I am incapable of doing justice to the character of my beloved friend;
and that not only from want of talents, but from grief; which, I think,
rather increases than diminishes by time; and which will not let me sit
down to a task that requires so much thought, and a greater degree of
accuracy than I ever believed myself mistress of. And yet I so well
approve of your motion, that I will throw into your hands a few
materials, that may serve by way of supplement, as I may say, to those
you will be able to collect from the papers themselves; from Col.
Morden's letters to you, particularly that of Sept. 23;* and from the
letters of the detestable wretch himself, who, I find, has done her
justice, although to his own condemnation: all these together will enable
you, who seem to be so great an admirer of her virtues, to perform the
task; and, I think, better than any person I know. But I make it my
request, that if you do any thing in this way, you will let me see it.
If I find it not to my mind, I will add or diminish, as justice shall
require. She was a wonderful creature from her infancy: but I suppose
you intend to give a character of her at those years when she was
qualified to be an example to other young ladies, rather than a history
of her life.
*See Letter XLV. of this volume.
Perhaps, nevertheless, you will choose to give a description of her
person: and as you knew not the dear creature when her heart was easy,
I will tell you what yet, in part, you can confirm:
That her shape was so fine, her proportion so exact, her features so
regular, her complexion so lovely, and her whole person and manner so
distinguishedly charming, that she could not move without being admired
and followed by the eyes of every one, though strangers, who never saw
her before. Col. Morden's letter, above referred to, will confirm this.
In her dress she was elegant beyond imitation; and generally led the
fashion to all the ladies round her, without seeming to intend it, and
without being proud of doing so.*
* See Vol. VII. Letter LXXXI.
She was rather tall than of a middling stature; and had a dignity in her
aspect and air, that bespoke the mind that animated every feature.
This native dignity, as I may call it, induced some superficial persons,
who knew not how to account for the reverence which involuntarily filled
their hearts on her appearance, to impute pride to her. But these were
such as knew that they should have been proud of any one of her
perfections: judging therefore by their own narrowness, they thought it
impossible that the lady who possessed so many, should not think herself
superior to them all. Indeed, I have heard her noble aspect found fault
with, as indicating pride and superiority. But people awed and
controuled, though but by their own consciousness of inferiority, will
find fault, right or wrong, with those, whose rectitude of mind and
manners their own culpable hearts give them to be afraid. But, in the
bad sense of the word, Miss Clarissa Harlowe knew not what pride was.
You may, if you touch upon this subject, throw in these sentences of
her's, spoken at different times, and on different occasions:
'Persons of accidental or shadowy merit may be proud: but inborn worth
must be always as much above conceit as arrogance.'
'Who can be better, or more worthy, than they should be? And, who shall
be proud of talents they give not to themselves?'
'The darkest and most contemptible ignorance is that of not knowing one's
self; and that all we have, and all we excel in, is the gift of God.'
'All human excellence is but comparative--there are persons who excel us,
as much as we fancy we excel the meanest.'
'In the general scale of beings, the lowest is as useful, and as much a
link of the great chain, as the highest.'
'The grace that makes every other grace amiable, is HUMILITY.'
'There is but one pride pardonable; that of being above doing a base or
dishonourable action.'
Such were the sentiments by which this admirable young lady endeavoured
to conduct herself, and to regulate her conduct to others.
And, in truth, never were affability and complacency (graciousness, some
have called it) more eminent in any person, man or woman, than in her, to
those who put it in her power to oblige them: insomuch that the
benefitted has sometimes not known which to prefer--the grace bestowed,
or the manner in which it was conferred.
It has been observed, that what was said of Henry IV. of France, might be
said of her manner of refusing a request: That she generally sent from
her presence the person refused nearly as well satisfied as if she had
granted it.
Then she had such a sacred regard to truth.--You cannot, Sir, expatiate
too much upon this topic. I dare say, that in all her letters, in all
the letters of the wretch, her veracity will not once be found
impeachable, although her calamities were so heavy, the horrid man's
wiles so subtle, and her struggles to free herself from them so active.
Her charity was so great, that she always chose to defend or acquit where
the fault was not so flagrant that it became a piece of justice to
condemn it; and was always an advocate for an absent person, whose
discretion was called in question, without having given manifest proofs
of indiscretion.
Once I remember, in a large circle of ladies, every one of which [I among
the rest] having censured a generally-reported indiscretion in a young
lady--Come, my Miss Howe, said she, [for we had agreed to take each other
to task when either thought the other gave occasion for it; and when by
blaming each other we intended a general reprehension, which, as she used
to say, it would appear arrogant or assuming to level more properly,] let
me be Miss Fanny Darlington. Then removing out of the circle, and
standing up, Here I stand, unworthy of a seat with the rest of the
company, till I have cleared myself. And now, suppose me to be her, let
me hear you charge, and do you hear what the poor culprit can say to it
in her own defence. And then answering the conjectural and unproved
circumstances, by circumstances as fairly to be supposed favourable, she
brought off triumphantly the censured lady; and so much to every one's
satisfaction, that she was led to her chair, and voted a double rank in
the circle, as the reinstated Miss Fanny Darlington, and as Miss Clarissa
Harlowe.
Very few persons, she used to say, would be condemned, or even accused,
in the circles of ladies, were they present; it is generous, therefore,
nay, it is but just, said she, to take the part of the absent, if not
flagrantly culpable.
But though wisdom was her birthright, as I may say, yet she had not lived
years enow to pretend to so much experience as to exempt her from the
necessity of sometimes altering her opinion both of persons and things;
but, when she found herself obliged to do this, she took care that the
particular instance of mistaken worthiness in the person should not
narrow or contract her almost universal charity into general doubt or
jealousy. An instance of what I mean occurs to my memory.
Being upbraided, by a severe censure, with a person's proving base, whom
she had frequently defended, and by whose baseness my beloved friend was
a sufferer; 'You, Madam,' said she, 'had more penetration than such a
young creature as I can pretend to have. But although human depravity
may, I doubt, oftener justify those who judge harshly, than human
rectitude can those who judge favourably, yet will I not part with my
charity. Nevertheless, for the future, I will endeavour, in cases where
the judgment of my elders is against me, to make mine consistent with
caution and prudence.'
Indeed, when she was convinced of any error or mistake, (however
seemingly derogatory to her judgment and sagacity,) no one was ever so
acknowledging, so ingenuous, as she. 'It was a merit,' she used to say,
'next in degree to that of having avoided error, frankly to own an error.
And that the offering at an excuse in a blameable manner, was the
undoubted mark of a disingenuous, if not of a perverse mind.'
But I ought to add, on this head, [of her great charity where character
was concerned, and where there was room for charity,] that she was always
deservedly severe in her reprehensions of a wilful and studied vileness.
How could she then forgive the wretch by whose premeditated villany she
was entangled?
You must every where insist upon it, that had it not been for the stupid
persecutions of her relations, she never would have been in the power of
that horrid Lovelace. And yet, on several occasions, she acknowledged
frankly, that were person, and address, and alliance, to be allowedly the
principal attractives in the choice of a lover, it would not have been
difficult for her eye to mislead her heart.
When she was last with me, (three happy weeks together!) in every visit
the wretch made her, he left her more dissatisfied with him than in the
former. And yet his behaviour before her was too specious to have been
very exceptionable to a woman who had a less share of that charming
delicacy, and of that penetration, which so much distinguished her.
In obedience to the commands of her gloomy father, on his allowing her to
be my guest, for that last time, [as it most unhappily proved!] she never
would see him out of my company; and would often say, when he was gone,
'O my Nancy! this is not THE man!'--At other times, 'Gay, giddy creature!
he has always something to be forgiven for!'--At others, 'This man will
much sooner excite one's fears than attract one's love.' And then would
she repeat, 'This is not THE man. All that the world says of him cannot
be untrue. But what title have I to call him to account, who intend not
to have him?'
In short had she been left to a judgment and discretion, which nobody
ever questioned who had either, she would soon have discovered enough of
him to cause her to discard him for ever.
She was an admirable mistress of all the graces of elocution. The hand
she wrote, for the neat and free cut of her letters, (like her mind,
solid, and above all flourish,) for its fairness, evenness, and
swiftness, distinguished her as much as the correctness of her
orthography, and even punctuation, from the generality of her own sex;
and left her none, among the most accurate of the other, who excelled
her.
And here you may, if you please, take occasion to throw in one hint for
the benefit of such of our sex as are too careless in their orthography,
[a consciousness of a defect which generally keeps them from writing.]--
She was used to say, 'It was a proof that a woman understood the
derivation as well as sense of the words she used, and that she stopt not
at sound, when she spelt accurately.'
On this head you may take notice, that it was always matter of surprise
to her, that the sex are generally so averse as they are to writing;
since the pen, next to the needle, of all employments, is the most
proper, and best adapted to their geniuses; and this, as well for
improvement as amusement: 'Who sees not,' would she say, 'that those
women who take delight in writing excel the men in all the graces of the
familiar style? The gentleness of their minds, the delicacy of their
sentiments, (improved by the manner of their education, and the
liveliness of their imaginations, qualify them to a high degree of
preference for this employment;) while men of learning, as they are
called, (that is to say, of mere learning,) aiming to get above that
natural ease and freedom which distinguish this, (and indeed every other
kind of writing,) when they think they have best succeeded, are got
above, or rather beneath, all natural beauty.'
Then, stiffened and starched [let me add] into dry and indelectable
affectation, one sort of these scholars assume a style as rough as
frequently are their manners; they spangle over their productions with
metaphors; they tumble into bombast: the sublime, with them, lying in
words, and not in sentiment, they fancy themselves most exalted when
least understood; and down they sit, fully satisfied with their own
performances, and call them MASCULINE. While a second sort, aiming at
wit, that wicked misleader, forfeit all title to judgment. And a third,
sinking into the classical pits, there poke and scramble about, never
seeking to show genius of their own; all their lives spent in
common-place quotation; fit only to write notes and comments upon other
people's texts; all their pride, that they know those beauties of two
thousand years old in another tongue, which they can only admire, but not
imitate, in their own.
And these, truly, must be learned men, and despisers of our insipid sex!
But I need not mention the exceptions which my beloved friend always made
[and to which I subscribe] in favour of men of sound learning, true
taste, and extensive abilities; nor, in particular, her respect even to
reverence for gentlemen of the cloath; which, I dare say, will appear in
every paragraph of her letters wherever any of the clergy are mentioned.
Indeed the pious Dr. Lewen, the worthy Dr. Blome, the ingenious Mr.
Arnold, and Mr. Tompkins, gentlemen whom she names, in one article of her
will, as learned divines with whom she held an early correspondence, well
deserved her respect; since to their conversation and correspondence she
owed many of her valuable acquirements.
Nor were the little slights she would now-and-then (following, as I must
own, my lead) put upon such mere scholars [and her stupid and pedantic
brother was one of those who deserved those slights] as despised not only
our sex, but all such as had not had their opportunities of being
acquainted with the parts of speech, [I cannot speak low enough of such,]
and with the dead languages, owing to that contempt which some affect for
what they have not been able to master; for she had an admirable facility
for learning languages, and read with great ease both in Italian and
French. She had begun to apply herself to Latin; and having such a
critical knowledge of her own tongue, and such a foundation from the two
others, would soon have made herself an adept in it.
But, notwithstanding all her acquirements, she was an excellent ECONOMIST
and HOUSEWIFE. And those qualifications, you must take notice, she was
particularly fond of inculcating upon all her reading and writing
companions of the sex: for it was a maxim with her, 'That a woman who
neglects the useful and the elegant, which distinguish her own sex, for
the sake of obtaining the learning which is supposed more peculiar to the
other, incurs more contempt by what she foregoes, than she gains credit
by what she acquires.'
'All that a woman can learn,' she used to say, [expatiating on this
maxim,] 'above the useful knowledge proper to her sex, let her learn.
This will show that she is a good housewife of her time, and that she has
not a narrow or confined genius. But then let her not give up for these
those more necessary, and, therefore, not meaner, employments, which will
qualify her to be a good mistress of a family, a good wife, and a good
mother; for what can be more disgraceful to a woman than either, through
negligence of dress, to be found a learned slattern; or, through
ignorance of household-management, to be known to be a stranger to
domestic economy?'
She would have it indeed, sometimes, from the frequent ill use learned
women make of that respectable acquirement, that it was no great matter
whether the sex aimed at any thing but excelling in the knowledge of the
beauties and graces of their mother-tongue; and once she said, that this
was field enough for a woman; and an ampler was but endangering her
family usefulness. But I, who think our sex inferior in nothing to the
other, but in want of opportunities, of which the narrow-minded mortals
industriously seek to deprive us, lest we should surpass them as much in
what they chiefly value themselves upon, as we do in all the graces of a
fine imagination, could never agree with her in that. And yet I was
entirely of her opinion, that those women, who were solicitous to obtain
that knowledge of learning which they supposed would add to their
significance in sensible company, and in their attainment of it imagined
themselves above all domestic usefulness, deservedly incurred the
contempt which they hardly ever failed to meet with.
Perhaps you will not think it amiss further to observe on this head, as
it will now show that precept and example always went hand and hand with
her, that her dairy at her grandfather's was the delight of every one who
saw it; and she of all who saw her in it.
Her grandfather, in honour of her dexterity and of her skill in all the
parts of the dairy management, as well as of the elegance of the offices
allotted for that use, would have his seat, before known by the name of
The Grove, to be called The Dairy-house.* She had an easy, convenient,
and graceful habit made on purpose, which she put on when she employed
herself in these works; and it was noted of her, that in the same hour
that she appeared to be a most elegant dairy-maid, she was, when called
to a change of dress, the finest lady that ever graced a circle.
* See Vol. I. Letter II.
Her grandfather, father, mother, uncles, aunt, and even her brother and
sister, made her frequent visits there, and were delighted with her
silent ease and unaffected behaviour in her works; for she always, out of
modesty, chose rather the operative than the directive part, that she
might not discourage the servant whose proper business it was.
Each was fond of a regale from her hands in her Dairy-house. Her mother
and aunt Hervey generally admired her in silence, that they might not
give uneasiness to her sister; a spiteful, perverse, unimitating thing,
who usually looked upon her all the time with speechless envy.
Now-and-then, however, the pouting creature would suffer extorted and
sparing praise to burst open her lips; though looking at the same time
like Saul meditating the pointed javelin at the heart of David, the glory
of his kingdom. And now, methinks, I see my angel-friend, (too superior
to take notice of her gloom,) courting her acceptance of the milk-white
curd, from hands more pure than that.
Her skill and dexterity in every branch of family management seem to be
the only excellence of her innumerable ones which she owed to her family;
whose narrowness, immensely rich, and immensely carking, put them upon
indulging her in the turn she took to this part of knowledge; while her
elder sister affected dress without being graceful in it; and the fine
lady, which she could never be; and which her sister was without studying
for it, or seeming to know she was so.
It was usual with the one sister, when company was expected, to be half
the morning dressing; while the other would give directions for the whole
business and entertainment of the day; and then go up to her
dressing-room, and, before she could well be missed, [having all her
things in admirable order,] come down fit to receive company, and with
all that graceful ease and tranquillity as if she had nothing else to
think of.
Long after her, [hours, perhaps, of previous preparation having passed,]
down would come rustling and bustling the tawdry and awkward Bella,
disordering more her native disorderliness at the sight of her serene
sister, by her sullen envy, to see herself so much surpassed with such
little pains, and in a sixth part of the time.
Yet was this admirable creature mistress of all these domestic
qualifications, without the least intermixture of narrowness. She knew
how to distinguish between frugality, a necessary virtue, and
niggardliness, an odious vice; and used to say, 'That to define
generosity, it must be called the happy medium betwixt parsimony and
profusion.'
She was the most graceful reader I ever knew. She added, by her
melodious voice, graces to those she found in the parts of books she read
out to her friends; and gave grace and significance to others where they
were not. She had no tone, no whine. Her accent was always admirably
placed. The emphasis she always forcibly laid as the subject required.
No buskin elevation, no tragedy pomp, could mislead her; and yet poetry
was poetry indeed, when she read it.
But if her voice was melodious when she read, it was all harmony when she
sung. And the delight she gave by that, and by her skill and great
compass, was heightened by the ease and gracefulness of her air and
manner, and by the alacrity with which she obliged.
Nevertheless she generally chose rather to hear others sing or play, than
either to play or sing herself.
She delighted to give praise where deserved; yet she always bestowed it
in such a manner as gave not the least suspicion that she laid out for a
return of it to herself, though so universally allowed to be her due.
She had a talent of saying uncommon things in such an easy manner that
every body thought they could have said the same; and which yet required
both genius and observation to say them.
Even severe things appeared gentle, though they lost not their force,
from the sweetness of her air and utterance, and the apparent benevolence
of her purpose.
We form the truest judgment of persons by their behaviour on the most
familiar occasions. I will give an instance or two of the correction she
favoured me with on such a one.
When very young, I was guilty of the fault of those who want to be
courted to sing. She cured me of it, at the first of our happy intimacy,
by her own example; and by the following correctives, occasionally, yet
privately enforced:
'Well, my dear, shall we take you at your word? Shall we suppose, that
you sing but indifferently? Is not, however, the act of obliging, (the
company so worthy!) preferable to the talent of singing? And shall not
young ladies endeavour to make up for their defects in one part of
education, by their excellence in another?'
Again, 'You must convince us, by attempting to sing, that you cannot
sing; and then we will rid you, not only of present, but of future
importunity.'--An indulgence, however, let me add, that but tolerable
singers do not always wish to meet with.
Again, 'I know you will favour us by and by; and what do you by your
excuses but raise our expectations, and enhance your own difficulties?'
At another time, 'Has not this accomplishment been a part of your
education, my Nancy? How, then, for your own honour, can we allow of
your excuses?'
And I once pleading a cold, the usual pretence of those who love to be
entreated--'Sing, however, my dear, as well as you can. The greater the
difficulty to you, the higher the compliment to the company. Do you
think you are among those who know not how to make allowances? you should
sing, my love, lest there should be any body present who may think your
excuses owing to affectation.'
At another time, when I had truly observed that a young lady present sung
better than I; and that, therefore, I chose not to sing before that lady
--'Fie, said she, (drawing me on one side,) is not this pride, my Nancy?
Does it not look as if your principal motive to oblige was to obtain
applause? A generous mind will not scruple to give advantage to a person
of merit, though not always to her own advantage. And yet she will have
a high merit in doing that. Supposing this excellent person absent, who,
my dear, if your example spread, shall sing after you? You know every
one else must be but as a foil to you. Indeed I must have you as much
superior to other ladies in these smaller points, as you are in greater.'
So she was pleased to say to shame me. She was so much above reserve as
disguise. So communicative that no young lady could be in her company
half an hour, and not carry away instruction with her, whatever was the
topic. Yet all sweetly insinuated; nothing given with the air of
prescription; so that while she seemed to ask a question for
information-sake, she dropt in the needful instruction, and left the
instructed unable to decide whether the thought (which being started,
she, the instructed, could improve) came primarily from herself, or from
the sweet instructress.
She had a pretty hand at drawing, which she obtained with very little
instruction. Her time was too much taken up to allow, though to so fine
an art, the attention which was necessary to make her greatly excel in
it: and she used to say, 'That she was afraid of aiming at too many
things, for fear she should not be tolerable at any thing.'
For her years, and her opportunities, she was an extraordinary judge of
painting. In this, as in every thing else, nature was her art, her art
was nature. She even prettily performed in it. Her grandfather, for
this reason, bequeathed to her all the family pictures. Charming was her
fancy: alike sweet and easy was every touch of her pencil and her pen.
Yet her judgment exceeded her performance. She did not practise enough
to excel in the executive part. She could not in every thing excel.
But, upon the whole, she knew what every subject required according to
the nature of it; in other words, was an absolute mistress of the
should-be.
To give a familiar instance for the sake of young ladies; she (untaught)
observed when but a child, that the sun, moon, and stars, never appeared
at once; and were therefore never to be in one piece; that bears, tigers,
lions, were not natives of an English climate, and should not therefore
have place in an English landscape; that these ravagers of the forest
consorted not with lambs, kids, or fawns; nor kites, hawks, and vultures,
with doves, partridges, or pheasants.
And, alas! she knew, before she was nineteen years of age, by fatal
experience she knew! that all these beasts and birds of prey were
outdone, in treacherous cruelty, by MAN! Vile, barbarous, plotting,
destructive man! who, infinitely less excusable than those, destroys,
through wantonness and sport, what those only destroy through hunger and
necessity!
The mere pretenders to those branches of science which she aimed at
acquiring she knew how to detect; and from all nature. Propriety,
another word for nature, was (as I have hinted) her law, as it is the
foundation of all true judgment. But, nevertheless, she was always
uneasy, if what she said exposed those pretenders to knowledge, even in
their absence, to the ridicule of lively spirits.
Let the modern ladies, who have not any one of her excellent qualities;
whose whole time, in the short days they generally make, and in the
inverted night and day, where they make them longer, is wholly spent in
dress, visits, cards, plays, operas, and musical entertainments, wonder
at what I have written, and shall further write; and let them look upon
it as an incredible thing, that when, at a mature age, they cannot boast
one of her perfections, there should have been a lady so young, who had
so many.
These must be such as know not how she employed her time; and cannot form
the least idea of what may be done in those hours in which they lie
enveloped with the shades of death, as she used to call sleep.
But before I come to mention the distribution she usually made of her
time, let me say a few words upon another subject, in which she excelled
all the young ladies I ever knew.
This was her skill in almost all sorts of fine needleworks; of which,
however, I shall say the less, since possibly you will find it mentioned
in some of the letters.
That piece which she bequeaths to her cousin Morden is indeed a capital
piece; a performance so admirable, that that gentleman's father, who
resided chiefly abroad, (was, as is mentioned in her will,) very desirous
to obtain it, in order to carry it to Italy with him, to show the curious
of other countries, (as he used to say,) for the honour of his own, that
the cloistered confinement was not necessary to make English women excel
in any of those fine arts upon which nuns and recluses value themselves.
Her quickness at these sort of works was astonishing; and a great
encouragement to herself to prosecute them.
Mr. Morden's father would have been continually making her presents,
would she have permitted him to do so; and he used to call them, and so
did her grandfather, tributes due to a merit so sovereign, and not
presents.
As to her diversions, the accomplishments and acquirements she was
mistress of will show what they must have been. She was far from being
fond of cards, the fashionable foible of modern ladies; nor, as will be
easily perceived from what I have said, and more from what I shall
further say, had she much time for play. She never therefore promoted
their being called for; and often insensibly diverted the company from
them, by starting some entertaining subject, when she could do it without
incurring the imputation of particularity.
Indeed very few of her intimates would propose cards, if they could
engage her to read, to talk, to touch the keys, or to sing, when any new
book, or new piece of music, came down. But when company was so
numerous, that conversation could not take that agreeable turn which it
oftenest does among four or five friends of like years and inclinations,
and it became in a manner necessary to detach off some of it, to make the
rest better company, she would not refuse to play, if, upon casting in,
it fell to her lot. And then she showed that her disrelish to cards was
the effect of choice only; and that she was an easy mistress of every
genteel game played with them. But then she always declared against
playing high. 'Except for trifles,' she used to say, 'she would not
submit to chance what she was already sure of.'
At other times, 'she should make her friends a very ill compliment,' she
said, 'if she supposed they would wish to be possessed of what of right
belonged to her; and she should be very unworthy, if she desired to make
herself a title to what was theirs.'
'High gaming, in short,' she used to say, 'was a sordid vice; an
immorality; the child of avarice; and a direct breach of that
commandment, which forbids us to covet what is our neighbour's.'
She was exceedingly charitable; the only one of her family that knew the
meaning of the word; and this with regard both to the souls and the
bodies of those who were the well-chosen objects of her benevolence. She
kept a list of these, whom she used to call her Poor, entering one upon
it as another was provided for, by death, or any other way; but always
made a reserve, nevertheless, for unforeseen cases, and for accidental
distresses. And it must be owned, that in the prudent distribution of
them, she had neither example nor equal.
The aged, the blind, the lame, the widow, the orphan, the unsuccessful
industrious, were particularly the objects of it; and the contributing
to the schooling of some, to the putting out to trades and husbandry the
children of others of the labouring or needy poor, and setting them
forward at the expiration of their servitude, were her great delights; as
was the giving good books to others; and, when she had opportunity, the
instructing the poorer sort of her honest neighbours, and father's
tenants, in the use of them. 'That charity,' she used to say, 'which
provides for the morals, as well as for the bodily wants of the poor,
gives a double benefit to the public, as it adds to the number of the
hopeful what it takes from that of the profligate. And can there be, in
the eyes of that God, she was wont to say, who requires nothing so much
from us as acts of beneficence to one another, a charity more worthy?'
Her uncle Antony, when he came to settle in England with his vast fortune
obtained in the Indies, used to say, 'This girl by her charities will
bring down a blessing upon us all.' And it must be owned they trusted
pretty much to this presumption.
But I need not say more on this head: nor perhaps was it necessary to say
so much; since the charitable bequests in her will sufficiently set forth
her excellence in this branch of duty.
She was extremely moderate in her diet. 'Quantity in food,' she used to
say, 'was more to be regarded than quality; that a full meal was the
great enemy both to study and industry: that a well-built house required
but little repairs.'
But this moderation in her diet, she enjoyed, with a delicate frame of
body, a fine state of health; was always serene, lively; cheerful, of
course. And I never knew but of one illness she had; and that was by a
violent cold caught in an open chaise, by a sudden storm of hail and
rain, in a place where was no shelter; and which threw her into a fever,
attended with dangerous symptoms, that no doubt were lightened by her
temperance; but which gave her friends, who then knew her value, infinite
apprehensions for her.*
* In her common-place book she has the following note upon the
recollection of this illness in the time of her distress:
'In a dangerous illness, with which I was visited a few years before I
had the unhappiness to know this ungrateful man! [would to Heaven I had
died in it!] my bed was surrounded by my dear relations--father, mother,
brother, sister, my two uncles, weeping, kneeling, round me, then put up
their vows to Heaven for my recovery; and I, fearing that I should drag
down with me to my grave one or other of my sorrowing friends, wished and
prayed to recover for their sakes.--Alas! how shall parents in such cases
know what to wish for! How happy for them, and for me, had I then been
denied to their prayers! But now I am eased of that care. All those
dear relations are living still--but not one of them (such as they think,
has been the heinousness of my error!) but, far from being grieved, would
rejoice to hear of my death.'
In all her readings, and her conversations upon them, she was fonder of
finding beauties than blemishes, and chose to applaud but authors and
books, where she could find the least room for it. Yet she used to
lament that certain writers of the first class, who were capable of
exalting virtue, and of putting vice out of countenance, too generally
employed themselves in works of imagination only, upon subjects merely
speculative, disinteresting and unedifying, from which no useful moral or
example could be drawn.
But she was a severe censurer of pieces of a light or indecent turn,
which had a tendency to corrupt the morals of youth, to convey polluted
images, or to wound religion, whether in itself, or through the sides of
its professors, and this, whoever were the authors, and how admirable
soever the execution. She often pitied the celebrated Dr. Swift for so
employing his admirable pen, that a pure eye was afraid of looking into
his works, and a pure ear of hearing any thing quoted from them. 'Such
authors,' she used to say, 'were not honest to their own talents, nor
grateful to the God who gave them.' Nor would she, on these occasions,
admit their beauties as a palliation; on the contrary, she held it as an
aggravation of their crime, that they who are so capable of mending the
heart, should in any places show a corrupt one in themselves; which must
weaken the influences of their good works; and pull down with one hand
what they build up with the other.
All she said and all she did was accompanied with a natural ease and
dignity, which set her above affectation, or the suspicion of it;
insomuch that that degrading fault, so generally imputed to a learned
woman, was never laid to her charge. For, with all her excellencies, she
was forwarder to hear than speak; and hence, no doubt, derived no small
part of her improvement.
Although she was well read in the English, French, and Italian poets, and
had read the best translations of the Latin classics; yet seldom did she
quote or repeat from them, either in her letters or conversation, though
exceedingly happy in a tenacious memory; principally through modesty, and
to avoid the imputation of that affectation which I have just mentioned.
Mr. Wyerley once said of her, she had such a fund of knowledge of her
own, and made naturally such fine observations upon persons and things,
being capable, by the EGG, [that was his familiar expression,] of judging
of the bird, that she had seldom either room or necessity for foreign
assistances.
But it was plain, from her whole conduct and behaviour, that she had not
so good an opinion of herself, however deserved; since, whenever she was
urged to give her sentiments on any subject, although all she thought fit
to say was clear an intelligible, yet she seemed in haste to have done
speaking. Her reason for it, I know, was twofold; that she might not
lose the benefit of other people's sentiments, by engrossing the
conversation; and lest, as were her words, she should be praised into
loquaciousness, and so forfeit the good opinion which a person always
maintains with her friends, who knows when she has said enough.--It was,
finally, a rule with her, 'to leave her hearers wishing her to say more,
rather than to give them cause to show, by their inattention, an
uneasiness that she had said so much.'--
You are curious to know the particular distribution of her time; which
you suppose will help you to account for what you own yourself surprised
at; to wit, how so young a lady could make herself mistress of so many
accomplishments.
I will premise, that she was from infancy inured to rise early in a
morning, by an excellent, and, as I may say, a learned woman, Mrs.
Norton, to whose care, wisdom, and example, she was beholden for the
ground-work of her taste and acquirements, which meeting with such
assistances from the divines I have named, and with such a genius, made
it the less wonder that she surpassed most of her age and sex.
Her sex, did I say? What honour to the other does this imply! When one
might challenge the proudest pedant of them all, to say he has been
disciplined into greater improvement, than she had made from the mere
force of genius and application. But it is demonstrable to all who know
how to make observations on their acquaintance of both sexes, arrogant as
some are of their superficialities, that a lady at eighteen, take the
world through, is more prudent and conversable than a man at twenty-five.
I can prove this by nineteen instances out of twenty in my own knowledge.
Yet how do these poor boasters value themselves upon the advantages their
education gives them! Who has not seen some one of them, just come from
the university, disdainfully smile at a mistaken or ill-pronounced word
from a lady, when her sense has been clear, and her sentiments just; and
when he could not himself utter a single sentence fit to be repeated, but
what he had borrowed from the authors he had been obliged to study, as a
painful exercise to slow and creeping parts? But how I digress:
This excellent young lady used to say, 'it was incredible to think what
might be done by early rising, and by long days well filled up.'
It may be added, that she had calculated according to the practice of too
many, she had actually lived more years at sixteen, than they had at
twenty-six.
She was of opinion, 'that no one could spend their time properly, who did
not live by some rule: who did not appropriate the hours, as nearly as
might be, to particular purposes and employments.'
In conformity to this self-set lesson, the usual distribution of the
twenty-four hours, when left to her own choice, were as follows:
For REST she allotted SIX hours only.
She thought herself not so well, and so clear in her intellects, [so much
alive, she used to say,] if she exceeded this proportion. If she slept
not, she chose to rise sooner. And in winter had her fire laid, and a
taper ready burning to light it; not loving to give trouble to the
servants, 'whose harder work, and later hours of going to bed,' she used
to say, 'required consideration.'
I have blamed her for her greater regard to them than to herself. But
this was her answer; 'I have my choice, who can wish for more? Why
should I oppress others, to gratify myself? You see what free-will
enables one to do; while imposition would make a light burden heavy.'