To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
March 1.
I was mistaken, my dear; not a word of love between your brother and
Emily, as she positively assures me; something very tender has passed,
I am convinced, notwithstanding, for she blushes more than ever when he
approaches, and there is a certain softness in his voice when he
addresses her, which cannot escape a person of my penetration.
Do you know, my dear Lucy, that there is a little impertinent girl
here, a Mademoiselle Clairaut, who, on the meer merit of features and
complexion, sets up for being as handsome as Emily and me?
If beauty, as I will take the liberty to assert, is given us for the
purpose of pleasing, she who pleases most, that is to say, she who
excites the most passion, is to all intents and purposes the most
beautiful woman; and, in this case, I am inclined to believe your
little Bell stands pretty high on the roll of beauty; the men's _eyes_
may perhaps _say_ she is handsome, but their _hearts feel_
that I am so.
There is, in general, nothing so insipid, so uninteresting, as a
beauty; which those men experience to their cost, who chuse from
vanity, not inclination. I remember Sir Charles Herbert, a Captain in
the same regiment with my father, who determined to marry Miss Raymond
before he saw her, merely because he had been told she was a celebrated
beauty, though she was never known to have inspired a real passion: he
saw her, not with his own eyes, but those of the public, took her
charms on trust; and, till he was her husband, never found out she was
not his taste; a secret, however, of some little importance to his
happiness.
I have, however, known some beauties who had a right to please; that
is, who had a mixture of that invisible charm, that nameless grace
which by no means depends on beauty, and which strikes the heart in a
moment; but my first aversion is your _fine women_: don't you
think _a fine woman_ a detestable creature, Lucy? I do: they are
vastly well to _fill_ public places; but as to the heart--Heavens,
my dear! yet there are men, I suppose, to be found, who have a taste
for the great sublime in beauty.
Men are vastly foolish, my dear; very few of them have spirit to
think for themselves; there are a thousand Sir Charles Herberts: I
have seen some of them weak enough to decline marrying the woman on
earth most pleasing to themselves, because not thought handsome by the
generality of their companions.
Women are above this folly, and therefore chuse much oftener from
affection than men. We are a thousand times wiser, Lucy, than these
important beings, these mighty lords,
"Who strut and fret their hour upon the stage;"
and, instead of playing the part in life which nature dictates to
their reason and their hearts, act a borrowed one at the will of
others.