I follow my last of this date by command. I mentioned in my former my
mother's opinion of the merit you would have, if you could oblige your
friends against your own inclination. Our conference upon this subject
was introduced by the conversation we had had with Sir Harry Downeton;
and my mother thinks it of so much importance, that she enjoins me to
give you the particulars of it. I the rather comply, as I was unable in
my last to tell what to advise you to; and as you will in this recital
have my mother's opinion at least, and, perhaps, in hers what the
world's would be, were it only to know what she knows, and not so much
as I know.
My mother argues upon this case in a most discouraging manner for all
such of our sex as look forward for happiness in marriage with the man
of their choice.
Only, that I know, she has a side-view of her daughter; who, at the
same time that she now prefers no one to another, values not the man her
mother most regards, of one farthing; or I should lay it more to heart.
What is there in it, says she, that all this bustle is about? Is it such
a mighty matter for a young woman to give up her inclinations to oblige
her friends?
Very well, my mamma, thought I! Now, may you ask this--at FORTY, you
may. But what would you have said at EIGHTEEN, is the question?
Either, said she, the lady must be thought to have very violent
inclinations [And what nice young creature would have that supposed?]
which she could not give up; or a very stubborn will, which she would
not; or, thirdly, have parents she was indifferent about obliging.
You know my mother now-and-then argues very notably; always very warmly
at least. I happen often to differ from her; and we both think so well
of our own arguments, that we very seldom are so happy as to convince
one another. A pretty common case, I believe, in all vehement debatings.
She says, I am too witty; Angelice, too pert: I, That she is too wise;
that is to say, being likewise put into English, not so young as she has
been: in short, is grown so much into mother, that she has forgotten
she ever was a daughter. So, generally, we call another cause by
consent--yet fall into the old one half a dozen times over, without
consent--quitting and resuming, with half-angry faces, forced into a
smile, that there might be some room to piece together again: but go
a-bed, if bedtime, a little sullen nevertheless: or, if we speak, her
silence is broken with an Ah! Nancy! You are so lively! so quick! I wish
you were less like your papa, child!
I pay it off with thinking, that my mother has no reason to disclaim her
share in her Nancy: and if the matter go off with greater severity on
her side than I wish for, then her favourite Hickman fares the worse for
it next day.
I know I am a saucy creature. I know, if I do not say so, you will think
so. So no more of this just now. What I mention it for, is to tell you,
that on this serious occasion I will omit, if I can, all that passed
between us, that had an air of flippancy on my part, or quickness on my
mother's, to let you into the cool and cogent of the conversation.
'Look through the families, said she, which we both know, where the man
and the woman have been said to marry for love; which (at the time it
is so called) is perhaps no more than a passion begun in folly or
thoughtlessness, and carried on from a spirit of perverseness and
opposition [here we had a parenthetical debate, which I omit]; and see,
if they appear to be happier than those whose principal inducement to
marry has been convenience, or to oblige their friends; or ever whether
they are generally so happy: for convenience and duty, where observed,
will afford a permanent and even an increasing satisfaction (as well
at the time, as upon the reflection) which seldom fail to reward
themselves: while love, if love be the motive, is an idle passion' [idle
in ONE SENSE my mother cannot say; for love is as busy as a monkey, and
as mischievous as a school-boy]--'it is a fervour, that, like all other
fervours, lasts but a little while after marriage; a bow overstrained,
that soon returns to its natural bent.
'As it is founded generally upon mere notional excellencies, which
were unknown to the persons themselves till attributed to either by the
other; one, two, or three months, usually sets all right on both sides;
and then with opened eyes they think of each other--just as every body
else thought of them before.
'The lovers imaginaries [her own notable word!] are by that time gone
off; nature and old habits (painfully dispensed with or concealed)
return: disguises thrown aside, all the moles, freckles, and defects in
the minds of each discover themselves; and 'tis well if each do not sink
in the opinion of the other, as much below the common standard, as the
blinded imagination of both had set them above it. And now, said she,
the fond pair, who knew no felicity out of each other's company, are
so far from finding the never-ending variety each had proposed in
an unrestrained conversation with the other (when they seldom were
together; and always parted with something to say; or, on recollection,
when parted, wishing they had said); that they are continually on the
wing in pursuit of amusements out of themselves; and those, concluded my
sage mamma, [Did you think her wisdom so very modern?] will perhaps be
the livelier to each, in which the other has no share.'
I told my mother, that if you were to take any rash step, it would be
owing to the indiscreet violence of your friends. I was afraid, I said,
that these reflection upon the conduct of people in the married state,
who might set out with better hopes, were but too well grounded: but
that this must be allowed me, that if children weighed not these matters
so thoroughly as they ought, neither did parents make those allowances
for youth, inclination, and inexperience, which had been found necessary
to be made for themselves at their children's time of life.
I remembered a letter, I told her, hereupon, which you wrote a few
months ago, personating an anonymous elderly lady (in Mr. Wyerley's
day of plaguing you) to Miss Drayton's mother, who, by her severity and
restraints, had like to have driven the young lady into the very fault
against which her mother was most solicitous to guard her. And I dared
to say, she would be pleased with it.
I fetched the first draught of it, which at my request you obliged me
at the time; and read the whole letter to my mother. But the following
passage she made me read twice. I think you once told me you had not a
copy of this letter.
'Permit me, Madam, [says the personated grave writer,] to observe, That
if persons of your experience would have young people look forward, in
order to be wiser and better by their advice, it would be kind in them
to look backward, and allow for their children's youth, and natural
vivacity; in other words, for their lively hopes, unabated by time,
unaccompanied by reflection, and unchecked by disappointment. Things
appear to us all in a very different light at our entrance upon
a favourite party, or tour; when, with golden prospects, and high
expectations, we rise vigorous and fresh like the sun beginning its
morning course; from what they do, when we sit down at the end of our
views, tired, and preparing for our journey homeward: for then we take
into our reflection, what we had left out in prospect, the fatigues,
the checks, the hazards, we had met with; and make a true estimate of
pleasures, which from our raised expectations must necessarily have
fallen miserably short of what we had promised ourselves at setting out.
Nothing but experience can give us a strong and efficacious conviction
of this difference: and when we would inculcate the fruits of that upon
the minds of those we love, who have not lived long enough to find those
fruits; and would hope, that our advice should have as much force upon
them, as experience has upon us; and which, perhaps, our parents' advice
had not upon ourselves, at our daughter' time of life; should we not
proceed by patient reasoning and gentleness, that we may not harden,
where we would convince? For, Madam, the tenderest and most generous
minds, when harshly treated, become generally the most inflexible. If
the young lady knows her heart to be right, however defective her
head may be for want of age and experience, she will be apt to be very
tenacious. And if she believes her friends to be wrong, although perhaps
they may be only so in their methods of treating her, how much will
every unkind circumstance on the parent's part, or heedless one on the
child's, though ever so slight in itself, widen the difference! The
parent's prejudice in disfavour, will confirm the daughter's in favour,
of the same person; and the best reasonings in the world on either side,
will be attributed to that prejudice. In short, neither of them will be
convinced: a perpetual opposition ensues: the parent grows impatient;
the child desperate: and, as a too natural consequence, that falls
out which the mother was most afraid of, and which possibly had not
happened, if the child's passions had been only led, not driven.'
My mother was pleased with the whole letter; and said, It deserved to
have the success it met with. But asked me what excuse could be offered
for a young lady capable of making such reflections (and who at her time
of life could so well assume the character of one of riper years) if she
should rush into any fatal mistake herself?
She then touched upon the moral character of Mr. Lovelace; and how
reasonable the aversion of your reflections is to a man who gives
himself the liberties he is said to take; and who indeed himself denies
not the accusation; having been heard to declare, that he will do all
the mischief he can to the sex, in revenge for the ill usage and
broken vows of his first love, at a time when he was too young [his own
expression it seems] to be insincere.
I replied, that I had heard every one say, that the lady meant really
used him ill; that it affected him so much at the time, that he was
forced to travel upon it; and to drive her out of his heart, ran into
courses which he had ingenuousness enough himself to condemn: that,
however, he had denied that he had thrown out such menaces against the
sex when charged with them by me in your presence; and declared himself
incapable of so unjust and ungenerous a resentment against all, for the
perfidy of one.
You remember this, my dear, as I do your innocent observation upon it,
that you could believe his solemn asseveration and denial: 'For surely,
said you, the man who would resent, as the highest indignity that could
be offered to a gentleman, the imputation of a wilful falsehood, would
not be guilty of one.'
I insisted upon the extraordinary circumstances in your case;
particularizing them. I took notice, that Mr. Lovelace's morals were at
one time no objection with your relations for Arabella: that then much
was built upon his family, and more upon his part and learning, which
made it out of doubt, that he might be reclaimed by a woman of virtue
and prudence: and [pray forgive me for mentioning it] I ventured to
add, that although your family might be good sort of folks, as the world
went, yet no body but you imputed to any of them a very punctilious
concern for religion or piety--therefore were they the less entitled to
object to defect of that kind in others. Then, what an odious man, said
I, have they picked out, to supplant in a lady's affections one of the
finest figures of a man, and one noted for his brilliant parts, and
other accomplishments, whatever his morals may be!
Still my mother insisted, that there was the greater merit in your
obedience on that account; and urged, that there hardly ever was a very
handsome and a very sprightly man who made a tender and affectionate
husband: for that they were generally such Narcissus's, as to imagine
every woman ought to think as highly of them, as they did of themselves.
There was no danger from that consideration here, I said, because the
lady still had greater advantages of person and mind, than the man;
graceful and elegant, as he must be allowed to be, beyond most of his
sex.
She cannot endure to hear me praise any man but her favourite Hickman;
upon whom, nevertheless, she generally brings a degree of contempt which
he would escape, did she not lessen the little merit he has, by giving
him, on all occasions, more than I think he can deserve, and entering
him into comparisons in which it is impossible but he must be a
sufferer. And now [preposterous partiality!] she thought for her part,
that Mr. Hickman, bating that his face indeed was not so smooth, nor his
complexion quite so good, and saving that he was not so presuming and
so bold (which ought to be no fault with a modest woman) equaled Mr.
Lovelace at any hour of the day.
To avoid entering further into such an incomparable comparison, I said,
I did not believe, had they left you to your own way, and treated you
generously, that you would have had the thought of encouraging any man
whom they disliked--
Then, Nancy, catching me up, the excuse is less--for if so, must there
not be more of contradiction, than love, in the case?
Not so, neither, Madam: for I know Miss Clarissa Harlowe would prefer
Mr. Lovelace to all men, if morals--
IF, Nancy!--That if is every thing.--Do you really think she loves Mr.
Lovelace?
What would you have had me say, my dear?--I won't tell you what I did
say: But had I not said what I did, who would have believed me?
Besides, I know you love him!--Excuse me, my dear: Yet, if you deny it,
what do you but reflect upon yourself, as if you thought you ought not
to allow yourself in what you cannot help doing?
Indeed, Madam, said I, the man is worthy of any woman's love [if, again,
I could say]--But her parents--
Her parents, Nancy--[You know, my dear, how my mother, who accuses her
daughter of quickness, is evermore interrupting one!]