_Mrs. Holmes_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
I SIT down to give you, my dear _Myra_, some accounts of the
visitants of today, and their conversation. We are not always
_distinguished_ by such company, but perhaps it is sometimes necessary;
and as it is a relaxation from thought, it serves to give us more
pleasure in returning to the conversation of people of ideas.
MRS. _Bourn_ assumes a higher rank in life than she pretended to seven
years ago.—She then walked on foot—she now, by good fortune, rides in a
chariot. Placed, however, in a situation with which her education does
not altogether comport, she has nothing disagreeable but her over
assiduity to please—this is sometimes disgusting, for one cannot feast
heartily upon honey: It is an errour which a candid mind easily
forgives. She sometimes appears solicitous to display her mental
accomplishments, and desirous to improve those of her daughter; but it
is merely apparent. Notwithstanding a temporary wish may arise toward
the attainment of this point, a habitual vacancy nips it in the bud.
MISS _Bourn_ is about the age of fourteen—genteel, with a tolerable
share of beauty, but not striking—her dress was elegant, but might have
been adjusted to more advantage—not altogether aukward in her manner,
nor yet can she be called graceful—she has a peculiar air of drollery
which takes her by fits, and for this reason, perhaps, does not avail
herself of every opportunity of displaying the modesty of her sex—she
has seen much company, but instead of polishing her manners, it has only
increased her assurance.
THUS much of the characters of our company. After some small chat which
passed as we took a turn in the garden, we entered the Temple.
“WHAT books would you recommend to put into the hands of my daughter?”
said Mrs. _Bourn_, as she walked into the library—“it is a matter of
some importance.” “It is a matter of more importance,” answered
_Worthy_, “than is generally imagined, for unless a proper selection is
made one would do better never to read at all:—Now, Madame, as much
depends on the choice of books, care should be taken not to put those in
the way of young persons, which might leave on their minds any
disagreeable prejudices, or which has a tendency to corrupt their
morals.”—“As obvious as your remark is,” added Mr. _Holmes_, “it is
evidently over looked in the common course of education. We wisely
exclude those persons from our conversation, whose characters are bad,
whose manners are depraved, or whose morals are impure: but if they are
excluded from an apprehension of contaminating our minds, how much more
dangerous is the company of those books, where the strokes aimed at
virtue are redoubled, and the poison of vice, by repeatedly reading the
same thing, indelibly distains the young mind?”
“WE all agree,” rejoined _Worthy_, “that it is as great a matter of
virtue and prudence to be circumspect in the selection of our books, as
in the choice of our company.—But, Sir, the best things may be subverted
to an ill use. Hence we may possibly trace the course of the ill
tendency of many of the Novels extant.”
“MOST of the Novels,” returned my father, “with which our female
libraries are over run, are built on a foundation not always placed on
strict morality, and in the pursuit of objects not always probable or
praiseworthy.—Novels, not regulated on the chaste principles of true
friendship, rational love, and connubial duty, appear to me totally
unfit to form the minds of women, of friends, or of wives.”
“BUT, as most young people read,” says Mrs. _Bourn_—“what rule can be
_hit upon_ to make study always terminate to advantage?”
“IMPOSSIBLE,” cried Miss, “for I read as much as anybody, and though it
may afford amusement, while I am employed, I do not remember a single
word, when I lay down the book.”
“THIS confirms what I say of Novels,” cried Mr. _Holmes_, addressing
_Worthy_ in a jocular manner, “just calculated to kill time—to attract
the attention of the reader for an hour, but leave not one idea on the
mind.”
“I AM far from condemning every production in the gross,” replied
_Worthy_; “general satire against any particular class, or order of men,
may be viewed in the same light as a satire against species—it is the
same with books—if there are corrupt or mortified members, it is hardly
fair to destroy the whole body. Now I grant some Novels have a bad
tendency, yet there are many which contain excellent sentiments—let
these receive their deserved reward—let those be discountenanced; and if
it is impossible “to smite them with an apoplexy, there is a moral
certainty of their dying of a consumption.”—But, as Mrs. _Bourn_
observes, most young persons read, I will recommend to those who wish to
mingle instruction with entertainment, method and regularity in reading.
To _dip_ into _any book_ burthens the mind with unnecessary lumber, and
may rather be called a disadvantage, than a benefit—The record of memory
is so scrawled and blotted with imperfect ideas, that not one legible
character can be traced.
“WERE I to throw my thoughts on this subject,” said my good
father-in-law, as he began to enter more and more warmly into the
debate—drawing his chair opposite _Worthy_, and raising his hand with a
poetical enthusiasm—“Were I to throw my thoughts on this subject into an
Allegory, I would describe the human mind as an extensive plain, and
knowledge as the river that should water it. If the course of the river
be properly directed, the plain will be fertilized and cultivated to
advantage; but if books, which are the sources that feed this river,
rush into it from every quarter, it will overflow its banks, and the
plain become inundated: When, therefore, knowledge flows on in its
proper channel, this extensive and valuable field, the mind, instead of
being covered with stagnant waters, is cultivated to the utmost
advantage, and blooms luxuriantly into a general efflorescence—for a
river properly restricted by high banks, is necessarily progressive.”
THE old gentleman brought down his hands with great solemnity, and we
complimented him on his poetical exertion. “I cannot comprehend the
meaning of this matter,” said the penetrative Miss _Bourn_. “I will
explain it to you, my little dear,” said he, with good nature—“If you
read with any design to improve your mind in virtue and every amiable
accomplishment, you should be careful to read methodically, which will
enable you to form an estimate of the various topicks discussed in
company, and to bear a part in all those conversations which belong to
your sex—you see, therefore, how necessary general knowledge is—what
would you think of a woman advanced in life, who has no other store of
knowledge than what she has obtained from experience?” “I think she
would have a sorry time of it,” answered Miss.
“TO prevent it in yourself,” said Mrs. _Bourn_ to her daughter, “be
assiduous to lay in a good stock of this knowledge, while your mind is
yet free from prejudice and care.”
“HOW shall I _go to work_, Madam?” enquired the delicate daughter.
MRS. _Bourn_ turned toward Mr. _Holmes_, which was hint enough for the
good old man to proceed.
“THERE is a medium to be observed,” continued he, “in a lady’s reading;
she is not to receive everything she finds, even in the best books, as
invariable lessons of conduct; in books written in an easy, flowing
style, which excel in description and the luxuriance of fancy, the
imagination is apt to get heated—she ought, therefore, to discern with
an eye of judgement, between the superficial and penetrating—the elegant
and the tawdry—what may be merely amusing, and what may be useful.
General reading will not teach her a true knowledge of the world.
“IN _books_ she finds recorded the faithfulness of friendship—the
constancy of _true love_, and even that honesty is the best policy. If
virtue is represented carrying its reward with it, she too easily
persuades herself that mankind have adopted this plan: Thus she finds,
when, perhaps, it is too late, that she has entertained wrong notions of
human nature; that her friends are deceitful—her lovers false—and that
men consult interest oftener than honesty.
“A YOUNG lady who has imbibed her ideas of the world from desultory
reading and placed confidence in the virtue of others, will bring back
disappointment, when she expected gratitude. Unsuspicious of deceit, she
is easily deceived—from the purity of her own thoughts, she trusts the
faith of mankind, until experience convinces her of her errour—she falls
a sacrifice to her credulity, and her only consolation is the simplicity
and goodness of her heart.
“THE story of Miss _Whitman_[1] is an emphatical illustration of the
truth of these observations. An inflated fancy not restricted by
judgement, leads too often to _disappointment_ and repentance. Such will
be the fate of those who become (to use her own words)
“Lost in the magick of that sweet employ,
To build GAY SCENES and fashion FUTURE JOY.”
Footnote 1:
THIS young lady was of a reputable family in CONNECTICUT. In her youth
she was admired for beauty and good sense. She was a great reader of
novels and romances, and having imbibed her ideas of THE CHARACTERS OF
MEN, from those fallacious sources, became vain and coquettish, and
rejected several offers of marriage, in expectation of receiving one
more agreeable to her fanciful idea. Disappointed in her FAIRY hope,
and finding her train of admirers less solicitous for the honour of
her hand, in proportion as the roses of youth decayed, she was the
more easily persuaded to relinquish that STABILITY which is the honour
and happiness of the sex. The consequences of her amour becoming
visible, she acquainted her lover of her situation, and a HUSBAND was
proposed for her, who was to receive a considerable sum for preserving
the reputation of the lady; but having received security for payment,
he immediately withdrew. She then left her friends, and travelled in
the stage as far as WATERTOWN, where she hired a young man to conduct
her in a chaise to SALEM. Here she wandered alone and friendless, and
at length repaired to the BELL-TAVERN, in DANVERS, where she was
delivered of a lifeless child, and in about a fortnight after (in
JULY, 1788) died of a puerperal fever, age about 35 years.
Before her death she amused herself with reading, writing and
needlework, and though in a state of anxiety, preserved a
cheerfulness, not so much the effect of insensibility, as of patience
and fortitude. She was sensible of her approaching fate, as appears
from the following letter, which was written in characters.
“MUST I die alone? Shall I never see you more? I know that you will
come, but you will come too late: This is I fear, my last ability.
Tears fall so, I know not how to write. Why did you leave me in so
much distress? But I will not reproach you: All that was dear I left
for you; but do not regret it.—May God forgive in both what was amiss:
When I go from hence, I will leave you some way to find me; if I die,
will you come and drop a tear over my grave?”
In the following Poem, she, like the dying SWAN, sings her own Elegy,
and it is here added, as a sorrowful instance, how often the best, and
most pleasing talents, not accompanied by virtue and prudence, operate
the destruction of their possessor.
The description of her unfortunate passion, will remind the critical
reader of the famous ode of Sappho. In genius and in misfortune, these
poetical ladies were similar.
“_DISAPPOINTMENT._
“WITH fond impatience all the tedious day
I sigh’d, and wish’d the lingering hours away;
For when bright Hesper led the starry train,
My shepherd swore to meet me on the plain;
With eager haste to that dear spot I flew,
And linger’d long, and then with tears withdrew:
Alone, abandon’d to love’s tenderest woes,
Down my pale cheeks the tide of sorrow flows;
Dead to all joys that fortune can bestow,
In vain for me her useless bounties flow;
Take back each envied gift, ye pow’rs divine,
And only let me call FIDELIO mine.
“Ah, wretch! what anguish yet thy soul must prove,
Ere thou canst hope to lose thy care in love;
And when FIDELIO meets thy tearful eye,
Pale fear and cold despair his presence fly;
With pensive steps, I sought thy walks again,
And kiss’d thy token on the verdant plain;
With fondest hope, thro’ many a blissful bow’r,
We gave the soul to fancy’s pleasing pow’r;
Lost in the magick of that sweet employ,
To build gay scenes, and fashion future joy,
We saw mild peace o’er fair Canaan rise,
And show’r her blessings from benignant skies;
On airy hills our happy mansion rose,
Built but for joy, no room for future woes;
Sweet as the sleep of innocence, the day,
(By transports measur’d) lightly danc’d away;
To love, to bliss, the union’d soul was given,
And each! too happy, ask’d no brighter heaven.
“And must the hours in ceaseless anguish roll?
Will no soft sunshine cheer my clouded soul?
Can this dear earth no transient joy supply?
Is it my doom to hope, despair and die?
Oh! come, once more, with soft endearments come,
Burst the cold prison of the sullen tomb;
Through favour’d walks, thy chosen maid attend,
Where well known shades their pleasing branches bend,
Shed the soft poison from thy speaking eye,
And look those raptures lifeless words deny;
Still be, though late, reheard what ne’er could tire,
But, told each eve, fresh pleasures would inspire;
Still hope those scenes which love and fancy drew;
But, drawn a thousand times, were ever new.
“Can fancy paint, can words express;
Can aught on earth my woes redress;
E’en thy soft smiles can ceaseless prove
Thy truth, thy tenderness and love.
Once thou couldst every bliss inspire,
Transporting JOY, and gay DESIRE:
Now cold DESPAIR her banner rears,
And PLEASURE flies when she appears;
Fond HOPE within my bosom dies,
And AGONY her place supplies:
O, thou! for whose dear sake I bear,
A doom so dreadful, so severe,
May happy fates thy footsteps guide,
And o’er thy PEACEFUL home preside;
Nor let ELIZA’S early tomb
Infect thee, with its baleful gloom.”
“WITH a good heart she possessed a poetical imagination, and an
unbounded thirst for novelty; but these airy talents, not counterpoised
with judgement, or perhaps serious reflection, instead of adding to her
happiness, were the cause of her ruin.”
“I CONCLUDE from your reasoning,” said I, “and it is besides, my own
opinion, that many fine girls have been ruined by reading Novels.”
“AND I believe,” added Mrs. _Bourn_, “we may trace from hence the causes
of spleen in many persons advanced in life.”
“YOU mean old maids, Madam,” cries the sagacious Miss, “like my aunt
_Deborah_—she calls all men deceitful, and most women, with her, are no
better than they should be.”
“WELL said!” exclaimed _Worthy_, “the recollection of chagrin and
former disappointment, sours one’s temper and mortifies the
heart—disappointment will be more or less severe in proportion as we
elevate our expectations; for the most _sanguine tempers_ are the
soonest discouraged; as the highest building is in the most danger of
falling.”
“IT appears from what I have said,” resumed Mr. _Holmes_, “that those
books which teach us a knowledge of the world are useful to form the
minds of females, and ought therefore to be studied.”