Essays on Various Subjects, Principally Designed for Young Ladies
Date: 2006-10-21T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Essays; Women -- Education; Women -- Conduct of life

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Title: Essays on Various Subjects, Principally Designed for Young Ladies

Author: Hannah More

Release date: October 21, 2006 [eBook #19595]

Language: English

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ESSAYS
for
YOUNG LADIES.

ESSAYS
on
VARIOUS SUBJECTS,
Principally deſigned for
YOUNG LADIES.

As for you, I ſhall adviſe you in a few words: aſpire only to thoſe virtues that are peculiar to your sex; follow your natural modeſty, and think it your greateſt commendation not to be talked of one way or the other.

Oration of Pericles to the Athenian Women.

LONDON:
Printed for J. Wilkie, in St. Paul's Church-Yard;
and T. Cadell, in the Strand.
MDCCLXXVII.

to
Mrs. MONTAGU.

MADAM,

If you were only one of the fineſt writers of your time, you would probably have eſcaped the trouble of this addreſs, which is drawn on you, leſs by the luſtre of your underſtanding, than by the amiable qualities of your heart.

As the following pages are written with an humble but earneſt wiſh, to promote the intereſts of virtue, as far as the very limited abilities of the author allow; there is, I flatter myself, a peculiar propriety in inſcribing them to you, Madam, who, while your works convey inſtruction and delight to the beſt-informed of the other ſex, furniſh, by your conduct, an admirable pattern of life and manners to your own. And I can with truth remark, that thoſe graces of converſation, which would be the firſt praiſe of almoſt any other character, conſtitute but an inferior part of yours.

I am, Madam,
With the higheſt eſteem,
Your moſt obedient
Humble Servant,

Briſtol,               Hannah More.
May 20, 1777.

CONTENTS.

introduction | Page 1
on dissipation | 15
on conversation | 37
on envy | 63
on sentimental connexions | 77
on true and false meekness | 107
on education | 123
on religion | 158
miscellaneous thoughts on wit | 178

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. The following 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 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 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 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 Eclogues 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 reflection; in men, reflection 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 inveſtigation 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 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 aërial 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 vraiſemblance 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 reflection. 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[1].

In ſhort, it appears that the mind in each ſex has ſome natural kind of bias, which conſtitutes a diſtinction 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?

[1] The author does not apprehend it makes againſt her general poſition, that this nation can boaſt a female critic, poet, hiſtorian, linguiſt, philoſopher, and moraliſt, equal to moſt of the other ſex. To theſe particular inſtances others might be adduced; but it is preſumed, that they only ſtand as exceptions againſt the rule, without tending to invalidate the rule itſelf.

ON
DISSIPATION.

DOGLIE CERTE, ALLEGREZZE INCERTE!
PETRARCA.

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 fiddler: He[2] who wiſhed the whole Roman people had but one neck, that he might 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 extacies" 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 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 Britiſh 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

For their inferior natures
Form'd to delight, and happy by delighting,
Heav'n has reſerv'd no future paradiſe,
But bids them rove the paths of bliſs, ſecure
Of total death, and careleſs of hereafter.

Irene.

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 their 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, or tyranny of the men, complains of an evil which does not exiſt.

It is a queſtion frequently 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 beſide 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, whilſt the mind of a diſſipated 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 [oe]conomical propenſity; for a lady may read at much leſs expence 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 act of religion.

The rage for reformation commonly ſhews itſelf in a violent zeal for ſuppreſſing what is wrong, rather than in 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 hectic 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 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 reflection, 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 theſe unarmed foes: the flowery ſetters are faſtened, before they are felt. The blandiſhments of Circe were more fatal to the mariners of Ulyſſes, than the ſtrength of Polypheme, or the brutality of the Læſtrigons. Hercules, after he had cleanſed the Augean ſtable, and performed all the other labours enjoined him by Euriſtheus, found himſelf a ſlave to the ſoftneſſes 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.

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[3].

"Let us crown ourſelves with roſebuds 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.

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[4] 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 Hercules, (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 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.

[2] The Emperor Caligula.

[3] Nothing can be more admirable than the manner in which this allegory is conducted; and the whole work, not to mention its images, machinery, and other poetical beauties, is written in the very fineſt ſtrain of morality. In this latter reſpect it is evidently ſuperior to the works of the ancients, the moral of which is frequently tainted by the groſſneſs of their mythology. Something of the purity of the Chriſtian religion may be diſcovered even in Fenelon's heathens, and they catch a tincture of piety in paſſing through the hands of that amiable prelate.

[4] The Struldbrugs. See Voyage to Laputa.

THOUGHTS
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 faſhionable games and amuſements, while her piety 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 for ever 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 ſhew her own wit, or 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 intereſting 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 ſhews 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 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 pedantry, may be continued with eaſe and good humour; but which will be frequently and effectually ſtopped by the liſtleſſneſs, 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[5], 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 ſhew 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 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 over-weening 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 to attend to the definition of this quality, by one who had as large a portion of it, as moſt individuals could ever boaſt:

'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jeſt,
Admir'd with laughter at a feaſt,
Nor florid talk, which can that title gain,
The proofs of wit for ever muſt remain.
Neither can that have any place,
At which a virgin hides her face;
Such droſs the fire muſt purge away; 'tis juſt,
The author bluſh there, where the reader muſt.

Cowley.

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 injurious 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 breeding; and ſurely it is as well to abſtain from an action becauſe it is ſinful, as becauſe it is impolite. In company, young ladies would do well before they ſpeak, to reflect, if what they are going to ſay may not diſtreſs ſome worthy perſon preſent, by wounding them in their perſons, families, connexions, or religious opinions. If they find it will touch them in either of theſe, I ſhould adviſe them to ſuſpect, that what they were 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. Indeed, if they have the temper and prudence to make ſuch a previous reflection, 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 expence by an ill-natured repartee; but if it was very cutting, and one of thoſe 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 notwithſtanding that, he will remember it as a trait of malice, when the whole company ſhall have forgotten it as a ſtroke of wit. Women are ſo far from being privileged by their ſex to ſay unhandſome or cruel things, that it is this 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 it 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 inquire 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 reflection, if he does not keep up an intimate commerce with the world, will be ſometimes ſo entangled in the intricacies of intenſe 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 propoſition, 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 is it, 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 her 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 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 than 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 the ſex. That ſpecies of knowledge, which appears to be the reſult of reflection 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 conſtructs 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 inſult 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 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 ſhewing 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.

[5] Lord Bacon.

ON
ENVY.

Envy came next, Envy with ſquinting eyes,
Sick of a ſtrange diſeaſe, his neighbour's health;
Beſt then he lives when any better dies,
Is never poor but in another's wealth:
On beſt mens harms and griefs he feeds his fill,
Elſe his own maw doth eat with ſpiteful will,
Ill muſt the temper be, where diet is ſo ill.

Fletcher's Purple Island.

"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 counterbalanced 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 increaſe 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.

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 ſuſpect 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 the 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 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 defeats 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 bears 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, 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 merely to have an opportunity 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 candor in the world, merely for the ſake of preventing miſtakes, and to clear up every doubt of his identity.—If you are ſpeaking of a lady, for inſtance, they will perhaps embelliſh their inquiries, 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; or 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 then 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 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,

Aſide the devil turn'd,
For Envy, yet with jealous leer malign,
Eyed them aſkance.

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 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 refined jargon, which has infeſted 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 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 authoriſed 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 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 [oe]conomically 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 aſcendancy 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 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.

And when he tells her ſhe hates flattery,
She ſays ſhe does, being then moſt flatter'd.

But nothing, in general, can end leſs delightfully than theſe ſublime attachments, even where no acts of ſeduction were 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 through the whole tireſome journey of their inſipid, vacant, joyleſs exiſtence.

Thus much for the completion of the ſentimental hiſtory. If we trace 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, and 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.

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 reflection 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 no more be influenced by the advice of their mother, than they would go abroad in her laced pinner or her brocade ſuit.

But young people never ſhew 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 wife, 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, of 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 weed of 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 thoſe 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 conceive them to be extremely different. Sentiment 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[6] has remarked of his no leſs celebrated contemporary, 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 Milton, 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.

A fairer perſon loſt not heav'n; he ſeem'd
For dignity compos'd, and high exploit,
But all was falſe and hollow, tho' his tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worſe appear
The better reaſon, to perplex and daſh
Matureſt counſels, for his thoughts were low,
To vice induſtrious, but to nobler deeds
Tim'rous and ſlothful; yet he pleas'd the ear.

Paradise Lost, B. II.

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,

Faithful found
Among the faithleſs, faithful only he
Among innumerable falſe, unmov'd,
Unſhaken, unſeduc'd, unterrified;
His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal.
Nor number, nor example with him wrought
To ſwerve from truth, or change his conſtant mind,
Though ſingle.

Book V.

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,

With words ſtill cloath'd in reaſon's guiſe,
Counſel'd ignoble eaſe, and peaceful ſloth,
Not peace.

Book II.

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!

All night the dreadleſs angel unpurſued
Through heaven's wide champain held his way.

Book VI.

No wonder he was received with ſuch acclamations of joy by the celeſtial powers, when there was

But one,
Yes, of ſo many myriads fall'n, but one
Return'd not loſt.

Ibid.

And afterwards, in a cloſe conteſt with the arch fiend,

A noble ſtroke he lifted high
On the proud creſt of Satan.

Ibid.

What was the effect of this courage of the vigilant and active ſeraph?

Amazement ſeiz'd
The rebel throne, but greater rage to ſee
Thus foil'd their mightieſt.

Abdiel had the ſuperiority of Belial as much in the warlike combat, as in the peaceful counſels.

Nor was it ought but juſt,
That he who in debate of truth had won,
Shou'd win in arms, in both diſputes alike
Victor.

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 enthuſiaſm 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 elevation 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 proceed 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 inconveniencies from which leſs intereſting characters are happily exempt. Young women of ſtrong ſenſibility may be carried by the very amiableneſs of this temper into the moſt alarming extremes. Their taſtes are paſſions. They love and 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 rather 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, 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 ſlower 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 burthenſome 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.

[6] See Voltaire's Prophecy concerning Rouſſeau.

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.

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 ribbon 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.

Amongst 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, 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 Hamlet ſays, makes them liſp and amble, and nick-name God'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 courteſy, 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 thoſe who have it to ſcrutinize into the conduct and diſpoſition of men, before they truſt entirely to thoſe fair appearances, 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 entitled to figure among the great and the fortunate. Compare her conduct with that of her undaunted and pious countryman and contemporary, 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 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 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, that 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 diſpoſitions 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 expence 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.

The neglect of this cultivation ſeems to proceed as much from a bad taſte, as from 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 effects; and when there happens to be no imbecillity in the pupil, nor deficiency in the matter, 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 ſhew 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 great object conſtantly kept in view) the talk 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 can produce them, nor fell the ſtubborn Antæus ſo faſt as he can recruit his ſtrength, and riſe in vigorous 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 that 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 ruin.

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. Se 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 ſpring. This dangerous doctrine (which yet is not without its uſes) will be counteracted by the prudent mother, not in ſo many words, but by a watchful and ſcarcely perceptible dexterity. Such an 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 theatrical tone, play and ſing, have her dreſſing-room hung 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 indiſpenſably 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. 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 who 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 exertion of every amiable accompliſhment, exerted in the ſhade, to enliven retirement, to heighten the endearing pleaſures of ſocial intercourſe, and to embelliſh the narrow but charming circle of family delights. To this amiable purpoſe, a truly good and well educated young lady will dedicate her 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 is 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 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 to languages nor to muſic.—What an error! They are a part of education, and of infinitely more value,

Than all their pedant diſcipline 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 haſty 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 redundances 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 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 themſelves, 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 diagnoſtics, 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 choked 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. 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, notwithſtanding 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 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 (ſays he) 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 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 ſtate. 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 cherubims and ſeraphims, 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 imbecillity 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 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 Saul 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 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.[7]"

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 auxiliaries, 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.

[7] Obras de Quevedo, vida de San Pablo Apoſtol.

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 imbecillity of age. Many are precluded by the narrowneſs of their education, and many by the ſtraitneſs of their fortune. The wiſdom 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 [oe]conomy, and no chaſm is left for want of an object to fill it, exactly ſuited to its nature.

But in the great and univerſal concern 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 its 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 capable 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 loving ſpirit: ſhe is 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 ſelf-ſufficient 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 ſad 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 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 paternal eye into the buſtle of the world, and 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 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 freethinker may affect to treat religion himſelf, he will think it neceſſary his wife ſhould entertain different notions of 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 dependance 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 woman 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 reflection 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 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 publickly prophaned it; for ſhe plainly indicates, either that ſhe does not believe, or 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 the aged, who have not ſpirits for any buſineſs at all. But till they can prove, that none except the clergy and the 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 ſunk, that the graſshopper is become a burthen, 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 an 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. [8]

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 appellation 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, 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.

The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to ſhape, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

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 gulf 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 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 this 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 taſk on the vigilance of reaſon; and to bear thoſe faculties 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. Furies, 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.

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 imaginations. 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 natural tendency to fly off from the ſtrait line of regularity; 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 make 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 waken'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, 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 who 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 a 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; and has ſhewn 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 honeyſuckle, 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 their 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 Linnæan 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 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 is right. They do not preclude the difficulty of the operation; but at the concluſion of it, furniſh him with a fuller 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 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 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 meer 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 seſms 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 not 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 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 ſpectator; though where the paſſions are principally concerned, the profane 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 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 the 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 prune, 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 latter 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 eaſier 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 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 whatever 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 rudeneſs; 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 imperfectly: it is repreſſed and kept back by a crowd of the moſt diſcouraging prejudices: like an infant prince, who, though born to reign, yet holds an idle ſceptre, 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.

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 imitable. 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, negotiable 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 really 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.

[8] The Author begs leave to offer an apology for introducing this Eſſay, which, ſhe fears, may be thought foreign to her purpoſe. But ſhe hopes that her earneſt deſire of exciting a taſte for literature in young ladies, (which encouraged her to hazard the following remarks) will not obstruct her general deſign, even if it does not actually promote it.

THE END.

Lately publiſhed by the ſame Author,

Ode To Dragon, Mr. Garrick's
House-Dog at Hampton. Price 6d.

Sir Eldred of the Bower, and the
Bleeding Rock. Legendary
Tales. Price 2s. 6d.
Printed for T. Cadell in the Strand.

The Sixth Edition of
The Search after Happiness. A
Pastoral Drama. Price 1s. 6d.

The Third Edition of
The Inflexible Captive. A Tragedy.
Price 1s. 6d.
Printed for T. Cadell, in the Strand; and J.
Wilkie, in St. Paul's Church-Yard.

Transcriber's Note: The following version of the book replaces the long s with a regular s.

ESSAYS
for
YOUNG LADIES.

ESSAYS
on
VARIOUS SUBJECTS,
Principally designed for
YOUNG LADIES.

As for you, I shall advise you in a few words: aspire only to those virtues that are peculiar to your sex; follow your natural modesty, and think it your greatest commendation not to be talked of one way or the other.

Oration of Pericles to the Athenian Women.

LONDON:
Printed for J. Wilkie, in St. Paul's Church-Yard;
and T. Cadell, in the Strand.
MDCCLXXVII.

to
Mrs. MONTAGU.

MADAM,

If you were only one of the finest writers of your time, you would probably have escaped the trouble of this address, which is drawn on you, less by the lustre of your understanding, than by the amiable qualities of your heart.

As the following pages are written with an humble but earnest wish, to promote the interests of virtue, as far as the very limited abilities of the author allow; there is, I flatter myself, a peculiar propriety in inscribing them to you, Madam, who, while your works convey instruction and delight to the best-informed of the other sex, furnish, by your conduct, an admirable pattern of life and manners to your own. And I can with truth remark, that those graces of conversation, which would be the first praise of almost any other character, constitute but an inferior part of yours.

I am, Madam,
With the highest esteem,
Your most obedient
Humble Servant,

Bristol,               Hannah More.
May 20, 1777.

CONTENTS.

introduction | Page 1
on dissipation | 15
on conversation | 37
on envy | 63
on sentimental connexions | 77
on true and false meekness | 107
on education | 123
on religion | 158
miscellaneous thoughts on wit | 178

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. The following 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 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 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 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 Eclogues 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 reflection; in men, reflection 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 investigation 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 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 aërial 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 vraisemblance 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 reflection. 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[1].

In short, it appears that the mind in each sex has some natural kind of bias, which constitutes a distinction 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?

[1] The author does not apprehend it makes against her general position, that this nation can boast a female critic, poet, historian, linguist, philosopher, and moralist, equal to most of the other sex. To these particular instances others might be adduced; but it is presumed, that they only stand as exceptions against the rule, without tending to invalidate the rule itself.

ON
DISSIPATION.

DOGLIE CERTE, ALLEGREZZE INCERTE!
PETRARCA.

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 fiddler: He[2] who wished the whole Roman people had but one neck, that he might 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 extacies" 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 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 British 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

For their inferior natures
Form'd to delight, and happy by delighting,
Heav'n has reserv'd no future paradise,
But bids them rove the paths of bliss, secure
Of total death, and careless of hereafter.

Irene.

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 their 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, or tyranny of the men, complains of an evil which does not exist.

It is a question frequently 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 beside 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, whilst the mind of a dissipated 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 [oe]conomical propensity; for a lady may read at much less expence 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 act of religion.

The rage for reformation commonly shews itself in a violent zeal for suppressing what is wrong, rather than in 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 hectic 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 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 reflection, 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 these unarmed foes: the flowery setters are fastened, before they are felt. The blandishments of Circe were more fatal to the mariners of Ulysses, than the strength of Polypheme, or the brutality of the Læstrigons. Hercules, after he had cleansed the Augean stable, and performed all the other labours enjoined him by Euristheus, found himself a slave to the softnesses 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.

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[3].

"Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds 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.

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[4] 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 Hercules, (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 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.

[2] The Emperor Caligula.

[3] Nothing can be more admirable than the manner in which this allegory is conducted; and the whole work, not to mention its images, machinery, and other poetical beauties, is written in the very finest strain of morality. In this latter respect it is evidently superior to the works of the ancients, the moral of which is frequently tainted by the grossness of their mythology. Something of the purity of the Christian religion may be discovered even in Fenelon's heathens, and they catch a tincture of piety in passing through the hands of that amiable prelate.

[4] The Struldbrugs. See Voyage to Laputa.

THOUGHTS
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 fashionable games and amusements, while her piety 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 for ever 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 shew her own wit, or 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 interesting 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 shews 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 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 pedantry, may be continued with ease and good humour; but which will be frequently and effectually stopped by the listlessness, 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[5], 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 shew 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 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 over-weening 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 to attend to the definition of this quality, by one who had as large a portion of it, as most individuals could ever boast:

'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest,
Admir'd with laughter at a feast,
Nor florid talk, which can that title gain,
The proofs of wit for ever must remain.
Neither can that have any place,
At which a virgin hides her face;
Such dross the fire must purge away; 'tis just,
The author blush there, where the reader must.

Cowley.

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 injurious 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 breeding; and surely it is as well to abstain from an action because it is sinful, as because it is impolite. In company, young ladies would do well before they speak, to reflect, if what they are going to say may not distress some worthy person present, by wounding them in their persons, families, connexions, or religious opinions. If they find it will touch them in either of these, I should advise them to suspect, that what they were 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. Indeed, if they have the temper and prudence to make such a previous reflection, 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 expence by an ill-natured repartee; but if it was very cutting, and one of those 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 notwithstanding that, he will remember it as a trait of malice, when the whole company shall have forgotten it as a stroke of wit. Women are so far from being privileged by their sex to say unhandsome or cruel things, that it is this 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 it 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 inquire 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 reflection, if he does not keep up an intimate commerce with the world, will be sometimes so entangled in the intricacies of intense 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 proposition, 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 is it, 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 her 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 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 than 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 the sex. That species of knowledge, which appears to be the result of reflection 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 constructs 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 insult 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 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 shewing 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.

[5] Lord Bacon.

ON
ENVY.

Envy came next, Envy with squinting eyes,
Sick of a strange disease, his neighbour's health;
Best then he lives when any better dies,
Is never poor but in another's wealth:
On best mens harms and griefs he feeds his fill,
Else his own maw doth eat with spiteful will,
Ill must the temper be, where diet is so ill.

Fletcher's Purple Island.

"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 counterbalanced 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 increase 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.

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 suspect 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 the 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 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 defeats 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 bears 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, 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 merely to have an opportunity 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 candor in the world, merely for the sake of preventing mistakes, and to clear up every doubt of his identity.—If you are speaking of a lady, for instance, they will perhaps embellish their inquiries, 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; or 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 then 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 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,

Aside the devil turn'd,
For Envy, yet with jealous leer malign,
Eyed them askance.

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 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 refined jargon, which has infested 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 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 authorised 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 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 [oe]conomically 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 ascendancy 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 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.

And when he tells her she hates flattery,
She says she does, being then most flatter'd.

But nothing, in general, can end less delightfully than these sublime attachments, even where no acts of seduction were 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 through the whole tiresome journey of their insipid, vacant, joyless existence.

Thus much for the completion of the sentimental history. If we trace 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, and 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.

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 reflection 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 no more be influenced by the advice of their mother, than they would go abroad in her laced pinner or her brocade suit.

But young people never shew 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 wife, 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, of 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 weed of 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 those 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 conceive them to be extremely different. Sentiment 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[6] has remarked of his no less celebrated contemporary, 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 Milton, 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.

A fairer person lost not heav'n; he seem'd
For dignity compos'd, and high exploit,
But all was false and hollow, tho' his tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels, for his thoughts were low,
To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds
Tim'rous and slothful; yet he pleas'd the ear.

Paradise Lost, B. II.

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,

Faithful found
Among the faithless, faithful only he
Among innumerable false, unmov'd,
Unshaken, unseduc'd, unterrified;
His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal.
Nor number, nor example with him wrought
To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind,
Though single.

Book V.

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,

With words still cloath'd in reason's guise,
Counsel'd ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth,
Not peace.

Book II.

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!

All night the dreadless angel unpursued
Through heaven's wide champain held his way.

Book VI.

No wonder he was received with such acclamations of joy by the celestial powers, when there was

But one,
Yes, of so many myriads fall'n, but one
Return'd not lost.

Ibid.

And afterwards, in a close contest with the arch fiend,

A noble stroke he lifted high
On the proud crest of Satan.

Ibid.

What was the effect of this courage of the vigilant and active seraph?

Amazement seiz'd
The rebel throne, but greater rage to see
Thus foil'd their mightiest.

Abdiel had the superiority of Belial as much in the warlike combat, as in the peaceful counsels.

Nor was it ought but just,
That he who in debate of truth had won,
Shou'd win in arms, in both disputes alike
Victor.

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 enthusiasm 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 elevation 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 proceed 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 inconveniencies from which less interesting characters are happily exempt. Young women of strong sensibility may be carried by the very amiableness of this temper into the most alarming extremes. Their tastes are passions. They love and 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 rather 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, 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 slower 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 burthensome 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.

[6] See Voltaire's Prophecy concerning Rousseau.

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.

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 ribbon 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.

Amongst 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, 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 Hamlet says, makes them lisp and amble, and nick-name God'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 courtesy, 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 those who have it to scrutinize into the conduct and disposition of men, before they trust entirely to those fair appearances, 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 entitled to figure among the great and the fortunate. Compare her conduct with that of her undaunted and pious countryman and contemporary, 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 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 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, that 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 dispositions 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 expence 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.

The neglect of this cultivation seems to proceed as much from a bad taste, as from 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 effects; and when there happens to be no imbecillity in the pupil, nor deficiency in the matter, 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 shew 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 great object constantly kept in view) the talk 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 can produce them, nor fell the stubborn Antæus so fast as he can recruit his strength, and rise in vigorous 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 that 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 ruin.

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. Se 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 spring. This dangerous doctrine (which yet is not without its uses) will be counteracted by the prudent mother, not in so many words, but by a watchful and scarcely perceptible dexterity. Such an 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 theatrical tone, play and sing, have her dressing-room hung 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 indispensably 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. 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 who 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 exertion of every amiable accomplishment, exerted in the shade, to enliven retirement, to heighten the endearing pleasures of social intercourse, and to embellish the narrow but charming circle of family delights. To this amiable purpose, a truly good and well educated young lady will dedicate her 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 is 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 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 to languages nor to music.—What an error! They are a part of education, and of infinitely more value,

Than all their pedant discipline 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 hasty 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 redundances 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 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 themselves, 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 diagnostics, 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 choked 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. 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, notwithstanding 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 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 (says he) 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 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 state. 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 cherubims and seraphims, 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 imbecillity 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 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 Saul 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 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.[7]"

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 auxiliaries, 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.

[7] Obras de Quevedo, vida de San Pablo Apostol.

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 imbecillity of age. Many are precluded by the narrowness of their education, and many by the straitness of their fortune. The wisdom 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 [oe]conomy, and no chasm is left for want of an object to fill it, exactly suited to its nature.

But in the great and universal concern 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 its 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 capable 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 loving spirit: she is 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 self-sufficient 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 sad 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 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 paternal eye into the bustle of the world, and 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 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 freethinker may affect to treat religion himself, he will think it necessary his wife should entertain different notions of 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 dependance 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 woman 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 reflection 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 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 publickly prophaned it; for she plainly indicates, either that she does not believe, or 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 the aged, who have not spirits for any business at all. But till they can prove, that none except the clergy and the 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 sunk, that the grasshopper is become a burthen, 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 an 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. [8]

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 appellation 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, 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.

The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

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 gulf 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 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 this 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 task on the vigilance of reason; and to bear those faculties 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. Furies, 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.

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 imaginations. 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 natural tendency to fly off from the strait line of regularity; 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 make 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 waken'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, 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 who 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 a 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; and has shewn 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 honeysuckle, 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 their 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 Linnæan 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 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 is right. They do not preclude the difficulty of the operation; but at the conclusion of it, furnish him with a fuller 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 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 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 meer 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 sesms 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 not 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 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 spectator; though where the passions are principally concerned, the profane 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 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 the 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 prune, 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 latter 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 easier 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 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 whatever 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 rudeness; 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 imperfectly: it is repressed and kept back by a crowd of the most discouraging prejudices: like an infant prince, who, though born to reign, yet holds an idle sceptre, 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.

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 imitable. 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, negotiable 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 really 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.

[8] The Author begs leave to offer an apology for introducing this Essay, which, she fears, may be thought foreign to her purpose. But she hopes that her earnest desire of exciting a taste for literature in young ladies, (which encouraged her to hazard the following remarks) will not obstruct her general design, even if it does not actually promote it.

THE END.

Lately published by the same Author,

Ode To Dragon, Mr. Garrick's
House-Dog at Hampton. Price 6d.

Sir Eldred of the Bower, and the
Bleeding Rock. Legendary
Tales. Price 2s. 6d.
Printed for T. Cadell in the Strand.

The Sixth Edition of
The Search after Happiness. A
Pastoral Drama. Price 1s. 6d.

The Third Edition of
The Inflexible Captive. A Tragedy.
Price 1s. 6d.
Printed for T. Cadell, in the Strand; and J.
Wilkie, in St. Paul's Church-Yard.

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Table of Contents

- ESSAYS for YOUNG LADIES.

- ESSAYS on VARIOUS SUBJECTS, Principally deſigned for YOUNG LADIES.

- to Mrs. MONTAGU.

- CONTENTS.

- INTRODUCTION.

- ON DISSIPATION.

- THOUGHTS ON CONVERSATION.

- ON ENVY.

- ON THE DANGER OF SENTIMENTAL OR ROMANTIC CONNEXIONS.

- ON TRUE AND FALSE MEEKNESS.

- THOUGHTS on the CULTIVATION of the HEART and TEMPER in the EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS.

- on the IMPORTANCE of RELIGION to the FEMALE CHARACTER.

- MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS on GENIUS, TASTE, GOOD SENSE, &c. [8]

- ESSAYS for YOUNG LADIES.

- ESSAYS on VARIOUS SUBJECTS, Principally designed for YOUNG LADIES.

- to Mrs. MONTAGU.

- CONTENTS.

- INTRODUCTION.

- ON DISSIPATION.

- THOUGHTS ON CONVERSATION.

- ON ENVY.

- ON THE DANGER OF SENTIMENTAL OR ROMANTIC CONNEXIONS.

- ON TRUE AND FALSE MEEKNESS.

- THOUGHTS on the CULTIVATION of the HEART and TEMPER in the EDUCATION of DAUGHTERS.

- on the IMPORTANCE of RELIGION to the FEMALE CHARACTER.

- MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS on GENIUS, TASTE, GOOD SENSE, &c. [8]

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE