BOOK VI.

NO wonder he was received with such acclamations of joy by the celestial

powers, when there was

But one,

Yes, of so many myriads fall'n, but one

Return'd not lost.

IBID.

AND afterwards, in a close contest with the arch fiend,

A noble stroke he lifted high

On the proud crest of Satan.

IBID.

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

Amazement seiz'd

The rebel throne, but greater rage to see

Thus foil'd their mightiest.

ABDIEL had the superiority of Belial as much in the warlike combat, as

in the peaceful counsels.

Nor was it ought but just,

That he who in debate of truth had won,

Shou'd win in arms, in both disputes alike

Victor.

BUT notwithstanding I have spoken with some asperity against sentiment

as opposed to principle, yet I am convinced, 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 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 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 defects 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, 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.

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.

[6] See Voltaire's Prophecy concerning Rousseau.

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 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 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 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 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 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.

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, 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 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 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. 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

reflect 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

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 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 pious writer) to forgive, and save

the charges."

IF it were only for mere human reasons, it would turn to a better

account to be patient; nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like a

spirit of forbearance; the return of rage for rage cannot be so

effectually provoking. True gentleness, like an impenetrable armour,

repels the most pointed shafts of malice: they cannot pierce through

this invulnerable shield, but either fall hurtless to the ground, or

return to wound the hand that shot them.

A MEEK spirit will not look out of itself for happiness, because it

finds a constant banquet at home; yet, by a sort of divine alchymy, it

will convert all external events to its own profit, and be able to

deduce some good, even from the most unpromising: it will extract

comfort and satisfaction from the most barren circumstances: "It will

suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock."

BUT the supreme excellence of this complacent quality is, that it

naturally disposes the mind where it resides, to the practice of every

other that is amiable. Meekness may be called the pioneer of all the

other virtues, which levels every obstruction, and smooths every

difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their progress.

THE peculiar importance and value of this amiable virtue may be farther

seen in its permanency. Honours and dignities are transient, beauty and

riches frail and fugacious, to a proverb. Would not the truly wise,

therefore, wish to have some one possession, which they might call

their own in the severest exigencies? But this wish can only be

accomplished by acquiring and maintaining that calm and absolute

self-possession, which, as the world had no hand in giving, so it

cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power, take away.

THOUGHTS

ON THE

CULTIVATION

OF THE

HEART AND TEMPER

IN THE

EDUCATION OF DAUGHTERS.

I HAVE not the foolish presumption to imagine, that I can offer any

thing new on a subject, which has been so successfully treated by many

learned and able writers. I would only, with all possible deference,

beg leave to hazard a few short remarks on that part of the subject of

education, which I would call the _education of the heart_. I am well

aware, that this part also has not been less skilfully and forcibly

discussed than the rest, though I cannot, at the same time, help

remarking, that it does not appear to have been so much adopted into

common practice.

IT appears then, that notwithstanding the great and real improvements,

which have been made in the affair of female education, and

notwithstanding the more enlarged and generous views of it, which

prevail in the present day, that there is still a very material defect,

which it is not, in general, enough the object of attention to remove.

This defect seems to consist in this, that too little regard is paid to

the dispositions of the _mind_, that the indications of the _temper_ are

not properly cherished, nor the affections of the _heart_ sufficiently

regulated.

IN the first education of girls, as far as the customs which fashion

establishes are right, they should undoubtedly be followed. Let the

exterior be made a considerable object of attention, but let it not be

the principal, let it not be the only one.--Let the graces be

industriously cultivated, but let them not be cultivated at the expence

of the virtues.--Let the arms, the head, the whole person be carefully

polished, but let not the heart be the only portion of the human

anatomy, which shall be totally overlooked.

THE neglect of this cultivation seems to proceed as much from a bad

taste, as from a false principle. The generality of people form their

judgment of education by slight and sudden appearances, which is

certainly a wrong way of determining. Music, dancing, and languages,

gratify those who teach them, by perceptible and almost immediate

effects; and when there happens to be no imbecillity in the pupil, nor

deficiency in the matter, every superficial observer can, in some

measure, judge of the progress.--The effects of most of these

accomplishments address themselves to the senses; and there are more who

can see and hear, than there are who can judge and reflect.

PERSONAL perfection is not only more obvious, it is also more rapid; and

even in very accomplished characters, elegance usually precedes

principle.

BUT the heart, that natural seat of evil propensities, that little

troublesome empire of the passions, is led to what is right by slow

motions and imperceptible degrees. It must be admonished by reproof, and

allured by kindness. Its liveliest advances are frequently impeded by

the obstinacy of prejudice, and its brightest promises often obscured by

the tempests of passion. It is slow in its acquisition of virtue, and

reluctant in its approaches to piety.

THERE is another reason, which proves this mental cultivation to be more

important, as well as more difficult, than any other part of education.

In the usual fashionable accomplishments, the business of acquiring them

is almost always getting forwards, and one difficulty is conquered

before another is suffered to shew itself; for a prudent teacher will

level the road his pupil is to pass, and smooth the inequalities which

might retard her progress.

BUT in morals, (which should be the great object constantly kept in

view) the talk is far more difficult. The unruly and turbulent desires

of the heart are not so obedient; one passion will start up before

another is suppressed. The subduing Hercules cannot cut off the heads

so often as the prolific Hydra can produce them, nor fell the stubborn

Antæus so fast as he can recruit his strength, and rise in vigorous and

repeated opposition.

IF all the accomplishments could be bought at the price of a single

virtue, the purchase would be infinitely dear! And, however startling

it may sound, I think it is, notwithstanding, true, that the labours of

a good and wise mother, who is anxious for her daughter's most important

interests, will _seem_ to be at variance with those of her instructors.

She will doubtless rejoice at her progress in any polite art, but she

will rejoice with trembling:--humility and piety form the solid and

durable basis, on which she wishes to raise the superstructure of the

accomplishments, while the accomplishments themselves are frequently of

that unsteady nature, that if the foundation is not secured, in

proportion as the building is enlarged, it will be overloaded and

destroyed by those very ornaments, which were intended to embellish,

what they have contributed to ruin.

THE more ostensible qualifications should be carefully regulated, or

they will be in danger of putting to flight the modest train of

retreating virtues, which cannot safely subsist before the bold eye of

public observation, or bear the bolder tongue of impudent and audacious

flattery. A tender mother cannot but feel an honest triumph, in

contemplating those excellencies in her daughter which deserve applause,

but she will also shudder at the vanity which that applause may excite,

and at those hitherto unknown ideas which it may awaken.

THE master, it is his interest, and perhaps his duty, will naturally

teach a girl to set her improvements in the most conspicuous point of

light. SE FAIRE VALOIR is the great principle industriously inculcated

into her young heart, and seems to be considered as a kind of

fundamental maxim in education. It is however the certain and effectual

seed, from which a thousand yet unborn vanities will spring. This

dangerous doctrine (which yet is not without its uses) will be

counteracted by the prudent mother, not in so many words, but by a

watchful and scarcely perceptible dexterity. Such an one will be more

careful to have the talents of her daughter _cultivated_ than

_exhibited_.

ONE would be led to imagine, by the common mode of female education,

that life consisted of one universal holiday, and that the only contest

was, who should be best enabled to excel in the sports and games that

were to be celebrated on it. Merely ornamental accomplishments will but

indifferently qualify a woman to perform the _duties_ of life, though it

is highly proper she should possess them, in order to furnish the

_amusements_ of it. But is it right to spend so large a portion of life

without some preparation for the business of living? A lady may speak a

little French and Italian, repeat a few passages in a theatrical tone,

play and sing, have her dressing-room hung with her own drawings, and

her person covered with her own tambour work, and may, notwithstanding,

have been very _badly educated_. Yet I am far from attempting to

depreciate the value of these qualifications: they are most of them not

only highly becoming, but often indispensably necessary, and a polite

education cannot be perfected without them. But as the world seems to be

very well apprised of their importance, there is the less occasion to

insist on their utility. Yet, though well-bred young women should learn

to dance, sing, recite and draw, the end of a good education is not that

they may become dancers, singers, players or painters: its real object

is to make them good daughters, good wives, good mistresses, good

members of society, and good christians. The above qualifications

therefore are intended to _adorn_ their _leisure_, not to _employ_ their

_lives_; for an amiable and wise woman will always have something better

to value herself on, than these advantages, which, however captivating,

are still but subordinate parts of a truly excellent character.

BUT I am afraid parents themselves sometimes contribute to the error of

which I am complaining. Do they not often set a higher value on those

acquisitions which are calculated to attract observation, and catch the

eye of the multitude, than on those which are valuable, permanent, and

internal? Are they not sometimes more solicitous about the opinion of

others, respecting their children, than about the real advantage and

happiness of the children themselves? To an injudicious and superficial

eye, the best educated girl may make the least brilliant figure, as she

will probably have less flippancy in her manner, and less repartee in

her expression; and her acquirements, to borrow bishop Sprat's idea,

will be rather _enamelled than embossed_. But her merit will be known,

and acknowledged by all who come near enough to discern, and have taste

enough to distinguish. It will be understood and admired by the man,

whose happiness she is one day to make, whose family she is to govern,

and whose children she is to educate. He will not seek for her in the

haunts of dissipation, for he knows he shall not find her there; but

he will seek for her in the bosom of retirement, in the practice of

every domestic virtue, in the exertion of every amiable accomplishment,

exerted in the shade, to enliven retirement, to heighten the endearing

pleasures of social intercourse, and to embellish the narrow but

charming circle of family delights. To this amiable purpose, a truly

good and well educated young lady will dedicate her more elegant

accomplishments, instead of exhibiting them to attract admiration, or

depress inferiority.

YOUNG girls, who have more vivacity than understanding, will often make

a sprightly figure in conversation. But this agreeable talent for

entertaining others, is frequently dangerous to themselves, nor is it by

any means to be desired or encouraged very early in life. This

immaturity of wit is helped on by frivolous reading, which will produce

its effect in much less time than books of solid instruction; for the

imagination is touched sooner than the understanding; and effects are

more rapid as they are more pernicious. Conversation should be the

_result_ of education, not the _precursor_ of it. It is a golden fruit,

when suffered to grow gradually on the tree of knowledge; but if

precipitated by forced and unnatural means, it will in the end become

vapid, in proportion as it is artificial.

THE best effects of a careful and religious education are often very

remote: they are to be discovered in future scenes, and exhibited in

untried connexions. Every event of life will be putting the heart into

fresh situations, and making demands on its prudence, its firmness, its

integrity, or its piety. Those whose business it is to form it, can

foresee none of these situations; yet, as far as human wisdom will

allow, they must enable it to provide for them all, with an humble

dependence on the divine assistance. A well-disciplined soldier must

learn and practise all his evolutions, though he does not know on what

service his leader may command him, by what foe he shall be attacked,

nor what mode of combat the enemy may use.

ONE great art of education consists in not suffering the feelings to

become too acute by unnecessary awakening, nor too obtuse by the want

of exertion. The former renders them the source of calamity, and totally

ruins the temper; while the latter blunts and debases them, and produces

a dull, cold, and selfish spirit. For the mind is an instrument, which,

if wound too high, will lose its sweetness, and if not enough strained,

will abate of its vigour.

HOW cruel is it to extinguish by neglect or unkindness, the precious

sensibility of an open temper, to chill the amiable glow of an ingenuous

soul, and to quench the bright flame of a noble and generous spirit!

These are of higher worth than all the documents of learning, of dearer

price than all the advantages, which can be derived from the most

refined and artificial mode of education.

BUT sensibility and delicacy, and an ingenuous temper, make no part of

education, exclaims the pedagogue--they are reducible to no class--they

come under no article of instruction--they belong neither to languages

nor to music.--What an error! They _are_ a part of education, and of

infinitely more value,

Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew.

It is true, they are ranged under no class, but they are superior to

all; they are of more esteem than languages or music, for they are the

language of the heart, and the music of the according passions. Yet

this sensibility is, in many instances, so far from being cultivated,

that it is not uncommon to see those who affect more than usual

sagacity, cast a smile of supercilious pity, at any indication of a

warm, generous, or enthusiastic temper in the lively and the young; as

much as to say, "they will know better, and will have more discretion

when they are older." But every appearance of amiable simplicity, or of

honest shame, _Nature's hasty conscience_, will be dear to sensible

hearts; they will carefully cherish every such indication in a young

female; for they will perceive that it is this temper, wisely

cultivated, which will one day make her enamoured of the loveliness of

virtue, and the beauty of holiness: from which she will acquire a taste

for the doctrines of religion, and a spirit to perform the duties of it.

And those who wish to make her ashamed of this charming temper, and

seek to dispossess her of it, will, it is to be feared, give her

nothing better in exchange. But whoever reflects at all, will easily

discern how carefully this enthusiasm is to be directed, and how

judiciously its redundances are to be lopped away.

PRUDENCE is not natural to children; they can, however, substitute art

in its stead. But is it not much better that a girl should discover the

faults incident to her age, than conceal them under this dark and

impenetrable veil? I could almost venture to assert, that there is

something more becoming in the very errors of nature, where they are

undisguised, than in the affectation of virtue itself, where the reality

is wanting. And I am so far from being an admirer of prodigies, that I

am extremely apt to suspect them; and am always infinitely better

pleased with Nature in her more common modes of operation. The precise

and premature wisdom, which some girls have cunning enough to assume,

is of a more dangerous tendency than any of their natural failings can

be, as it effectually covers those secret bad dispositions, which, if

they displayed themselves, might be rectified. The hypocrisy of

assuming virtues which are not inherent in the heart, prevents the

growth and disclosure of those real ones, which it is the great end of

education to cultivate.

BUT if the natural indications of the temper are to be suppressed and

stifled, where are the diagnostics, by which the state of the mind is to

be known? The wise Author of all things, who did nothing in vain,

doubtless intended them as symptoms, by which to judge of the diseases

of the heart; and it is impossible diseases should be cured before

they are known. If the stream be so cut off as to prevent communication,

or so choked up as to defeat discovery, how shall we ever reach the

source, out of which are the issues of life?

THIS cunning, which, of all the different dispositions girls discover,

is most to be dreaded, is increased by nothing so much as by fear. If

those about them express violent and unreasonable anger at every trivial

offence, it will always promote this temper, and will very frequently

create it, where there was a natural tendency to frankness. The

indiscreet transports of rage, which many betray on every slight

occasion, and the little distinction they make between venial errors and

premeditated crimes, naturally dispose a child to conceal, what she does

not however care to suppress. Anger in one will not remedy the faults of

another; for how can an instrument of sin cure sin? If a girl is kept in

a state of perpetual and slavish terror, she will perhaps have artifice

enough to conceal those propensities which she knows are wrong, or those

actions which she thinks are most obnoxious to punishment. But,

nevertheless, she will not cease to indulge those propensities, and to

commit those actions, when she can do it with impunity.

GOOD _dispositions_, of themselves, will go but a very little way,

unless they are confirmed into good _principles_. And this cannot be

effected but by a careful course of religious instruction, and a

patient and laborious cultivation of the moral temper.

BUT, notwithstanding girls should not be treated with unkindness, nor

the first openings of the passions blighted by cold severity; yet I am

of opinion, that young females should be accustomed very early in life

to a certain degree of restraint. The natural cast of character, and the

moral distinctions between the sexes, should not be disregarded, even in

childhood. That bold, independent, enterprising spirit, which is so much

admired in boys, should not, when it happens to discover itself in the

other sex, be encouraged, but suppressed. Girls should be taught to

give up their opinions betimes, and not pertinaciously to carry on a

dispute, even if they should know themselves to be in the right. I do

not mean, that they should be robbed of the liberty of private judgment,

but that they should by no means be encouraged to contract a contentious

or contradictory turn. It is of the greatest importance to their future

happiness, that they should acquire a submissive temper, and a

forbearing spirit: for it is a lesson which the world will not fail to

make them frequently practise, when they come abroad into it, and they

will not practise it the worse for having learnt it the sooner. These

early restraints, in the limitation here meant, are so far from being an

effect of cruelty, that they are the most indubitable marks of

affection, and are the more meritorious, as they are severe trials of

tenderness. But all the beneficial effects, which a mother can expect

from this watchfulness, will be entirely defeated, if it is practised

occasionally, and not habitually, and if it ever appears to be used to

gratify caprice, ill-humour, or resentment.

THOSE who have children to educate ought to be extremely patient: it is

indeed a labour of love. They should reflect, that extraordinary talents

are neither essential to the well-being of society, nor to the

happiness of individuals. If that had been the case, the beneficent

Father of the universe would not have made them so rare. For it is as

easy for an Almighty Creator to produce a Newton, as an ordinary man;

and he could have made those powers common which we now consider as

wonderful, without any miraculous exertion of his omnipotence, if the

existence of many Newtons had been necessary to the perfection of his

wise and gracious plan.

SURELY, therefore, there is more piety, as well as more sense, in

labouring to improve the talents which children actually have, than in

lamenting that they do not possess supernatural endowments or angelic

perfections. A passage of Lord Bacon's furnishes an admirable

incitement for endeavouring to carry the amiable and christian grace of

charity to its farthest extent, instead of indulging an over-anxious

care for more brilliant but less important acquisitions. "The desire of

power in excess (says he) caused the angels to fall; the desire of

knowledge in excess caused man to fall; but in charity is no excess,

neither can men nor angels come into danger by it."

A GIRL who has docility will seldom be found to want understanding

enough for all the purposes of a social, a happy, and an useful life.

And when we behold the tender hope of fond and anxious love, blasted by

disappointment, the defect will as often be discovered to proceed from

the neglect or the error of cultivation, as from the natural temper; and

those who lament the evil, will sometimes be found to have occasioned

it.

IT is as injudicious for parents to set out with too sanguine a

dependence on the merit of their children, as it is for them to be

discouraged at every repulse. When their wishes are defeated in this or

that particular instance, where they had treasured up some darling

expectation, this is so far from being a reason for relaxing their

attention, that it ought to be an additional motive for redoubling it.

Those who hope to do a great deal, must not expect to do every thing. If

they know any thing of the malignity of sin, the blindness of prejudice,

or the corruption of the human heart, they will also know, that that

heart will always remain, after the very best possible education, full

of infirmity and imperfection. Extraordinary allowances, therefore, must

be made for the weakness of nature in this its weakest state. After much

is done, much will remain to do, and much, very much, will still be left

undone. For this regulation of the passions and affections cannot be

the work of education alone, without the concurrence of divine grace

operating on the heart. Why then should parents repine, if their efforts

are not always crowned with immediate success? They should consider,

that they are not educating cherubims and seraphims, but men and women;

creatures, who at their best estate are altogether vanity: how little

then can be expected from them in the weakness and imbecillity of

infancy! I have dwelt on this part of the subject the longer, because I

am certain that many, who have set out with a warm and active zeal, have

cooled on the very first discouragement, and have afterwards almost

totally remitted their vigilance, through a criminal kind of despair.

GREAT allowances must be made for a profusion of gaiety, loquacity, and

even indiscretion in children, that there may be animation enough left

to supply an active and useful character, when the first fermentation of

the youthful passions is over, and the redundant spirits shall come

to subside.

IF it be true, as a consummate judge of human nature has observed,

That not a vanity is given in vain,

it is also true, that there is scarcely a single passion, which may

not be turned to some good account, if prudently rectified, and

skilfully turned into the road of some neighbouring virtue. It cannot be

violently bent, or unnaturally forced towards an object of a totally

opposite nature, but may be gradually inclined towards a correspondent

but superior affection. Anger, hatred, resentment, and ambition, the

most restless and turbulent passions which shake and distract the

human soul, may be led to become the most active opposers of sin, after

having been its most successful instruments. Our anger, for instance,

which can never be totally subdued, may be made to turn against

ourselves, for our weak and imperfect obedience--our hatred, against

every species of vice--our ambition, which will not be discarded, may be

ennobled: it will not change its name, but its object: it will despise

what it lately valued, nor be contented to grasp at less than

immortality.

THUS the joys, fears, hopes, desires, all the passions and affections,

which separate in various currents from the soul, will, if directed into

their proper channels, after having fertilised wherever they have

flowed, return again to swell and enrich the parent source.

THAT the very passions which appear the most uncontroulable and

unpromising, may be intended, in the great scheme of Providence, to

answer some important purpose, is remarkably evidenced in the character

and history of Saint Paul. A remark on this subject by an ingenious old

Spanish writer, which I will here take the liberty to translate, will

better illustrate my meaning.

"TO convert the bitterest enemy into the most zealous advocate, is the

work of God for the instruction of man. Plutarch has observed, that the

medical science would be brought to the utmost perfection, when poison

should be converted into physic. Thus, in the mortal disease of Judaism

and idolatry, our blessed Lord converted the adder's venom of Saul

the persecutor, into that cement which made Paul the chosen vessel.

That manly activity, that restless ardor, that burning zeal for the law

of his fathers, that ardent thirst for the blood of Christians, did the

Son of God find necessary in the man who was one day to become the

defender of his suffering people.[7]"

TO win the passions, therefore, over to the cause of virtue, answers a

much nobler end than their extinction would possibly do, even if that

could be effected. But it is their nature never to observe a neutrality;

they are either rebels or auxiliaries, and an enemy subdued is an ally

obtained. If I may be allowed to change the allusion so soon, I would

say, that the passions also resemble fires, which are friendly and

beneficial when under proper direction, but if suffered to blaze without

restraint, they carry devastation along with them, and, if totally

extinguished, leave the benighted mind in a state of cold and

comfortless inanity.

BUT in speaking of the usefulness of the passions, as instruments of

virtue, _envy_ and _lying_ must always be excepted: these, I am

persuaded, must either go on in still progressive mischief, or else be

radically cured, before any good can be expected from the heart which

has been infected with them. For I never will believe that envy, though

passed through all the moral strainers, can be refined into a

virtuous emulation, or lying improved into an agreeable turn for

innocent invention. Almost all the other passions may be made to take

an amiable hue; but these two must either be totally extirpated, or be

always contented to preserve their original deformity, and to wear their

native black.

[7] Obras de Quevedo, vida de San Pablo Apostol.

ON THE

IMPORTANCE OF RELIGION

TO THE

FEMALE CHARACTER.

VARIOUS are the reasons why the greater part of mankind cannot apply

themselves to arts or letters. Particular studies are only suited to the

capacities of particular persons. Some are incapable of applying to

them from the delicacy of their sex, some from the unsteadiness of

youth, and others from the imbecillity of age. Many are precluded by the

narrowness of their education, and many by the straitness of their

fortune. The wisdom of God is wonderfully manifested in this happy and

well-ordered diversity, in the powers and properties of his creatures;

since by thus admirably suiting the agent to the action, the whole

scheme of human affairs is carried on with the most agreeing and

consistent oeconomy, and no chasm is left for want of an object to

fill it, exactly suited to its nature.

BUT in the great and universal concern of religion, both sexes, and all

ranks, are equally interested. The truly catholic spirit of christianity

accommodates itself, with an astonishing condescension, to the

circumstances of the whole human race. It rejects none on account of

their pecuniary wants, their personal infirmities, or their intellectual

deficiencies. No superiority of parts is the least recommendation, nor

is any depression of fortune the smallest objection. None are too wise

to be excused from performing the duties of religion, nor are any too

poor to be excluded from the consolations of its promises.

IF we admire the wisdom of God, in having furnished different degrees of

intelligence, so exactly adapted to their different destinations, and in

having fitted every part of his stupendous work, not only to serve its

own immediate purpose, but also to contribute to the beauty and

perfection of the whole: how much more ought we to adore that goodness,

which has perfected the divine plan, by appointing one wide,

comprehensive, and universal means of salvation: a salvation, which all

are invited to partake; by a means which all are capable of using; which

nothing but voluntary blindness can prevent our comprehending, and

nothing but wilful error can hinder us from embracing.

THE Muses are coy, and will only be wooed and won by some

highly-favoured suitors. The Sciences are lofty, and will not stoop to

the reach of ordinary capacities. But "Wisdom (by which the royal

preacher means piety) is a loving spirit: she is easily seen of them

that love her, and found of all such as seek her." Nay, she is so

accessible and condescending, "that she preventeth them that desire

her, making herself first known unto them."

WE are told by the same animated writer, "that Wisdom is the breath of

the power of God." How infinitely superior, in grandeur and sublimity,

is this description to the origin of the _wisdom_ of the heathens, as

described by their poets and mythologists! In the exalted strains of the

Hebrew poetry we read, that "Wisdom is the brightness of the everlasting

light, the unspotted mirror of the power of God, and the image of his

goodness."

THE philosophical author of _The Defence of Learning_ observes, that

knowledge has something of venom and malignity in it, when taken without

its proper corrective, and what that is, the inspired Saint Paul

teaches us, by placing it as the immediate antidote: _Knowledge puffeth

up, but charity edifieth._ Perhaps, it is the vanity of human wisdom,

unchastised by this correcting principle, which has made so many

infidels. It may proceed from the arrogance of a self-sufficient pride,

that some philosophers disdain to acknowledge their belief in a being,

who has judged proper to conceal from them the infinite wisdom of his

counsels; who, (to borrow the lofty language of the man of Uz) refused

to consult them when he laid the foundations of the earth, when he shut

up the sea with doors, and made the clouds the garment thereof.

A MAN must be an infidel either from pride, prejudice, or bad education:

he cannot be one unawares or by surprise; for infidelity is not

occasioned by sudden impulse or violent temptation. He may be hurried by

some vehement desire into an immoral action, at which he will blush in

his cooler moments, and which he will lament as the sad effect of a

spirit unsubdued by religion; but infidelity is a calm, considerate act,

which cannot plead the weakness of the heart, or the seduction of the

senses. Even good men frequently fail in their duty through the

infirmities of nature, and the allurements of the world; but the infidel

errs on a plan, on a settled and deliberate principle.

BUT though the minds of men are sometimes fatally infected with this

disease, either through unhappy prepossession, or some of the other

causes above mentioned; yet I am unwilling to believe, that there is in

nature so monstrously incongruous a being, as a _female infidel_. The

least reflexion on the temper, the character, and the education of

women, makes the mind revolt with horror from an idea so improbable, and

so unnatural.

MAY I be allowed to observe, that, in general, the minds of girls seem

more aptly prepared in their early youth for the reception of serious

impressions than those of the other sex, and that their less exposed

situations in more advanced life qualify them better for the

preservation of them? The daughters (of good parents I mean) are often

more carefully instructed in their religious duties, than the sons, and

this from a variety of causes. They are not so soon sent from under the

paternal eye into the bustle of the world, and so early exposed to the

contagion of bad example: their hearts are naturally more flexible,

soft, and liable to any kind of impression the forming hand may stamp

on them; and, lastly, as they do not receive the same classical

education with boys, their feeble minds are not obliged at once to

receive and separate the precepts of christianity, and the documents of

pagan philosophy. The necessity of doing this perhaps somewhat weakens

the serious impressions of young men, at least till the understanding

is formed, and confuses their ideas of piety, by mixing them with so

much heterogeneous matter. They only casually read, or hear read, the

scriptures of truth, while they are obliged to learn by heart, construe

and repeat the poetical fables of the less than human gods of the

ancients. And as the excellent author of _The Internal Evidence of the

Christian Religion_ observes, "Nothing has so much contributed to

corrupt the true spirit of the christian institution, as that partiality

which we contract, in our earliest education, for the manners of pagan

antiquity."

GIRLS, therefore, who do _not_ contract this early partiality, ought to

have a clearer notion of their religious duties: they are not obliged,

at an age when the judgment is so weak, to distinguish between the

doctrines of Zeno, of Epicurus, and of Christ; and to embarrass their

minds with the various morals which were taught in the _Porch_, in the

_Academy_, and on the _Mount_.

IT is presumed, that these remarks cannot possibly be so

misunderstood, as to be construed into the least disrespect to

literature, or a want of the highest reverence for a learned education,

the basis of all elegant knowledge: they are only intended, with all

proper deference, to point out to young women, that however inferior

their advantages of acquiring a knowledge of the belles-lettres are to

those of the other sex; yet it depends on themselves not to be

surpassed in this most important of all studies, for which their

abilities are equal, and their opportunities, perhaps, greater.

BUT the mere exemption from infidelity is so small a part of the

religious character, that I hope no one will attempt to claim any merit

from this negative sort of goodness, or value herself merely for not

being the very worst thing she possibly can be. Let no mistaken girl

fancy she gives a proof of her wit by her want of piety, or that a

contempt of things serious and sacred will exalt her understanding, or

raise her character even in the opinion of the most avowed male

infidels. For one may venture to affirm, that with all their profligate

ideas, both of women and of religion, neither Bolingbroke, Wharton,

Buckingham, nor even _Lord Chesterfield himself_, would have esteemed a

woman the more for her being irreligious.

WITH whatever ridicule a polite freethinker may affect to treat religion

himself, he will think it necessary his wife should entertain

different notions of it. He may pretend to despise it as a matter of

opinion, depending on creeds and systems; but, if he is a man of sense,

he will know the value of it, as a governing principle, which is to

influence her conduct and direct her actions. If he sees her

unaffectedly sincere in the practice of her religious duties, it will be

a secret pledge to him, that she will be equally exact in fulfilling the

conjugal; for he can have no reasonable dependance on her attachment to

_him_, if he has no opinion of her fidelity to GOD; for she who neglects

first duties, gives but an indifferent proof of her disposition to fill

up inferior ones; and how can a man of any understanding (whatever his

own religious professions may be) trust that woman with the care of

his family, and the education of his children, who wants herself the

best incentive to a virtuous life, the belief that she is an accountable

creature, and the reflection that she has an immortal soul?

CICERO spoke it as the highest commendation of Cato's character, that he

embraced philosophy, not for the sake of _disputing_ like a philosopher,

but of _living_ like one. The chief purpose of christian knowledge is to

promote the great end of a christian life. Every rational woman should,

no doubt, be able to give a reason of the hope that is in her; but this

knowledge is best acquired, and the duties consequent on it best

performed, by reading books of plain piety and practical devotion, and

not by entering into the endless feuds, and engaging in the unprofitable

contentions of partial controversialists. Nothing is more unamiable than

the narrow spirit of party zeal, nor more disgusting than to hear a

woman deal out judgments, and denounce vengeance against any one, who

happens to differ from her in some opinion, perhaps of no real

importance, and which, it is probable, she may be just as wrong in

rejecting, as the object of her censure is in embracing. A furious and

unmerciful female bigot wanders as far beyond the limits prescribed to

her sex, as a Thalestris or a Joan d'Arc. Violent debate has made as few

converts as the sword, and both these instruments are particularly

unbecoming when wielded by a female hand.

BUT, though no one will be frightened out of their opinions, yet they

may be persuaded out of them: they may be touched by the affecting

earnestness of serious conversation, and allured by the attractive

beauty of a consistently serious life. And while a young woman ought to

dread the name of a wrangling polemic, it is her duty to aspire after

the honourable character of a sincere Christian. But this dignified

character she can by no means deserve, if she is ever afraid to avow her

principles, or ashamed to defend them. A profligate, who makes it a

point to ridicule every thing which comes under the appearance of formal

instruction, will be disconcerted at the spirited yet modest rebuke of a

pious young woman. But there is as much efficacy in the manner of

reproving prophaneness, as in the words. If she corrects it with

moroseness, she defeats the effect of her remedy, by her unskilful

manner of administring it. If, on the other hand, she affects to defend

the insulted cause of God, in a faint tone of voice, and studied

ambiguity of phrase, or with an air of levity, and a certain

expression of pleasure in her eyes, which proves she is secretly

delighted with what she pretends to censure, she injures religion much

more than he did who publickly prophaned it; for she plainly indicates,

either that she does not believe, or respect what she professes. The

other attacked it as an open foe; she betrays it as a false friend. No

one pays any regard to the opinion of an avowed enemy; but the desertion

or treachery of a professed friend, is dangerous indeed!

IT is a strange notion which prevails in the world, that religion only

belongs to the old and the melancholy, and that it is not worth while to

pay the least attention to it, while we are capable of attending to any

thing else. They allow it to be proper enough for the clergy, whose

business it is, and for the aged, who have not spirits for any business

at all. But till they can prove, that none except the clergy and the

aged _die_, it must be confessed, that this is most wretched

reasoning.

GREAT injury is done to the interests of religion, by placing it in a

gloomy and unamiable light. It is sometimes spoken of, as if it would

actually make a handsome woman ugly, or a young one wrinkled. But can

any thing be more absurd than to represent the beauty of holiness as the

source of deformity?

THERE are few, perhaps, so entirely plunged in business, or absorbed in

pleasure, as not to intend, at some future time, to set about a

religious life in good earnest. But then they consider it as a kind of

_dernier ressort_, and think it prudent to defer flying to this

disagreeable refuge, till they have no relish left for any thing else.

Do they forget, that to perform this great business well requires all

the strength of their youth, and all the vigour of their unimpaired

capacities? To confirm this assertion, they may observe how much the

slightest indisposition, even in the most active season of life,

disorders every faculty, and disqualifies them for attending to the most

ordinary affairs: and then let them reflect how little able they will be

to transact the most important of all business, in the moment of

excruciating pain, or in the day of universal debility.

WHEN the senses are palled with excessive gratification; when the eye

is tired with seeing, and the ear with hearing; when the spirits are so

sunk, that the _grasshopper is become a burthen_, how shall the blunted

apprehension be capable of understanding a new science, or the worn-out

heart be able to relish a new pleasure?

TO put off religion till we have lost all taste for amusement; to refuse

listening to the "voice of the charmer," till our enfeebled organs can

no longer listen to the voice of "singing men and singing women," and

not to devote our days to heaven till we have "no pleasure in them"

ourselves, is but an ungracious offering. And it is a wretched sacrifice

to the God of heaven, to present him with the remnants of decayed

appetites, and the leavings of extinguished passions.

MISCELLANEOUS

OBSERVATIONS

ON

GENIUS, TASTE, GOOD

SENSE, &c.[8]

GOOD _sense_ is as different from _genius_ as perception is from

invention; yet, though distinct qualities, they frequently subsist

together. It is altogether opposite to _wit_, but by no means

inconsistent with it. It is not science, for there is such a thing as

unlettered good sense; yet, though it is neither wit, learning, nor

genius, it is a substitute for each, where they do not exist, and the

perfection of all where they do.

Good sense is so far from deserving the appellation of _common sense_,

by which it is frequently called, that it is perhaps one of the rarest

qualities of the human mind. If, indeed, this name is given it in

respect to its peculiar suitableness to the purposes of common life,

there is great propriety in it. Good sense appears to differ from taste

in this, that taste is an instantaneous decision of the mind, a sudden

relish of what is beautiful, or disgust at what is defective, in an

object, without waiting for the slower confirmation of the judgment.

Good sense is perhaps that confirmation, which establishes a suddenly

conceived idea, or feeling, by the powers of comparing and reflecting.

They differ also in this, that taste seems to have a more immediate

reference to arts, to literature, and to almost every object of the

senses; while good sense rises to moral excellence, and exerts its

influence on life and manners. Taste is fitted to the perception and

enjoyment of whatever is beautiful in art or nature: Good sense, to the

improvement of the conduct, and the regulation of the heart.

YET the term good sense, is used indiscriminately to express either a

finished taste for letters, or an invariable prudence in the affairs of

life. It is sometimes applied to the most moderate abilities, in which

case, the expression is certainly too strong; and at others to the

most shining, when it is as much too weak and inadequate. A sensible man

is the usual, but unappropriated phrase, for every degree in the scale

of understanding, from the sober mortal, who obtains it by his decent

demeanor and solid dullness, to him whose talents qualify him to rank

with a Bacon, a Harris, or a Johnson.

GENIUS is the power of invention and imitation. It is an incommunicable

faculty: no art or skill of the possessor can bestow the smallest

portion of it on another: no pains or labour can reach the summit of

perfection, where the seeds of it are wanting in the mind; yet it is

capable of infinite improvement where it actually exists, and is

attended with the highest capacity of communicating instruction, as well

as delight to others.

IT is the peculiar property of genius to strike out great or beautiful

things: it is the felicity of good sense not to do absurd ones. Genius

breaks out in splendid sentiments and elevated ideas; good sense

confines its more circumscribed, but perhaps more useful walk, within

the limits of prudence and propriety.

The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen

Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

THIS is perhaps the finest picture of human genius that ever was drawn

by a human pencil. It presents a living image of a creative imagination,

or a power of inventing things which have no actual existence.

WITH superficial judges, who, it must be confessed, make up the

greater part of the mass of mankind, talents are only liked or

understood to a certain degree. Lofty ideas are above the reach of

ordinary apprehensions: the vulgar allow those who possess them to be

in a somewhat higher state of mind than themselves; but of the vast gulf

which separates them, they have not the least conception. They

acknowledge a superiority, but of its extent they neither know the

value, nor can conceive the reality. It is true, the mind, as well as

the eye, can take in objects larger than itself; but this is only true

of great minds: for a man of low capacity, who considers a consummate

genius, resembles one, who seeing a column for the first time, and

standing at too great a distance to take in the whole of it, concludes

it to be flat. Or, like one unacquainted with the first principles of

philosophy, who, finding the sensible horizon appear a plain surface,

can form no idea of the spherical form of the whole, which he does not

see, and laughs at the account of antipodes, which he cannot comprehend.

WHATEVER is excellent is also rare; what is useful is more common. How

many thousands are born qualified for the coarse employments of life,

for one who is capable of excelling in the fine arts! yet so it ought

to be, because our natural wants are more numerous, and more

importunate, than the intellectual.

WHENEVER it happens that a man of distinguished talents has been drawn

by mistake, or precipitated by passion, into any dangerous

indiscretion; it is common for those whose coldness of temper has

supplied the place, and usurped the name of prudence, to boast of their

own steadier virtue, and triumph in their own superior caution; only

because they have never been assailed by a temptation strong enough to

surprise them into error. And with what a visible appropriation of the

character to themselves, do they constantly conclude, with a cordial

compliment to _common sense_! They point out the beauty and usefulness

of this quality so forcibly and explicitly, that you cannot possibly

mistake whose picture they are drawing with so flattering a pencil. The

unhappy man whose conduct has been so feelingly arraigned, perhaps acted

from good, though mistaken motives; at least, from motives of which his

censurer has not capacity to judge: but the event was unfavourable, nay

the action might be really wrong, and the vulgar maliciously take the

opportunity of this single indiscretion, to lift themselves nearer on a

level with a character, which, except in this instance, has always

thrown them at the most disgraceful and mortifying distance.

THE elegant Biographer of Collins, in his affecting apology for that

unfortunate genius, remarks, "That the gifts of imagination bring the

heaviest task on the vigilance of reason; and to bear those faculties

with unerring rectitude, or invariable propriety, requires a degree of

firmness, and of cool attention, which does not always attend the higher

gifts of the mind; yet difficult as Nature herself seems to have

rendered the task of regularity to genius, it is the supreme consolation

of dullness, and of folly to point with gothic triumph to those

excesses which are the overflowing of faculties they never enjoyed."

WHAT the greater part of the world mean by common sense, will be

generally found, on a closer enquiry, to be art, fraud, or selfishness!

That sort of saving prudence which makes men extremely attentive to

their own safety, or profit; diligent in the pursuit of their own

pleasures or interests; and perfectly at their ease as to what becomes

of the rest of mankind. Furies, where their own property is concerned,

philosophers when nothing but the good of others is at stake, and

perfectly resigned under all calamities but their own.

WHEN we see so many accomplished wits of the present age, as remarkable

for the decorum of their lives, as for the brilliancy of their writings,

we may believe, that, next to principle, it is owing to their _good

sense_, which regulates and chastises their imaginations. The vast

conceptions which enable a true genius to ascend the sublimest heights,

may be so connected with the stronger passions, as to give it a

natural tendency to fly off from the strait line of regularity; till

good sense, acting on the fancy, makes it gravitate powerfully towards

that virtue which is its proper centre.

ADD to this, when it is considered with what imperfection the Divine

Wisdom has thought fit to stamp every thing human, it will be found,

that excellence and infirmity are so inseparably wound up in each other,

that a man derives the soreness of temper, and irritability of nerve,

which make him uneasy to others, and unhappy in himself, from those

exquisite feelings, and that elevated pitch of thought, by which, as the

apostle expresses it on a more serious occasion, he is, as it were,

out of the body.

It is not astonishing, therefore, when THE spirit is carried away by the

magnificence of its own ideas,

Not touch'd but rapt, not waken'd but inspir'd,

that the frail body, which is the natural victim of pain, disease, and

death, should not always be able to follow the mind in its aspiring

flights, but should be as imperfect as if it belonged only to an

ordinary soul.

BESIDES, might not Providence intend to humble human pride, by

presenting to our eyes so mortifying a view of the weakness and

infirmity of even his best work? Perhaps man, who is already but a

little lower than the angels, might, like the revolted spirits, totally

have shaken off obedience and submission to his Creator, had not God

wisely tempered human excellence with a certain consciousness of its own

imperfection. But though this inevitable alloy of weakness may

frequently be found in the best characters, yet how can that be the

source of triumph and exaltation to any, which, if properly weighed,

must be the deepest motive of humiliation to all? A good-natured man

will be so far from rejoicing, that he will be secretly troubled,

whenever he reads that the greatest Roman moralist was tainted with

avarice, and the greatest British philosopher with venality.

IT is remarked by Pope, in his Essay on Criticism, that,

Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.

But I apprehend it does not therefore follow that to judge, is more

difficult than to write. If this were the case, the critic would be

superior to the poet, whereas it appears to be directly the contrary.

"The critic, (says the great champion of Shakespeare,) but fashions the

body of a work, the poet must add the soul, which gives force and

direction to its actions and gestures." It should seem that the reason

why so many more judge wrong, than write ill, is because the number of

readers is beyond all proportion greater than the number of writers.

Every man who reads, is in some measure a critic, and, with very common

abilities, may point out real faults and material errors in a very well

written book; but it by no means follows that he is able to write any

thing comparable to the work which he is capable of censuring. And

unless the numbers of those who write, and of those who judge, were more

equal, the calculation seems not to be quite fair.

A CAPACITY for relishing works of genius is the indubitable sign of a

good taste. But if a proper disposition and ability to enjoy the

compositions of others, entitle a man to the claim of reputation, it is

still a far inferior degree of merit to his who can invent and produce

those compositions, the bare disquisition of which gives the critic no

small share of fame.

THE president of the royal academy in his admirable _Discourse_ on

_imitation_, has set the folly of depending on unassisted genius, in

the clearest light; and has shewn the necessity of adding the

knowledge of others, to our own native powers, in his usual striking and

masterly manner. "The mind, says he, is a barren soil, is a soil soon

exhausted, and will produce no crop, or only one, unless it be

continually fertilized, and enriched with foreign matter."

YET it has been objected that study is a great enemy to originality; but

even if this were true, it would perhaps be as well that an author

should give us the ideas of still better writers, mixed and

assimilated with the matter in his own mind, as those crude and

undigested thoughts which he values under the notion that they are

original. The sweetest honey neither tastes of the rose, the

honeysuckle, nor the carnation, yet it is compounded of the very

essence of them all.

IF in the other fine arts this accumulation of knowledge is necessary,

it is indispensably so in poetry. It is a fatal rashness for any one to

trust too much to their own stock of ideas. He must invigorate them by

exercise, polish them by conversation, and increase them by every

species of elegant and virtuous knowledge, and the mind will not fail to

reproduce with interest those seeds, which are sown in it by study and

observation. Above all, let every one guard against the dangerous

opinion that he knows enough: an opinion that will weaken the energy and

reduce the powers of the mind, which, though once perhaps vigorous and

effectual, will be sunk to a state of literary imbecility, by cherishing

vain and presumptuous ideas of its own independence.

FOR instance, it may not be necessary that a poet should be deeply

skilled in the Linnæan system; but it must be allowed that a general

acquaintance with plants and flowers will furnish him with a delightful

and profitable species of instruction. He is not obliged to trace Nature

in all her nice and varied operations, with the minute accuracy of a

Boyle, or the laborious investigation of a Newton; but his _good sense_

will point out to him that no inconsiderable portion of philosophical

knowledge is requisite to the completion of his literary character. The

sciences are more independent, and require little or no assistance

from the graces of poetry; but poetry, if she would charm and instruct,

must not be so haughty; she must be contented to borrow of the sciences,

many of her choicest allusions, and many of her most graceful

embellishments; and does it not magnify the character of true poesy,

that she includes within herself all the scattered graces of every

separate art?

THE rules of the great masters in criticism may not be so necessary to

the forming a good taste, as the examination of those original mines

from whence they drew their treasures of knowledge.

THE three celebrated Essays on the Art of Poetry do not teach so much

by their laws as by their examples; the dead letter of their rules is

less instructive than the living spirit of their verse. Yet these rules

are to a young poet, what the study of logarithms is to a young

mathematician; they do not so much contribute to form his judgment, as

afford him the satisfaction of convincing him that he is right. They do

not preclude the difficulty of the operation; but at the conclusion of

it, furnish him with a fuller demonstration that he has proceeded on

proper principles. When he has well studied the masters in whose

schools the first critics formed themselves, and fancies he has caught a

spark of their divine Flame, it may be a good method to try his own

compositions by the test of the critic rules, so far indeed as the

mechanism of poetry goes. If the examination be fair and candid, this

trial, like the touch of Ithuriel's spear, will detect every latent

error, and bring to light every favourite failing.

GOOD taste always suits the measure of its admiration to the merit of

the composition it examines. It accommodates its praises, or its

censure, to the excellence of a work, and appropriates it to the nature

of it. General applause, or indiscriminate abuse, is the sign of a

vulgar understanding. There are certain blemishes which the judicious

and good-natured reader will candidly overlook. But the false sublime,

the tumour which is intended for greatness, the distorted figure, the

puerile conceit, and the incongruous metaphor, these are defects for

which scarcely any other kind of merit can atone. And yet there may be

more hope of a writer (especially if he be a a young one), who is now

and then guilty of some of these faults, than of one who avoids them

all, not through judgment, but feebleness, and who, instead of deviating

into error is continually falling short of excellence. The meer absence

of error implies that moderate and inferior degree of merit with which a

cold heart and a phlegmatic taste will be better satisfied than with the

magnificent irregularities of exalted spirits. It stretches some minds

to an uneasy extension to be obliged to attend to compositions

superlatively excellent; and it contracts liberal souls to a painful

narrowness to descend to books of inferior merit. A work of capital

genius, to a man of an ordinary mind, is the bed of Procrustes to one of

a short stature, the man is too little to fill up the space assigned

him, and undergoes the torture in attempting it: and a moderate, or low

production to a man of bright talents, is the punishment inflicted by

Mezentius; the living spirit has too much animation to endure patiently

to be in contact with a dead body.

TASTE sesms to be a sentiment of the soul which gives the bias to

opinion, for we feel before we reflect. Without this sentiment, all

knowledge, learning and opinion, would be cold, inert materials, whereas

they become active principles when stirred, kindled, and inflamed by

this animating quality.

THERE is another feeling which is called Enthusiasm. The enthusiasm of

sensible hearts is so strong, that it not only yields to the impulse

with which striking objects act on it, but such hearts help on the

effect by their own sensibility. In a scene where Shakespeare and

Garrick give perfection to each other, the feeling heart does not merely

accede to the delirium they occasion: it does more, it is enamoured of

it, it solicits the delusion, it sues to be deceived, and grudgingly

cherishes the sacred treasure of its feelings. The poet and performer

concur in carrying us

Beyond this visible diurnal sphere,

they bear us aloft in their airy course with unresisted rapidity, if

they meet not with any obstruction from the coldness of our own

feelings. Perhaps, only a few fine spirits can enter into the detail of

their writing and acting; but the multitude do not enjoy less acutely,

because they are not able philosophically to analyse the sources of

their joy or sorrow. If the others have the advantage of judging, these

have at least the privilege of feeling: and it is not from complaisance

to a few leading judges, that they burst into peals of laughter, or melt

into delightful agony; their hearts decide, and that is a decision from

which there lies no appeal. It must however be confessed, that the

nicer separations of character, and the lighter and almost imperceptible

shades which sometimes distinguish them, will not be intimately

relished, unless there be a consonancy of taste as well as feeling in

the spectator; though where the passions are principally concerned,

the profane vulgar come in for a larger portion of the universal

delight, than critics and connoisseurs are willing to allow them.

YET enthusiasm, though the natural concomitant of genius, is no more

genius itself, than drunkenness is cheerfulness; and that enthusiasm

which discovers itself on occasions not worthy to excite it, is the mark

of a wretched judgment and a false taste.

NATURE produces innumerable objects: to imitate them, is the province of

Genius; to direct those imitations, is the property of Judgment; to

decide on their effects, is the business of Taste. For Taste, who sits

as supreme judge on the productions of Genius, is not satisfied when she

merely imitates Nature: she must also, says an ingenious French writer,

imitate _beautiful_ Nature. It requires no less judgment to reject than

to choose, and Genius might imitate what is vulgar, under pretence that

it was natural, if Taste did not carefully point out those objects which

are most proper for imitation. It also requires a very nice discernment

to distinguish verisimilitude from truth; for there is a truth in Taste

nearly as conclusive as demonstration in mathematics.

GENIUS, when in the full impetuosity of its career, often touches on the

very brink of error; and is, perhaps, never so near the verge of the

precipice, as when indulging its sublimest flights. It is in those

great, but dangerous moments, that the curb of vigilant judgment is most

wanting: while safe and sober Dulness observes one tedious and insipid

round of tiresome uniformity, and steers equally clear of eccentricity

and of beauty. Dulness has few redundancies to retrench, few

luxuriancies to prune, and few irregularities to smooth. These, though

errors, are the errors of Genius, for there is rarely redundancy without

plenitude, or irregularity without greatness. The excesses of Genius

may easily be retrenched, but the deficiencies of Dulness can never be

supplied.

THOSE who copy from others will doubtless be less excellent than those

who copy from Nature. To imitate imitators, is the way to depart too far

from the great original herself. The latter copies of an engraving

retain fainter and fainter traces of the subject, to which the earlier

impressions bore so strong a resemblance.

IT seems very extraordinary, that it should be the most difficult thing

in the world to be natural, and that it should be harder to hit off the

manners of real life, and to delineate such characters as we converse

with every day, than to imagine such as do not exist. But caricature is

much easier than an exact outline, and the colouring of fancy less

difficult than that of truth.

PEOPLE do not always know what taste they have, till it is awakened by

some corresponding object; nay, genius itself is a fire, which in many

minds would never blaze, if not kindled by some external cause.

NATURE, that munificent mother, when she bestows the power of judging,

accompanies it with the capacity of enjoying. The judgment, which is

clear sighted, points out such objects as are calculated to inspire

love, and the heart instantaneously attaches itself to whatever is

lovely.

IN regard to literary reputation, a great deal depends on the state of

learning in the particular age or nation, in which an author lives. In a

dark and ignorant period, moderate knowledge will entitle its

possessor to a considerable share of fame; whereas, to be

distinguished in a polite and lettered age, requires striking parts and

deep erudition.

WHEN a nation begins to emerge from a state of mental darkness, and to

strike out the first rudiments of improvement, it chalks out a few

strong but incorrect sketches, gives the rude out-lines of general art,

and leaves the filling up to the leisure of happier days, and the

refinement of more enlightened times. Their drawing is a rude _Sbozzo_,

and their poetry wild minstrelsy.

PERFECTION of taste is a point which a nation no sooner reaches, than it

overshoots; and it is more difficult to return to it, after having

passed it, than it was to attain when they fell short of it. Where the

arts begin to languish after having flourished, they seldom indeed fall

back to their original barbarism, but a certain feebleness of exertion

takes place, and it is more difficult to recover them from this dying

languor to their proper strength, than it was to polish them from their

former rudeness; for it is a less formidable undertaking to refine

barbarity, than to stop decay: the first may be laboured into elegance,

but the latter will rarely be strengthened into vigour.

TASTE exerts itself at first but feebly and imperfectly: it is

repressed and kept back by a crowd of the most discouraging

prejudices: like an infant prince, who, though born to reign, yet holds

an idle sceptre, which he has not power to use, but is obliged to see

with the eyes, and hear through the ears of other men.

A WRITER of correct taste will hardly ever go out of his way, even in

search of embellishment: he will study to attain the best end by the

most natural means; for he knows that what is not natural cannot be

beautiful, and that nothing can be beautiful out of its own place; for

an improper situation will convert the most striking beauty into a

glaring defect. When by a well-connected chain of ideas, or a judicious

succession of events, the reader is snatched to "Thebes or Athens,"

what can be more impertinent than for the poet to obstruct the operation

of the passion he has just been kindling, by introducing a conceit

which contradicts his purpose, and interrupts his business? Indeed, we

cannot be transported, even in idea, to those places, if the poet does

not manage so adroitly as not to make us sensible of the journey: the

instant we feel we are travelling, the writer's art fails, and the

delirium is at an end.

PROSERPINE, says Ovid, would have been restored to her mother Ceres,

had not Ascalaphus seen her stop to gather a golden apple, when the

terms of her restoration were, that she should taste nothing. A story

pregnant with instruction for lively writers, who by neglecting the main

business, and going out of the way for false gratifications, lose sight

of the end they should principally keep in view. It was this false taste

that introduced the numberless _concetti_, which disgrace the brightest

of the Italian poets; and this is the reason, why the reader only feels

short and interrupted snatches of delight in perusing the brilliant but

unequal compositions of Ariosto, instead of that unbroken and

undiminished pleasure, which he constantly receives from Virgil, from

Milton, and generally from Tasso. The first-mentioned Italian is the

Atalanta, who will interrupt the most eager career, to pick up the

glittering mischief, while the Mantuan and the British bards, like

Hippomenes, press on warm in the pursuit, and unseduced by temptation.

A WRITER of real taste will take great pains in the perfection of his

style, to make the reader believe that he took none at all. The writing

which appears to be most easy, will be generally found to be least

imitable. The most elegant verses are the most easily retained, they

fasten themselves on the memory, without its making any effort to

preserve them, and we are apt to imagine, that what is remembered with

ease, was written without difficulty.

To conclude; Genius is a rare and precious gem, of which few know the

worth; it is fitter for the cabinet of the connoisseur, than for the

commerce of mankind. Good sense is a bank-bill, convenient for change,

negotiable at all times, and current in all places. It knows the value

of small things, and considers that an aggregate of them makes up the

sum of human affairs. It elevates common concerns into matters of

importance, by performing them in the best manner, and at the most

suitable season. Good sense carries with it the idea of equality, while

Genius is always suspected of a design to impose the burden of

superiority; and respect is paid to it with that reluctance which always

attends other imposts, the lower orders of mankind generally repining

most at demands, by which they are least liable to be affected.

AS it is the character of Genius to penetrate with a lynx's beam into

unfathomable abysses and uncreated worlds, and to see what is _not_,

so it is the property of good sense to distinguish perfectly, and judge

accurately what really _is_. Good sense has not so piercing an eye, but

it has as clear a sight: it does not penetrate so deeply, but as far as

it _does_ see, it discerns distinctly. Good sense is a judicious

mechanic, who can produce beauty and convenience out of suitable means;

but Genius (I speak with reverence of the immeasurable distance) bears

some remote resemblance to the divine architect, who produced perfection

of beauty without any visible materials, _who spake, and it was

created_; who said, _Let it be, and it was_.

[8] THE Author begs leave to offer an apology for introducing this

Essay, which, she fears, may be thought foreign to her purpose. But she

hopes that her earnest desire of exciting a taste for literature in

young ladies, (which encouraged her to hazard the following remarks)

will not OBSTRUCT her general design, even if it does not actually

PROMOTE it.

THE END.

Transcriber's Note:

Two small typos have been corrected.

_Lately published by the same Author_,

ODE TO DRAGON, Mr. GARRICK'S

House-Dog at Hampton. Price 6d.

SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER, and the

BLEEDING ROCK. Legendary

Tales. Price 2s. 6d.

Printed for T. Cadell in the Strand.

The Sixth Edition of

The SEARCH after HAPPINESS. A

Pastoral Drama. Price 1s. 6d.

The Third Edition of

The INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE. A Tragedy.

Price 1s. 6d.

Printed for T. Cadell, in the Strand; and J.

Wilkie, in St. Paul's Church-Yard.

End of Project Gutenberg's Essays on Various Subjects, by Hannah More