Letter iv.
_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._
My dearest Child,
I must answer your last before I sleep--before I can sleep in peace. I
have just finished reading the rhapsody which it enclosed; and whilst my
mind is full and warm upon the subject, let me write, for I can write to
my own satisfaction at no other time. I admire and love you, my child,
for the generous indignation you express against those who trample upon
the fallen, or who meanly triumph over the errors of superior genius;
and if I seem more cold, or more severe, than you wish me to be,
attribute this to my anxiety for your happiness, and to that caution
which is perhaps the infirmity of age.
In the course of my long life I have, alas! seen vice and folly dressed
in so many different fashions, that I can find no difficulty in
detecting them under any disguise; but your unpractised eyes are almost
as easily deceived as when you were five years old, and when you could
not believe that your pasteboard nun was the same person in her various
changes of attire.
Nothing would tempt you to associate with those who have avowed
themselves regardless of right and wrong; but I must warn you against
another, and a far more dangerous class, who, professing the most
refined delicacy of sentiment, and boasting of invulnerable virtue,
exhibit themselves in the most improper and hazardous situations; and
who, because they are without fear, expect to be deemed free from
reproach. Either from miraculous good fortune, or from a singularity of
temper, these adventurous heroines may possibly escape with what they
call perfect innocence. So much the worse for society. Their example
tempts others, who fall a sacrifice to their weakness and folly. I would
punish the tempters in this case more than the victims, and for them the
most effectual species of punishment is contempt. Neglect is death to
these female lovers of notoriety. The moment they are out of fashion
their power to work mischief ceases. Those who from their character and
rank have influence over public opinion are bound to consider these
things in the choice of their associates. This is peculiarly necessary
in days when attempts are made to level all distinctions. You have
sometimes hinted to me, my dear daughter, with all proper delicacy, that
I am too strict in my notions, and that, unknown to myself, my pride
mixes with morality. Be it so: the pride of family, and the pride of
virtue, should reciprocally support each other. Were I asked what I
think the best guard to a nobility in this or in any other country, I
should answer, VIRTUE. I admire that simple epitaph in Westminster Abbey
on the Duchess of Newcastle:--"Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest
sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester;--a noble family, for all the
brothers were valiant and all the sisters virtuous."
I look to the temper of the times in forming rules for conduct. Of late
years we have seen wonderful changes in female manners. I may be like
the old marquis in Gil Blas, who contended that even the peaches of
modern days had deteriorated; but I fear that my complaints of the
degeneracy of human kind are better founded than his fears for the
vegetable creation. A taste for the elegant profligacy of French
gallantry was, I remember, introduced into this country before the
destruction of the French monarchy. Since that time, some sentimental
writers and pretended philosophers of our own and foreign countries have
endeavoured to confound all our ideas of morality. To every rule of
right they have found exceptions, and on these they have fixed the
public attention by adorning them with all the splendid decorations of
eloquence; so that the rule is despised or forgotten, and the exception
triumphantly established in its stead. These orators seem as if they had
been employed by Satan to plead the cause of vice; and, as if possessed
by the evil spirit, they speak with a vehemence which carries away their
auditors, or with a subtlety which deludes their better judgment. They
put extreme cases, in which virtue may become vice, or vice virtue: they
exhibit criminal passions in constant connexion with the most exalted,
the most amiable virtues; thus making use of the best feelings of human
nature for the worst purposes, they engage pity or admiration
perpetually on the side of guilt. Eternally talking of philosophy and
philanthropy, they borrow the terms only to perplex the ignorant and
seduce the imagination. They have their systems and their theories, and
in theory they pretend that the general good of society is their sole
immutable rule of morality, and in practice they make the variable
feelings of each individual the judges of this general good. Their
systems disdain all the vulgar virtues, intent upon some _beau ideal_ of
perfection or perfectibility. They set common sense and common honesty
at defiance. No matter: their doctrine, so convenient to the passions
and soporific to the conscience, can never want partisans; especially by
weak and enthusiastic women it is adopted and propagated with eagerness;
then they become personages of importance, and zealots in support of
their sublime opinions; and they can read--and they can write--and they
can talk--and they can _effect a revolution in public opinion_! I am
afraid, indeed, that they can; for of late years we have heard more of
sentiment than of principles; more of the rights of woman than of her
duties. We have seen talents disgraced by the conduct of their
possessors, and perverted in the vain attempt to defend what is
unjustifiable.
Where must all this end? Where the abuse of reason inevitably ends--in
the ultimate law of force. If in this age of reason women make a bad use
of that power which they have obtained by the cultivation of their
understanding, they will degrade and enslave themselves beyond
redemption; they will reduce their sex to a situation worse than it ever
experienced even in the ages of ignorance and superstition. If men find
that the virtue of women diminishes in proportion as intellectual
cultivation increases, they will connect, fatally for the freedom and
happiness of our sex, the ideas of female ignorance and female
innocence; they will decide that one is the effect of the other. They
will not pause to distinguish between the use and the abuse of reason;
they will not stand by to see further experiments tried at their
expense, but they will prohibit knowledge altogether as a pernicious
commodity, and will exert the superior power which nature and society
place in their hands, to enforce their decrees. Opinion obtained freedom
for women; by opinion they may be again enslaved. It is therefore the
interest of the female world, and of society, that women should be
deterred by the dread of shame from passing the bounds of discretion. No
false lenity, no partiality in favour of amusing talents or agreeable
manners, should admit of exceptions which become dangerous examples of
impunity. The rank and superior understanding of a _delinquent_ ought
not to be considered in mitigation, but as aggravating circumstances.
Rank makes ill conduct more conspicuous: talents make it more dangerous.
Women of abilities, if they err, usually employ all their powers to
justify rather than to amend their faults.
I am afraid, my dear daughter, that my general arguments are closing
round your Olivia; but I must bid you a good night, for my poor eyes
will serve me no longer. God bless you, my dear child.
Letter v.
_Leonora to her mother._
I agree with you, my dear mother, that in these times especially, it is
incumbent upon all persons, whose rank or reputation may influence
public opinion, to be particularly careful to support the cause of
female honour, of virtue, and religion. With the same object in view, we
may however differ in the choice of means for its attainment. Pleasure
as well as pain acts upon human creatures; and therefore, in governing
them, may not reward be full as efficacious as punishment? Our sex are
sufficiently apprised of the fatal consequences of ill conduct; the
advantages of well-earned reputation should be at least as great, as
certain, and as permanent.
In former times, a single finger pointed at the scutcheon of a knight
challenged him to defend his fame; but the defiance was open, the
defence was public; and if the charge proved groundless, it injured none
but the malicious accuser. In our days female reputation, which is of a
nature more delicate than the honour of any knight, may be destroyed by
the finger of private malice. The whisper of secret scandal, which
admits of no fair or public answer, is too often sufficient to dishonour
a life of spotless fame. This is the height, not only of injustice, but
of impolicy. Women will become indifferent to reputation, which it is so
difficult, even by the prudence of years, to acquire, and which it is so
easy to lose in a moment, by the malice or thoughtlessness of those who
invent or who repeat scandal. Those who call themselves the world often
judge without listening to evidence, and proceed upon suspicion with as
much promptitude and severity as if they had the most convincing proofs.
But because Caesar, nearly two thousand years ago, said, that his wife
ought not even to be suspected, and divorced her upon the strength of
this sentiment, shall we make it a general maxim, that suspicion
justifies punishment? We might as well applaud those, who when their
friends are barely suspected to be tainted with the plague, drive them
from all human comfort and assistance.
Even where women, from the thoughtless gaiety of youth, or the impulse
of inexperienced enthusiasm, may have given some slight cause for
censure, I would not have virtue put on all her gorgon terrors, nor
appear circled by the vengeful band of prudes; her chastening hand will
be more beneficially felt if she wear her more benign form. To place the
imprudent in the same class with the vicious is injustice and impolicy;
were the same punishment and the same disgrace to be affixed to small
and to great offences, the number of _capital_ offenders would certainly
increase. Those who were disposed to yield to their passions would, when
they had once failed in exact decorum, see no motive, no fear to
restrain them; and there would be no pause, no interval between error
and profligacy. Amongst females who have been imprudent, there are many
things to be considered which ought to recommend them to mercy. The
judge, when he is obliged to pronounce the immutable sentence of the
law, often, with tears, wishes that it were in his power to mitigate the
punishment: the decisions of opinion may and must vary with
circumstances, else the degree of reprobation which they inflict cannot
be proportioned to the offence, or calculated for the good of society.
Among the mitigating circumstances I should be inclined to name even
those which you bring in aggravation. Talents, and what is called
genius, in our sex are often connected with a warmth of heart, an
enthusiasm of temper, which expose to dangers from which the coldness of
mediocrity is safe. In the illuminated palace of ice, the lights which
render the spectacle splendid, and which raise the admiration of the
beholders, endanger the fabric and tend to its destruction.
But you will tell me, dear mother, that allusion is not argument--and I
am almost afraid to proceed, lest you should think me an advocate for
vice. I would not shut the gates of mercy, inexorably and
indiscriminately, upon all those of my own sex, who have even been _more
than imprudent_.
"He taught them shame, the sudden sense of ill--
Shame, Nature's hasty conscience, which forbids
Weak inclination ere it grows to will,
Or stays rash will before it grows to deeds."
Whilst a woman is alive to shame, she cannot be dead to virtue. But by
injudicious or incessant reproach, this principle, even where it is most
exquisite, may be most easily destroyed. The mimosa, when too long
exposed to each rude touch, loses its retractile sensibility. It ought
surely to be the care of the wise and benevolent to cherish that
principle, implanted in our nature as the guard of virtue, that
principle upon which legislators rest the force of punishment, and all
the grand interests of society.
My dear mother, perhaps you will be surprised at the style in which I
have been writing, and you will smile at hearing your Leonora discuss
the duties of legislators, and the grand interests of society. She has
not done so from presumption, or from affectation. She was alarmed by
your supposing that her judgment was deluded by fascinating manners, and
she determined to produce _general_ arguments, to convince you that she
is not actuated by particular prepossession. You see that I have at
least some show of reason on my side. I have forborne to mention
Olivia's name: but now that I have obviated, I hope by reasoning, the
imputation of partiality, I may observe that all my arguments are
strongly in her favour. She had been attacked by slander; _the world_
has condemned her upon suspicion merely. She has been imprudent; but I
repeat, in the strongest terms, that I am _convinced of her innocence_;
and that I should bitterly regret that a woman with such an affectionate
heart, such uncommon candour, and such superior abilities, should be
lost to society.
Tell me, my dear mother, that you are no longer in anxiety about the
consequences of my attachment to Olivia.
Your affectionate daughter,
Leonora.
Letter vi.
_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._
You lament, my dear child, that such an affectionate heart, such great
abilities as Olivia's should be lost to society. Before I sympathise in
your pity, my judgment must be convinced that it is reasonable.
What proofs has Lady Olivia given of her affectionate heart? She is at
variance with both her parents; she is separated from her husband; and
she leaves her child in a foreign country, to be educated by strangers.
Am I to understand, that her ladyship's neglecting to perform the duties
of a daughter, a wife, and a mother, are proofs of an affectionate
heart? As to her superior talents, do they contribute to her own
happiness, or to the happiness of others? Evidently not to her own; for
by her account of herself, she is one of the most miserable wretches
alive! She tells you that "_she went to foreign climes in search of balm
for a wounded heart, and wandered from place to place, looking for what
no place could afford_." She talks of "_indescribable sadness--an aching
void--an impenetrable prison--darkness visible--dead bodies chained to
living ones_;" and she exhibits all the disordered furniture of a
"diseased mind." But you say, that though her powers are thus
insufficient to make herself happy, they may amuse or instruct the
world; and of this I am to judge by the letters which you have sent me.
You admire fine writing; so do I. I class eloquence high amongst the
fine arts. But by eloquence I mean something more than Dr Johnson
defines it to be, "the art of speaking with fluency and elegance." This
is an art which is now possessed to a certain degree by every
boarding-school miss. Every scribbling young lady can now string
sentences and sentiments together, and can turn a period harmoniously.
Upon the strength of these accomplishments they commence heroines, and
claim the privileges of the order; privileges which go to an indefinite
and most alarming extent. Every heroine may have her own code of
morality for her private use, and she is to be tried by no other; she
may rail as loudly as she pleases "at the barbarous institutions of
society," and may deplore "_the inexorable tyranny of the English
laws_." If she find herself involved in delicate entanglements of
crossing duties, she may break through any one, or all of them, to
extricate herself with a noble contempt of prejudice.
I have promised to reason calmly; but I cannot repress the terror which
I feel at the idea of my daughter's becoming the friend of one of these
women. Olivia's letters are, I think, in the true heroine style; and
they might make a brilliant figure in a certain class of novels. She
begins with a bold exclamation on "the misfortune of being born a
woman!--_the slave or the outcast of society, condemned to incessant
hypocrisy!_" Does she mean modesty? Her manly soul feels it "_the most
degrading punishment that omnipotent cruelty could devise, to be
imprisoned in a female form_." From such a masculine spirit some
fortitude and magnanimity might be expected; but presently she begs to
be pitied, for a broken spirit, and more than female tenderness of
heart. I have observed that the ladies who wish to be men are usually
those who have not sufficient strength of mind to be women.
Olivia proceeds in an ironical strain to envy, as "_the happiest of
their sex, those who submit to be swathed by custom_." These persons she
stigmatizes with the epithet of _tideless-blooded_. It is the common
trick of unprincipled women to affect to despise those who conduct
themselves with propriety. Prudence they term _coldness_; fortitude,
_insensibility_; and regard to the rights of others, _prejudice_. By
this perversion of terms they would laugh or sneer virtue out of
countenance; and, by robbing her of all praise, they would deprive her
of all immediate motive. Conscious of their own degradation, they would
lower everything, and everybody, to their own standard: they would make
you believe, that those who have not yielded to their passions are
destitute of sensibility; that the love which is not blazoned forth in
glaring colours is not entitled to our sympathy. The sacrifice of the
strongest feelings of the human heart to a sense of duty is to be called
mean, or absurd; but the shameless phrensy of passion, exposing itself
to public gaze, is to be an object of admiration. These heroines talk of
strength of mind; but they forget that strength of mind is to be shown
in resisting their passions, not in yielding to them. Without being
absolutely of an opinion, which I have heard maintained, that all virtue
is sacrifice, I am convinced that the essential characteristic of virtue
is to bear and forbear. These sentimentalists can do neither. They talk
of sacrifices and generosity; but they are the veriest egotists--the
most selfish creatures alive.
Open your eyes, my dear Leonora, and see things as they really are. Lady
Olivia thinks it a sufficient excuse for abandoning her husband, to say,
that she found "_his soul was not in unison with hers_." She thinks it
an adequate apology for a criminal attachment, to tell you that "_the
net was thrown over her heart before she felt her danger: that all its
struggles were to no purpose, but to exhaust her strength_."
If she did not feel her danger, she prepared it. The course of reading
which her ladyship followed was the certain preparation for her
consequent conduct. She tells us that she could not endure "_the
commonplace of morality, but metaphysics promised her some relief_." In
these days a heroine need not be a moralist, but she must be a
metaphysician. She must "_wander in the not inelegant labyrinth_;" and
if in the midst of it she comes unawares upon the monster vice, she must
not start, though she have no clue to secure her retreat.
From metaphysics Lady Olivia went on to German novels. "_For her largest
portions of bliss, for those rapt moments which consigned vulgar
realities to oblivion_," she owns herself indebted to those writers, who
promise an ideal world of pleasure, which, like the _mirage_ in the
desert, bewilders the feverish imagination. I always suspected the
imagination of these _women of feeling_ to be more susceptible than
their hearts. They want excitation for their morbid sensibility, and
they care not at what expense it is procured. If they could make all the
pleasures of life into one cordial they would swallow it at a draught in
a fit of sentimental spleen. The mental intemperance that they indulge
in promiscuous novel-reading destroys all vigour and clearness of
judgment; everything dances in the varying medium of their imagination.
Sophistry passes for reasoning; nothing appears profound but what is
obscure; nothing sublime but what is beyond the reach of mortal
comprehension. To their vitiated taste the simple pathos, which
o'ersteps not the modesty of nature, appears cold, tame, and insipid;
they must have _scenes_ and a _coup de theatre_; and ranting, and
raving, and stabbing, and drowning, and poisoning; for with them there
is no love without murder. Love, in their representations, is indeed a
distorted, ridiculous, horrid monster, from whom common sense, taste,
decency, and nature recoil.
But I will be calm.--You say, my dear Leonora, that your judgment has
not been blinded by Lady Olivia's fascinating manners; but that you are
strongly influenced in her favour by that candour, with which she has
revealed to you all her faults. The value of candour in individuals
should be measured by their sensibility to shame. When a woman throws
off all restraint, and then desires me to admire her candour, I am
astonished only at her assurance. Do not be the dupe of such candour.
Lady Olivia avows a criminal passion, yet you say that you have no
doubts of her innocence. The persuasion of your unsuspecting heart is no
argument: when you give me any proofs in her favour, I shall pay them
all due attention. In the meantime I have given you my opinion of those
ladies who place themselves in the most perilous situations, and then
expect you to believe them safe.
Olivia's professions of regard for you are indeed enthusiastic. She
tells you, that "_your power is unlimited over her heart and
understanding, that your friendship would be to her one of the greatest
of earthly blessings_." May be so--but I cannot wish you to be her
friend. With whatever confidence she makes the assertion, do not believe
that she has a heart capable of feeling the value of yours. These
sentimental, unprincipled women make the worst friends in the world. We
are often told that, "poor creatures! they do nobody any harm but
themselves;" but in society it is scarcely possible for a woman to do
harm to herself without doing harm to others; all her connexions must
be involved in the consequences of her imprudence. Besides, what
confidence can you repose in them? If you should happen to be an
obstacle in the way of any of their fancies, do you think that they will
respect you or your interest, when they have not scrupled to sacrifice
their own to the gratification of their passions? Do you think that the
gossamer of sentiment will restrain those whom the strong chains of
prudence could not hold?
O! my dearest child, forcibly as these arguments carry conviction to my
mind, I dread lest your compassionate, generous temper should prevent
their reaching your understanding. Then let me conjure you, by all the
respect which you have ever shown for your mother's opinions, by all
that you hold dear or sacred, beware of forming an intimacy with an
unprincipled woman. Believe me to be
Your truly affectionate mother,
Letter vij.
_Leonora to her mother._
No daughter ever felt more respect for the opinions of a parent than I
do for yours, my dearest mother; but you have never, even from
childhood, required from me a blind submission--you have always
encouraged me to desire conviction. And now, when the happiness of
another is at stake, you will forgive me if I am less disposed to yield
than I should be, I hope, if my own interest or taste were alone
concerned.
You ask me what proofs I have of Lady Olivia's innocence. Believe me, I
have such as are convincing to my unbiassed judgment, and such as would
be sufficient to satisfy all your doubts, were I at liberty to lay the
whole truth before you. But even to exculpate herself, Olivia will not
ruin in your opinion her husband, of whom you imagine that she has no
reason to complain. I, who know how anxious she is to obtain your
esteem, can appreciate the sacrifice that she makes; and in this
instance, as in many others, I admire her magnanimity; it is equal to
her candour, for which she is entitled to praise even by your own
principles, dear mother: since, far from having _thrown off all
restraint_, she is exquisitely susceptible of shame.
As to her understanding--have no persons of great talents ever been
unfortunate? Frequently we see that they have not been able, by all
their efforts and all their powers, to remedy the defects in the
characters and tempers of those with whom they have unhappily been
connected. Olivia married very young, and was unfortunately mistaken in
her choice of a husband: on that subject I can only deplore her error
and its consequences: but as to her disagreements with her own family, I
do not think her to blame. For the mistakes we make in the choice of
lovers or friends we may be answerable, but we cannot be responsible for
the faults of the relations who are given to us by nature. If we do not
please them, it may be our misfortune; it is not necessarily our fault.
I cannot be more explicit, without betraying Lady Olivia's confidence,
and implicating others in defending her.
With respect to that attachment of which you speak with so much just
severity, she has given me the strongest assurances that she will do
everything in her power to conquer it. Absence, you know, is the first
and the most difficult step, and this she has taken. Her course of
reading displeases you: I cannot defend it: but I am persuaded that it
is not a proof of her taste being vitiated. Many people read ordinary
novels as others take snuff, merely from habit, from the want of petty
excitation; and not, as you suppose, from the want of exorbitant or
improper stimulus. Those who are unhappy have recourse to any trifling
amusement that can change the course of their thoughts. I do not justify
Olivia for having chosen such _comforters_ as certain novels, but I pity
her and impute this choice to want of fortitude, not to depravity of
taste. Before she married, a strict injunction was laid upon her not to
read any book that was called a novel: this raised in her mind a sort of
perverse curiosity. By making any books or opinions contraband, the
desire to read and circulate them is increased; bad principles are
consequently smuggled into families, and being kept secret, can never be
subject to fair examination. I think it must be advantageous to the
right side of any question, that all which can be said against it should
be openly heard, that it may be answered. I do not
"Hate when vice can bolt her arguments;"
for I know that virtue has a tongue to answer her. The more vice repeats
her assertions, the better; because when familiarized, their boldness
will not astound the understanding, and the charm of novelty will not be
mistaken for the power of truth. We may observe, that the admiration for
the class of writers to whom you allude, though violent in its
commencement, has abated since they have been more known; and numbers,
who began with rapture, have ended with disgust. Person of vivacious
imaginations, like Olivia, may be caught at first view by whatever has
the appearance of grandeur or sublimity; but if time be allowed for
examination, they will infallibly detect the disproportions, and these
will ever afterwards shock their taste: if you will not allow leisure
for comparison--if you say, do not look at such strange objects, the
obedient eyes may turn aside, but the rebel imagination pictures
something a thousand times more wonderful and charming than the reality.
I will venture to predict, that Olivia will soon be tired of the species
of novels which she now admires, and that, once surfeited with these
books, and convinced of their pernicious effects, she will never relapse
into the practice of novel reading.
As to her taste for metaphysical books----Dear mother, I am very daring
to differ with you in so many points; but permit me to say, that I do
not agree with you in detesting metaphysics. People may lose themselves
in that labyrinth; but why should they meet with vice in the midst of
it? The characters of a moralist, a practical moralist, and a
metaphysician, are not incompatible, as we may see in many amiable and
illustrious examples. To examine human motives, and the nature of the
human mind, is not to destroy the power of virtue, or to increase the
influence of vice. The chemist, after analysing certain substances, and
after discovering their constituent parts, can lay aside all that is
heterogeneous, and recompound the substance in a purer state. From
analogy we might infer, that the motives of metaphysicians ought to be
purer than those of the vulgar and ignorant. To discover the art of
converting base into noble passions, or to obtain a universal remedy for
all mental diseases, is perhaps beyond the power of metaphysicians; but
in the pursuit useful discoveries may be made.
As to Olivia's letters--I am sorry I sent them to you; for I see that
they have lowered, instead of raising her in your opinion. But if you
criticise letters, written in openness and confidence of heart to a
private friend, as if they were set before the tribunal of the public,
you are--may I say it?--not only severe, but unjust; for you try and
condemn the subjects of one country by the laws of another.
Dearest mother, be half as indulgent to Olivia as you are to me: indeed
you are prejudiced against her, and because you see some faults, you
think her whole character vicious. But would you cut down a fine tree
because a leaf is withered, or because the canker-worm has eaten into
the bud? Even if a main branch were decayed, are there not remedies
which, skilfully applied, can save the tree from destruction, and
perhaps restore it to its pristine beauty?
And now, having exhausted all my allusions, all my arguments, and all my
little stock of eloquence, I must come to a plain matter of fact--
Before I received your letter I had invited Lady Olivia to spend some
time at L---- Castle. I fear that you will blame my precipitation, and I
reproach myself for it, because I know it will give you pain. However,
though you will think me imprudent, I am certain you would rather that I
were imprudent than unjust. I have defended Olivia from what I believe
to be unmerited censure; I have invited her to my house; she has
accepted my proffered kindness; to withdraw it afterwards would be doing
her irreparable injury: it would confirm all that the world can suspect:
it would be saying to the censorious--I am convinced that you are right,
and I deliver your victim up to you.
Thus I should betray the person whom I undertook to defend: her
confidence in me, her having but for a moment accepted my protection,
would be her ruin. I could not act in so base a manner.
Fear nothing for me, my best, but too anxious friend. I may do Lady
Olivia some good; she can do me no harm. She may learn the principles
which you have taught me; I can never catch from her any tastes or
habits which you would disapprove. As to the rest, I hazard little or
nothing. The hereditary credit which I enjoy in my maternal right
enables me to assist others without injuring myself.
Your affectionate daughter,
Leonora.
Letter viij.
_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._
My dearest Child,