There is no virtue, perhaps, that with respect to the advantages arising
from it to others, may not be so well supplied by a vice as generosity.
Vanity almost alone will often perform all its functions.
* * * * *
* * * *
REASONS
WHY MEN OF GENIUS SELDOM RISE ACCORDING TO THEIR MERIT.
Amid the illusions deceiving mankind, which Hope sighs for, or Pleasure
grasps at, none are more fallacious than the dreams of success, which
Fancy imprints, from the consciousness of her deserts, on the tablet of
imagination. When an author boldly pursues the path of fame, when he
strikes out into the mazes of intricate disquisition; however his
Genius, prompted by her own powers, might at first promise success, yet
from circumstances unknown, he too often fails in his attempt: like the
bold adventurer who, searching for the diamond in the bowels of the
mine, fell a victim to the blasting vapour of contagion and death.
No one will deny, that merit ought to have it’s reward; and, that every
encouragement should be given for advancement in the moral or
intellectual world. Habits of virtue would then be acquired from
necessity; and ambition, in greatness or goodness, meet with universal
admiration and applause: but, before human nature can arrive at such a
state of primitive excellence, some of the bad passions must be expelled
with rankle in the human heart. A barrier must be raised between envy
and admiration; and ingratitude banished, as the pest of moral and
intellectual happiness. I might farther analyse, and draw a parallel
between the powers of the mind and it’s passions, to shew, that what
prompts the one to goodness, stimulates the other to greatness; but it
would be unnecessary to mention arguments, or canvass hypotheses, which
have already been made the subject of frequent discussion. I shall,
therefore, confine myself to the reasons why Genius too often sinks into
obscurity, even while her breast expands with benevolence---while virtue
and greatness animate her heart.
Ambition, while restrained within certain bounds, is highly commendable;
when exceeding those limits, it degenerates, and becomes vicious.
I shall, therefore, first point out this delicate barrier, perceptible
only by the unprejudiced; to be trodden on by those alone who are
innately good, and can bid each “passion move at the command of Virtue.”
It is necessary that there should be some incitement to noble actions,
to rouze the mind from torpidity, and promote the exertion of her
powers. This incentive to greatness is called Ambition; and is equally
fought for by the workman who excels in mechanism, the general who leads
an army, and the statesman who commands the applause of senates. By a
fascinating power, it beguiles mankind; and has but one predominant
fault---an unbounded satiety. This gigantic precipice, which hides her
head amid the clouds, is only to be climbed by the man of genius; and,
when he mounts towards the summit, if he can view the prospect around
him without a swimming head, and a dizzy eye, he is truly noble.
In our various gradations through life, if we can view and admire the
summit of excellence which we have not reached, or look down with
pleasure on that which we have passed, while we enjoy the plaudits of a
surrounding world, each of us shall feel the secret praise of our own
heart, proud in the consciousness of it’s integrity. Ambition, then, is
the guide of Genius; it either raises it to perfection, or hurls it, in
an unguarded moment, into obscurity. While, therefore, we can admire
abilities greater, or perhaps less than our own, this laudable incentive
will elevate and ennoble us; if, on the contrary, we despise or envy
these powers, it will soon sink us into shame, and our works into
oblivion.
I have made this digression, because a certain kind of ambition--for
there are many species belonging to the genus---is the most essential
cause why men of letters do not rise so well as they have reason to
promise themselves, or even as they deserve.
Modesty is the inseparable attendant on Merit; at least, a certain kind
of diffidence is felt by every man of genius, which too often hinders
him from intruding himself on public notice. Possessing a mind fraught
with the dignity of it’s own powers, he scorns those trammels with which
an unfeeling world would too often gall his tender neck, and fetter down
his lofty spirit. When, therefore, he explores the depths of science, or
with unbounded good-nature skims the surface, for the benefit of
mankind; he exults in the hope of that success which he had a right to
demand, and looks forward to the promised harvest of the well-earned
field. Though he may thus snatch his images, in daring enthusiasm: and,
with “a phrenzy-rolling eye,” survey the expanse of nature; yet seldom
will a harsh world comprehend---or, comprehending, reward---a dignity of
mind, which might do honour to a class of beings higher than ourselves
in the scale of existence. Every man who labours for the community, even
should he fail, ought to be thanked for the pains he has taken; as every
attempt to enforce the practice of those qualities which adorn and
dignify the human heart, must necessarily merit applause.
There is certainly one excuse alledged by mankind in general, why they
do not reward Genius according to it’s merit; and the reason, I will
add, cannot fail, if persisted in, to tear the laurel from the brow of
infant worth, and trample it in the dust. They assert, in fact; that
authors are the enemies of each other, and will not allow their
reciprocal fame to live.
To lay the metaphor aside; men of letters are too seldom men of
generosity. It is a harsh expression, and I must beg pardon of the world
for using it; but still cannot retract, till they disprove my assertion.
Instead of cherishing a young author, or admiring a refined and superior
genius; the wits of the age, in the one instance crush, and in the other
snarl at and depreciate, his merits.
In a word, if authors would be more generous to each other’s
productions---for perfection is not the attribute of humanity---if they
would pardon the defects, and at the same time extol the beauties they
read, merit would no longer linger in obscurity; the embryo fire of
genius would again soon burst on the world, fostered in the bosom of
Virtue, and fanned by the breath of Fame!
* * * * *
* * * *
THE FATAL MISTAKE;
Or, THE HISTORY OF MR. ELLIOT.
[Written by Himself.]
(Concluded from our last)
However I was resolved to observe her conduct as well as lord Ashford’s
and act accordingly. I therefore assumed an air of tranquility, and, by
my tenderness, seemed to have banished every painful sensation from her
bosom; when one day as we were talking on family matters, and wondering
we had not heard from lord or lady Somerset for two months past,
a servant brought me a letter from an intimate friend who was dying, and
begged to see me; I would not have complied with his request,
disagreeable as it was to refuse, had not my Almena insisted on my
going.
In a fatal hour I complied with her entreaties, and left her with the
utmost reluctance. When I came to the house of Mr. Warner, I found he
had expired two hours before my arrival; I paid a tribute of tears to
the memory of honest George, who had been my college familiar; and as I
had no further business, I hastened back to my wife. I entered the house
unobserved by any one, having delivered my horse to a servant I met in
the yard, and was proceeding to Lady Almena’s dressing room, with all
the anxiety of love, when, on hearing the sound of voices I stopped, and
clearly distinguished my wife, who pronounced these words: “You cannot
imagine what I have suffered in this cruel separation. My heart has felt
every painful sensation, you have been exposed to: believe me, my lord,
my love for you is as violent as before my marriage.” “My love, my
dearest Almena, answered a manly voice, I do believe you, and am
convinced nothing can abate your affection for me.” I heard no more, but
rushing to my apartment I seized my sword, and determined to end my woe,
by plunging the weapon deep in the heart of the villain who had
dishonoured me, I burst open the door of the dressing room, and,
heart-rending sight! beheld my wife locked up in the arms of Lord
Ashford, as I imagined.
Transported by my rage, I sprung towards him, and buried my sword in his
body! He groaned and fell! But, oh Heavens! what were my feelings when I
beheld the face of Lord Somerset! Though it was almost dark, I plainly
perceived the features of my friend as he lay extended on the floor,
bathed in his blood. My Almena had fainted on seeing her brother fall,
and so stupified was I with horror at the rash action I had committed,
that I was incapable of giving the least assistance to either.
My faculties at length forsook me, and I fell senseless; the noise of my
fall brought the servants crouding to the apartment, there to behold the
most horrible sight that ever shocked the eyes of humanity! When I
recovered to a sense of my misery, I found my wife had been carried to
her apartment during her fit, and Lord Somerset was seated in an armed
chair.
Some of the servants were gone for a surgeon, whilst others were
endeavouring to stop the effusion of blood.
He faintly opened his eyes, and casting them on me with a look of
infinite sweetness, addressed me in the following manner, in a voice
hardly audible: “Whatever, my dear Frederick, was your motive for a
conduct so precipitate and rash, be assured I heartily forgive you; and
am certain, mistake and fatal misapprehension were the cause of my
death!” Here he stopped. The horror and distraction of my thoughts were
so great, that, had not my servants prevented, I should have plunged the
fatal sword in my own breast! By force they wrested it from me; and I
was doomed to bear a wretched existence! I threw myself at the feet of
Lord Somerset, and entreated his pardon.
My agonies were so great that before I could inform him of the truth,
I was again deprived of my senses. I remember no more, than that after
having been a long time confined to my chamber, I recovered to endless
remorse!
The excess of my grief threw me into a violent fever which continued a
month; during which time my wife and lord Somerset breathed their last!
The latter lived only three days after the fatal wound he had received
from me. He had a paper drawn up in which he solemnly attested my
innocence, and acquitted me of his death. I found he had been acquainted
with my jealousy of lord Ashford, by the villain who was hired by that
scandal to nobility; the servant who had informed me of his lordship’s
visit’s to my wife, was the detested creature of this wretch; and these
falsities had been invented merely to disturb our domestic harmony; to
which the appearance of his comrade in iniquity the day I had been
hunting had greatly added, joined also to his evasive conduct. These
particulars lord Somerset had been informed of by a letter from the
abandoned fellow, who had left the kingdom, as his vile employer soon
after did. But though my grief on the death of my Edward was little
short of madness, yet the fate of my unhappy wife, rent my
heart-strings! that angelic sufferer, on recovering from her fainting,
immediately fell into strong labour; and after continuing in the utmost
agony for a whole day and night, expired with her unhappy infant ere she
had given it birth.
She left her forgiveness for him who had destroyed her and her brother.
I am unable to describe the melancholy situation in which I was
involved.
Several times I was tempted to end my miserable being; but some remains
of conscience being left, I dared not rush into the presence of my
Maker, uncalled for. I was greatly assisted in my resolution of enduring
life, by the worthy Mr. Harpur, who on hearing of my melancholy
situation, left his family and came to my house.
The world by his prudent management remained uninformed of my
misfortunes; supposing my wife died of a fever in her lying-in, and Lord
Somerset of an apoplectic fit. I wrote to lady Somerset the melancholy
account of my folly and rashness, and intreated her pardon, as she
valued the peace of my soul. But alas! she lived not to grant it me: her
sorrow for the loss of her children, joined to her ill state of health
soon brought her to the grave! Thus had the violence of my passions
destroyed three persons dearer to me than the whole world. Mr. Harpur
would have persuaded me to leave Trout-Hall, as the scene of my
wretchedness, only aided the poignancy of my sufferings, but all his
arguments were vain: I was resolved to dedicate my life to penitence on
that mournful spot. I accordingly built a retreat in the park and never
after left it except once a year, when I forsook my humble habitation,
to spend a few hours in the house where my greatest misery was
compleated. I generally distributed a large sum of money to the poor
inhabitants of the neighbourhood on that day, and in the evening
returned to my cottage. I hope my sincere repentance and sorrow for my
crimes may have atoned for them to that power whose blessings I had so
infinitely abused. For twenty years I lived uninterrupted by any mortal
save the good Mr. Harpur, who sometimes came and spent half an hour at
my solitary residence. Here I lived and enjoyed more content than I ever
thought could have fallen to my lot, after the miseries of my former
life. As my prayers for mercy and pardon, at the throne of Heaven, have
been real and sincere, so I trust I shall be forgiven, and whenever it
shall please the deity to call me hence, I shall rejoice to obey his
summons, hoping I shall have peace in a better world, and my error
totally obliterated.
One thing I should have mentioned, which is, that the twenty-fifth year
of my retirement, I made Mr. Harpur a present of thirty thousand pounds,
and left my estate to a distant branch of my family, the only surviving
relations I had. I begged my worthy friend to have my remains deposited
in a tomb that should be erected in my convent, as I was used to call my
residence. This, I have no doubt he will see performed, and may the
melancholy incidents of my life warn them who shall see this manuscript,
against the blameable use of reason. Had I suffered mine to have had its
proper influence, I had not been plunged in such uncommon distress.
[[Sources:
Original: “Female Stability, or, the History of Miss Belville,
In a Series of Letters”, London 1780 by “The Late Miss Palmer”.
The author is apparently _not_ the better-known Charlotte Palmer.
Possible sources include The London magazine, or, Gentleman’s monthly
intelligencer (Vol. 50, July 1781, pg 316ff).
Notes: A contemporary review in the London Magazine called the book
“instructing and entertaining”. Another contemporary, Frances
Hamilton, called it “sentimental, badly structured, pointless”.]]
* * * * *
NEGLIGENCE
In Epistolary Correspondence.
I have no patience with those who apologize for not writing letters to
their friends or acquaintances, by saying they have not time enough. Few
people are so much pressed for time, as not to be able to spare half an
hour, or an hour, in any day, for a particular avocation; a space quite
sufficient for writing a letter. Most of those who make this silly
excuse, are frequently, during the day, at a loss for filling more time
than would suffice for this purpose. The true reason of the neglect
seems, therefore, to be want of inclination rather than of leisure; and
he who says--“I have not time for writing,” might in general say, with
more honesty--“I am too indolent.”
But here it may be alledged, in favour of this neglect of
correspondence, that it is not worth while, merely for the sake of
amusement, to write letters; that it is irksome to sit down and be
obliged to compose an epistle without possessing any subject of real and
necessary business; and that the efforts of invention give to this
employment the fastidious nature of a task. These objections, strictly
taken, are undeniable: but it is most evident, that whoever makes them,
must bind himself never to engage in any correspondence, or write a
single letter that is not absolutely and indispensably necessary. And if
this principle, which flows from the objections, be allowed, then
epistolary correspondence must be left entirely to the concerns of
business; and the communications of separated friendship, of love, and
all other degrees of social affection, are at an end.
Many people sit down to write a letter as to perform a displeasing
imposition, which they anticipate with reluctance, and defer as long as
they can with decency. I have no objection to that reluctance, provided
they would at first---whether requested to correspond, or spontaneously
offering---ingenuously confess, that they consider all correspondence,
which is not absolutely necessary, to be unworthy of regard: for by this
explicit declaration of their sentiments, they would at once rid
themselves, and others, of all trouble and expectation on the subject.
The people should acquiesce in preserving correspondence, and then
attempt to justify the neglect of it, by reasons which should have been
offered before it was entered into, is the matter of complaint.
To such as consider that correspondence by letter is but another sort of
personal communication, it will appear strange, that to compose an
epistle, should be esteemed by those who possess any of the social
affections, as a labour and hardship. Every person, it may be supposed,
has some intimacy or acquaintance which he would wish to preserve, and
if so small a portion of time might be made subservient to that
agreeable purpose, is it not astonishing that so much reluctance should
accompany the performance? The most indolent scruple not to confess
their absent connections in terms of affection or attachment, but yet
cannot induce themselves to accomplish that frequent interchange of
sentiment, which constitutes the essence of friendship, and the nature
of correspondence.
It should seem that those who acknowledge the existence of their absent
attachments, but are yet too supine to preserve regular correspondence
with them, are either under the dominion of an habitual and inveterate
indolence, or else they do not feel the power of those attachments so
strongly as they would have us imagine. For will the person who feels a
real and undeniable pleasure in correspondence, excuse himself from it
by such frivolous objections? Will the affectionate wife, separated from
her faithful husband; will the ardent lover, debarred from the object of
his adoration; content themselves for omitting this delightful duty, by
alledging that they have not time? If the occupation employed ten times
the space, they would contrive to accomplish it. And why is this?
Because they take an unfeigned pleasure in the employment.
It will not avail to say that the fervour of passion often induces us to
sacrifice more time to one object than is reasonable. It is sufficient
to deduce, from these instances, that what we really delight in, we can
always find means to perform.
Examine employments in which the warmth of passion is by no means
concerned, as many there are which interest not the affections, but
which by various people are highly esteemed; and you will find that such
people contrive, whatever may be their other avocations, to dedicate
sufficient time to those esteemed employments. Every man has a
partiality for some occupation or amusement, in which, important as his
necessary business may be, he can find time to indulge himself. And thus
some persons, indolently inclined, can always contrive to devote a great
portion of their time to their favourite goddess, Idleness; however
loudly the calls of business, and of affection, may strive to detach
them from her influence.
The general falshood, therefore, of this apology for neglect of
correspondence---“I have not time,” is evident; being nevertheless true,
with the change of one word for another, viz. instead of time, say
inclination.
I am apt, however, to believe that this aversion to letter-writing is
confirmed, if not induced, by the defect of conversance with literary
composition. Since those who have been disused to writing, are observed
in general to dislike it; and, on the contrary, persons who have had a
learned education, and been early accustomed to epistolary
communication, are least averse to it. The defect of practice in
composition, must undoubtedly occasion a difficulty of collecting the
sentiments, and of properly arranging and expressing them, that may
render the employment truly irksome, notwithstanding the utmost warmth
of affection. But it should be remembered, that little art is necessary
to express the sensations of friendship; and that the simple language of
sincerity is universally preferable to the most laboured compositions of
ingenuity and elegance.