ESSAYS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS, Principally deſigned for YOUNG LADIES.

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

MDCCLXXVII.

ON DISSIPATION.

AS an argument in favour of mo⯑dern manners, it has been plead⯑ed, that the ſofter vices of Luxury and Diſſipation, belong rather to gen⯑tle and yielding tempers, than to ſuch as are rugged and ferocious: that they are vices which increaſe civili⯑zation, [16]and tend to promote refine⯑ment, and the cultivation of human⯑nity.

BUT this is an aſſertion, the truth of which the experience of all ages contradicts. Nero was not leſs a ty⯑rant for being a fiddler: He ^* 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 [17]content themſelves with regretting, without ſeeking to redreſs. A diſſi⯑pated 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 exta⯑cies," is aſtoniſhed, that her acquaint⯑ance can ſpend whole nights in prey⯑ing, 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 [18]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 pro⯑poſals 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 af⯑fect none. They think that ſin, like matter, is diviſible, and that what is ſcattered among ſo many, cannot ma⯑terially affect any one; and thus indi⯑viduals contribute ſeparately to that evil which they in general lament.

THE prevailing manners of an age depend more than we are aware, or [19]are willing to allow, on the conduct of the women; this is one of the prin⯑cipal hinges on which the great ma⯑chine 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 fe⯑male 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 daz⯑zle for an hour, when they are candi⯑dates for eternity!

UNDER the diſpenſation of Maho⯑met's law, indeed, theſe mental ex⯑cellencies cannot be expected, becauſe the women are ſhut out from all op⯑portunities of inſtruction, and excluded [20]from the endearing pleaſures of a de⯑lightful and equal ſociety; and, as a charming poet ſings, are taught to believe, that

THESE act conſiſtently in ſtudying none but exterior graces, in cultivat⯑ing only perſonal attractions, and in trying to lighten the intolerable bur⯑den of time, by the moſt frivolous and vain amuſements. They act in conſequence of their own blind be⯑lief, and the tyranny of their deſpotic maſters; for they have neither the free⯑dom of a preſent choice, nor the pro⯑ſpect of a future being.

[21]BUT in this land of civil and reli⯑gious 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 obli⯑gation to be exemplary in their gene⯑ral conduct, attentive to the govern⯑ment of their families, and inſtrumental to the good order of ſociety!

SHE who is at a loſs to find amuſe⯑ments at home, can no longer apo⯑logize 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, com⯑plains of an evil which does not exiſt.

[22]IT is a queſtion frequently in the mouths of illiterate and diſſipated fe⯑males— "What good is there in read⯑ing? To what end does it conduce?" It is, however, too obvious to need in⯑ſiſting on, that unleſs perverted, as the beſt things may be, reading an⯑ſwers 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 improve⯑ment, whilſt the mind of a diſſipated woman is continually loſing ground. An active ſpirit rejoiceth, like the ſun, to run his daily courſe, while indo⯑lence, 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 [23]temper is the preſent object of conſi⯑deration. The remark may perhaps be thought too ſtrong, but I believe it is true, that next to religious influ⯑ences, 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 ſo⯑ciety; ſtudy therefore induces a reliſh for domeſtic life, the moſt deſirable temper in the world for women. Stu⯑dy, as it reſcues the mind from an inordinate fondneſs for gaming, dreſs, and public amuſements, is an oeco⯑nomical propenſity; for a lady may read at much leſs expence than ſhe can play at cards; as it requires ſome ap⯑plication, 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 [24]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 ra⯑tional duty; and when directed to the knowledge of the Supreme Being, and his laws, it riſes into an act of reli⯑gion.

THE rage for reformation commonly ſhews itſelf in a violent zeal for ſup⯑preſſing 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 [25]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 free⯑dom and unbounded indulgence. Know⯑ledge is not, as heretofore, confined to the dull cloyſter, or the gloomy college, but diſſeminated, to a cer⯑tain degree, among both ſexes and almoſt all ranks. The only misfor⯑tune 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 know⯑ledge is ſo ſcarce, and the habit of diſſipation ſo much increaſed.

IT has been remarked, that the pre⯑vailing character of the preſent age is [26]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 gra⯑dual defection from piety, will in time draw after it all the bad conſe⯑quences of more active vice; for whe⯑ther 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 in⯑dolence 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 [27]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 ſhe 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 ren⯑ders it totally incapable of application, ſtudy, or virtue. Diſſipation not only indiſpoſes it votaries to every thing [28]uſeful and excellent, but diſqualifies them for the enjoyment of pleaſure it⯑ſelf. It ſoftens the ſoul ſo much, that the moſt ſuperficial employment be⯑comes a labour, and the ſlighteſt in⯑convenience 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 fetters are faſtened, before they are felt. The blandiſhments of Circe were more fatal to the mariners of [29]Ulyſſes, than the ſtrength of Poly⯑pheme, or the brutality of the Laeſ⯑trigons. Hercules, after he had cleanſed the Augean ſtable, and per⯑formed 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, conde⯑ſcended to the moſt effeminate employ⯑ments 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 un⯑done by the diſſolute indulgences of Capua.

BEFORE the hero of the moſt beau⯑tiful and virtuous romance that ever was written, I mean Telemachus, [30]landed on the iſland of Cyprus, he un⯑fortunately loſt his prudent compa⯑nion, Mentor, in whom wiſdom is ſo finely perſoniſied. At ſirſt 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 imper⯑ceptibly undermined, his heart was ſoftened by their pernicious ſociety, and the nerve of reſolution was ſlack⯑ened: he every day beheld with di⯑miniſhed 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 cou⯑rage, and relaxed his principles. In ſhort, he had ceaſed to love virtue long before he thought of committing [31]actual vice; and the duties of a manly piety were burdenſome to him, before he was ſo debaſed as to offer perfumes, and burn incenſe on the altar of the licentious goddeſs. ^*,

‘LET us crown ourſelves with roſe⯑buds before they be withered,’ ſaid Solomon's libertine. Alas! he did not reflect that they withered in the very gathering. The roſes of pleaſure ſel⯑dom laſt long enough to adorn the brow [32]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 conſider⯑ing the ſhortneſs of life, as an incen⯑tive 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 enter⯑tained 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 igno⯑rance or their doubts to plead. It [33]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 ^* be⯑ings 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 im⯑mortality, we ſhould have an excuſe for ſpending ſome portion of our time in diſſipation, as we might then pre⯑tend, with ſome colour of reaſon, that we propoſed, at a diſtant period, to [34]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 un⯑alterably fixed. But of the ſcanty portion of days aſſigned to our lot, not one ſhould be loſt in weak and irreſo⯑lute procraſtination.

THOSE who have not yet determined on the ſide of vanity, who, like Her⯑cules, (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 bet⯑ter guide than the tutor of Alcides, [35]and with a ſurer light than the doc⯑trines 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 ſoli⯑tudes, but for the amiable and endear⯑ing offices of ſocial life. They have uſeful ſtations to fill, and important characters to ſuſtain. They are of a religion which does not impoſe pe⯑nances, but enjoins duties; a religion of perfect purity, but of perfect bene⯑volence [36]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 no⯑thing, but which poſitively forbids them to follow a multitude to do evil.

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 ei⯑ther the neceſſity or propriety of this [38]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.

[39]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 ſpeak⯑ing, be found to have leſs of what is called learning, than a common ſchool⯑boy.

IT would be to the laſt degree pre⯑ſumptuous 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 ſub⯑jects out of the common road, in or⯑der [40]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 [41]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 at⯑tention is the moſt flattering encourage⯑ment in the world to men of ſenſe and letters, to continue any topic of in⯑ſtruction or entertainment they happen to be engaged in: it owed its intro⯑duction perhaps to accident, the beſt introduction in the world for a ſubject of ingenuity, which, though it could not have been formally propoſed with⯑out pedantry, may be continued with eaſe and good humour; but which will be frequently and effectually ſtop⯑ped by the liſtleſſneſs, inattention, or whiſpering of ſilly girls, whoſe weari⯑neſs betrays their ignorance, and whoſe impatience expoſes their ill-breeding. A polite man, however deeply inte⯑reſted [42]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 con⯑tinuance 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 mo⯑dern, ^*, in the following little anecdote from one of the ancients.

[43]WHEN many Grecian philoſophers had a ſolemn meeting before the am⯑baſſador of a foreign prince, each en⯑deavoured 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 lo⯑quacity of his companions, obſerved a profound ſilence; when the ambaſſa⯑dor, 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 cap⯑tivating, but the moſt dreaded of all talents: the moſt dangerous to thoſe [44]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 with⯑out 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 it it be not ſheathed in a temper peculi⯑arly [45]inoffenſive, chaſtiſed by a moſt correct judgment, and reſtrained by more prudence than falls to the com⯑mon 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 ac⯑quaintance 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 pert⯑neſs, flippancy, or imprudence, for this [46]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 acquaint⯑ance, 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 uſe⯑leſs to attend to the definition of this quality, by one who had as large a portion of it, as moſt individuals could ever boaſt:

BUT thoſe who actually poſſeſs this rare talent, cannot be too abſtinent in the uſe of it. It often makes admirers, but it never makes friends; I mean, where it is the predominant feature; and the unprotected and defenceleſs ſtate of womanhood calls for friend⯑ſhip more than for admiration. She who does not deſire friends has a ſor⯑did 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 ge⯑nius, [48]will ſufficiently maintain it, with⯑out 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 for⯑bearance, as the wiſer part of her ac⯑quaintance 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 ſome⯑times 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 huma⯑nity, as againſt good breeding; and ſurely it is as well to abſtain from an action becauſe it is ſinful, as becauſe it is unpolite. In company, young [49]ladies would do well before they ſpeak, to reflect, if what they are going to ſay may not diſtreſs ſome worthy per⯑ſon 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 im⯑bued with a fifth part of her nectar, ſo much greater will be their merit in ſuppreſſing it, if there was a probabi⯑lity 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 in⯑ward triumph, at having ſuppreſſed a lively but ſevere remark, than they could have been with the diſſembled [50]applauſes of the whole company, who, with that complaiſant deceit, which good breeding too much authoriſes, affect openly to admire what they ſe⯑cretly 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 re⯑ceived 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 is was the ſweetneſs of her temper which pro⯑duced 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.

[51]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 re⯑ſent 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 forgot⯑ten 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 [52]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 opi⯑nion, often uſe a very diſingenuous method: they will ſtate a caſe ambi⯑guouſly, 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 pre⯑miſes equivocally ſtated. They will alſo frequently argue from exceptions inſtead of rules, and are aſtoniſhed when you are not willing to be con⯑tented with a prejudice, inſtead of a reaſon.

[53]IN a ſenſible company of both ſexes, where women are not reſtrained by any other reſerve than what their natu⯑ral 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 imagi⯑nations have kept pace with the narra⯑tion, 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, com⯑paring the circumſtances, and examin⯑ing the conſiſtencies of what was ſaid, are obliged to pauſe and diſcriminate, before they think of anſwering No⯑thing is ſo embarraſſing as a variety of matter, and the converſation of women [54]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 appear⯑ance of a confuſed and perplexed ex⯑preſſion; 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 oppo⯑nent; the former may be effected by a turn that has more happineſs than truth in it. Many an excellent rea⯑ſoner, 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 queſ⯑tion [55]as can be conceived, has diſcon⯑certed him more than the moſt ſtart⯑ling 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 at⯑tended with the fulleſt demonſtration: ſo true is it, that it is not always neceſ⯑ſary to be right, in order to be ap⯑plauded.

BUT let not a young lady's vanity be too much elated with this falſe ap⯑plauſe, which is given, not to her merit, but to her ſex: ſhe has not per⯑haps 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 diſcri| [56]minate 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 na⯑tural 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 rea⯑ſon juſtly and pertinently on common affairs, and judiciouſly to deduce ef⯑fects 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 with⯑out the rules;’ the beſt definition, perhaps, of that ſort of literature which [57]is propereſt for the ſex. That ſpecies of knowledge, which appears to be the reſult of reflection rather than of ſci⯑ence, 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 con⯑verſation is too frequently tinctured with a cenſorious ſpirit, and that ladies are ſeldom apt to diſcover much ten⯑derneſs for the errors of a fallen ſiſter. ‘[58]If it be ſo, it is a grievous fault.’ No arguments can juſtify, no pleas can extenuate it. To inſult over the mi⯑ſeries of an unhappy creature is inhu⯑man, not to compaſſionate them is un⯑chriſtian. The worthy part of the ſex always expreſs themſelves humanely on the failings of others, in propor⯑tion to their own undeviating good⯑neſs.

AND here I cannot help remarking, that young women do not always care⯑fully diſtinguiſh between running into the error of detraction, and its oppo⯑ſite 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 [59]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 favou⯑rite figure; and every degree of com⯑pariſon 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 de⯑gree 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 [60]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 affect⯑ed 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 to⯑tally 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 [61]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 dange⯑rous as it is fooliſh.

THERE are many, who never can forgive another for being more agree⯑able and more accompliſhed than themſelves, and who can pardon any offence rather than an eclipſing me⯑rit. Had the nightingale in the fa⯑ble conquered his vanity, and reſiſted the temptation of ſhewing a fine voice, [62]he might have eſcaped the talons of the hawk. The melody of his ſinging was the cauſe of his deſtruction; his merit brought him into danger, and his vanity coſt him his life.

ON ENVY.

"ENVY, (ſays Lord Bacon) has no holidays." There cannot perhaps be a more lively and ſtriking deſcription of the miſerable ſtate of mind thoſe endure, who are tormented [64]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 pro⯑greſs is the moſt rapid, will be apt to deſpiſe their leſs ſucceſsful competi⯑tors, who, in return, will feel the bit⯑tereſt reſentment againſt their more fortunate rivals. Among perſons of real goodneſs, this jealouſy and con⯑tempt can never be equally felt, be⯑cauſe every advancement in piety will be attended with a proportionable in⯑creaſe of humility, which will lead them to contemplate their own improve⯑ments [65]with modeſty, and to view with charity the miſcarriages of others.

WHEN an envious man is melan⯑choly, one may aſk him, in the words of Bion, what evil has befallen him⯑ſelf, or what good has happened to another? This laſt is the ſcale by which he principally meaſures his feli⯑city, 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 neigh⯑bours.

WHEN the malevolent intend to ſtrike a very deep and dangerous ſtroke of malice, they generally begin the moſt remotely in the world from [66]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 obſtruc⯑tions for the inſidious ſtab they are about to give; for who will ſuſpect them of an intention to injure the ob⯑ject of their peculiar and profeſſed eſteem? The hearer's belief of the fact grows in proportion to the ſeem⯑ing 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.

[67]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 am⯑biguities; 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 ne⯑ver conſults times or ſeaſons; envy waits for the lucky moment, when the wound it meditates may be made the moſt exquiſitely painful, and the [68]moſt incurably deep—anger uſes more invective; envy does more miſchief— ſimple anger ſoons runs itſelf out of breath, and is exhauſted at the end of its tale; but it is for that choſen pe⯑riod 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 abhor⯑rence and deteſtation of the object of his abuſe; while the envious man care⯑fully ſuppreſſes all his own ſhare in the affair.—The angry man defeats the end of his reſentment, by keeping him⯑ſelf continually before your eyes, in⯑ſtead of his enemy; while the envious man artfully brings forward the object [69]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 per⯑ſon, if his reſentments are not compli⯑cated with malice, divides his time between ſinning and ſorrowing; and, as the iraſcible paſſions cannot conſtant⯑ly be at work, his heart may ſome⯑times get a holiday.—Anger is a violent act, envy a conſtant habit—no one can be always angry, but he may be al⯑ways 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 ca⯑lamity itſelf, if he finds his adverſary bears it with dignity, or is pitied or aſſiſted in it. The rage of the paſ⯑ſionate man is totally extinguiſhed by the death of his enemy; but the ha⯑tred [70]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 wi⯑dow, the proſperity of his children, the eſteem of his friends, the praiſes of his epitaph—nay the very magnifi⯑cence 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 in⯑fected with it ſtill more dangerous.

WHEN you tell thoſe of a malicious turn, any circumſtance that has hap⯑pened to another, though they per⯑fectly know of whom you are ſpeak⯑ing, they often affect to be at a loſs, to forget his name, or to miſapprehend you in ſome reſpect or other; and this [71]merely to have an opportunity of ſlily gratifying their malice by mentioning ſome unhappy defect or perſonal infir⯑mity he labours under; and not con⯑tented "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 ſeem⯑ing ſimplicity and candor in the world, merely for the ſake of preventing miſ⯑takes, 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 [72]ſuſpected of ſuch or ſuch an indiſcre⯑tion, though the daughter had the luck to make her fortune by marrying, while her betters are overlooked.

To hint at a fault, does more miſ⯑chief 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 ini⯑tials of it; as a worthier perſon may be involved in the moſt diſgraceful ſuſpicions by ſuch a dangerous ambi⯑guity.

IT is not uncommon for the envi⯑ous, after having attempted to deface the faireſt character ſo induſtriouſly, that they are afraid you will begin to [73]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 ſer⯑vice of proteſting their diſbelief of it. More reputations are thus hinted away by falſe friends, than are openly de⯑ſtroyed by public enemies. An if, or a but, or a mortified look, or a lan⯑guid 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.

[74]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 Machiave⯑lian policy, it ſometimes affects the language of the moſt exaggerated ap⯑plauſe; though it generally takes care, that the ſubject of its panegyric ſhall be a very indifferent and common cha⯑racter, 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 mi⯑ſery, but to be continually aggra⯑vating its own torments, by compar⯑ing them with the felicities of others. The eyes of envy are perpetually fixed on the object which diſturbs it, nor [75]can it avert them from it, though to procure itſelf the relief of a tempo⯑rary forgetfulneſs. On ſeeing the in⯑nocence of the firſt pair,

As this enormous ſin chiefly inſti⯑gated 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 deſ⯑perate 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 in⯑gratitude, is practiſed with more fre⯑quency, becauſe it is practiſed with [76]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 ſuf⯑ficient 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 per⯑verſion of faſhion, the plaineſt and moſt unequivocal may be ſo altered, [78]as to have a meaning aſſigned them al⯑moſt diametrically oppoſite to their original ſignification.

THE preſent age may be termed, by way of diſtinction, the age of ſenti⯑timent, a word which, in the impli⯑cation it now bears, was unknown to our plain anceſtors. Sentiment is the varniſh of virtue to conceal the defor⯑mity 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 prac⯑tiſe 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 ſen⯑timental [79]books, write ſentimental letters, and contract ſentimental friendſhips.

ERROR is never likely to do ſo much miſchief as when it diſguifes its real tendency, and puts on an engag⯑ing and attractive appearance. Many a young woman, who would be ſhock⯑ed 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 plau⯑ſibility and virtue, diſarms her of her prudence, lays her apprehenſions aſleep, and involves her in miſery; miſery the more inevitable becauſe unſuſpect⯑ed. For ſhe who apprehends no dan⯑ger, will not think it neceſſary to be always upon her guard; but will ra⯑ther invite than avoid the ruin which [80]comes under ſo ſpecious and ſo fair a form.

SUCH an engagement will be infi⯑nitely dearer to her vanity than an avowed and authoriſed attachment; for one of theſe ſentimental lovers will not ſcruple very ſeriouſly to aſſure a cre⯑dulous girl, that her unparalleled me⯑rit 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 be⯑lieve, 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 de⯑ſign [81]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 oeconomically laid out to ſupply his future neceſſities: of this ſum he keeps an exact eſtimate, and at ſome diſtant day promiſes him⯑ſelf 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 opini⯑ons. Indeed, it is more than probable ſhe poſſeſſed moſt of them before, hav⯑ing gradually acquired them in her initiation into the ſentimental charac⯑ter. To maintain that character with dignity and propriety, it is neceſſary ſhe ſhould entertain the moſt elevated [82]ideas of diſproportionate alliances, and diſintereſted love; and conſider for⯑tune, rank, and reputation, as mere chimerical diſtinctions and vulgar pre⯑judices.

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 lan⯑guage 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 renun⯑ciation. Every plea he artfully ad⯑vances of his own unworthineſs, is [83]conſidered by her as a freſh demand which her gratitude muſt anſwer. And ſhe makes it a point of honour to ſa⯑crifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to regard. Theſe profeſ⯑ſions of humility are the common ar⯑tifice of the vain, and theſe proteſta⯑tions 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 advan⯑tages, 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 accuſ⯑tomed to contemplate it herſelf, and to hear of it from others. She will not, therefore, be very ſolicitous for [84]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 com⯑pliment offered to thoſe perfections, which are leſs obvious and more re⯑fined. 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 cha⯑racter here ſuppoſed, will eaſily in⯑ſinuate 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 [85]delicate praiſes on the beauties of her mind, and finiſh the climax of adu⯑lation, by hinting that ſhe is ſuperior to it.

BUT nothing, in general, can end leſs delightfully than theſe ſublime attach⯑ments, even where no acts of ſeduc⯑tion were ever practiſed, but they are ſuffered, like mere ſublunary connexi⯑ons, to terminate in the vulgar cata⯑ſtrophe of marriage. That wealth, which lately ſeemed to be looked on with ineffable contempt by the lover, now appears to be the principal at⯑traction 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 [86]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 ſtrip⯑ped of all her celeſtial attributes. This late divinity, who ſcarcely yielded to her ſiſters of the ſky, now finds her⯑ſelf 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 coun⯑terfeited paſſion, the ſigh of diſſembled rapture, or the language of premedi⯑tated adoration. No longer is the [87]altar of her vanity loaded with the ob⯑lations of fictitious fondneſs, the in⯑cenſe 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 indiffe⯑rence, 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 [88]back to its beginning, we ſhall ſind that a damſel of this caſt had her head originally turned by pernicious read⯑ing, 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 volumi⯑nous correſpondence, though they live in the ſame ſtreet, or perhaps in the ſame houſe. This is the fuel which principally feeds and ſupplies the dan⯑gerous flame of ſentiment. In this correſpondence the two friends encou⯑rage each other in the falſeſt notions imaginable. They repreſent romantic love as the great important buſineſs [89]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 em⯑ploy the daughters of the plodding vulgar. In theſe letters, family affairs are miſrepreſented, family ſecrets di⯑vulged, and family misfortunes ag⯑gravated. They are filled with vows of eternal amity, and proteſtations of never-ending love. But interjections and quotations are the principal em⯑belliſhments of theſe very ſublime epiſtles. Every panegyric contained in them is extravagant and hyperbo⯑lical, 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 pom⯑pous [90]or pathetic thought is forced to give up its natural and obvious mean⯑ing, and with all the violence of miſ⯑application, 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 ex⯑preſſion worth an empire, and is al⯑ways 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 But as theſe young ladies are fertile in [91]expedients, and as their genius is ne⯑ver more agreeably exerciſed than in finding reſources, they are not with⯑out their ſecret exultation, in caſe ei⯑ther of the above intereſting events ſhould happen, as they carry with them a certain air of tyranny and per⯑ſecution 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 pre⯑ſume to remonſtrate with them on any impropriety in their conduct. But if theſe worthy people happen to be ſomewhat advanced in life, their con⯑tempt is then a little ſoftened by pity, at the reflection that ſuch very anti⯑quated [92]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 plea⯑ſures of a delicate and exalted paſſion; as tyrants whoſe authority is to be con⯑temned, 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 pa⯑rents were young, that though they might then judge tolerably for them⯑ſelves, yet they are now (with all their advantages of knowledge and obſervation) by no means qualified to direct their more enlightened daugh⯑ters; who, if they have made a great progreſs in the ſentimental walk, will [93]no more be influenced by the advice of their mother, than they would go abroad in her laced pinner or her bro⯑cade ſuit.

BUT young people never ſhew their folly and ignorance more conſpicu⯑ouſly, 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 cun⯑ning, though very conceited, is very ſhort-ſighted, and never more ſo than when it diſregards the inſtructions of the wiſe, and the admonitions of the aged. The ſame vices and follies in⯑fluenced the human heart in their day, which influence it now, and [94]nearly in the ſame manner. One who well knew the world and its various vanities, has ſaid, ‘The thing which hath been, it is that which ſhall be, and that which is done is that which ſhall be done, and there is no new thing under the ſun.’

IT is alſo a part of the ſentimental character, to imagine that none but the young and the beautiful have any right to the pleaſures of ſociety, or even to the common benefits and bleſſ⯑ings of life. Ladies of this turn alſo affect the moſt lofty diſregard for uſe⯑ful 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.

[95]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 de⯑corums, 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 diffe⯑rent. Sentiment is the virtue of ideas, and principle the virtue of action. Sen⯑timent has its ſeat in the head, prin⯑ciple in the heart. Sentiment ſuggeſts fine harangues and ſubtile diſtinctions; principle conceives juſt notions, and performs good actions in conſequence [96]of them. Sentiment refines away the ſimplicity of truth and the plainneſs of piety; and, as a celebrated wit ^* has remarked of his no leſs celebrated contemporary, gives us virtue in words and vice in deeds. Sentiment may be called the Athenian, who knew what was right, and principle the Lacede⯑monian who practiſed it.

BUT theſe qualities will be better exemplified by an attentive conſider⯑ation of two admirably drawn cha⯑racters of Milton, which are beauti⯑fully, delicately, and diſtinctly mark⯑ed. Theſe are, Belial, who may not improperly be called the Demon of Sen⯑timent; and Abdiel, who may be termed the Angel of Principle.

[97]SURVEY the picture of Belial, drawn by the ſublimeſt hand that ever held the poetic pencil.

HERE is a lively and exquiſite re⯑preſentation 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, [98]

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 ac⯑tions, with what the above pictures ſeem to promiſe. It will alſo be ob⯑ſerved, that the contraſt between them is kept up throughout, with the ut⯑moſt exactneſs of delineation, and the moſt animated ſtrength of colouring. [99]On a review it will be found, that Belial talked all, and Abdiel did all. The former,

IN Abdiel you will conſtantly find the eloquence of action. When tempt⯑ed by the rebellious angels, with what retorted ſcorn, with what honeſt indig⯑nation he deſerts their multitudes, and retreats from their contagious ſociety!

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

[100]AND afterwards, in a cloſe conteſt with the arch fiend,

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

ABDIEL had the ſuperiority of Be⯑lial as much in the warlike combat, as in the peaceful counfels.

BUT notwithſtanding I have ſpoken with ſome aſperity againſt ſentiment as oppoſed to principle, yet I am con⯑vinced, [101]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 diſa⯑greeable, that a portion of it is per⯑haps indiſpenſably neceſſary in an en⯑gaging 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 unna⯑tural fiction and improbable adven⯑ture. 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 Ro⯑mance, but which perſons of a certain [102]way of thinking will diſcern to pro⯑ceed 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 incon⯑veniencies 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 ex⯑tremes. Their taſtes are paſſions. They love and hate with all their hearts, and ſcarcely ſuffer themſelves to feel a rea⯑ſonable preference before it ſtrengthens into a violent attachment.

WHEN an innocent girl of this open, truſting, tender heart, happens to meet [103]with one of her own ſex and age, whoſe addreſs and manners are engag⯑ing, ſhe is inſtantly ſeized with an ar⯑dent deſire to commence a friendſhip with her. She feels the moſt lively impatience at the reſtraints of compa⯑ny, and the decorums of ceremony. She longs to be alone with her, longs to aſſure her of the warmth of her ten⯑derneſs, 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 hero⯑ines. She is perſuaded, that her new friend unites them all in herſelf, be⯑cauſe ſhe carries in her prepoſſeſſing countenance the promiſe of them all. How cruel and how cenſorious would this inexperienced girl think her mo⯑ther was, who ſhould venture to hint, that the agreeable unknown had de⯑fects [104]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 igno⯑rance. The more aggravated the cen⯑ſure, 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 conſidence, this honeſt indiſcretion, is, at this early pe⯑riod of life as amiable as it is natural; and will, if wiſely cultivated, produce, [105]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 predomi⯑nance 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 ar⯑mour of ſuſpicion is more painful and inconvenient, than to run the hazard of ſuffering now and then a tranſient injury.

[106]BUT the above obſervations only extend to the young and the inexpe⯑rienced; 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 attach⯑ment. And if we cannot oppoſe in⯑ſtances of equal weight with thoſe of Nyſus and Euryalus, Theſeus and Pi⯑rithous, Pylades and Oreſtes, let it be remembered, that it is becauſe the re⯑corders of thoſe characters were men, and that the very exiſtence of them is merely poetical.

ON TRUE AND FALSE MEEKNESS.

A LOW voice and ſoft addreſs are the common indications of a well-bred woman, and ſhould ſeem to be the natural effects of a meek and quiet ſpirit; but they are only the outward and viſible ſigns of it: for [108]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 neg⯑lecting 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 [109]temper of the mind has a ſtrong influ⯑ence 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 ſere⯑nity 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 judg⯑ment 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 [110]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 Py⯑thian 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 or⯑dered?

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 [111]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 diſpoſi⯑tions 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 [112]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 ex⯑ceſſive as to deprive people of the pro⯑per 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.

[113]AMONG the various artifices of fac⯑titious meekneſs, one of the moſt fre⯑quent 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 with⯑out confidence, their friendſhip with⯑out 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 ap⯑proving ladies, who have neither the noble courage to reprehend vice, nor the generous warmth to bear their ho⯑neſt teſtimony in the cauſe of virtue, conclude every one to be ill-natured who has any penetration, and look up⯑on a diſtinguiſhing judgment as want of tenderneſs. But they ſhould learn, [114]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 ſcru⯑tinize into the conduct and diſpoſition of men, before they truſt entirely to thoſe fair appearances, which ſome⯑times 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 [115]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 contra⯑diction as a proof of their gentleneſs!

MEEKNESS, like moſt other virtues, has certain limits, which it no ſooner exceeds than it becomes criminal. Ser⯑vility 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 inno⯑cence maligned without vindicating it, falſehood aſſerted without contradict⯑ing 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 hap⯑pens to be againſt him, is the moſt [116]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 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 pru⯑dence, will diſqualify her from ſhining in the annals of good women, how⯑ever ſhe may be entitled to figure among the great and the fortunate. [117]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 commiſ⯑ſion 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 re⯑ſentments 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 re⯑flect [118]for a moment, whether the thing we ſo ardently deſire, or ſo vehemently reſent, be really of as much import⯑ance to us, as that delightful tran⯑quillity 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 ex⯑change. 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 tri⯑fling, foreign, perhaps imaginary good.

THE moſt pointed ſatire I remember to have read, on a mind enſlaved by [119]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 him⯑ſelf: he who was turned looſe to the beaſt eſcaped, but Clitus was mur⯑dered, 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 ac⯑quaintance, 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 impe⯑rious woman will ſo little covet the [120]ornament of a meek and quiet ſpirit, that it is almoſt the only ornament ſhe will not be ſolicitous to wear. But re⯑ſentment 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 rea⯑ſons, it would turn to a better account to be patient; nothing defeats the ma⯑lice of an enemy like a ſpirit of for⯑bearance; 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.

[121]A MEEK ſpirit will not look out of it⯑ſelf 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 ex⯑tract 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 ami⯑able. 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.

[122]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 pro⯑verb. Would not the truly wiſe, therefore, wiſh to have ſome one poſ⯑ſeſſion, which they might call their own in the ſevereſt exigencies? But this wiſh can only be accompliſhed by ac⯑quiring 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 preſump⯑tion 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 [124]leave to hazard a few ſhort remarks on that part of the ſubject of educa⯑tion, which I would call the education of the heart. I am well aware, that this part alſo has not been leſs ſkil⯑fully 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 notwithſtand⯑ing the great and real improvements, which have been made in the affair of female education, and notwithſtand⯑ing the more enlarged and generous views of it, which prevail in the pre⯑ſent day, that there is ſtill a very ma⯑terial defect, which it is not, in general, enough the object of attention to re⯑move. This defect ſeems to conſiſt in this, that too little regard is paid [125]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 eſta⯑bliſhes are right, they ſhould undoubr⯑edly 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, [126]as from a falſe principle. The gene⯑rality of people form their judgment of education by ſlight and ſudden ap⯑pearances, which is certainly a wrong way of determining. Muſic, dancing, and languages, gratify thoſe who teach them, by perceptible and almoſt imme⯑diate effects; and when there happens to be no imbecillity in the pupil, nor deficiency in the maſter, every ſuper⯑ficial 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 charac⯑ters, elegance uſually precedes prin⯑ciple.

[127]BUT the heart, that natural ſeat of evil propenſities, that little trouble⯑ſome empire of the paſſions, is led to what is right by ſlow motions and im⯑perceptible degrees. It muſt be ad⯑moniſhed by reproof, and allured by kindneſs. Its livelieſt advances are frequently impeded by the obſtinacy of prejudice, and its brighteſt pro⯑miſes often obſcured by the tempeſts of paſſion. It is ſlow in its acquiſition of virtue, and reluctant in its ap⯑proaches to piety.

THERE is another reaſon, which proves this mental cultivation to be more important, as well as more diffi⯑cult, than any other part of education. In the uſual faſhionable accompliſh⯑ments, the buſineſs of acquiring them is almoſt always getting forwards, and one difficulty is conquered before an⯑other [128]other is ſuffered to ſhew itſelf; for a prudent teacher will level the road his pupil is to paſs, and ſmooth the in⯑equalities which might retard her pro⯑greſs.

BUT in morals, (which ſhould be the great object conſtantly kept in view) the taſk is far more difficult. The unruly and turbulent deſires of the heart are not ſo obedient; one paſ⯑ſion will ſtart up before another is ſup⯑preſſed. The ſubduing Hercules can⯑not cut off the heads ſo often as the prolific Hydra can produce them, nor fell the ſtubborn Antaeus 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! [129]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 daugh⯑ter's moſt important intereſts, will ſeem to be at variance with thoſe of her in⯑ſtructors. She will doubtleſs rejoice at her progreſs in any polite art, but ſhe will rejoice with trembling:—hu⯑mility and piety form the ſolid and durable baſis, on which ſhe wiſhes to raiſe the ſuperſtructure of the accom⯑pliſhments, while the accompliſhments themſelves are frequently of that un⯑ſteady nature, that if the foundation is not ſecured, in proportion as the building is enlarged, it will be over⯑loaded and deſtroyed by thoſe very ornaments, which were intended to embelliſh, what they have contributed to ruin.

[130]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 mo⯑ther 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 [131]heart, and ſeems to be conſidered as a kind of fundamental maxim in edu⯑cation. 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 edu⯑cation, that life conſiſted of one uni⯑verſal holiday, and that the only con⯑teſt 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 [132]indifferently qualify a woman to per⯑form 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 prepa⯑ration for the buſineſs of living? A lady may ſpeak a little French and Italian, repeat a few paſſages in a the⯑atrical tone, play and ſing, have her dreſſing-room hung with her own draw⯑ings, and her perſon covered with her own tambour work, and may, not⯑withſtanding, have been very badly educated. Yet I am far from attempt⯑ing 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 with⯑out them. But as the world ſeems to be very well appriſed of their import⯑ance, [133]there is the leſs occaſion to in⯑ſiſt 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 ſo⯑ciety, 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 advan⯑tages, 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 [134]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 ſolici⯑tous about the opinion of others, re⯑ſpecting their children, than about the real advantage and happineſs of the children themſelves? To an inju⯑dicious and ſuperficial eye, the beſt educated girl may make the leaſt bril⯑liant figure, as ſhe will probably have leſs flippancy in her manner, and leſs repartee in her expreſſion; and her ac⯑quirements, to borrow biſhop Sprat's idea, will be rather enamelled than em⯑boſſed. 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 un⯑derſtood and admired by the man, [135]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 ac⯑compliſhment, exerted in the ſhade, to enliven retirement, to heighten the endearing pleaſures of ſocial inter⯑courſe, and to embelliſh the narrow but charming circle of family delights. To this amiable purpoſe, a truly good and well educated young lady will de⯑dicate her more elegant accompliſh⯑ments, inſtead of exhibiting them to at⯑tract admiration, or depreſs inferiority.

YOUNG girls, who have more viva⯑city than underſtanding, will often [136]make a ſprightly figure in converſation. But this agreeable talent for entertain⯑ing 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 know⯑ledge; but if precipitated by forced and unnatural means, it will in the end become vapid, in proportion as it is artificial.

[137]THE beſt effects of a careful and religious education are often very re⯑mote: they are to be diſcovered in future ſcenes, and exhibited in untried connexions. Every event of life will be putting the heart into freſh ſitu⯑ations, 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 wiſ⯑dom will allow, they muſt enable it to provide for them all, with an hum⯑ble 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, not what mode of combat the enemy may uſe.

[138]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 tem⯑per; while the latter blunts and de⯑baſes 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 vi⯑gour.

How cruel is it to extinguiſh by neglect or unkindneſs, the precious ſenſibility of an open temper, to chill the amiable glow of an ingenous 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 [139]the advantages, which can be derived from the moſt refined and artificial mode of education.

BUT ſenſibility and delicacy, and an ingenous 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 accord⯑ing paſſions. Yet this ſenſibility is, in many inſtances, ſo far from being [140]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 culti⯑vated, 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 [141]this charming temper, and ſeek to diſ⯑poſſeſs 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 chil⯑dren; 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 con⯑ceal them under this dark and impe⯑netrable 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, [142]that I am extremely apt to ſuſpect them; and am always infinitely better pleaſed with Nature in her more com⯑mon 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 edu⯑cation 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 [143]did nothing in vain, doubtleſs intend⯑ed 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 com⯑munication, 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 unrea⯑ſonable 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 [144]ſlight occaſion, and the little diſtinc⯑tion 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 abnoxious to puniſhment. But, nevertheleſs, ſhe will not ceaſe to indulge thoſe propen⯑ſities, 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 [145]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 blight⯑ed by cold ſeverity; yet I am of opi⯑nion, that young females ſhould be accuſtomed very early in life to a cer⯑tain degree of reſtraint. The natural caſt of character, and the moral diſ⯑tinctions 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 en⯑couraged, but ſuppreſſed. Girls ſhould be taught to give up their opinions betimes, and not pertinaciouſly to car⯑ry on a diſpute, even if they ſhould [146]know themſelves to be in the right. I do not mean, that they ſhould be robbed of the liberty of private judg⯑ment, 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 ac⯑quire a ſubmiſſive temper, and a for⯑bearing 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 prac⯑tiſe 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 watch⯑fulneſs, [147]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 edu⯑cate ought to be extremely patient: it is indeed a labour of love. They ſhould reflect, that extraordinary ta⯑lents 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 uni⯑verſe 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 omnipo⯑tence, if the exiſtence of many New⯑tons [148]had been neceſſary to the perfec⯑tion of his wiſe and gracious plan.

SURELY, therefore, there is more piety, as well as more ſenſe, in labour⯑ing to improve the talents which chil⯑dren 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 impor⯑tant acquiſitions. ‘The deſire of power in exceſs (ſays he) cauſed the angels to fall; the deſire of know⯑ledge in exceſs cauſed man to fall; but in charity is no exceſs, neither can men nor angels come into dan⯑ger by it.’

[149]A GIRL who has docility will ſeldom be found to want underſtanding enough for all the purpoſes of a ſocial, a hap⯑py, and an uſeful life. And when we behold the tender hope of fond and anxious love, blaſted by diſap⯑pointment, 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 de⯑feated in this or that particular in⯑ſtance, where they had treaſured up ſome darling expectation, this is ſo far from being a reaſon for relaxing their [150]attention, that it ought to be an ad⯑ditional 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 al⯑ways remain, after the very beſt poſſible education, full of infirmity and imperfec⯑tion. Extraordinary allowances, there⯑fore, 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, with⯑out the concurrence of divine grace operating on the heart. Why then ſhould parents repine, if their efforts are not always crowned with imme⯑diate [151]ſucceſs? They ſhould conſider, that they are not educating cherubims and ſeraphims, but men and women; creatures, who at their beſt eſtate are al⯑together 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 re⯑dundant [152]ſpirits ſhall come to ſub⯑ſide.

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 unnatu⯑rally forced towards an object of a totally oppoſite nature, but may be gradually inclined towards a correſpon⯑dent 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 [153]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 am⯑bition, which will not be diſcarded, may be ennobled: it will not change its name, but its object: it will de⯑ſpiſe what it lately valued, nor be contented to graſp at leſs than immor⯑tality.

THUS the joys, fears, hopes, deſires, all the paſſions and affections, which ſeparate in various currents from the ſoul, will, if directed into their pro⯑per channels, after having fertiliſed wherever they have flowed, return again to ſwell and enrich the parent ſource.

[154]THAT the very paſſions which appear the moſt uncontroulable and unpro⯑miſing, may be intended, in the great ſcheme of Providence, to anſwer ſome important purpoſe, is remarkably evi⯑denced in the character and hiſtory of Saint Paul. A remark on this ſub⯑ject by an ingenious old Spaniſh wri⯑ter, 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, [155]our bleſſed Lord converted the ad⯑der's venom of Saul the perſecutor, into that cement which made Paul the choſen veſſel. That manly ac⯑tivity, 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.’ ^*

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 ef⯑fected. But it is their nature never to obſerve a neutrality; they are ei⯑ther rebels or auxiliaries, and an enemy ſubdued is an ally obtained. [156]If I may be allowed to change the al⯑luſion ſo ſoon, I would ſay, that the paſſions alſo reſemble fires, which are friendly and beneficial when under pro⯑per direction, but if ſuffered to blaze without reſtraint, they carry devaſtation along with them, and, if totally ex⯑tinguiſhed, leave the benighted mind in a ſtate of cold and comfortleſs in⯑anity.

BUT in ſpeaking of the uſefulneſs of the paſſions, as inſtruments of vir⯑tue, envy and lying muſt always be excepted: theſe, I am perſuaded, muſt either go on in ſtill progreſſive miſ⯑chief, or elſe be radically cured, be⯑fore 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 [157]virtuous emulation, or lying improved into an agreeable turn for innocent in⯑vention. Almoſt all the other paſ⯑ſions may be made to take an amiable hue; but theſe two muſt either be to⯑tally extirpated, or be always content⯑ed to preſerve their original deformity, and to wear their native black.

ON THE IMPORTANCE OF RELIGION TO THE FEMALE CHARACTER.

VARIOUS are the reaſons why the greater part of mankind can⯑not apply themſelves to arts or letters. Particular ſtudies are only ſuited to the capacities of particular perſons. Some are incapable of applying to [159]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 narrow⯑neſs of their education, and many by the ſtraitneſs of their fortune. The wiſdom of God is wonderfully mani⯑feſted in this happy and well-ordered diverſity, in the powers and proper⯑ties of his creatures; ſince by thus ad⯑mirably ſuiting the agent to the action, the whole ſcheme of human affairs is carried on with the moſt agreeing and conſiſtent oeconomy, and no chaſm is left for want of an object to fill it, ex⯑actly ſuited to its nature.

BUT in the great and univerſal con⯑cern of religion, both ſexes, and all ranks, are equally intereſted. The truly catholic ſpirit of chriſtianity ac⯑commodates itſelf, with an aſtoniſh⯑ing [160]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 ſu⯑periority of parts is the leaſt recom⯑mendation, nor is any depreſſion of fortune the ſmalleſt objection. None are too wiſe to be excuſed from per⯑forming 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 [161]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 no⯑thing 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 ‘Wiſ⯑dom (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 conde⯑ſcending, ‘that ſhe preventeth them [162]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 infi⯑nitely ſuperior, in grandeur and ſubli⯑mity, is this deſcription to the origin of the wiſdom of the heathens, as de⯑ſcribed 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 good⯑neſs.’

THE philoſophical author of The Defence of Learning obſerves, that knowledge has ſomething of venom and malignity in it, when taken with⯑out its proper corrective, and what [163]that is, the inſpired Saint Paul teaches us, by placing it as the immediate an⯑tidote: Knowledge puffeth up, but cha⯑rity 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 ac⯑knowledge their belief in a being, who has judged proper to conceal from them the infinite wiſdom of his coun⯑ſels; who, (to borrow the lofty lan⯑guage of the man of Uz) refuſed to conſult them when he laid the foun⯑dations 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 educa⯑tion: he cannot be one unawares or [164]by ſurpriſe; for infidelity is not occa⯑ſioned 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 un⯑ſubdued 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 pre⯑poſſeſſion, or ſome of the other cauſes above mentioned; yet I am unwilling [165]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 im⯑probable, 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 in⯑ſtructed 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 [166]buſtle of the world, and ſo early ex⯑poſed to the contagion of bad exam⯑ple: 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 edu⯑cation with boys, their feeble minds are not obliged at once to receive and ſeparate the precepts of chriſtianity, and the documents of pagan philoſo⯑phy. The neceſſity of doing this per⯑haps ſomewhat weakens the ſerious impreſſions of young men, at leaſt till the underſtanding is formed, and con⯑fuſes 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 poeti⯑cal fables of the leſs than human gods [167]of the ancients. And as the excellent au⯑thor of The Internal Evidence of the Chriſ⯑tian 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 con⯑tract 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.

[168]IT is preſumed, that theſe remarks cannot poſſibly be ſo miſunderſtood, as to be conſtrued into the leaſt diſre⯑ſpect to literature, or a want of the higheſt reverence for a learned educa⯑tion, the baſis of all elegant know⯑ledge: they are only intended, with all proper deference, to point out to young women, that however inferior their advantages of acquiring a know⯑ledge 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 infi⯑delity is ſo ſmall a part of the religi⯑ous character, that I hope no one will attempt to claim any merit from this negative ſort of goodneſs, or va⯑lue [169]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 underſtand⯑ing, or raiſe her character even in the opinion of the moſt avowed male in⯑fidels. 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 [170]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 unaffect⯑edly ſincere in the practice of her re⯑ligious 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 opi⯑nion 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 chil⯑dren, who wants herſelf the beſt in⯑centive to a virtuous life, the belief that ſhe is an accountable creature, [171]and the reflection that ſhe has an im⯑mortal ſoul?

CICERO ſpoke it as the higheſt com⯑mendation of Cato's character, that he embraced philoſophy, not for the ſake of diſputing like a philoſopher, but of living like one. The chief pur⯑poſe of chriſtian knowledge is to pro⯑mote 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 know⯑ledge is beſt acquired, and the duties conſequent on it beſt performed, by reading books of plain piety and prac⯑tical devotion, and not by entering into the endleſs feuds, and engaging in the unprofitable contentions of par⯑tial controverſialiſts. Nothing is more unamiable than the narrow ſpirit of party zeal, nor more diſguſting than [172]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 proba⯑ble, ſhe may be juſt as wrong in re⯑jecting, as the object of her cenſure is in embracing. A furious and unmer⯑ciful female bigot wanders as far be⯑yond the limits preſcribed to her ſex, as a Thaleſtris or a Joan d'Arc. Vio⯑lent debate has made as few converts as the ſword, and both theſe inſtru⯑ments are particularly unbecoming when wielded by a female hand.

BUT, though no one will be fright⯑ened, out of their opinions, yet they may be perſuaded out of them: they may be touched by the affecting ear⯑neſtneſs of ſerious converſation, and allured by the attractive beauty of a [173]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 un⯑ſkilful manner of adminiſtring it. If, on the other hand, ſhe affects to de⯑fend the inſulted cauſe of God, in a faint tone of voice, and ſtudied ambi⯑guity [174]of phraſe, or with an air of le⯑vity, and a certain expreſſion of plea⯑ſure in her eyes, which proves ſhe is ſecretly delighted with what ſhe pre⯑tends 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 in⯑deed!

It is a ſtrange notion which prevails in the world, that religion only be⯑longs 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. [175]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 inte⯑reſts 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 re⯑preſent the beauty of holineſs as the ſource of deformity?

THERE are few, perhaps, ſo entirely plunged in buſineſs, or abſorbed in [176]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 con⯑firm this aſſertion, they may obſerve how much the ſlighteſt indiſpoſition, even in the moſt active ſeaſon of life, diſorders every faculty, and diſ⯑qualifies 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 excru⯑ciating pain, or in the day of uni⯑verſal debility.

[177]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 liſ⯑tening 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 ſacriſice to the God of heaven, to preſent him with the rem⯑nants of decayed appetites, and the leavings of extinguiſhed paſſions.

MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS ON GENIUS, TASTE, GOOD SENSE, &c. ^*

GOOD ſenſe is as different from genius as perception is from in⯑vention; yet, though diſtinct qualities, [179]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 pecu⯑liar ſuitableneſs to the purpoſes of common life, there is great propriety [180]in it. Good ſenſe appears to differ from taſte in this, that taſte is an in⯑ſtantaneous deciſion of the mind, a ſudden reliſh of what is beautiful, or diſguſt at what is defective, in an ob⯑ject, 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 ob⯑ject 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 enjoy⯑ment of whatever is beautiful in art or nature: Good ſenſe, to the improve⯑ment of the conduct, and the regulation of the heart.

[181]YET the term good ſenſe, is uſed in⯑diſcriminately to expreſs either a finiſh⯑ed taſte for letters, or an invariable prudence in the affairs of life. It is ſometimes applied to the moſt mode⯑rate abilities, in which caſe, the ex⯑preſſion 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 unappro⯑priated 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 incommuni⯑cable faculty: no art or ſkill of the poſſeſſor can beſtow the ſmalleſt por⯑tion of it on another: no pains or la⯑bour [182]can reach the ſummit of perfec⯑tion, where the ſeeds of it are want⯑ing 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 circum⯑ſcribed, but perhaps more uſeful walk, within the limits of prudence and pro⯑priety.

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 cer⯑tain 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 ac⯑knowledge a ſuperiority, but of its extent they neither know the value, [184]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 con⯑ſiders a conſummate genius, reſembles one, who ſeeing a column for the firſt time, and ſtanding at too great a diſ⯑tance to take in the whole of it, con⯑cludes it to be flat. Or, like one unacquainted with the firſt principles of philoſophy, who, finding the ſen⯑ſible 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 [185]one who is capable of excelling in the fine arts! yet ſo it ought to be, be⯑cauſe our natural wants are more nu⯑merous, 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 aſ⯑ſailed by a temptation ſtrong enough to ſurpriſe them into error. And with what a viſible appropriation of the cha⯑racter to themſelves, do they conſtantly conclude, with a cordial compliment to common ſenſe! They point out the [186]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 con⯑duct has been ſo feelingly arraigned, perhaps acted from good, though miſ⯑taken motives; at leaſt, from motives of which his cenſurer has not capacity to judge: but the event was unfavour⯑able, nay the action might be really wrong, and the vulgar maliciouſly take the opportunity of this ſingle indiſcre⯑tion, to lift themſelves nearer on a level with a character, which, except in this inſtance, has always thrown them at the moſt diſgraceful and mor⯑tifying diſtance.

THE elegant Biographer of Collins, in his affecting apology for that unfor⯑tunate genius, remarks, ‘That the [187]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 al⯑ways 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 ſu⯑preme 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 gene⯑rally found, on a cloſer enquiry, to be art, fraud, or ſelfiſhneſs! That ſort of ſaving prudence which makes men ex⯑tremely attentive to their own ſafety, [188]or profit; diligent in the purſuit of their own pleaſures or intereſts; and perfectly at their eaſe as to what be⯑comes of the reſt of mankind. Furies, where their own property is concerned, philoſophers when nothing but the good of others is at ſtake, and per⯑fectly 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 re⯑gulates 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 na⯑tural tendency to fly off from the ſtrait [189]line of regularity; till good ſenſe, act⯑ing 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 ſit to ſtamp every thing human, it will be found, that excellence and infirmity are ſo inſepa⯑rably 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 cccaſion, he is, as it were, out of the body.

IT is not aſtoniſhing, therefore, when the ſpirit is carried away by the mag⯑nificence of its own ideas, ‘[190]Not touch'd but rapt, not waken'd but inſpir'd,’ that the frail body, which is the na⯑tural 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 ſub⯑miſſion to his Creator, had not God wiſely tempered human excellence with a certain conſciouſneſs of its own im⯑perfection. But though this inevitable alloy of weakneſs may frequently be [191]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 ve⯑nality.

IT is remarked by Pope, in his Eſ⯑ſay 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 [192]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 er⯑rors 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.

[193]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 de⯑gree 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 unaſ⯑ſiſted 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 maſter⯑ly 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 fertiliz⯑ed, [194]and enriched with foreign mat⯑ter.’

YET it has been objected that ſtudy is a great enemy to originality; but even if this were true, it would per⯑haps 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 carna⯑tion, yet it is compounded of the very eſſence of them all.

IF in the other fine arts this accu⯑mulation 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. [195]He muſt invigorate them by exerciſe, poliſh them by converſation, and in⯑creaſe 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 dan⯑gerous opinion that he knows enough: an opinion that will weaken the energy and reduce the powers of the mind, which, though once perhaps vigorous and effectual, will be ſunk to a ſtate of literary imbecility, by cheriſhing vain and preſumptuous ideas of its own independence.

FOR inſtance, it may not be neceſſary that a poet ſhould be deeply ſkilled in the Linnaean ſyſtem; but it muſt be allowed that a general acquaintance with plants and flowers will furniſh [196]him with a delightful and profitable ſpe⯑cies 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 inveſtiga⯑tion of a Newton; but his good ſenſe will point out to him that no inconſide⯑rable portion of philoſophical know⯑ledge is requiſite to the completion of his literart 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?

[197]THE rules of the great maſters in criticiſm may not be ſo neceſſary to the forming a good taſte, as the ex⯑amination 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 in⯑ſtructive 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 ſatisfac⯑tion 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 demon⯑ſtration that he has proceeded on pro⯑per [198]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 me⯑thod to try his own compoſitions by the teſt of the critic rules, ſo far in⯑deed 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 accom⯑modates its praiſes, or its cenſure, to the excellence of a work, and appro⯑priates it to the nature of it. General applauſe, or indiſcriminate abuſe, is the ſign of a vulgar underſtanding. There are certain blemiſhes which the [199]judicious and good-natured reader will candidly overlook. But the falſe ſub⯑lime, 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 con⯑tinually falling ſhort of excellence. The meer abſence of error implies that moderate and inferior degree of merit with which a cold heart and a phleg⯑matic taſte will be better ſatisfied than with the magnificent irregularities of exalted ſpirits. It ſtretches ſome minds to an uneaſy extenſion to be obliged [200]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 pu⯑niſhment inflicted by Mezentius; the living ſpirit has too much animation to endure patiently to be in contact with a dead body.

TASTE ſeems to be a ſentiment of the ſoul which gives the bias to opinion, for we feel before we reflect. Without this ſentiment, all knowledge, learning and opinion, would be cold, inert materials, whereas they become active [201]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 perfec⯑tion to each other, the feeling heart does not merely accede to the delirium they occaſion: it does more, it is en⯑amoured of it, it ſolicits the deluſion, it ſues to be deceived, and grudgingly cheriſhes the ſacred treaſure of its feel⯑ings. 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 [202]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 de⯑cide, and that is a deciſion from which there lies no appeal. It muſt how⯑ever be confeſſed, that the nicer ſepa⯑rations 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 feel⯑ing in the ſpectator; though where the [203]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 natu⯑ral concomitant of genius, is no more genius itſelf, than drunkenneſs is cheer⯑fulneſs; 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 ob⯑jects: 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 Na⯑ture: [204]ſhe muſt alſo, ſays an ingeni⯑ous 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 ob⯑jects which are moſt proper for imita⯑tion. It alſo requires a very nice diſ⯑cernment to diſtinguiſh veriſimilitude from truth; for there is a truth in Taſte nearly as concluſive as demon⯑ſtration in mathematics.

GENIUS, when in the full impetu⯑oſity of its career, often touches on the very brink of error; and is, perhaps, never ſo near the verge of the preci⯑pice, as when indulging its ſublimeſt flights. It is in thoſe great, but dan⯑gerous moments, that the curb of vigilant judgment is moſt wanting: [205]while ſafe and ſober Dulneſs obſerves one tedious and inſipid round of tire⯑ſome uniformity, and ſteers equally clear of eccentricity and of beauty. Dulneſs has few redundancies to re⯑trench, few luxuriancies to prune, and few irregularities to ſmooth. Theſe, though errors, are the errors of Ge⯑nius, for there is rarely redundancy without plenitude, or irregularity with⯑out greatneſs. The exceſſes of Genius may eaſily be retrenched, but the de⯑ficiencies of Dulneſs can never be ſup⯑plied.

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 ſub⯑ject, [206]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 cha⯑racters 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 it⯑ſelf 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 judg⯑ing, [207]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 na⯑tion, 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 let⯑tered 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 im⯑provement, it chalks out a few ſtrong [208]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 en⯑lightened 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 feldom indeed fall back to their origi⯑nal 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 redeneſs; for it is a leſs for⯑midable [209]undertaking to refine barba⯑rity, 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 diſcou⯑raging 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 hard⯑ly ever go out of his way, even in ſearch of embelliſhment: he will ſtudy to attain the beſt end by the moſt na⯑tural means; for he knows that what is not natural cannot be beautiful, and [210]that nothing can be beautiful out of its own place; for an improper ſitu⯑ation 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 imper⯑tinent than for the poet to obſtruct the operation of the paſſion he has juſt been kindling, by introducing a con⯑ceit 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 [211]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 in⯑ſtruction for lively writers, who by neglecting the main buſineſs, and go⯑ing out of the way for falſe gratifica⯑tions, loſe ſight of the end they ſhould principally keep in view. It was this falſe taſte that introduced the number⯑leſs concetti, which diſgrace the bright⯑eſt 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 plea⯑ſure, which he conſtantly receives from Virgil, from Milton, and generally from Taſſo. The firſt-mentioned Ita⯑lian is the Atalanta, who will interrupt the moſt eager career, to pick up the [212]glittering miſchief, while the Man⯑tuan and the Britiſh bards, like Hip⯑pomenes, preſs on warm in the pur⯑ſuit, 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 ap⯑pears to be moſt eaſy, will be gene⯑rally 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 ima⯑gine, 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 ſitter for the cabinet of the connoiſſeur, than for the com⯑merce [213]of mankind. Good ſenſe is a bank-bill, convenient for change, ne⯑gotiable 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 man⯑ner, and at the moſt ſuitable ſeaſon. Good ſenſe carries with it the idea of equality, while Genius is always ſuſ⯑pected 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 or⯑ders 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 [214]unfathomable abyſſes and uncreated worlds, and to ſee what is not, ſo it is the property of good ſenſe to diſtin⯑guiſh 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 ar⯑chitect, who produced perfection of beauty without any viſible materials, who ſpake, and it was created; who ſaid, Let it be, and it was.