. An indifferent discourse cannot be too short.
You may approve what you hear; but should very seldom admire it: admiration is proper to blockheads. Never let your discourse have an air of art and cunning; the greatest prudence lies in speaking little, and showing more diffidence of one's self, than of other people. An upright conduct, and a reputation for probity, gains more confidence and esteem, and, at the long-run, more advantages, too, in point of fortune, than any by-ways. Nothing makes you so worthy of the greatest matters, and raises you so much [...]bove others, as an exact probity.
Use yourself to treat your servants with kindness and humanity. 'Tis a saying of one of the ancients, "that we ought to consider them as unhappy friends." Remember that the vast difference between you and them, is owing merely to chance—never make them uneasy in their state of life, or add weight to the trouble of it. There is nothing so poor and mean as to be haughty to any body that is in your service.
Never use any harsh language. It should never come out of the mouth of a delicate and polite person. Servitude being settled in opposition to the natural equality of mankind, it behoves us to soften it. What right have we to expect our servants should be without faults, when we give them instances every day of our own? Let us rather bear with them. When you show yourself in all your humours and fits of passion (for we often lay ourselves open before our servants) how do you expose yourself to them? (an you have any right afterwards to reprimand them? A mean familiarity with them is indeed ever to be avoided; but you owe them assistance, advice, and bounties suitable to their condition and wants.
One should keep up authority in one's family; but it should be a mild authority. We should not indeed always threaten without punishing, for fear of bringing our threats into contempt: but we should not [Page 210] call in authority, till persuasion has failed. Remember, that humanity and christianity put all the world on the same foot. The impatience and heat of youth, joined to the false notion they give you of yourself, make you look upon your servants as creatures of a different species; but how contrary are such sentiments to the modesty that you owe to yourself, and the humanity you owe to others!
Never relish or encourage the flattery of servants; and to prevent the impression which their fawning speeches, frequently repeated, may make upon you, consider that they are hirelings paid to serve your weaknesses and pride.
If by misfortune, daughter, you should not think fit to follow my advice and precepts, though they be lost upon you, they will still be useful to myself, as laying me under new obligations. These reflexions are fresh engagements to me to exert myself in the way of virtue. I fortify my reason even against myself; for I am now under a necessity of following it, or else I expose myself to the shame of having known it, and yet been false to it.
There is nothing, my daughter, more mortifying than to write upon subjects that put me in mind of all my faults. By laying them open to you, I give up my right to reprimand you; I furnish you with arms against myself. And I allow you freely to use them, if you see any vices in me inconsistent with the virtues that I recommend to you; for all advice and precepts want authority, when they are not supported by example.
THE LADIES' LIBRARY. Letter on the Government of the Temper. To a young Lady.
A great Point of Importance to your future happiness, my dear, is what your parents have, doubtless, been continually attentive to from your infancy, as it is impossible to undertake it too early— I mean the due regulation of your temper. Though you are in a great measure indebted to their forming hands for whatever is good in it, you are sensible, no doubt, as every human creature is, of propensities to some infirmity of temper, which it must now be your own care to correct and to subdue; otherwise the pains that have hitherto been taken with you, may all become fruitless: and, when you are your own mistress, you may relapse into those faults, which were originally in your nature, and which will require to be diligently watched and kept under, through the whole course of your life.
If you consider, that the constant tenor of the gospel precepts is to promote love, peace, and good-will among men, you will not doubt that the cultivation of an amiable disposition is a great part of your religious duty; since nothing leads more directly to the breach of charity, and to the injury and molestation [Page 212] of our fellow-creatures, than the indulgence of an ill temper. Do not, therefore, think lightly of the offences you may commit, for want of a due command over it, or suppose yourself responsible for them to your fellow-creatures only; but be assured, you must give a strict account of them all to the Supreme Governor of the world, who has made this a great part of your appointed trial upon earth.
A woman, bred up in a religious manner, placed above the reach of want, and out of the way of sordid and scandalous vices, can have but few temptations to the flagrant breach of the divine laws. It particularly concerns her, therefore, to understand them in their full import, and to consider, how far she trespasses against them, by such actions as appear trivial, when compared with murder, adultery, and theft, but which become of very great importance, by being frequently repeated, and occurring in the daily transactions of life.
The principal virtues or vices of a woman must be of a private and domestic kind. Within the circle of her own family and dependants lies her sphere of action—the scene of almost all those tasks and trials, which must determine her character, and her fate here, and hereafter. Reflect for a moment, how much the happiness of her husband, children, and servants, must depend on her temper; and you will see that the greatest good, or evil, which she ever may have in her power to do, may rise from her correcting or indulging its infirmities.
Though I wish the principle of duty towards God to be your ruling motive in the exercise of every virtue, yet, as human nature stands in need of all possible helps, let us not forget how essential it is to present happiness, and to the enjoyment of this life, to cultivate such a temper as is likewise indispensably requisite to the attainment of higher felicity in the life to come. The greatest outward blessings cannot afford enjoyment to a mind ruffled and uneasy within itself. A fit of ill-humour will spoil the finest entertainment, and is as real a torment as the [Page 213] most painful disease. Another unavoidable consequence of ill-temper is the dislike and aversion of all who are witnesses to it, and, perhaps, the deep and lasting resentment of those, who suffer from its effects. We all, from social or self-love, earnestly desire the esteem and affection of our fellow-creatures; and indeed our condition makes them so necessary to us, that the wretch, who has forfeited them, must feel desolate and undone, deprived of all the best enjoyments and comforts the world can afford, and given up to his inward misery, unpitied and scorned. But this can never be the fate of a good-natured person: whatever faults he may have, they will generally be treated with lenity; he will find an advocate in every humane heart; his errors will be lamented rather than abhorred; and his virtues will be viewed in the fairest point of light: his good-humour, without the help of great talents or acquirements, will make his company preferable to that of the most brilliant genius, in whom this quality is wanting: in short, it is almost impossible that you can be sincerely beloved by any body, without this engaging property, whatever other excellencies you may possess: but, with it, you will scarcely fail of finding some friends and favourers, even though you should be destitute of almost every other advantage.
Perhaps you will say, ‘all this is very true, but our tempers are not in our own power—we are made with different dispositions, and, if mine is not not amiable, it is rather my unhappiness than my fault.’ This, my dear, is commonly said by those who will not take the trouble to correct themselves. Yet be assured, it it a delusion, and will not avail in our justification before him. ‘who knoweth whereof we are made,’ and of what we are capable. it is true, we are not all equally happy in our dispositions: but human virtue consists in cherishing and cultivating every good inclination, and in checking and subduing every propensity to evil. If you had been born with a bad temper, it might have been made a good one, at least with regard to its [Page 214] outward effects, by education, reason, and principle: and, though you are so happy as to have a good one while young, do not suppose it will always continue so, if you neglect to maintain a proper command over it. Power, sickness, disappointments or worldly cares, [...]ay corrupt and embitter the finest disposition, if they are not counteracted by reason and religion.
It is observed, that every temper is inclined, in some degree, either to passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. Many are so unfortunate as to be inclined to each of the three in turn: it is necessary, therefore, to watch the bent of our nature, and to apply the remedies proper for the infirmity to which we are most liable. With regard to the first, it is so injurious to society, and so odious in itself, especially in the female character, that one would think shame alone would be sufficient to preserve a young woman from giving way to it; for it is as unbecoming her character to be betrayed into ill behaviour by passion as by intoxication; and she ought to be ashamed of the one, as much as of the other. Gentleness, meekness, and patience, are her peculiar distinctions; and an enraged woman is one of the most disgusting sights in nature.
It is plain, from experience, that the most passionate people can command themselves, when they have a motive sufficiently strong—such as the presence of those they fear, or to whom they particularly desire to recommend themselves: it is therefore no excuse to persons, whom you have injured by unkind reproaches, and unjust aspersions, to tell them you were in a passion: the allowing yourself to speak to them in a passion, is a proof of an insolent disrespect, which the meanest of your fellow-creatures would have a right to resent. When once you find yourself heated so far as to desire to say what you know would be provoking and wounding to another, you should immediately resolve either to be silent, or to quit the room, rather than give utterance to any thing dictated by so bad an inclination. Be assured, [Page 215] you are then unfit to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason from others. It is therefore your part to retire from such an occasion of sin; and wait till you are cool, before you presume to judge of what has passed. By accustoming yourself thus to conquer and disappoint your anger, you will by degrees, find it grow weak and manageable, so as to leave your reason at liberty. You will be able to restrain your tongue from evil, and your looks and gestures from all expressions of violence and ill-will. Pride, which produces so many evils in the human mind, is the great source of passion. Whoever cultivates in himself a proper humility, a due sense of his own faults and insufficiencies, and a due respect for others, will find but small temptation to violent or unreasonable anger.
In the case of real injuries, which justify and call for resentment, there is a noble and generous kind of anger, a proper and necessary part of our nature, which has nothing in it sinful or degrading. I would not wish you insensible to this; for the person, who feels not an injury, must be incapable of being properly affected by benefits. With those, who treat you ill without provocation, you ought to maintain your own dignity. But, in order to do this, while you show a sense of their improper behaviour, you must preserve calmness and even good-breeding—and thereby convince them of the impotence, as well as injustice of their malice. You must also weigh every circumstance with candour and charity, and consider whether your showing the resentment deserved, may not produce ill consequences to innocent persons—as is almost always the case in family quarrels—and whether it may not occasion the breach of some duty, or necessary connexion, to which you ought to sacrifice even your just resentments. Above all things, take care that a particular offence to you does not make you unjust to the general character of the offending person. Generous anger does not preclude esteem for what is really estimable, nor does it destroy good will to the person of its object: it even inspires [Page 216] the desire of overcoming him by benefits, and wishes to inflict no other punishment than the regret of having injured one, who deserved his kindness: it is always placable, and ready to be reconciled, as soon as the offender is convinced of his error; nor can any subsequent injury provoke it to recur to past disobligations, which had been once forgiven. But it is perhaps unnecessary to give rules for this case.— The consciousness of injured innocence naturally produces dignity, and usually prevents excess of anger. Our passion is most unruly, when we are conscious of blame, and when we apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to contempt. Where we know we have been wrong, the least injustice in the degree of blame imputed to us, excites our bitterest resentment; but, where we know ourselves faultless, the sharpest accusation excites pity or contempt, rather than rage. Whenever therefore you feel yourself very angry, suspect yourself to be in the wrong, and resolve to stand the decision of your own conscience before you cast upon another the punishment, which is perhaps due to yourself. This self-examination will at least give you time to cool, and, if you are just, will dispose you to balance your own wrong with that of your antagonist, and to settle the account with him on equal terms.
Peeveshness, though not so violent and fatal in its immediate effects, is still more unamiable than passion, and, if possible, more destructive of happiness, in as much as it operates more continually. Though the fretful man injures us less, he disgusts us more than the passionate one— because he betrays a low and little mind, intent on trifles, and engrossed by paltry self-love, which knows not how to bear the very apprehension of any inconvenience. It is self-love then, which we must combat, when we find ourselves assaulted by this infirmity; and by voluntarily enduring inconveniencies, we shall habituate ourselves to bear them with ease, and good humour, when occasioned by others. Perhaps this is the best kind of religious mortification, as the chief end of denying ourselves [Page 217] any innocent indulgences must be to acquire a habit of command over our passions and inclinations, particularly such as are likely to lead us into evil. Another method of conquering this enemy is to abstract our minds from that attention to trifling circumstances, which usually creates this uneasiness. Those who are engaged in high and important pursuits are very little affected by small inconveniences. The man whose head is full of studious thought or whose heart is full of care, will eat his dinner without knowing whether it was well or ill dressed, or whether it was served punctually at the hour or not: and though absence from the common things of life is far from desirable—especially in a woman—yet too minute and anxious an attention to them seldom fails to produce a teazing, mean, and fretful disposition. I would therefore wish your mind to have always some objects in pursuit worthy of it; that it may not be engrossed by such as are in themselves scarce worth a moment's anxiety. It is chiefly in the decline of life, when amusements fail, and when the more importunate passions subside, that this infirmity is observed to grow upon us—and perhaps it will seldom fail to do so, unless carefully watched and counteracted by reason. We must then endeavour to substitute some pursuits in the place of those, which can only engage [...]s in the beginning of our course. The pursuit of glory and happiness in another life, by every means of improving and exalting our own minds, becomes more and more interesting to us, the nearer we draw to the end of all sublunary enjoyments. Reading, reflexion, rational conversation, and, above all, conversing with God, by prayer and meditation, may preserve us from taking that anxious interest in the little comforts and conveniencies of our remaining days, which usually gives birth to so much fretfulness in old people. But though the aged and infirm are most liable to this evil—and they alone are to be pitied for it—yet we sometimes see the young, the healthy, and those who enjoy most outward blessings, inexcusably guilty of it. The smallest disappointment [Page 218] in pleasure, or difficulty in the most trifling employment, will put wilful young people out of temper, and their very amusements frequently become sources of vexation and peevishness. How often have I seen a girl, preparing for a ball, or for some other public appearance—unable to satisfy her own vanity—fret over every ornament she put on, quarrel with her maid, with her clothes, her hair; and growing still more unlovely as she grew more cross, be ready to fight with her looking-glass, for not making her as handsome as she wished to be! She did not consider that the traces of this ill-humour on her countenance would be a greater disadvantage to her appearance than any defect in her dress—or even than the plainest features enlivened by joy and good-humour. There is a degree of resignation necessary even to the enjoyment of pleasure; we must be ready and willing to give up some part of what we could wish for, before we can enjoy that which is indulged to us. I have no doubt that she, who frets all the while she is dressing for an assembly, will suffer still greater uneasiness when she is there. The same craving, restless vanity will there endure a thousand mortifications, which in the midst of seeming pleasure, will secretly corrode her heart; whilst the meek and humble generally find more gratification than they expected, and return home pleased and enlivened from every scene of amusement, though they could have staid away from it with perfect ease and contentment.
Sullenness, or obstinacy, is perhaps a worse fault of temper than either of the former—and, if indulged, may end in the most fatal extremes of stubborn melancholy, malice and revenge. The resentment which, instead of being expressed, is nursed in secret, and continually aggravated by the imagination, will, in time, become the ruling passion; and then, how horrible must be his case, whose kind and pleasurable affections are all swallowed up by the tormenting as well as detestable sentiments of hatred and revenge? — ‘ *Admonish thy friend, peradventure he hath not [Page 219] done it: or, if he hath, that he do it no more.— Admonish thy friend, peradventure he hath not said it: or, if he hath, that he speak it not again.’ —Brood not over a resentment which perhaps was at first ill grounded, and which is undoubtedly heightened by an heated imagination. But, when you have first subdued your own temper, so as to be able to speak calmly, reasonably, and kindly, then expostulate with the person you suppose to be in fault—hear what she has to say; and either reconcile yourself to her, or quiet your mind under the injury, by the principle of christian charity. But if it should appear that you yourself have been most to blame, or if you have been in an error, acknowledge it fairly and handsomely: if you feel any reluctance to do so, be certain that it arises from pride, to conquer which is an absolute duty—"A soft answer turneth away wrath:" and a generous confession oftentimes more than atones for the fault which requires it. Truth and justice demand that we should acknowledge conviction, as soon as we feel it, and not maintain an erroneous opinion, or justify a wrong conduct, merely for the false shame of confessing our past ignorance. A false shame it undoubtedly is, and as impolitic as unjust; since your error is already seen by those who endeavour to set you right: but your conviction, and the candour and generosity of owning it freely, may still be an honour to you, and would greatly recommend you to the person with whom you disputed. With a disposition strongly inclined to sullenness or obstinacy, this must be a very painful exertion; and to make a perfect conquest over yourself may at once perhaps appear impracticable, while the zeal of self justification, and the abhorrence of blame, are strong upon you. But, if you are so unhappy as to yield to your infirmity, at one time, do not let this discourage you from renewing your efforts. Your mind will gain strength from the contest; and your internal enemy will by degrees be forced to give ground. Be not afraid to revive the subject, as soon as you find yourself able to subdue your temper; and then frankly [Page 220] lay open the conflict you sustained at the time; by this you will make all the amends in your power for your fault, and will certainly change the disgust you have given into pity at least, if not admiration. Nothing is more endearing than such a confession:— and you will find such a satisfaction in your own consciousness, and in the renewed tenderness and esteem you will gain from the person concerned, that your task for the future will be made more easy, and your reluctance to be convinced, will on every occasion grow less and less.
The love of truth, and a real desire of improvement, ought to be the only motives of argumentation: and, where these are sincere, no difficulty can be made of embracing the truth, as soon as it is perceived. But, in fact, people oftener dispute from vanity and pride, which make it a grievous mort [...]fication to allow that we are the wiser for what we have heard from another. To receive advice, reproof, and instruction, properly, is the surest sign of a sincere and humble heart—and shows a greatness of mind, which commands our respect and reverence, while it appears so willingly to yield to us the superiority.
Observe, notwithstanding, that I do not wish you to hear of your faults without pain: such an indifference would afford small hopes of amendment. Shame and remorse are the first steps to true repentance; yet we should be willing to bear this pain, and thankful to the kind hand that inflicts it for our good. Nor must we, by sullen silence under it, leave our kind physician in doubt, whether the operation has taken effect or not, or whether it has not added another malady, instead of curing the first. You must consider, that those who tell you of your faults, if they do it from motives of kindness and not of malice, exert their friendship in a painful office, which must have cost them as great an effort as it can be to you to acknowledge the service; and, if you refuse this encouragement, you cannot expect that any one, who is not absolutely obliged to it by duty, will a second [Page 221] time undertake such an ill-requited trouble. What a loss would this be to yourself!—how difficult would be our progress to that degree of perfection, which is necessary to our happiness, was it not for the assistance we receive from each other!—this certainly is one of the means of grace held out to us by our merciful judge, and, if we reject it, we are answerable for all the miscarriages we may fall into for want of it.
I know not, whether that strange caprice, that inequality of taste and behaviour, so commonly attributed to our sex, may be properly called a fault of temper—as it seems not to be connected with, or arising from our animal frame, but to be rather the fruit of our own self-indulgence, degenerating by degrees into such a wantonness of will as knows not how to please itself. When, instead of regulating our actions by reason and principle, we suffer ourselves to be guided by every slight and momentary impulse of inclination, we shall, doubtless, appear so variable and inconstant, that nobody can guess, by our behaviour to-day, what may be expected from us to-morrow; nor can we ourselves tell whether what we delighted in a week ago, will now afford us the least degree of pleasure. It is in vain for others to attempt to please us—we cannot please ourselves, though all we could wish for waits our choice: and thus does a capricious woman become ‘sick of herself, through very selfishness:’ And, when this is the case, it is easy to judge how sick others must be of her, and how contemptible and disgusting she must appear. This wretched state is the usual consequence of power and flattery. May my dear child never meet with the temptation of that excessive and ill-judged indulgence from a husband, which she has happily escaped from her parents, and which seldom fails to reduce women to the miserable condition of a humoured child, always unhappy from having nobody's will to study but its own! The insolence of such demands for yourself, and such disregard to the choice and inclinations of others, can seldom fail to make [Page 222] you as many enemies as there are persons obliged to bear with your humours; whilst a compliant, reasonable, and contented disposition would render you happy in yourself, and beloved by all your companions—particularly by those, who live constantly with you; and, of what consequence this is to your happiness, a moment's reflexion will convince you. Family friendships are the friendships made for us, if I may so speak, by God himself. With the kindest intentions, he has knit the bands of family love, by indispensable duties; and wretched are they who have burst them asunder by violence and ill-will, or worn them out by constant little disobligations, and by the want of that attention to please, which the presence of a stranger always inspires, but which is so often shamefully neglected towards those, whom it is most our duty and interest to please. May you, my dear, be wise enough to see that every faculty of entertainment, every engaging qualification, which you possess, is exerted to the best advantage for those, whose love is of most importance to you—for those who live under the same roof, and with whom you are connected for life, either by the ties of blood, or by the still more sacred obligations of a voluntary engagement.
To make you the delight and darling of your family, something more is required than barely to be exempt from ill temper and troublesome humours. The sincere and genuine smiles of complacency and love must adorn your countenance. That ready compliance, that alertness to assist and oblige, which demonstrates true affection, must animate your behaviour, and endear your most common actions. Politeness must accompany your greatest familiarities, and restrain you from every thing that is really offensive, or which can give a moment's unnecessary pain. Conversation, which is so apt to grow dull and insipid in families, nay, in some to be almost wholly laid aside, must be cultivate [...] with the frankness and openness of friendship, and by the mutual communication [Page 223] of whatever may conduce to the improvement or innocent entertainment of each other.
Reading, whether apart or in common, will furnish useful and pleasing subjects; and the sprightliness of youth will naturally inspire harmless mirth and native humour, if encouraged by a mutual desire of diverting each other, and making the hours pass agreeably in your own house: every amusement that offers will be heightened by the participation of these de [...]r companions, and by talking over every incident together and every object of pleasure. If you have any acquired talent of entertainment, such as music, painting, or the like, your own family are those before whom you should most wish to excel, and for whom you should always be ready to exert yourself; not suffering the accomplishments which you have gained, perhaps by their means, and at their expense, to lie dormant, till the arrival of a stranger gives you spirit in the performance. Where this last is the case, you may be sure vanity is the only motive of the exertion: A stranger will praise you more: But how little sensibility has that heart, which is not more gratified by the silent pleasure painted on the countenance of a partial parent, or of an affectionate brother, than by the empty compliments of a visitor, who is perhaps inwardly more disposed to criticise and ridicule than to admire you!
I have been longer in this letter than I intended; yet it is with difficulty I can quit the subject, because I think it is seldom sufficiently insisted on, either in books or in sermons—and because there are many persons weak enough to believe themselves in a safe and innocent course of life, while they are daily harrassing every body about them by their vexatious humours. But you will, I hope, constantly bear in mind, that you can never treat a fellow creature unkindly, without offending the kind Creator and Father of all —and that you can no way render yourself so acceptable to him as by studying to promote the happiness of others, in every instance, small as well as great— The favour of God, and the love of your companions, [Page 224] will surely be deemed rewards sufficient to animate your most fervent endeavours; yet this is not all: the disposition of mind, which I would recommend, is its own reward, and is in itself essential to happiness. Cultivate it therefore, my dear child, with your utmost diligence—and watch the symptoms of ill-temper, as they rise, with a firm resolution to conquer them, before they are even perceived by any other person. In every such inward conflict, call upon your Maker to assist the feeble nature he hath given you—and sacrifice to Him every feeling that would tempt you to disobedience: So will you at length attain that true christian meekness which is blessed in the sight of God and man, ‘which has the promise of this life, as well as of that which is to come.’ Then will you pity, in others, those infirmities, which you have conquered in yourself; and will think yourself as much bound to assist, by your patience and gentleness, those who are so unhappy as to be under the dominion of evil passions, as you are to impart a share of your riches to the poor and miserable.
THE LADIES' LIBRARY. A Letter to a very young Lady on her Marriage.
THE hurry and impertinence of receiving and paying visits on account of your marriage, being now over, you are beginning to enter into a course of life, where you will want much advice to divert you from falling into many errors, fopperies, and follies, to which your sex is subject. I [...]e always borne an entire friendship to your fat [...] and mother: and the person they have chosen for your husband, hath been, for some years past, my particular favourite. I have long wished you might come together; because I hoped, that from the goodness of [...]our disposition, and by following the counsel of wise friends, you might, in time, make yourself worthy of him. Your parents were so far in the right, that they did not produce you much into the world, whereby you avoided many wrong steps which others have taken, and have fewer ill impressions to be removed. But they failed, as it is generally the case, in too much neglecting to cultivate your mind; without which it is impossible to acquire or preserve the friendship and esteem of a wise man, who soon grows weary of acting the lover, and treating his wife like a mistress, but wants a reasonable companion, [Page 226] and a true friend, through every stage of his life. It must be therefore your business to qualify yourself for those offices; wherein I will not fail to be your director, as long as I shall think you deserve it, by letting you know how you are to act, and what you are to avoid.
And beware of despising or neglecting my instructions, whereon will depend not only your making a good figure in the world, but your own real happiness, as well as that of the person who ought to be the dearest to you.
I must therefore desire you, in the first place, to be very slow in changing the modest behaviour of a virgin: It is usual in young wives, before they have been many weeks married, to assume a bold, forward look and manner of talking, as if they intended to signify in all companies, that they were no longer girls, and consequently that their whole demeanor, before they got a husband, was all but a countenance and constraint upon their nature; whereas, I suppose, if the votes of wise men were gathered, a very great majority would be in favour of those ladies, who, after they were entered into that state, rather chose to double their portion of modesty and reservedness.
I must likewise warn you strictly against the least degree of fondness to your husband, before any witness whatsoever, even before your nearest relations, or the very maids of your chamber. This proceeding is so exceedingly odious and disgustful to all who have either good breeding or good sense, that they assign two very unamiable reasons for it: the one is gross hypocrisy; and the other has too bad a name to mention. If there is any difference to be made, your husband is the lowest person in company, either at home or abroad; and every gentleman present has a better claim to all marks of civility and distinction from you. Conceal your esteem and love in your own breast, and reserve your kind looks and language for private hours, which are so many in the four and twenty, that they will afford time to [Page 227] employ a passion as exalted as any that was ever described in a French romance.
Upon this head, I should likewise advise you to differ in practice from those ladies who affect abundance of uneasiness while their husbands are abroad— start with every knock at the door—and ring the bell incessantly for the servants to let in their master; will not eat a bit at dinner or supper, if the husband happens to stay out; and receive him at his return, with such a medley of chiding and kindness, and catechising him where he has been, that a shrew from Billingsgate would be a more easy and eligible companion.
Of the same leaven are those wives, who, when their husbands are gone a journey, must have a letter every post, upon pain of fits and hysterics; and a day must be fixed for their return home, without the least allowance for business, or sickness, or accidents, or weather: upon which, I can only say, that in my observation, those ladies who are apt to make the greatest clutter on such occasions, would liberally have paid a messenger for bringing them news, that their husbands had broken [...]heir [...]cks on the road.
You will perhaps be offended, when I advise you to abate a little of that violent passion for fine clothes, so predominant in your sex. It is a little hard, that ours, for whose sake you wear them, are not admitted to be of your council. I may venture to assure you, that we will make an abatement at any time of four pounds a yard in a brocade, if the ladies will but allow a suitable addition of care in the cleanliness and sweetness of their persons. For the satirical part of mankind will needs believe, that it is not impossible to be very fine and very filthy; and that the capacities of a lady are sometimes apt to fall short in cultivating cleanliness and finery together. I shall only add, upon so tender a subject, what a pleasant gentleman said concerning a silly woman of quality; that nothing could make her supportable but cutting off her head; for his ears were offended by her tongue, and his nose by her hair and teeth.
[Page 228]I am wholly at a loss how to advise you in the choice of company, which, however, i [...] a point of as great importance as any in your life. If your general acquaintance be among ladies, who are your equals or superiors, provided they have nothing of what is commonly called an ill reputation, you think you are safe; and this, in the stile of the world, will pass for good company. Whereas I am afraid it will be hard for you to pick out one female acquaintance in this town, from whom you will not be in manifest danger of contracting some foppery, affectation, vanity, folly, or vice. Your only safe way of conversing with them is, by a firm resolution to proceed, in your practice and behaviour, directly contrary to whatever they shall say and do: and this I take to be a good general rule, with very few exceptions. For instance: in the doctrines they usually deliver to young married women for managing their husbands—their several accounts of their own conduct in that particular, to recommend it to your imitation—the reflexions they make upon others of their sex for acting differently—their directions how to come off with victory upon any dispute or quarrel you may have with your husband—the arts, by which you may discover and practise upon his weak side—when to work by flattery and insinuation—when to melt him with tears, and when to engage with a high hand. In these, and a thousand other cases, it will be prudent to retain as many of their lectures in your memory as you can, and then determine to act in full opposition to them all.
I hope your husband will interpose his authority to limit you in the trade of visiting; half a dozen fools are in all conscience as many as you should require; and it will be sufficient for you to see them twice a year: For I think the fashion does not exact, that visits should be paid to friends.
I advise that your company at home should consist of men, rather than women. To say the truth, I never yet knew a tolerable woman to be fond of her own sex. I confess, when both are mixed and well [Page 229] [...]hosen, and put their best qualities forward, there may be an intercouse of civility and good-will; which, with the addition of some degree of sense, can make conversation or any amusement agreeable. But a knot of ladies got together by themselves, is a very school of impertinence and detraction, and it is well if those be the worst.
Let your men-acquaintance be of your husband's choice, and not recommended to you by any she-companions; because they will certainly fix a coxcomb upon you; and it will cost you some time and pains before you can arrive at the knowledge of distinguishing such a one from a man of sense.
Never take a favourite waiting-maid into your cabinet-council, to entertain you with histories of those ladies whom she hath formerly served, of their diversions and their dresses; to insinuate how great a fortune you brought, and how little you are allowed to squander; to appeal to her from your husband, and to be determined by her judgment, because you are sure it will be always for you; to receive and discard servants by her approbation or dislike; to engage you, by her insinuations, into misunderstandings with your best friends; to represent all things in false colours, and to be the common emissary of scandal.
But the grand affair of your life will be to gain and preserve the friendship and esteem of your husband. You are married to a man of good education and learning, of an excellent understanding, and an exact taste. It is true, and it is happy for you, that these qualities in him are adorned with great modesty, a most amiable sweetness of temper, and an unusual disposition to sobriety and virtue. But neither good-nature nor virtue will suffer him to esteem you against his judgment; and though he is not capable of using you ill, yet you will in time grow a thing indifferent and perhaps contemptible, unless you can supply the loss of youth and beauty with more durable qualities. You have a very few years to be young and handsome in the eyes of the world; and as few [Page 230] months to be so in the eyes of a husband, who is not a fool; for I hope you do not still dream of charms and raptures, which marriage ever did, and ever will, put a sudden end to. Besides your's was a match of prudence and common good-liking, without any mixture of that ridiculous passion, which has no being but in play-books and romances.
You must therefore use all endeavours to attain to some degree of those accomplishments which your husband most values in other people, and for which he is most valued himself. You must improve your mind, by closely pursuing such a method of study as I shall direct or approve of. You must get a collection of history and travels, which I will recommend to you, and spend some hours every day in reading them, and making extracts from them, if your memory be weak. You must invite persons of knowledge and understanding to an acquaintance with you, by whose conversation you may learn to correct your taste and judgment; and when you can bring yourself to comprehend and relish the good sense of others, you will arrive in time to think rightly yourself, and to become a reasonable and agreeable companion. This must produce in your husband a true rational love and esteem for you, which old age will [...]ot diminish. He will have regard for your judgment and opinion in matters of the greatest weight; you will be able to entertain each other without a third person to relieve you by finding discourse. The endowments of your mind will even make your person more greeable to him: and when you are alone, your time will not lie heavy upon your hands, for want of some trifling amusement.
As little respect as I have for the generality of your sex, it hath sometimes moved me with pity, to see the lady of the house forced to withdraw immediately after dinner, and this in families where there is not much drinking; as if it were an established maxim, that women are incapable of all conversation. In a room where both sexes meet, if the men are discoursing upon any general subject, the [Page 231] ladies never think it their business to partake in what passes, but in a separate club entertain each other with the price and choice of lace, and silk, and what dresses they liked or disapproved at the church or the play-house. And when you are among yourselves, how naturally, after the first compliments, do you apply your hands to each other's lappets and ruffles, and mantua's, as if the whole business of your lives, and the public concern of the world depended upon the cut or colour of your dresses. As divines say, that some people take more pains to be damned, than it would cost them to be saved; so your sex employs more thought, memory and application, to be fools, than would serve to make them wise and useful. When I reflect on this, I cannot conceive you to be human creatures, but a sort of species hardly a degree above a monkey; which has more diverting tricks than any of you; is an animal less mischievous and expensive; might in time be a tolerable critic in velvet and brocade; and, for aught I know, would equally become them.
I would have you look upon finery as a necessary folly, as all great ladies did, whom I have ever known: I do not desire you to be out of the fashion, but to be the last and least in it. I expect that your dress shall be one degree lower than your fortune can afford; and in your own heart I would wish you to be an utter contemner of all distinctions which a finer petticoat can give you; because it will neither make you richer, handsomer, younger, better natured, more virtuous, or wise, than if it hung upon a peg.
If you are in company with men of learning, though they happen to discourse of arts and sciences out of your compass, yet you will gather more advantage by listening to them, than from all the nonsense and frippery of your own sex; but if they be men of breeding as well as learning, they will seldom e [...] gage in any conversation where you ought not to be a hearer, and in time have your part. If they talk of the manners and customs of the several kingdoms of Europe, of travels into remoter nations, of the state [Page 232] of their own country, or of the great men and actions of Greece and Rome; if they give their judgment upon English and French writers, either in verse or prose, or of the nature and limits of virtue and vice, it is a shame for an English lady not to relish such discourses, not to improve by them, and endeavour, by reading and information, to have her share in those entertainments, rather than turn aside, as it is the usual custom, and consult with the woman who sits next her, about a new cargo of fans.
It is a little hard, that not one gentleman's daughter in a thousand should be brought to read or understand her own natural tongue, or to be a judge of the easiest books that are written in it; as any one may find, who can have the patience to hear them, when they are disposed to mangle a play or a novel, where the least word out of the common road is sure to disconcert them. It is no wonder, when they are not so much as taught to spell in their [...]hildhood, nor can ever attain to it in their whole lives. I advise you therefore to read aloud, more or less, every day to your husband, if he will permit you, or to any other friend, (but not a female one) who is able to set you right; and as for spelling, you may compass it in time, by making collections from the books you read.
I know very well that those, who are commonly called learned women, have lost all manner of credit by their impertinent talkativeness and conceit of themselves: but there is an easy remedy for this, if you once consider, that after all the pains you may be at, you never can arrive, in point of learning, to the perfection of a school-boy. The reading I would advise you to, is only for improvement of your own good sense, which will never fail of being mended by discretion. It is a wrong method, and ill choice of books, that makes those learned ladies just so much worse for what they have read. And therefore it shall be my care to direct you better, a task for which I take myself to be not ill-qualified; because I have spent more time, and have had more opportunities than many others, to observe and discover from what ources the various follies of women are derived.
[Page 233]Pray observe how insignificant things are the common race of ladies, when they have passed their youth and beauty; how contemptible they appear to the men, and yet more contemptible to the younger part of their own sex; and have no relief but in passing their afternoons in visits, where they are never acceptable; and their evenings at cards among each other; while the former part of the day is spent in spleen and envy, or in vain endeavours to repair, by art and dress, the ruins of time. Whereas I have known ladies at sixty, to whom all the polite part of the court and town paid their addresses, without any farther view than that of enjoying the pleasure of their conversation.
I am ignorant of any one quality that is amiable in a man, which is not equally so in a woman: I do not except even modesty and gentleness of nature. Nor do I know one vice or folly which is not equally detestable in both. There is, indeed, one infirmity which seems to be generally allowed you, I mean that of cowardice: yet there should seem to be something very capricious, that when women profess their admiration for a colonel or a captain on account of his valour, they should fancy it a very graceful, becoming quality in themselves to be afraid of their own shadows, to scream in a barge when the weather is calmest, or in a coach at the ring; to run from a cow at a hundred yards distance; to fall into fits at the sight of a spider, an earwig, or a frog. At least, if cowardice be a sign of cruelty, (as it is generally granted) I can hardly think it an accomplishment so desirable as to be thought worth improving by affectation.
And as the same virtues equally become both sexes, so there is no quality whereby women endeavour to distinguish themselves from men, for which they are not just so much the worse, except that only of reservedness; which, however, as you generally manage it, is nothing else but affectation or hypocrisy. For as you cannot too much discountenance those of our sex, who presume to take unbecoming liberties before you; so you ought to be wholly unconstrained [Page 234] in the company of deserving [...]en, when you have had sufficient experience of their discretion.
There is never wanting in this town, a tribe of bold, swaggering, rattling ladies, whose talents pass among coxcombs for wit and humour; their excellency lies in rude, shocking expressions, and what they call running a man down. If a gentleman in their company happens to have any blemish in his birth or person, if any misfortune hath befallen his family or himself, for which he is ashamed, they will be sure to give him broad hints of it without any provocation. I would recommend you to the acquaintance of a common prostitute, rather than to that of such termagants as these. I have often thought that no man is obliged to suppose such creatures to be women; but to treat them like insolent rascals disguised in female habits, who ought to be stript and kicked down stairs.
I will add one thing, although it be a little out of place, which is to desire, that you will learn to value and esteem your husband for those good qualities which he really possesseth, and not to fancy others in him which he certainly hath not. For although this latter is generally understood to be a mark of love, yet it is indeed nothing but affectation or ill judgment. It is true, he wants so very few accomplishments, that you are in no great danger of erring on this side; but my caution is occasioned by a lady of your acquaintance, married to a very valuable person, whom yet she is so unfortunate as to be always commending for those perfections to which he can least pretend.
I can give you no advice upon the article of expense, only I think you ought to be well informed how much your husband's revenue amounts to, and be so good a computer as to keep within it, in that part of the management which falls to your share; and not to put yourself in the number of those politic ladies, who think they gain a great point, when they have teized their husbands to buy them a new equipage, a laced head, or a fine petticoat, without once consi [...]ering [Page 235] what long scores remain unpaid to the but [...]er.
I desire you will keep this letter in your cabinet, [...]nd often examine impartially your whole conduct by [...]: and so God bless you, and make you a fair exam [...]le to your sex, and a perpetual comfort to your hus [...]and and your parents. I am, with great truth and [...]ffection,
THE LADIES' LIBRARY. Fables for the Female Sex.
FABLE I. The Eagle, and the Assembly of Birds. To her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales.
FABLE II. The Panther, the Horse, and other Beasts.
FABLE III. The Nightingale and Glow wo [...]w
FABLE IV. Hymen and Death.
FABLE V. The Poet and his Patron.
FABLE VI. The Wolf, the Sheep, and the Lamb.
FABLE VII. The Goose and the Swans.
FABLE VIII. The Lawyer and Justice.
FABLE IX. The Farmer, the Spaniel, and the Cat.
FABLE X. The Spider and the Bee.
FABLE XI. The young Lion and the Ape.
FABLE XII. The Colt and the Farmer.
FABLE XIII. The Owl and the Nightingale.
FABLE XIV. The Sparrow and the Dove.
FABLE XV. The Female Seducers.
FABLE XVI. Love and Vanity.
CONTENTS.
-
Miss More's Essays.
- Introduction, Page 5
- Dissipation, Page 10
- Thoughts on conversation, Page 18
- Envy, Page 28
- Danger of sentimental or romantic connexions, Page 33
- True and false meekness, Page 44
- Thoughts on the cultivation of the heart and temper in the education of daughters, Page 50
- Importance of religion to the female character, Page 62
- Miscellaneous observations on genius, taste, good sense, &c. Page 70
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Gregory's Legacy.
- Introduction, Page 86
- Religion, Page 88
- Conduct and behaviour, Page 93
- Amusements, Page 98
- Friendship, love and marriage, Page 102
- Lady Pennington's unfortunate mother's advice to her daughters, Page 123
- Marchioness of Lambert's advice of a mother to her daughter, Page 175
- Mrs. Chapone on the government of the temper Page 211
- Dean Swift's letter to a lady newly married, Page 225
-
[Page]
Moore's Fables.
- 1. The eagle and the assembly of birds, Page, 237
- 2. The panther, the horse, and other beasts, Page, 239
- 3. The nightingale and the glow-worm, Page, 242
- 4. Hymen and death, Page, 243
- 5. The poet and his patron, Page, 245
- 6. The wolf, the sheep, and the lamb, Page, 247
- 7. The goose and the swans, Page, 249
- 8. The lawyer and Justice, Page, 252
- 9. The farmer, the spaniel, and the cat, Page, 255
- 10. The spider and the bee, Page, 257
- 11. The young lion and the ape, Page, 259
- 12. The colt and the farmer, Page, 261
- 13. The owl and the nightingale, Page, 263
- 14. The sparrow and the dove, Page, 265
- 15. The female seducers, Page, 275
- 16. Love and vanity, Page, 288