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Title: Essays on Various Subjects
       Principally Designed for Young Ladies

Author: Hannah More

Release Date: October 21, 2006 [EBook #19595]

Language: English

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ESSAYS
for
YOUNG LADIES.

ESSAYS
on
VARIOUS SUBJECTS,
Principally deſigned for
YOUNG LADIES.

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

to
Mrs. MONTAGU.

CONTENTS.

[p 1]

INTRODUCTION.

It is with the utmoſt diffidence that the following pages are ſubmitted to the inſpection of the Public: yet, however the limited abilities of the author may have prevented her from ſucceeding to her wiſh in the execution of her preſent attempt, ſhe humbly truſts that the uprightneſs of her intention will procure it a candid and favourable reception. The following little Eſſays are chiefly calculated for the younger part of her own[p 2] ſex, who, ſhe flatters herſelf, will not eſteem them the leſs, becauſe they were written immediately for their ſervice. She by no means pretends to have compoſed a regular ſyſtem of morals, or a finiſhed plan of conduct: ſhe has only endeavoured to make a few remarks on ſuch circumſtances as ſeemed to her ſuſceptible of ſome improvement, and on ſuch ſubjects as ſhe imagined were particularly intereſting to young ladies, on their firſt introduction into the world. She hopes they will not be offended if ſhe has occaſionally pointed out certain qualities, and ſuggeſted certain tempers, and diſpoſitions, as peculiarly feminine, and hazarded ſome obſervations which naturally aroſe from the ſubject, on the different characters which mark the ſexes. And here again ſhe takes the liberty to repeat that theſe diſtinctions[p 3] cannot be too nicely maintained; for beſides thoſe important qualities common to both, each ſex has its reſpective, appropriated qualifications, which would ceaſe to be meritorious, the inſtant they ceaſed to be appropriated. Nature, propriety, and cuſtom have preſcribed certain bounds to each; bounds which the prudent and the candid will never attempt to break down; and indeed it would be highly impolitic to annihilate diſtinctions from which each acquires excellence, and to attempt innovations, by which both would be loſers.

Women therefore never underſtand their own intereſts ſo little, as when they affect thoſe qualities and accompliſhments, from the want of which they derive their higheſt merit. "The porcelain clay of human kind," ſays[p 4] an admired writer, ſpeaking of the ſex. Greater delicacy evidently implies greater fragility; and this weakneſs, natural and moral, clearly points out the neceſſity of a ſuperior degree of caution, retirement, and reſerve.

If the author may be allowed to keep up the alluſion of the poet, juſt quoted, ſhe would aſk if we do not put the fineſt vaſes, and the coſtlieſt images in places of the greateſt ſecurity, and moſt remote from any probability of accident, or deſtruction? By being ſo ſituated, they find their protection in their weakneſs, and their ſafety in their delicacy. This metaphor is far from being uſed with a deſign of placing young ladies in a trivial, unimportant light; it is only introduced to inſinuate, that where there is more beauty, and more weakneſs,[p 5] there ſhould be greater circumſpection, and ſuperior prudence.

Men, on the contrary, are formed for the more public exhibitions on the great theatre of human life. Like the ſtronger and more ſubſtantial wares, they derive no injury, and loſe no poliſh by being always expoſed, and engaged in the conſtant commerce of the world. It is their proper element, where they reſpire their natural air, and exert their nobleſt powers, in ſituations which call them into action. They were intended by Providence for the buſtling ſcenes of life; to appear terrible in arms, uſeful in commerce, ſhining in counſels.

The Author fears it will be hazarding a very bold remark, in the opinion of many ladies, when ſhe adds,[p 6] that the female mind, in general, does not appear capable of attaining ſo high a degree of perfection in ſcience as the male. Yet ſhe hopes to be forgiven when ſhe obſerves alſo, that as it does not ſeem to derive the chief portion of its excellence from extraordinary abilities of this kind, it is not at all leſſened by the imputation of not poſſeſſing them. It is readily allowed, that the ſex have lively imaginations, and thoſe exquiſite perceptions of the beautiful and defective, which come under the denomination of Taſte. But pretenſions to that ſtrength of intellect, which is requiſite to penetrate into the abſtruſer walks of literature, it is preſumed they will readily relinquiſh. There are green paſtures, and pleaſant vallies, where they may wander with ſafety to themſelves, and delight to others. They may cultivate[p 7] the roſes of imagination, and the valuable fruits of morals and criticiſm; but the steepſ of Parnaſſus few, comparatively, have attempted to ſcale with ſucceſs. And when it is conſidered, that many languages, and many ſciences, muſt contribute to the perfection of poetical compoſition, it will appear leſs ſtrange. The lofty Epic, the pointed Satire, and the more daring and ſucceſsful flights of the Tragic Muſe, ſeem reſerved for the bold adventurers of the other ſex.

Nor does this aſſertion, it is apprehended, at all injure the intereſts of the women; they have other pretenſions, on which to value themſelves, and other qualities much better calculated to anſwer their particular purpoſes. We are enamoured of the ſoft ſtrains of the Sicilian and the Mantuan[p 8] Muſe, while, to the ſweet notes of the paſtoral reed, they ſing the Contentions of the Shepherds, the Bleſſings of Love, or the innocent Delights of rural Life. Has it ever been aſcribed to them as a defect, that their Eclogues do not treat of active ſcenes, of buſy cities, and of waſting war? No: their ſimplicity is their perfection, and they are only blamed when they have too little of it.

On the other hand, the lofty bards who ſtrung their bolder harps to higher meaſures, and ſung the Wrath of Peleus' Son, and Man's firſt Diſobedience, have never been cenſured for want of ſweetneſs and refinement. The ſublime, the nervous, and the maſculine, characteriſe their compoſitions; as the beautiful, the ſoft, and the delicate, mark thoſe of the others. Grandeur,[p 9] dignity, and force, diſtinguiſh the one ſpecies; eaſe, ſimplicity, and purity, the other. Both ſhine from their native, diſtinct, unborrowed merits, not from thoſe which are foreign, adventitious, and unnatural. Yet thoſe excellencies, which make up the eſſential and conſtituent parts of poetry, they have in common.

Women have generally quicker perceptions; men have juſter ſentiments.—Women conſider how things may be prettily ſaid; men how they may be properly ſaid.—In women, (young ones at leaſt) ſpeaking accompanies, and ſometimes precedes reflection; in men, reflection is the antecedent.—Women ſpeak to ſhine or to pleaſe; men, to convince or confute.—Women admire what is brilliant; men what is ſolid.—Women prefer an extemporaneous[p 10] ſally of wit, or a ſparkling effuſion of fancy, before the moſt accurate reaſoning, or the moſt laborious inveſtigation of facts. In literary compoſition, women are pleaſed with point, turn, and antitheſis; men with obſervation, and a juſt deduction of effects from their cauſes.—Women are fond of incident, men of argument.—Women admire paſſionately, men approve cautiouſly.—One ſex will think it betrays a want of feeling to be moderate in their applauſe, the other will be afraid of expoſing a want of judgment by being in raptures with any thing.—Men refuſe to give way to the emotions they actually feel, while women ſometimes affect to be tranſported beyond what the occaſion will juſtify.[p 11]

As a farther confirmation of what has been advanced on the different bent of the underſtanding in the ſexes, it may be obſerved, that we have heard of many female wits, but never of one female logician—of many admirable writers of memoirs, but never of one chronologer.—In the boundleſs and aërial regions of romance, and in that faſhionable ſpecies of compoſition which ſucceeded it, and which carries a nearer approximation to the manners of the world, the women cannot be excelled: this imaginary ſoil they have a peculiar talent for cultivating, becauſe here,

The merit of this kind of writing conſiſts in the vraiſemblance to real life as to the events themſelves, with[p 12] a certain elevation in the narrative, which places them, if not above what is natural, yet above what is common. It farther conſiſts in the art of intereſting the tender feelings by a pathetic repreſentation of thoſe minute, endearing, domeſtic circumſtances, which take captive the ſoul before it has time to ſhield itſelf with the armour of reflection. To amuſe, rather than to inſtruct, or to inſtruct indirectly by ſhort inferences, drawn from a long concatenation of circumſtances, is at once the buſineſs of this ſort of compoſition, and one of the characteriſtics of female genius[1].[p 13]

In ſhort, it appears that the mind in each ſex has ſome natural kind of bias, which conſtitutes a diſtinction of character, and that the happineſs of both depends, in a great meaſure, on the preſervation and obſervance of this diſtinction. For where would be the ſuperior pleaſure and ſatiſfaction reſulting from mixed converſation, if this difference were aboliſhed? If the qualities of both were invariably and exactly the ſame, no benefit or entertainment would ariſe from the tedious and inſipid uniformity of ſuch an intercourſe; whereas conſiderable advantages are reaped from a ſelect ſociety of both ſexes. The rough angles and aſperities of male manners are imperceptibly filed, and gradually worn ſmooth, by the poliſhing of female converſation, and the refining of female taſte; while the ideas of wo[p 14]men acquire ſtrength and ſolidity, by their aſſociating with ſenſible, intelligent, and judicious men.

On the whole, (even if fame be the object of purſuit) is it not better to ſucceed as women, than to fail as men? To ſhine, by walking honourably in the road which nature, cuſtom, and education ſeem to have marked out, rather than to counteract them all, by moving awkwardly in a path diametrically oppoſite? To be good originals, rather than bad imitators? In a word, to be excellent women, rather than indifferent men?

[p 15]

ON
DISSIPATION.

As an argument in favour of modern manners, it has been pleaded, that the softer vices of Luxury and Diſſipation, belong rather to gentle and yielding tempers, than to such as are rugged and ferocious: that they are vices which increaſe civili[p 16]zation, and tend to promote refinement, and the cultivation of humanity.

But this is an aſſertion, the truth of which the experience of all ages contradicts. Nero was not leſs a tyrant for being a fiddler: He[2] who wiſhed the whole Roman people had but one neck, that he might diſpatch them at a blow, was himſelf the moſt debauched man in Rome; and Sydney and Ruſſel were condemned to bleed under the moſt barbarous, though moſt diſſipated and voluptuous, reign that ever diſgraced the annals of Britain.

The love of diſſipation is, I believe, allowed to be the reigning evil of the preſent day. It is an evil which many[p 17] content themſelves with regretting, without ſeeking to redreſs. A diſſipated life is cenſured in the very act of diſſipation, and prodigality of time is as gravely declaimed againſt at the card table, as in the pulpit.

The lover of dancing cenſures the amuſements of the theatre for their dulneſs, and the gameſter blames them both for their levity. She, whoſe whole ſoul is ſwallowed up in "opera extacies" is aſtoniſhed, that her acquaintance can ſpend whole nights in preying, like harpies, on the fortunes of their fellow-creatures; while the grave ſober ſinner, who paſſes her pale and anxious vigils, in this faſhionable ſort of pillaging, is no leſs ſurpriſed how the other can waſte her precious time in hearing ſounds for which ſhe has[p 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 propoſals of particular amendment; the body muſt be reſtored, but each limb begs to remain as it is; and accuſations which concern all, will be likely to affect none. They think that ſin, like matter, is diviſible, and that what is ſcattered among so many, cannot materially affect any one; and thus individuals contribute ſeparately to that evil which they in general lament.

The prevailing manners of an age depend more than we are aware, or[p 19] are willing to allow, on the conduct of the women; this is one of the principal hinges on which the great machine of human ſociety turns. Thoſe who allow the influence which female graces have, in contributing to poliſh the manners of men, would do well to reflect how great an influence female morals muſt alſo have on their conduct. How much then is it to be regretted, that the Britiſh ladies ſhould ever ſit down contented to poliſh, when they are able to reform, to entertain, when they might inſtruct, and to dazzle for an hour, when they are candidates for eternity!

Under the diſpenſation of Mahomet's law, indeed, theſe mental excellencies cannot be expected, becauſe the women are ſhut out from all opportunities of inſtruction, and excluded[p 20] from the endearing pleaſures of a delightful and equal ſociety; and, as a charming poet ſings, are taught to believe, that

These act conſiſtently in ſtudying none but exterior graces, in cultivating only perſonal attractions, and in trying to lighten the intolerable burden of time, by the moſt frivolous and vain amuſements. They act in conſequence of their own blind belief, and the tyranny of their deſpotic maſters; for they have neither the freedom of a preſent choice, nor the proſpect of a future being.[p 21]

But in this land of civil and religious liberty, where there is as little deſpotiſm exerciſed over the minds, as over the perſons of women, they have every liberty of choice, and every opportunity of improvement; and how greatly does this increaſe their obligation to be exemplary in their general conduct, attentive to the government of their families, and inſtrumental to the good order of ſociety!

She who is at a loſs to find amuſements at home, can no longer apologize for her diſſipation abroad, by ſaying ſhe is deprived of the benefit and the pleaſure of books; and ſhe who regrets being doomed to a ſtate of dark and gloomy ignorance, by the injuſtice, or tyranny of the men, complains of an evil which does not exiſt.[p 22]

It is a queſtion frequently in the mouths of illiterate and diſſipated females—"What good is there in reading? To what end does it conduce?" It is, however, too obvious to need inſiſting on, that unleſs perverted, as the beſt things may be, reading anſwers many excellent purpoſes beſide the great leading one, and is perhaps the ſafeſt remedy for diſſipation. She who dedicates a portion of her leiſure to uſeful reading, feels her mind in a conſtant progreſſive ſtate of improvement, whilſt the mind of a diſſipated woman is continually loſing ground. An active ſpirit rejoiceth, like the ſun, to run his daily courſe, while indolence, like the dial of Ahaz, goes backwards. The advantages which the underſtanding receives from polite literature, it is not here neceſſary to enumerate; its effects on the moral[p 23] temper is the preſent object of conſideration. The remark may perhaps be thought too ſtrong, but I believe it is true, that next to religious influences, an habit of ſtudy is the moſt probable preſervative of the virtue of young perſons. Thoſe who cultivate letters have rarely a ſtrong paſſion for promiſcuous viſiting, or diſſipated ſociety; ſtudy therefore induces a reliſh for domeſtic life, the moſt deſirable temper in the world for women. Study, as it reſcues the mind from an inordinate fondneſs for gaming, dreſs, and public amuſements, is an [oe]conomical propenſity; for a lady may read at much leſs expence than ſhe can play at cards; as it requires ſome application, it gives the mind an habit of induſtry; as it is a relief againſt that mental diſeaſe, which the French emphatically call ennui, it cannot fail[p 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 rational duty; and when directed to the knowledge of the Supreme Being, and his laws, it riſes into an act of religion.

The rage for reformation commonly ſhews itſelf in a violent zeal for ſuppreſſing what is wrong, rather than in a prudent attention to eſtabliſh what is right; but we ſhall never obtain a fair garden merely by rooting up weeds, we muſt alſo plant flowers; for the natural richneſs of the ſoil we have been clearing will not ſuffer it to lie barren, but whether it ſhall be vainly or beneficially prolific, depends on the[p 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 freedom and unbounded indulgence. Knowledge is not, as heretofore, confined to the dull cloyſter, or the gloomy college, but diſſeminated, to a certain degree, among both ſexes and almoſt all ranks. The only miſfortune is, that theſe opportunities do not ſeem to be ſo wiſely improved, or turned to ſo good an account as might be wiſhed. Books of a pernicious, idle, and frivolous ſort, are too much multiplied, and it is from the very redundancy of them that true knowledge is ſo ſcarce, and the habit of diſſipation ſo much increaſed.

It has been remarked, that the prevailing character of the preſent age is[p 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 gradual defection from piety, will in time draw after it all the bad conſequences of more active vice; for whether mounds and fences are ſuddenly deſtroyed by a ſweeping torrent, or worn away through gradual neglect, the effect is equally deſtructive. As a rapid fever and a conſuming hectic are alike fatal to our natural health, ſo are flagrant immorality and torpid indolence to our moral well-being.

The philoſophical doctrine of the ſlow receſſion of bodies from the ſun, is a lively image of the reluctance with[p 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 ſee how ſoon the progreſs ceaſes to be impeded by reflection, or ſlackened by remorſe. For it is in moral as in natural things, the motion in minds as well as bodies is accelerated by a nearer approach to the centre to which they are tending. If we recede ſlowly at firſt ſetting out, we advance rapidly in our future courſe; and to have begun to be wrong, is already to have made a great progreſs.

A constant habit of amuſement relaxes the tone of the mind, and renders it totally incapable of application, ſtudy, or virtue. Diſſipation not only indiſpoſes its votaries to every thing[p 28] uſeful and excellent, but diſqualifies them for the enjoyment of pleaſure itſelf. It ſoftens the ſoul ſo much, that the moſt ſuperficial employment becomes a labour, and the ſlighteſt inconvenience an agony. The luxurious Sybarite muſt have loſt all ſenſe of real enjoyment, and all reliſh for true gratification, before he complained that he could not ſleep, becauſe the roſe leaves lay double under him.

Luxury and diſſipation, ſoft and gentle as their approaches are, and ſilently as they throw their ſilken chains about the heart, enſlave it more than the moſt active and turbulent vices. The mightieſt conquerors have been conquered by theſe unarmed foes: the flowery ſetters are faſtened, before they are felt. The blandiſhments of Circe were more fatal to the mariners of[p 29] Ulyſſes, than the ſtrength of Polypheme, or the brutality of the Læſtrigons. Hercules, after he had cleanſed the Augean ſtable, and performed all the other labours enjoined him by Euriſtheus, found himſelf a ſlave to the ſoftneſſes of the heart; and he, who wore a club and a lion's ſkin in the cauſe of virtue, condeſcended to the moſt effeminate employments to gratify a criminal weakneſs. Hannibal, who vanquiſhed mighty nations, was himſelf overcome by the love of pleaſure; and he who deſpiſed cold, and want, and danger, and death on the Alps, was conquered and undone by the diſſolute indulgences of Capua.

Before the hero of the moſt beautiful and virtuous romance that ever was written, I mean Telemachus,[p 30] landed on the iſland of Cyprus, he unfortunately loſt his prudent companion, Mentor, in whom wiſdom is ſo finely perſonified. At firſt he beheld with horror the wanton and diſſolute manners of the voluptuous inhabitants; the ill effects of their example were not immediate: he did not fall into the commiſſion of glaring enormities; but his virtue was ſecretly and imperceptibly undermined, his heart was ſoftened by their pernicious ſociety; and the nerve of reſolution was ſlackened: he every day beheld with diminiſhed indignation the worſhip which was offered to Venus; the diſorders of luxury and prophaneneſs became leſs and leſs terrible, and the infectious air of the country enfeebled his courage, and relaxed his principles. In ſhort, he had ceaſed to love virtue long before he thought of committing[p 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[3].

"Let us crown ourſelves with roſebuds before they be withered," ſaid Solomon's libertine. Alas! he did not reflect that they withered in the very gathering. The roſes of pleaſure ſeldom laſt long enough to adorn the brow[p 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 conſidering the ſhortneſs of life, as an incentive to pleaſure and voluptuouſneſs; leſt the ſeaſon for indulging in them ſhould paſs unimproved. The dark and uncertain notions, not to ſay the abſolute diſbelief, which they entertained of a future ſtate, is the only apology that can be offered for this reaſoning. But while we cenſure their tenets, let us not adopt their errors; errors which would be infinitely more inexcuſable in us, who, from the clearer views which revelation has given us, ſhall not have their ignorance or their doubts to plead. It[p 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[4] beings imagined by Swift, with a view to cure us of the irrational deſire after immoderate length of days, we were condemned to a wretched earthly immortality, we ſhould have an excuſe for ſpending ſome portion of our time in diſſipation, as we might then pretend, with ſome colour of reaſon, that we propoſed, at a diſtant period, to[p 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 unalterably fixed. But of the ſcanty portion of days aſſigned to our lot, not one ſhould be loſt in weak and irreſolute procraſtination.

Those who have not yet determined on the ſide of vanity, who, like Hercules, (before he knew the queen of Lydia, and had learnt to ſpin) have not reſolved on their choice between virtue and pleasure, may reflect, that it is ſtill in their power to imitate that hero in his noble choice, and in his virtuous rejection. They may alſo reflect with grateful triumph, that Chriſtianity furniſhes them with a better guide than the tutor of Alcides,[p 35] and with a ſurer light than the doctrines of pagan philoſophy.

It is far from my deſign ſeverely to condemn the innocent pleaſures of life: I would only beg leave to obſerve, that thoſe which are criminal ſhould never be allowed; and that even the moſt innocent will, by immoderate uſe, ſoon ceaſe to be ſo.

The women of this country were not ſent into the world to ſhun ſociety, but to embelliſh it; they were not deſigned for wilds and ſolitudes, but for the amiable and endearing offices of ſocial life. They have uſeful ſtations to fill, and important characters to ſuſtain. They are of a religion which does not impoſe penances, but enjoins duties; a religion of perfect purity, but of perfect bene[p 36]volence alſo. A religion which does not condemn its followers to indolent ſecluſion from the world, but aſſigns them the more dangerous, though more honourable province, of living uncorrupted in it. In fine, a religion, which does not direct them to fly from the multitude, that they may do nothing, but which poſitively forbids them to follow a multitude to do evil.

[p 37]

THOUGHTS
ON
CONVERSATION.

It has been adviſed, and by very reſpectable authorities too, that in converſation women ſhould carefully conceal any knowledge or learning they may happen to poſſeſs. I own, with ſubmiſſion, that I do not ſee either the neceſſity or propriety of this[p 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.[p 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 ſpeaking, be found to have leſs of what is called learning, than a common ſchool-boy.

It would be to the laſt degree preſumptuous and abſurd, for a young woman to pretend to give the ton to the company; to interrupt the pleaſure of others, and her own opportunity of improvement, by talking when ſhe ought to liſten; or to introduce ſubjects out of the common road, in or[p 40]der 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[p 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 attention iſ the most flattering encouragement in the world to men of ſenſe and letters, to continue any topic of inſtruction or entertainment they happen to be engaged in: it owed its introduction perhaps to accident, the beſt introduction in the world for a ſubject of ingenuity, which, though it could not have been formally propoſed without pedantry, may be continued with eaſe and good humour; but which will be frequently and effectually ſtopped by the liſtleſſneſs, inattention, or whiſpering of ſilly girls, whoſe wearineſs betrays their ignorance, and whoſe impatience expoſes their ill-breeding. A polite man, however deeply inte[p 42]reſted in the ſubject on which he is converſing, catches at the ſlighteſt hint to have done: a look is a ſufficient intimation, and if a pretty ſimpleton, who ſits near him, ſeems diſtraite, he puts an end to his remarks, to the great regret of the reaſonable part of the company, who perhaps might have gained more improvement by the continuance of ſuch a converſation, than a week's reading would have yielded them; for it is ſuch company as this, that give an edge to each other's wit, "as iron ſharpeneth iron."

That ſilence is one of the great arts of converſation is allowed by Cicero himſelf, who ſays, there is not only an art but even an eloquence in it. And this opinion is confirmed by a great modern[5], in the following little anecdote from one of the ancients.[p 43]

When many Grecian philoſophers had a ſolemn meeting before the ambaſſador of a foreign prince, each endeavoured to ſhew his parts by the brilliancy of his converſation, that the ambaſſador might have ſomething to relate of the Grecian wiſdom. One of them, offended, no doubt, at the loquacity of his companions, obſerved a profound ſilence; when the ambaſſador, turning to him, aſked, "But what have you to ſay, that I may report it?" He made this laconic, but very pointed reply: "Tell your king, that you have found one among the Greeks who knew how to be ſilent."

There is a quality infinitely more intoxicating to the female mind than knowledge—this is Wit, the moſt captivating, but the moſt dreaded of all talents: the moſt dangerous to thoſe[p 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 without it, in ſafe and ſober dulneſs, ſhuns it as a diſeaſe, and looks upon poverty as its invariable concomitant. The moraliſt declaims againſt it as the ſource of irregularity, and the frugal citizen dreads it more than bankruptcy itſelf, for he conſiders it as the parent of extravagance and beggary. The Cynic will aſk of what uſe it is? Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet it is allowed as an object of innocent amuſement and delightful recreation. A woman, who poſſeſſes this quality, has received a moſt dangerous preſent, perhaps not leſs ſo than beauty itſelf: eſpecially if it be not ſheathed in a temper peculi[p 45]arly inoffenſive, chaſtiſed by a moſt correct judgment, and reſtrained by more prudence than falls to the common lot.

This talent is more likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for as Wit is the immediate property of its poſſeſſor, and learning is only an acquaintance with the knowledge of other people, there is much more danger, that we ſhould be vain of what is our own, than of what we borrow.

But Wit, like learning, is not near ſo common a thing as is imagined. Let not therefore a young lady be alarmed at the acuteneſs of her own wit, any more than at the abundance of her own knowledge. The great danger is, leſt ſhe ſhould miſtake pertneſs, flippancy, or imprudence, for this[p 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 acquaintance, or an over-weening opinion of her own qualifications, ſhould lead ſome vain and petulant girl into a falſe notion that ſhe has a great deal of wit, when ſhe has only a redundancy of animal ſpirits, ſhe may not find it uſeleſs to attend to the definition of this quality, by one who had as large a portion of it, as moſt individuals could ever boaſt:

[p 47]

But thoſe who actually poſſeſs this rare talent, cannot be too abſtinent in the uſe of it. It often makes admirers, but it never makes friends; I mean, where it is the predominant feature; and the unprotected and defenceleſs ſtate of womanhood calls for friendſhip more than for admiration. She who does not deſire friends has a ſordid and inſenſible ſoul; but ſhe who is ambitious of making every man her admirer, has an invincible vanity and a cold heart.

But to dwell only on the ſide of policy, a prudent woman, who has eſtabliſhed the reputation of ſome ge[p 48]nius will ſufficiently maintain it, without keeping her faculties always on the ſtretch to ſay good things. Nay, if reputation alone be her object, ſhe will gain a more ſolid one by her forbearance, as the wiſer part of her acquaintance will aſcribe it to the right motive, which is, not that ſhe has leſs wit, but that ſhe has more judgment.

The fatal fondneſs for indulging a ſpirit of ridicule, and the injurious and irreparable conſequences which ſometimes attend the too prompt reply, can never be too ſeriouſly or too ſeverely condemned. Not to offend, is the firſt ſtep towards pleaſing. To give pain is as much an offence againſt humanity, as againſt good breeding; and ſurely it is as well to abſtain from an action becauſe it is ſinful, as becauſe it is impolite. In company, young[p 49] ladies would do well before they ſpeak, to reflect, if what they are going to ſay may not diſtreſs ſome worthy perſon preſent, by wounding them in their perſons, families, connexions, or religious opinions. If they find it will touch them in either of theſe, I ſhould adviſe them to ſuſpect, that what they were going to ſay is not ſo very good a thing as they at firſt imagined. Nay, if even it was one of thoſe bright ideas, which Venus has imbued with a fifth part of her nectar, ſo much greater will be their merit in ſuppreſſing it, if there was a probability it might offend. Indeed, if they have the temper and prudence to make ſuch a previous reflection, they will be more richly rewarded by their own inward triumph, at having ſuppreſſed a lively but ſevere remark, than they could have been with the diſſembled[p 50] applauſes of the whole company, who, with that complaiſant deceit, which good breeding too much authoriſes, affect openly to admire what they ſecretly reſolve never to forgive.

I have always been delighted with the ſtory of the little girl's eloquence, in one of the Children's Tales, who received from a friendly fairy the gift, that at every word ſhe uttered, pinks, roſes, diamonds, and pearls, ſhould drop from her mouth. The hidden moral appears to be this, that it was the ſweetneſs of her temper which produced this pretty fanciful effect: for when her malicious ſiſter deſired the ſame gift from the good-natured tiny Intelligence, the venom of her own heart converted it into poiſonous and loathſome reptiles.[p 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 reſent it, he will be the firſt to commend it; but notwithſtanding that, he will remember it as a trait of malice, when the whole company ſhall have forgotten it as a ſtroke of wit. Women are ſo far from being privileged by their ſex to ſay unhandſome or cruel things, that it is this very circumſtance which renders them more intolerable. When the arrow is lodged in the heart, it is[p 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 opinion, often uſe a very diſingenuous method: they will ſtate a caſe ambiguouſly, and then avail themſelves of it, in whatever manner ſhall beſt anſwer their purpoſe; leaving your mind in a ſtate of indeciſion as to their real meaning, while they triumph in the perplexity they have given you by the unfair concluſions they draw, from premiſes equivocally ſtated. They will alſo frequently argue from exceptions inſtead of rules, and are aſtoniſhed when you are not willing to be contented with a prejudice, inſtead of a reaſon.[p 53]

In a ſenſible company of both ſexes, where women are not reſtrained by any other reſerve than what their natural modeſty impoſes; and where the intimacy of all parties authoriſes the utmoſt freedom of communication; ſhould any one inquire what were the general ſentiments on ſome particular ſubject, it will, I believe, commonly happen, that the ladies, whoſe imaginations have kept pace with the narration, have anticipated its end, and are ready to deliver their ſentiments on it as ſoon as it is finiſhed. While ſome of the male hearers, whoſe minds were buſied in ſettling the propriety, comparing the circumſtances, and examining the conſiſtencies of what was ſaid, are obliged to pauſe and diſcriminate, before they think of anſwering. Nothing is ſo embarraſſing as a variety of matter, and the converſation of women[p 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 appearance of a confuſed and perplexed expreſſion; while a ſprightly woman will extricate herſelf with that lively and "raſh dexterity," which will almoſt always pleaſe, though it is very far from being always right. It is eaſier to confound than to convince an opponent; the former may be effected by a turn that has more happineſs than truth in it. Many an excellent reaſoner, well ſkilled in the theory of the ſchools, has felt himſelf diſcomfited by a reply, which, though as wide of the mark, and as foreign to the que[p 55]ſtion as can be conceived, has diſconcerted him more than the moſt ſtartling propoſition, or the moſt accurate chain of reaſoning could have done; and he has borne the laugh of his fair antagoniſt, as well as of the whole company, though he could not but feel, that his own argument was attended with the fulleſt demonſtration: ſo true is it, that it is not always neceſſary to be right, in order to be applauded.

But let not a young lady's vanity be too much elated with this falſe applauſe, which is given, not to her merit, but to her ſex: ſhe has not perhaps gained a victory, though ſhe may be allowed a triumph; and it ſhould humble her to reflect, that the tribute is paid, not to her ſtrength but her weakneſs. It is worth while to diſcri[p 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 natural bent of the temper, girls ſhould endeavour to habituate themſelves to a cuſtom of obſerving, thinking, and reaſoning. I do not mean, that they ſhould devote themſelves to abſtruſe ſpeculation, or the ſtudy of logic; but ſhe who is accuſtomed to give a due arrangement to her thoughts, to reaſon juſtly and pertinently on common affairs, and judiciouſly to deduce effects from their cauſes, will be a better logician than ſome of thoſe who claim the name, becauſe they have ſtudied the art: this is being "learned without the rules;" the beſt definition, perhaps, of that ſort of literature which[p 57] is propereſt for the ſex. That ſpecies of knowledge, which appears to be the reſult of reflection rather than of ſcience, ſits peculiarly well on women. It is not uncommon to find a lady, who, though ſhe does not know a rule of Syntax, ſcarcely ever violates one; and who conſtructs every ſentence ſhe utters, with more propriety than many a learned dunce, who has every rule of Ariſtotle by heart, and who can lace his own thread-bare diſcourſe with the golden ſhreds of Cicero and Virgil.

It has been objected, and I fear with ſome reaſon, that female converſation is too frequently tinctured with a cenſorious ſpirit, and that ladies are ſeldom apt to diſcover much tenderneſs for the errors of a fallen ſiſter.[p 58]

No arguments can juſtify, no pleas can extenuate it. To inſult over the miſeries of an unhappy creature is inhuman, not to compaſſionate them is unchriſtian. The worthy part of the ſex always expreſs themſelves humanely on the failings of others, in proportion to their own undeviating goodneſs.

And here I cannot help remarking, that young women do not always carefully diſtinguiſh between running into the error of detraction, and its oppoſite extreme of indiſcriminate applauſe. This proceedſ from the falſe idea they entertain, that the direct contrary to what is wrong muſt be right. Thus the dread of being only ſuſpected of one fault makes them actually guilty of another. The deſire of avoiding[p 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 favourite figure; and every degree of compariſon but the ſuperlative is rejected, as cold and inexpreſſive. But this habit of exaggeration greatly weakens their credit, and deſtroys the weight of their opinion on other occaſions; for people very ſoon diſcover what degree of faith is to be given both to their judgment and veracity. And thoſe of real merit will no more be flattered by that approbation, which cannot diſtinguiſh the value of what it praiſes, than the celebrated painter muſt have been at the judgment paſſed[p 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 affected rapture, "All alike! all alike!"

It has been propoſed to the young, as a maxim of ſupreme wiſdom, to manage ſo dexterouſly in converſation, as to appear to be well acquainted with ſubjects, of which they are totally ignorant; and this, by affecting ſilence in regard to thoſe, on which they are known to excel.—But why counſel this diſingenuous fraud? Why add to the numberleſs arts of deceit, this practice of deceiving, as it were, on a ſettled principle? If to diſavow the knowledge they really have be a culpable affectation, then certainly to inſinuate an idea of their ſkill, where[p 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 dangerous as it is fooliſh.

There are many, who never can forgive another for being more agreeable and more accompliſhed than themſelves, and who can pardon any offence rather than an eclipſing merit. Had the nightingale in the fable conquered his vanity, and reſiſted the temptation of ſhewing a fine voice,[p 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.

[p 63]

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[p 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 progreſs is the moſt rapid, will be apt to deſpiſe their leſs ſucceſſful competitors, who, in return, will feel the bittereſt reſentment againſt their more fortunate rivals. Among perſons of real goodneſs, this jealouſy and contempt can never be equally felt, becauſe every advancement in piety will be attended with a proportionable increaſe of humility, which will lead them to contemplate their own improve[p 65]ments with modeſty, and to view with charity the miſcarriages of others.

When an envious man is melancholy, one may aſk him, in the words of Bion, what evil has befallen himſelf, or what good has happened to another? This laſt is the ſcale by which he principally meaſures his felicity, and the very ſmiles of his friends are ſo many deductions from his own happineſs. The wants of others are the ſtandard by which he rates his own wealth, and he eſtimates his riches, not ſo much by his own poſſeſſions, as by the neceſſities of his neighbours.

When the malevolent intend to ſtrike a very deep and dangerous ſtroke of malice, they generally begin the moſt remotely in the world from[p 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 obſtructions for the inſidious ſtab they are about to give; for who will ſuſpect them of an intention to injure the object of their peculiar and profeſſed eſteem? The hearer's belief of the fact grows in proportion to the ſeeming reluctance with which it is told, and to the conviction he has, that the relater is not influenced by any private pique, or perſonal reſentment; but that the confeſſion is extorted from him ſorely againſt his inclination, and purely on account of his zeal for truth.[p 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 ambiguities; but, obſcure as its oracles are, it never ceaſes to deliver them till they are perfectly comprehended:—anger repeats the ſame circumſtances over again; envy invents new ones at every freſh recital—anger gives a broken, vehement, and interrupted narrative; envy tells a more conſiſtent and more probable, though a falſer tale—anger is exceſſively imprudent, for it is impatient to diſcloſe every thing it knows; envy is diſcreet, for it has a great deal to hide—anger never conſults times or ſeaſons; envy waits for the lucky moment, when the wound it meditates may be made the moſt exquiſitely painful, and the[p 68] moſt incurably deep—anger uſes more invective; envy does more miſchief—ſimple anger ſoon runs itſelf out of breath, and is exhauſted at the end of its tale; but it is for that choſen period that envy has treaſured up the moſt barbed arrow in its whole quiver—anger puts a man out of himſelf: but the truly malicious generally preſerve the appearance of ſelf-poſſeſſion, or they could not ſo effectually injure.—The angry man ſets out by deſtroying his whole credit with you at once, for he very frankly confeſſes his abhorrence and deteſtation of the object of his abuſe; while the envious man carefully ſuppreſſes all his own ſhare in the affair.—The angry man defeats the end of his reſentment, by keeping himſelf continually before your eyes, inſtead of his enemy; while the envious man artfully brings forward the object[p 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 perſon, if his reſentments are not complicated with malice, divides his time between ſinning and ſorrowing; and, as the iraſcible paſſions cannot conſtantly be at work, his heart may ſometimes get a holiday.—Anger is a violent act, envy a conſtant habit—no one can be always angry, but he may be always envious:—an angry man's enmity (if he be generous) will ſubſide when the object of his reſentment becomes unfortunate; but the envious man can extract food from his malice out of calamity itſelf, if he finds his adverſary bears it with dignity, or is pitied or aſſiſted in it. The rage of the paſſionate man is totally extinguiſhed by the death of his enemy; but the ha[p 70]tred of the malicious is not buried even in the grave of his rival: he will envy the good name he has left behind him; he will envy him the tears of his widow, the proſperity of his children, the eſteem of his friends, the praiſes of his epitaph—nay the very magnificence of his funeral.

"The ear of jealouſy heareth all things," (ſays the wiſe man) frequently I believe more than is uttered, which makes the company of perſons infected with it ſtill more dangerous.

When you tell thoſe of a malicious turn, any circumſtance that has happened to another, though they perfectly know of whom you are ſpeaking, they often affect to be at a loſs, to forget his name, or to miſapprehend you in ſome reſpect or other; and this[p 71] merely to have an opportunity of ſlily gratifying their malice by mentioning ſome unhappy defect or perſonal infirmity he labours under; and not contented "to tack his every error to his name," they will, by way of farther explanation, have recourſe to the faults of his father, or the miſfortunes of his family; and this with all the ſeeming ſimplicity and candor in the world, merely for the ſake of preventing miſtakes, and to clear up every doubt of his identity.—If you are ſpeaking of a lady, for inſtance, they will perhaps embelliſh their inquiries, by aſking if you mean her, whoſe great grandfather was a bankrupt, though ſhe has the vanity to keep a chariot, while others who are much better born walk on foot; or they will afterwards recollect, that you may poſſibly mean her couſin, of the ſame name, whoſe mother was[p 72] ſuſpected of ſuch or ſuch an indiſcretion, though the daughter had the luck to make her fortune by marrying, while her betters are overlooked.

To hint at a fault, does more miſchief than ſpeaking out; for whatever is left for the imagination to finiſh, will not fail to be overdone: every hiatus will be more then filled up, and every pauſe more than ſupplied. There is leſs malice, and leſs miſchief too, in telling a man's name than the initials of it; as a worthier perſon may be involved in the moſt diſgraceful ſuſpicions by ſuch a dangerous ambiguity.

It is not uncommon for the envious, after having attempted to deface the faireſt character ſo induſtriouſly, that they are afraid you will begin to[p 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 ſervice of proteſting their diſbelief of it. More reputations are thus hinted away by falſe friends, than are openly deſtroyed by public enemies. An if, or a but, or a mortified look, or a languid defence, or an ambiguous ſhake of the head, or a haſty word affectedly recalled, will demoliſh a character more effectually, than the whole artillery of malice when openly levelled againſt it.[p 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 Machiavelian policy, it ſometimes affects the language of the moſt exaggerated applauſe; though it generally takes care, that the ſubject of its panegyric ſhall be a very indifferent and common character, ſo that it is well aware none of its praiſes will ſtick.

It is the unhappy nature of envy not to be contented with poſitive miſery, but to be continually aggravating its own torments, by comparing them with the felicities of others. The eyes of envy are perpetually fixed on the object which diſturbs it, nor[p 75] can it avert them from it, though to procure itſelf the relief of a temporary forgetfulneſs. On ſeeing the innocence of the firſt pair,

As this enormous ſin chiefly inſtigated the revolt, and brought on the ruin of the angelic ſpirits, ſo it is not improbable, that it will be a principal inſtrument of miſery in a future world, for the envious to compare their deſperate condition with the happineſs of the children of God; and to heighten their actual wretchedneſs by reflecting on what they have loſt.

Perhaps envy, like lying and ingratitude, is practiſed with more frequency, becauſe it is practiſed with[p 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 ſufficient to deter the wiſe and good, if all others were ineffectual; for of how heinous a nature muſt thoſe ſins be, which are judged above the reach of human puniſhment, and are reſerved for the final juſtice of God himſelf![p 77]

ON THE
DANGER
OF
SENTIMENTAL OR ROMANTIC
CONNEXIONS.

Among the many evils which prevail under the ſun, the abuſe of words is not the leaſt conſiderable. By the influence of time, and the perverſion of faſhion, the plaineſt and moſt unequivocal may be ſo altered,[p 78] as to have a meaning aſſigned them almoſt diametrically oppoſite to their original ſignification.

The preſent age may be termed, by way of diſtinction, the age of ſentiment, a word which, in the implication it now bears, was unknown to our plain anceſtors. Sentiment is the varniſh of virtue to conceal the deformity of vice; and it is not uncommon for the ſame perſons to make a jeſt of religion, to break through the moſt ſolemn ties and engagements, to practiſe every art of latent fraud and open ſeduction, and yet to value themſelves on ſpeaking and writing ſentimentally.

But this refined jargon, which has infeſted letters and tainted morals, is chiefly admired and adopted by young ladies of a certain turn, who read ſen[p 79]timental books, write ſentimental letters, and contract ſentimental friendſhips.

Error is never likely to do ſo much miſchief as when it diſguiſes its real tendency, and puts on an engaging and attractive appearance. Many a young woman, who would be ſhocked at the imputation of an intrigue, is extremely flattered at the idea of a ſentimental connexion, though perhaps with a dangerous and deſigning man, who, by putting on this maſk of plauſibility and virtue, diſarms her of her prudence, lays her apprehenſions aſleep, and involves her in miſery; miſery the more inevitable becauſe unſuſpected. For ſhe who apprehends no danger, will not think it neceſſary to be always upon her guard; but will rather invite than avoid the ruin which[p 80] comes under ſo ſpecious and ſo fair a form.

Such an engagement will be infinitely dearer to her vanity than an avowed and authoriſed attachment; for one of theſe ſentimental lovers will not ſcruple very ſeriouſly to aſſure a credulous girl, that her unparalleled merit entitles her to the adoration of the whole world, and that the univerſal homage of mankind is nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms. No wonder then ſhe ſhould be eaſily prevailed on to believe, that an individual is captivated by perfections which might enſlave a million. But ſhe ſhould remember, that he who endeavours to intoxicate her with adulation, intends one day moſt effectually to humble her. For an artful man has always a ſecret de[p 81]ſign to pay himſelf in future for every preſent ſacrifice. And this prodigality of praiſe, which he now appears to laviſh with ſuch thoughtleſs profuſion, is, in fact, a ſum [oe]conomically laid out to ſupply his future neceſſities: of this ſum he keeps an exact eſtimate, and at ſome diſtant day promiſes himſelf the moſt exorbitant intereſt for it. If he has addreſs and conduct, and, the object of his purſuit much vanity, and ſome ſenſibility, he ſeldom fails of ſucceſs; for ſo powerful will be his aſcendancy over her mind, that ſhe will ſoon adopt his notions and opinions. Indeed, it is more than probable ſhe poſſeſſed moſt of them before, having gradually acquired them in her initiation into the ſentimental character. To maintain that character with dignity and propriety, it is neceſſary ſhe ſhould entertain the moſt elevated[p 82] ideas of diſproportionate alliances, and diſintereſted love; and conſider fortune, rank, and reputation, as mere chimerical diſtinctions and vulgar prejudices.

The lover, deeply verſed in all the obliquities of fraud, and ſkilled to wind himſelf into every avenue of the heart which indiſcretion has left unguarded, ſoon diſcovers on which ſide it is moſt acceſſible. He avails himſelf of this weakneſs by addreſſing her in a language exactly conſonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own weapons, and oppoſes rhapſody to ſentiment—He profeſſes ſo ſovereign a contempt for the paltry concerns of money, that ſhe thinks it her duty to reward him for ſo generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully advances of his own unworthineſs, is[p 83] conſidered by her as a freſh demand which her gratitude muſt anſwer. And ſhe makes it a point of honour to ſacrifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to regard. Theſe profeſſions of humility are the common artifice of the vain, and theſe proteſtations of generoſity the refuge of the rapacious. And among its many ſmooth miſchiefs, it is one of the ſure and ſucceſſful frauds of ſentiment, to affect the moſt frigid indifference to thoſe external and pecuniary advantages, which it is its great and real object to obtain.

A sentimental girl very rarely entertains any doubt of her perſonal beauty; for ſhe has been daily accuſtomed to contemplate it herſelf, and to hear of it from others. She will not, therefore, be very ſolicitous for[p 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 compliment offered to thoſe perfections, which are leſs obvious and more refined. She is perſuaded, that men need only open their eyes to decide on her beauty, while it will be the moſt convincing proof of the taſte, ſenſe, and elegance of her admirer, that he can diſcern and flatter thoſe qualities in her. A man of the character here ſuppoſed, will eaſily inſinuate himſelf into her affections, by means of this latent but leading foible, which may be called the guiding clue to a ſentimental heart. He will affect to overlook that beauty which attracts common eyes, and enſnares common hearts, while he will beſtow the moſt[p 85] delicate praiſes on the beauties of her mind, and finiſh the climax of adulation, by hinting that ſhe is ſuperior to it.

But nothing, in general, can end leſs delightfully than theſe ſublime attachments, even where no acts of ſeduction were ever practiſed, but they are ſuffered, like mere ſublunary connexions, to terminate in the vulgar cataſtrophe of marriage. That wealth, which lately ſeemed to be looked on with ineffable contempt by the lover, now appears to be the principal attraction in the eyes of the huſband; and he, who but a few ſhort weeks before, in a tranſport of ſentimental generoſity, wiſhed her to have been a village maid, with no portion but[p 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

is ſhocked to find herſelf at once ſtripped of all her celeſtial attributes. This late divinity, who ſcarcely yielded to her ſiſters of the ſky, now finds herſelf of leſs importance in the eſteem of the man ſhe has choſen, than any other mere mortal woman. No longer is ſhe gratified with the tear of counterfeited paſſion, the ſigh of diſſembled rapture, or the language of premeditated adoration. No longer is the[p 87] altar of her vanity loaded with the oblations of fictitious fondneſs, the incenſe of falſehood, or the ſacrifice of flattery.—Her apotheoſis is ended!—She feels herſelf degraded from the dignities and privileges of a goddeſs, to all the imperfections, vanities, and weakneſſes of a ſlighted woman, and a neglected wife. Her faults, which were ſo lately overlooked, or miſtaken for virtues, are now, as Caſſius ſays, ſet in a note-book. The paſſion, which was vowed eternal, laſted only a few ſhort weeks; and the indifference, which was ſo far from being included in the bargain, that it was not ſo much as ſuſpected, follows them through the whole tireſome journey of their inſipid, vacant, joyleſs exiſtence.

Thus much for the completion of the ſentimental hiſtory. If we trace it[p 88] back to its beginning, we ſhall find that a damſel of this caſt had her head originally turned by pernicious reading, and her inſanity confirmed by imprudent friendſhips. She never fails to ſelect a beloved confidante of her own turn and humour, though, if ſhe can help it, not quite ſo handſome as herſelf. A violent intimacy enſues, or, to ſpeak the language of ſentiment, an intimate union of ſouls immediately takes place, which is wrought to the higheſt pitch by a ſecret and voluminous correſpondence, though they live in the ſame ſtreet, or perhaps in the ſame houſe. This is the fuel which principally feeds and ſupplies the dangerous flame of ſentiment. In this correſpondence the two friends encourage each other in the falſeſt notions imaginable. They repreſent romantic love as the great important buſine[p 89]ſs of human life, and deſcribe all the other concerns of it as too low and paltry to merit the attention of ſuch elevated beings, and fit only to employ the daughters of the plodding vulgar. In theſe letters, family affairs are miſrepreſented, family ſecrets divulged, and family miſfortunes aggravated. They are filled with vows of eternal amity, and proteſtations of never-ending love. But interjections and quotations are the principal embelliſhments of theſe very ſublime epiſtles. Every panegyric contained in them is extravagant and hyperbolical, and every cenſure exaggerated and exceſſive. In a favourite, every frailty is heightened into a perfection, and in a foe degraded into a crime. The dramatic poets, eſpecially the moſt tender and romantic, are quoted in almoſt every line, and every pom[p 90]pous or pathetic thought is forced to give up its natural and obvious meaning, and with all the violence of miſapplication, is compelled to ſuit ſome circumſtance of imaginary woe of the fair tranſcriber. Alicia is not too mad for her heroics, nor Monimia too mild for her ſoft emotions.

Fathers have flinty hearts is an expreſſion worth an empire, and is always uſed with peculiar emphaſis and enthuſiaſm. For a favourite topic of theſe epiſtles is the groveling ſpirit and ſordid temper of the parents, who will be ſure to find no quarter at the hands of their daughters, ſhould they preſume to be ſo unreaſonable as to direct their courſe of reading, interfere in their choice of friends, or interrupt their very important correſpondence. But as theſe young ladies are fertile in[p 91] expedients, and as their genius is never more agreeably exerciſed than in finding reſources, they are not without their ſecret exultation, in caſe either of the above intereſting events ſhould happen, as they carry with them a certain air of tyranny and perſecution which is very delightful. For a prohibited correſpondence is one of the great incidents of a ſentimental life, and a letter clandeſtinely received, the ſupreme felicity of a ſentimental lady.

Nothing can equal the aſtoniſhment of theſe ſoaring ſpirits, when their plain friends or prudent relations preſume to remonſtrate with them on any impropriety in their conduct. But if theſe worthy people happen to be ſomewhat advanced in life, their contempt is then a little ſoftened by pity, at the reflection that ſuch very anti[p 92]quated poor creatures ſhould pretend to judge what is fit or unfit for ladies of their great refinement, ſenſe, and reading. They conſider them as wretches utterly ignorant of the ſublime pleaſures of a delicate and exalted paſſion; as tyrants whoſe authority is to be contemned, and as ſpies whoſe vigilance is to be eluded. The prudence of theſe worthy friends they term ſuſpicion, and their experience dotage. For they are perſuaded, that the face of things has ſo totally changed ſince their parents were young, that though they might then judge tolerably for themſelves, yet they are now (with all their advantages of knowledge and obſervation) by no means qualified to direct their more enlightened daughters; who, if they have made a great progreſs in the ſentimental walk, will[p 93] no more be influenced by the advice of their mother, than they would go abroad in her laced pinner or her brocade ſuit.

But young people never ſhew their folly and ignorance more conſpicuouſly, than by this over-confidence in their own judgment, and this haughty diſdain of the opinion of thoſe who have known more days. Youth has a quickneſs of apprehenſion, which it is very apt to miſtake for an acuteneſs of penetration. But youth, like cunning, though very conceited, is very ſhort-ſighted, and never more ſo than when it diſregards the inſtructions of the wife, and the admonitions of the aged. The ſame vices and follies influenced the human heart in their day, which influence it now, and[p 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, of even to the common benefits and bleſſings of life. Ladies of this turn alſo affect the moſt lofty diſregard for uſeful qualities and domeſtic virtues; and this is a natural conſequence: for as this ſort of ſentiment is only a weed of idleneſs, ſhe who is conſtantly and uſefully employed, has neither leiſure nor propenſity to cultivate it.[p 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 decorums, which, trifling as they may be thought, tend at once to dignify the character, and to reſtrain the levity of the younger part of the ſex.

Perhaps the error here complained of, originates in miſtaking ſentiment and principle for each other. Now I conceive them to be extremely different. Sentiment is the virtue of ideas, and principle the virtue of action. Sentiment has its ſeat in the head, principle in the heart. Sentiment ſuggeſts fine harangues and ſubtile diſtinctions; principle conceives juſt notions, and performs good actions in conſequence[p 96] of them. Sentiment refines away the ſimplicity of truth and the plainneſs of piety; and, as a celebrated wit[6] has remarked of his no leſs celebrated contemporary, gives us virtue in words and vice in deeds. Sentiment may be called the Athenian, who knew what was right, and principle the Lacedemonian who practiſed it.

But theſe qualities will be better exemplified by an attentive conſideration of two admirably drawn characters of Milton, which are beautifully, delicately, and diſtinctly marked. Theſe are, Belial, who may not improperly be called the Demon of Sentiment; and Abdiel, who may be termed the Angel of Principle.[p 97]

Survey the picture of Belial, drawn by the ſublimeſt hand that ever held the poetic pencil.

Here is a lively and exquiſite repreſentation of art, ſubtilty, wit, fine breeding and poliſhed manners: on the whole, of a very accompliſhed and ſentimental ſpirit.

Now turn to the artleſs, upright, and unſophiſticated Abdiel,[p 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 actions, with what the above pictures ſeem to promiſe. It will alſo be obſerved, that the contraſt between them is kept up throughout, with the utmoſt exactneſs of delineation, and the moſt animated ſtrength of colouring.[p 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 tempted by the rebellious angels, with what retorted ſcorn, with what honeſt indignation he deſerts their multitudes, and retreats from their contagious ſociety!

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

[p 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 Belial as much in the warlike combat, as in the peaceful counſels.

But notwithſtanding I have ſpoken with ſome aſperity againſt ſentiment as oppoſed to principle, yet I am con[p 101]vinced, that true genuine ſentiment, (not the ſort I have been deſcribing) may be ſo connected with principle, as to beſtow on it its brighteſt luſtre, and its moſt captivating graces. And enthuſiaſm is ſo far from being diſagreeable, that a portion of it is perhaps indiſpenſably neceſſary in an engaging woman. But it muſt be the enthuſiaſm of the heart, not of the ſenſes. It muſt be the enthuſiaſm which grows up with a feeling mind, and is cheriſhed by a virtuous education; not that which is compounded of irregular paſſions, and artificially refined by books of unnatural fiction and improbable adventure. I will even go ſo far as to aſſert, that a young woman cannot have any real greatneſs of ſoul, or true elevation of principle, if ſhe has not a tincture of what the vulgar would call Romance, but which perſons of a certain[p 102] way of thinking will diſcern to proceed from thoſe fine feelings, and that charming ſenſibility, without which, though a woman may be worthy, yet ſhe can never be amiable.

But this dangerous merit cannot be too rigidly watched, as it is very apt to lead thoſe who poſſeſs it into inconveniencies from which leſs intereſting characters are happily exempt. Young women of ſtrong ſenſibility may be carried by the very amiableneſs of this temper into the moſt alarming extremes. Their taſtes are paſſions. They love and hate with all their hearts, and ſcarcely ſuffer themſelves to feel a reaſonable preference before it ſtrengthens into a violent attachment.

When an innocent girl of this open, truſting, tender heart, happens to meet[p 103] with one of her own ſex and age, whoſe addreſs and manners are engaging, ſhe is inſtantly ſeized with an ardent deſire to commence a friendſhip with her. She feels the moſt lively impatience at the reſtraints of company, and the decorums of ceremony. She longs to be alone with her, longs to aſſure her of the warmth of her tenderneſs, and generouſly aſcribes to the fair ſtranger all the good qualities ſhe feels in her own heart, or rather all thoſe which ſhe has met with in her reading, diſperſed in a variety of heroines. She is perſuaded, that her new friend unites them all in herſelf, becauſe ſhe carries in her prepoſſeſſing countenance the promiſe of them all. How cruel and how cenſorious would this inexperienced girl think her mother was, who ſhould venture to hint, that the agreeable unknown had de[p 104]fects in her temper, or exceptions in her character. She would miſtake theſe hints of diſcretion for the inſinuations of an uncharitable diſpoſition. At firſt ſhe would perhaps liſten to them with a generous impatience, and afterwards with a cold and ſilent diſdain. She would deſpiſe them as the effect of prejudice, miſrepreſentation, or ignorance. The more aggravated the cenſure, the more vehemently would ſhe proteſt in ſecret, that her friendſhip for this dear injured creature (who is raiſed much higher in her eſteem by ſuch injurious ſuſpicions) ſhall know no bounds, as ſhe is aſſured it can know no end.

Yet this truſting confidence, this honeſt indiſcretion, is, at this early period of life as amiable as it is natural; and will, if wiſely cultivated, produce,[p 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 predominance of fancy. They engage more warily, and paſs through the ſeveral ſtages of acquaintance, intimacy, and confidence, by ſlower gradations; but women, if they are ſometimes deceived in the choice of a friend, enjoy even then an higher degree of ſatiſfaction than if they never truſted. For to be always clad in the burthenſome armour of ſuſpicion is more painful and inconvenient, than to run the hazard of ſuffering now and then a tranſient injury.[p 106]

But the above obſervations only extend to the young and the inexperienced; for I am very certain, that women are capable of as faithful and as durable friendſhip as any of the other ſex. They can enter not only into all the enthuſiaſtic tenderneſs, but into all the ſolid fidelity of attachment. And if we cannot oppoſe inſtances of equal weight with thoſe of Nyſus and Euryalus, Theſeus and Pirithous, Pylades and Oreſtes, let it be remembered, that it is becauſe the recorders of thoſe characters were men, and that the very exiſtence of them is merely poetical.

[p 107]

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[p 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 neglecting the diſeaſe. To regulate the features, while the ſoul is in tumults, or to command the voice while the paſſions are without reſtraint, is as idle as throwing odours into a ſtream when the ſource is polluted.

The ſapient king, who knew better than any man the nature and the power of beauty, has aſſured us, that the[p 109] temper of the mind has a ſtrong influence upon the features: "Wiſdom maketh the face to ſhine," ſays that exquiſite judge; and ſurely no part of wiſdom is more likely to produce this amiable effect, than a placid ſerenity of ſoul.

It will not be difficult to diſtinguiſh the true from the artificial meekneſs. The former is univerſal and habitual, the latter, local and temporary. Every young female may keep this rule by her, to enable her to form a juſt judgment of her own temper: if ſhe is not as gentle to her chambermaid as ſhe is to her viſitor, ſhe may reſt ſatiſfied that the ſpirit of gentleneſs is not in her.

Who would not be ſhocked and diſappointed to behold a well-bred[p 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 Pythian maid, and all the frightened graces driven from her furious countenance, only becauſe her gown was brought home a quarter of an hour later than ſhe expected, or her ribbon ſent half a ſhade lighter or darker than ſhe ordered?

All men's characters are ſaid to proceed from their ſervants; and this is more particularly true of ladies: for as their ſituations are more domeſtic, they lie more open to the inſpection of their families, to whom their real characters are eaſily and perfectly known; for they ſeldom think it worth while to practiſe any diſguiſe before[p 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 diſpoſitions by converſing with them, and even the very features are ſo exactly regulated, that phyſiognomy, which may ſometimes be truſted among the vulgar, is, with the polite, a moſt lying ſcience.

A very termagant woman, if ſhe happens alſo to be a very artful one, will be conſcious ſhe has ſo much to conceal, that the dread of betraying[p 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 exceſſive as to deprive people of the proper uſe of ſpeech and motion, or which, as Hamlet ſays, makes them liſp and amble, and nick-name God's creatures.

The countenance and manners of ſome very faſhionable perſons may be compared to the inſcriptions on their monuments, which ſpeak nothing but good of what is within; but he who knows any thing of the world, or of the human heart, will no more truſt to the courteſy, than he will depend on the epitaph.[p 113]

Among the various artifices of factitious meekneſs, one of the moſt frequent and moſt plauſible, is that of affecting to be always equally delighted with all perſons and all characters. The ſociety of theſe languid beings is without confidence, their friendſhip without attachment, and their love without affection, or even preference. This inſipid mode of conduct may be ſafe, but I cannot think it has either taſte, ſenſe, or principle in it.

These uniformly ſmiling and approving ladies, who have neither the noble courage to reprehend vice, nor the generous warmth to bear their honeſt teſtimony in the cauſe of virtue, conclude every one to be ill-natured who has any penetration, and look upon a diſtinguiſhing judgment as want of tenderneſs. But they ſhould learn,[p 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 ſcrutinize into the conduct and diſpoſition of men, before they truſt entirely to thoſe fair appearances, which ſometimes veil the moſt inſidious purpoſes.

We are perpetually miſtaking the qualities and diſpoſitions of our own hearts. We elevate our failings into virtues, and qualify our vices into weakneſſes: and hence ariſe ſo many falſe judgments reſpecting meekneſs. Self-ignorance is at the root of all this miſchief. Many ladies complain that, for their part, their ſpirit is ſo meek they can bear nothing; whereas, if they ſpoke truth, they would ſay, their ſpirit is ſo high and unbroken that[p 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 contradiction as a proof of their gentleneſs!

Meekness, like moſt other virtues, has certain limits, which it no ſooner exceeds than it becomes criminal. Servility of ſpirit is not gentleneſs but weakneſs, and if allowed, under the ſpecious appearances it ſometimes puts on, will lead to the moſt dangerous compliances. She who hears innocence maligned without vindicating it, falſehood aſſerted without contradicting it, or religion prophaned without reſenting it, is not gentle but wicked.

To give up the cauſe of an innocent, injured friend, if the popular cry happens to be againſt him, is the moſt[p 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 their reſentment when he had; and her favourite was abandoned to the ſuſpicious jealouſy of the king, when a prudent remonſtrance might have preſerved him.—But her tameneſs, if not abſolute connivance in the great maſſacre of the proteſtants, in whoſe church ſhe had been bred, is a far more guilty inſtance of her weakneſs; an inſtance which, in ſpite of all her devotional zeal and incomparable prudence, will diſqualify her from ſhining in the annals of good women, however ſhe may be entitled to figure among the great and the fortunate.[p 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 commiſſion or a government, nobly replied, "If I could be perſuaded to betray my God for a marſhal's ſtaff, I might betray my king for a bribe of much leſs conſequence."

Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active and paſſive; if it will not enable us to ſubdue our own paſſions and reſentments, as well as qualify us to bear patiently the paſſions and reſentments of others.

Before we give way to any violent emotion of anger, it would perhaps be worth while to conſider the value of the object which excites it, and to re[p 118]flect for a moment, whether the thing we ſo ardently deſire, or ſo vehemently reſent, be really of as much importance to us, as that delightful tranquillity of ſoul, which we renounce in purſuit of it. If, on a fair calculation, we find we are not likely to get as much as we are ſure to loſe, then, putting all religious conſiderations out of the queſtion, common ſenſe and human policy will tell us, we have made a fooliſh and unprofitable exchange. Inward quiet is a part of one's ſelf; the object of our reſentment may be only a matter of opinion; and, certainly, what makes a portion of our actual happineſs ought to be too dear to us, to be ſacrificed for a trifling, foreign, perhaps imaginary good.

The moſt pointed ſatire I remember to have read, on a mind enſlaved by[p 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 himſelf: he who was turned looſe to the beaſt eſcaped, but Clitus was murdered, for he was turned looſe to an angry man."

A passionate woman's happineſs is never in her own keeping: it is the ſport of accident, and the ſlave of events. It is in the power of her acquaintance, her ſervants, but chiefly of her enemies, and all her comforts lie at the mercy of others. So far from being willing to learn of him who was meek and lowly, ſhe conſiders meekneſs as the want of a becoming ſpirit, and lowlineſs as a deſpicable and vulgar meanneſs. And an imperious woman will ſo little covet the[p 120] ornament of a meek and quiet ſpirit, that it is almoſt the only ornament ſhe will not be ſolicitous to wear. But reſentment is a very expenſive vice. How dearly has it coſt its votaries, even from the ſin of Cain, the firſt offender in this kind! "It is cheaper (ſays a