animal impulse, takes place. The music and dancing are no more,
and the brilliancy of the bridal torch is extinct, and with those
physical _parapharnalia_, one mental illusion after another begins
to melt into thin air. The discriminating faculties, judgment and
the critical vision, now become morbidly sensitive and severe,
since satiety and the extinction of fancy and the imagination have
left these capacities to unchecked action, beholding the object
of their scrutiny continually, and close at hand. The medium
becomes as unnaturally dark, as it was unnaturally light before.
A thousand circumstances, never dreamed of in the philosophy of
love and courtship, crowd upon this disposition to cynical and
bilious criticism. Manifestations of temper and character, that
once indicated to the lover, amiability and intelligence, become,
to the moody husband or the discontented wife, marks of a weak
understanding and a bad heart; and in proportion, as they nourish
despondency and disappointment, they destroy the capability of
indulgence and forbearance, and resist efforts to soothe, and
correct, and conciliate.
In proportion as they become dissatisfied with each other, by
a mental progress, exactly the reverse of that which brought
them together, home is enveloped with associations of gloom. The
imagination finds sunshine in every other place; and every other
person is sensible and attractive, but the one they have sworn to
love and honor until death.
There are those who will see in these revolting representations, a
coloring of misanthropy; and pronounce this statement of the case
harsh beyond nature. I would it were so; for, unless I deceive
myself, I love my kind; and my only object is, to impress upon
the young the importance of inquiring, when contemplating this
vital and all important transaction, whether they see things in
the clear light of truth, and as they will certainly appear after
the delirium of love has passed away; or under the nameless and
numberless illusions of that fever of the senses, of vanity, and
instinct, too often miscalled by the name of love. I much mistake,
if the greater portion of the domestic infelicity, which is loudly
charged upon the wedded state in the abstract, is not owing to
this fascination, this incapacity to examine the only elements,
on which the happiness of a family must depend. All I would say,
is, before entering on this union, remember, that it is easier to
repent before, than after the evil is without a remedy. Pause and
scrutinize; and let not the first glimpse of real light open your
eyes to your true condition, when it is irretrievable.
I am as well aware, as the author can be, that there are many more
happy marriages, than vulgar opinion allows, and that even in
those, which are not reputed happy, in which the parties themselves
have had their criminating and complaining _éclaircissements_,
there is often much more affection, than has been allowed to exist.
Such is generally found to be the case, in the numberless attempted
separations, which prove abortive, when the final alternative is to
be adopted. I know, too, that the history of the manifestation of
conjugal affection is one of the most affecting and honorable to
human nature, that has ever been exhibited. No union of tenderness
and fortitude has ever been displayed in the annals of human
nature, that can be compared with the maternal love and conjugal
affection of a devoted wife. Of this, if I had space, and my scope
were different, I could cite numerous, and most impressive examples.
Note 28a, page 110.
I beg leave to enter my utter dissent to this doctrine. It seems
from a note appended to this chapter of the author, that dislike to
female authorship has been carried to the most ridiculous lengths
in France. This is the more astonishing, as no country has produced
so many admirable female writers, many of them peculiarly noted
for possessing the charm of simplicity, and freedom from pedantry
and affectation. A woman, not less than a man, is more amiable,
interesting and capable of sustaining any relation with honor and
dignity, in proportion as she is more instructed and enlightened.
It is to female pedants only, that the ridiculous question of the
French academy, whether a reputable woman could write a book,
ought to apply. If a woman really deserves a crown of laurels, it
sits more gracefully on her brow, than any chaplet of roses that
poet ever dreamed of. But let us have real, unpresuming knowledge,
without pedantry or affectation, either of which is always odious
in man or woman, but certainly, as it seems to me, most so in
woman.
Note 30, page 115.
Nothing, however, is more common, than this contemptible ambition
of wives to govern their husbands. It is said that there are
coteries of wives, who impart the rules in masonic conclave. Be
it so. Whoever exults in having usurped this empire, glories in
her shame. If there be any axiom universally applying to this
partnership, it is, that the interest and reputation of the concern
must be identical. However much a wife may humble her husband, in
general estimation, by presenting him in the light of a weak and
docile subject, with all sensible persons, she humbles herself
still more. If the slave is contemptible, the tyrant is still more
so. For the rest, this chapter contains more truth and impressive
eloquence upon this all important theme, than I have elsewhere met
in so small a compass.
Note 31, page 117.
I present you with the following development of these new emotions,
which, I hope, you will not find amiss. ‘William and Yensi were as
happy in this vale, as man can hope to be here below. They would
have requested nothing more of heaven, than thousands of years of
this half dreaming, yet satisfying existence. A daughter was born
to them, a desert flower of exquisite beauty even from its birth.
New and unmoved fountains of slumbering and mysterious affections
were awakened in the deepest sanctuary of their hearts. In the
clear waters of the brook, which chafed over pebbles, turfed with
wild sage and numberless desert flowers, under the overhanging
pines, in the tops of which the southern breeze played the grand
cathedral service of the mountain solitudes, William performed, as
priest, father and Christian, the touching ceremony of baptizing
his babe. Adding the name Jessy to that of the mother, it was
called Jessy Yensi. The sacred rite was performed on the sabbath,
as the sun was sinking in cloud-curtained majesty behind the
western mountains. The domestics, Ellswatta and Josepha, looked
on with awe. William read the Scriptures, prayed, and sang a hymn;
baptized his babe, and handed the nursling of the desert to Yensi.
As she received the beloved infant in her arms, after it had been
consecrated, as an inmate in the family of the Redeemer, while
tears of tenderness and piety filled her eyes and fell from her
cheeks, she declared, that she would no longer invoke the universal
Tien, that the God of William and her babe should be her God,
and that they would both call on the same name, when they prayed
together for the dear babe even unto death.’--_Shoshonee Valley_,
vol. i. p. 52, 53.
Of the emotions excited by all the incidents between the cradle
and the grave, none can be compared for depth and tenderness to
those, called forth by the birth and baptism of the first child of
an affectionate and happy husband and wife. Those, for whom this
work is more peculiarly intended, will be aware, to what incident
in our common stock of remembrances the above extract refers.
Delightful sentiments, and yet deeply tinged with sadness! What
a mystery is this conjoined miniature image of the parents, the
babe itself! What a mystery the world with its mingled lights and
shadows, upon which the feeble stranger is entering! What a mystery
the unknown bourne to which it is bound! What a mystery the God,
to whom it is consecrated! Callous and cold must be the heart of
parents, that this mutual pledge of love and duty will not unite in
one unchangeable sentiment of love and identity of interest, until
death.
Note 33, page 122.
My views touching the modes, in which the best results of education
are to be obtained, whether just or erroneous, have at least
the advantage of being entirely practical. I am sufficiently
convinced, that there must be an adequate and happy organization
and mental development, without which no education, however wise
and assiduous, will ever effect anything more, than mediocrity of
character and acquirement. In the present state of public opinion,
as great mistakes are made by expecting too much from the training
of schools, as were formerly committed by attempting too little.
The opulent, and people in the higher walks especially, are tempted
by their condition to believe, that wealth and distinction can
purchase, and even command mind, and that cultivation of it, by
which more enlarged and distinguished minds differ from the common
measure of intellect; a mistake, than which no other is more
universally, and palpably taught by every day’s experience. The
Author of our being reserves, and will never impart his own high
prerogative, to bestow mind; and he as often dispenses the noblest
and richest endowment of it in the lower, as in the upper walks
of life; though, as we have seen, he has indicated, in the order
of nature, a process of unlimited improvement of organization and
endowment.
But the substratum of a practical and well endowed mind, to begin
with, being granted, I beg leave to add my conviction to that of M.
Droz, a conviction, which, as I think, will resume its authority
and influence, when most of the present tedious and endless
systems and projects of education will have passed into their
merited oblivion. It is, that strong, latent and distinguished
character and acquirement receive in domestic education, that
predominant and fashioning direction, which they retain through
life. The peculiar impress of a parent, a family-friend, a single
tutor, is often as distinctly marked upon the whole after life
of the scholar, that becomes truly distinguished, as though he
had been wax in the hands of a moulder. The numerous tutors of
opulent families, and of public institutions, seldom impart the
same advantage. Their different views and modes of discipline
countervail, and neutralize each other. The Greeks and the great
Romans taught at home, the master being a member and an honored
one of the family. The master and the pupil walked, conversed,
and pursued their amusements together; and the sweet associations
of home and the shade and freedom from restraint were conjoined
with the lessons. When the good Plutarch paints to us, with his
inimitable _naiveté_, one of his favorite characters, he indicates
as his first felicity, that it was his lot to have the training
of an Aristotle, or some similar worthy. Consult the English
Plutarch for the same fact. Could all the commencing circumstances
of most of the great men, who have lived, be exactly traced, we
should find the same truth disclosed. That the development of
strong inclination for books, studies and literature depends
almost entirely on domestic habits and pursuits, the family, in
which _our_ common remembrances centre, is a striking example.
During the years, in which the minds of this family received their
unchangeable impress, the members were almost as vagrant in their
modes, as the Tartars. All their education, except domestic, was
exceedingly imperfect and desultory. Books were often wanting;
adequate teachers always. But the love of the parents for books
and reading was a simple, natural, unaffected and intense impulse.
They loved the thing for its own sake, and independent of all its
results. The first instruments of pleasure, and things of estimated
value, that greeted the infant eyes of the children, were books;
not furniture, dress, and the imposing ostentation of a modern
parlor. Pleasant conversations, disputes, between laughter and
seriousness, about these books, were the first conversations that
greeted their listening ears. These conversations were perceived
to be of deep and heart-felt interest, and as little mixed with
pedantry and formality, as the manifestations of instinct. The
children saw, that to those, they most loved, admired, and were
disposed to imitate, books were the grand sources of interest,
converse and enjoyment. They as naturally imbibed similar tastes,
as, to use a coarse illustration, the children of savages learn
to love hunting. The first thing for which they contended, and
with which they wished to play, was a book, or a picture. Their
first lispings were trials of skill, touching the comparative
progress, which they had made in their knowledge of the contents
of these books, and the application of it to present use. These
trials they saw to be the chief points of interest and amusement
for their parents. Thus, habits of reading and application _grew
with their growth and strengthened with their strength_; and many
a criticism, if not erudite and profound, at least eliciting
hearty praise and laughter, passed away unrecorded in their
domestic privacy. Their neighbors admired, and, I fear, envied,
and calumniated; but could not but take astonished note of such
results in a family without wealth, without the common appliances,
which themselves could so much better afford, and which they had
been accustomed to consider the only price, at which intellectual
improvement could be purchased. It was placed beyond question, or
denial, that the members of that family had right views, quiet
and unawed self-respect, and could converse rationally, upon
every other topic, as well as books; that tact and discrimination
pervaded their manifestations of thought and pursuit; and that they
possessed an inexhaustible source of amusement, and satisfaction
independent of wealth, fashion, society, distinction, or any
external resource whatever--the habit of internal reflection,
comparison and pleasant converse with themselves.
Parents, when you have imparted to your children habits and tastes,
like these, you have bequeathed them an intellectual fortune, which
few changes can take away; and which is as strictly independent, as
anything earthly can be. You have unlocked to their gratuitous use
perennial fountains of innocent and improving enjoyment. You have
secured them forever against the heart-wearing gloom of _ennui_,
insufficiency to themselves, and slavish dependence upon others for
amusement. Spend as lavishly as you may, in multiplying fashionable
instructers, and blazon, as much as you will, the advantages of
your children; if they do not perceive, while the rudiments of
their taste and habits are forming, that you consider literature,
science and the improvement of intellect a matter of paramount
interest and importance, you will never cause their stream to
flow higher, than your fountain. An occasional parlor lecture, or
a high wrought eulogy, will not convince them, or avail to your
purpose. They must see this preference, as all others, which they
will be inclined to copy, manifested in your whole deportment and
conversation.
But, while I am convinced, that parents will find efforts to
train their children to be highly intellectual, rowing against
the current, unless they evince, themselves, by their habitual
examples, that they consider it a higher attainment, to possess
literature and conversational powers, than fashion, or wealth or
the common objects of pursuit, in other words, that all efficient
education must be essentially domestic, I would not be understood
to undervalue public schools and colleges. I am aware, that in
these places are best imparted the knowledge and adroitness
that fit them for the keen scramble of ambitious competition.
But in regard to those boys who leave their competitions behind
the classes of the university, I think on examination, we shall
find, that the germ and the stamina of this progress were early
communicated by instruction and example at home. At table, around
the evening fire, in the Sabbath walk, in the common family
intercourse, in the intervals of the toil of your profession,
whatever it be, the taste and the permanent inclination for
literature and intellectual cultivation are imparted. This can
never be, if behind all your eulogy of these things, you discover,
that your ruling passion is money, or the sordid objects of common
pursuit.
Note 34, page 124.
It is a common and, I much fear, a well founded complaint, that
some latent mischief in our system of education, political
institutions, the ordering of our establishments, or in all
these together, has generated, as a prevalent moral evil, filial
unkindness and ingratitude. Scramble, competition and rivalry
are the first, last, and universally witnessed order of things
in our country. Nothing becomes a topic of conversation that
is of absorbing interest, but acquisition and distinction. The
manifestations of an intellect, sharpened for the pursuit of
these things, is the subject of most earnest eulogy. Children, by
our usages, are early cast upon their own resources, and taught
to shift for themselves. The consequence seems to be, that the
parental and filial ties are severed, as soon as the children are
able to take care of themselves, almost as recklessly, in regard
to subsequent duty, piety or affection, as those of the lower
animals. When we see a spectacle so revolting, and unhappily so
common, of sons who, as soon as they have realized _the portion of
goods that falleth to them_, or of daughters, as soon as they have
secured lovers or husbands, forgetting the authors of their days,
it becomes us to search deeply for the defect in our discipline, or
institutions, that originates the evil. The callous hearts of such
children may no longer be appalled by the terrible execution of the
Jewish law against such monsters. They may neither feel, nor care,
how _sharper than a serpent’s tooth_, may be this want of filial
piety to their parents. But, by a righteous reaction of the divine
justice, more terribly vindictive than the threatened judgment of
the Jewish law, thankless children bear in their hearts the certain
guaranty of their own self-inflicted punishment. They part forever
with the purest and noblest sentiments of the human heart; and they
procure for themselves the sad certainty of being cast off in their
turn, by their children, in the helpless period of their old age.
Note 35, page 124.
The history of literature proves, that none of the more unworthy
sentiments of human nature have been so adverse to friendship,
as the vanity of literary rivals. From many noble examples of
a contrary kind, which we might cite, I select the intercourse
between Racine and Boileau. When Racine was persuaded, that his
malady would end in death, he charged his eldest son to write to
M. de Cavoye, to ask him to solicit the payment of what was due of
his pension, that his family might not be left without ready money.
He wrote the letter and read it to his father. ‘Why did you not,’
said he, ‘request the payment of the pension of Boileau at the
same time? Write again, and let him know, that I was his friend in
death.’ This friend came to receive his last adieu. Racine rose in
bed, as far as his weakness would allow. As he embraced his friend,
he said ‘I regard it a happiness to die in your presence.’
Note 36, page 126.
The celebrated Voiture, one of the _beaux esprits_ of the age of
Louis XIII. had lost all his money, and had an immediate call for
200 pistoles. He wrote to the Abbe Costar, his faithful friend.
This admirable letter presents us with a trait of that confidence
and frankness, which sincere friendship inspires. It was this.
‘I yesterday lost all my money, and 200 pistoles more, which I
have promised to pay today. If you have that sum, do not fail to
send it. If not, borrow it. Obtain it, as you may, you must lend
it me. Be careful, to allow no one to anticipate you, in giving me
this pleasure. I should be concerned lest it might affect my love
for you. I know you so well, that I am aware, you would find it
difficult to console yourself. To avoid this misfortune, rather
sell what will raise it. You see how imperious my love for you is.
I take a pleasure in conducting in this manner towards you. I feel,
that I should have a still greater, if you would be as frank with
me. But you have not my courage in this point. Judge, if I am not
perfectly assured in regard to you, since I will give my promise to
him, who shall bring the money.’ The Abbe Costar replied--‘I feel
extreme joy, to be in condition to render you the trifling service,
you ask of me. I had never thought, that one could purchase so
much pleasure for 200 pistoles. Having experienced it, I give you
my word, that, for the rest of my life, I will retain a little
capital, always ready for your occasions. Order confidently at your
pleasure. You cannot take half the satisfaction in commanding, that
I shall in obeying. But submissive as you may find me in other
respects, I shall be revolted, if you wish to compel me to take a
promise from you.’
Note 37, page 128.
Although I do not intend to cite in this place the story of Damon
and Pythias, nor to harp upon discussions of a theme, upon
which there has been more odious prosing, and more semblance of
sentiment than all others, yet a subject, intrinsically of the
first importance, and founded in nature, can never cease to have
claims upon attention, in consequence of having been hackneyed to
thread-bare triteness. There is such an affection, as friendship.
It belongs to man, and is the highest honor of his nature, less
gross and terrene, than the short epilepsy, the transient and
fitful fever of the senses, commonly dignified with the name of
love, and warmer, more exhilarating, and elevated, than mere
esteem, and common liking; it excites, without inflaming; it
thrills, without jealousy, corroding fear, or morbid solicitude.
It is that sentiment, which a poet would naturally assign to
intellectual beings of a higher order, who were never invested with
the corporeal elements of mortality.
I wish those, most dear to me, implicitly to believe in friendship.
I would a thousand times prefer, that they should err on the
side of credulity, than of suspicion and distrust. I deprecate,
above all things, that they should give up human nature. I
consider real misanthropy the last misfortune. I would, rather, my
children should meet with treachery and inconstancy every day of
their lives, than resign themselves to the morbid and heartless
persuasion, weakly considered an attribute of wisdom and greatness,
that men are altogether selfish, and unworthy of confidence. It
is a persuasion, that not only forever invests the universe in an
Egyptian gloom, ‘_that may be felt_,’ but, by an energetic bearing
on all the faculties and sources of feeling, causes the heart,
that entertains such views to become what it believes to be the
character of the species.
No scruples of false decorum shall withhold me from saying, that,
amidst all the selfishness, which optics of the most charitable
vision could not but discover on every side, I have seen
friendship, pure, holy, disinterested, like that of the angels;
nay, more--have been myself the subject of it. My heart swells, and
will to its latest pulsation, with the remembered proofs. True, the
instances, that have fallen within the compass of my experience,
are very few. But they are sufficient to settle my conviction, that
the sentiment, which has inspired the enthusiasm of eloquence,
painting and song, in all time, is not the illusion of a weak and
misguided imagination. Selfish as man is, we often see instances of
the most generous and devoted friendship, even in this silver age,
the age of revenue and political economy.
With my author I believe, that where the sentiment exists between a
man and a woman, admitting each to possess the estimable endowments
peculiar to each sex, and so exists, as not to be modified by any
of those countless associations of another order of sentiment, that
almost imperceptibly invest relations between the two sexes, it is
more vivid, permanent and disinterested, more capable of making
sacrifices, and more tender and delightful than it can be between
persons of the same sex. Of this class are the most noble, touching
and sublime examples of a constancy under every form of proof, that
the history of the human heart records.