passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. Many are so unfortunate as to be
inclined to each of the three in turn: it is necessary therefore to
watch the bent of our nature, and to apply the remedies proper for the
infirmity to which we are most liable. With regard to the first, it is
so injurious to society, and so odious in itself, especially in the
female character, that one would think shame alone would be sufficient
to preserve a young woman from giving way to it: for it is as unbecoming
her character to be betrayed into ill-behaviour by _passion_, as by
_intoxication_, and she ought to be ashamed of the one as much as of the
other. Gentleness, meekness, and patience, are her peculiar
distinctions; and an enraged woman is one of the most disgusting sights
in nature.
It is plain, from experience, that the most passionate people can
command themselves, when they have a motive sufficiently strong--such as
the presence of those they fear, or to whom they particularly desire to
recommend themselves; it is therefore no excuse to persons, whom you
have injured by unkind reproaches, and unjust aspersions, to tell them
you was in a passion; the allowing yourself to speak to them in a
passion is a proof of an insolent disrespect, which the meanest of your
fellow-creatures would have a right to resent. When once you find
yourself heated so far as to desire to say what you know would be
provoking and wounding to another, you should immediately resolve either
to be silent, or to quit the room, rather than give utterance to any
thing dictated by so bad an inclination. Be assured, you are then unfit
to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason from others. It is therefore
your part to retire from such an occasion of sin; and wait till you are
cool, before you presume to judge of what has passed. By accustoming
yourself thus to conquer and disappoint your anger, you will, by
degrees, find it grow weak and manageable, so as to leave your reason at
liberty. You will be able to restrain your tongue from evil, and your
looks and gestures from all expressions of violence and ill-will. Pride,
which produces so many evils in the human mind, is the great source of
passion. Whoever cultivates in himself a proper humility, a due sense of
his own faults and insufficiencies, and a due respect for others, will
find but small temptation to violent or unreasonable anger.
In the case of real injuries, which justify and call for resentment,
there is a noble and generous kind of anger, a proper and necessary part
of our nature, which has nothing in it sinful or degrading. I would not
wish you insensible to this; for the person, who feels not an injury,
must be incapable of being properly affected by benefits. With those,
who treat you ill without provocation, you ought to maintain your own
dignity. But, in order to do this, whilst you show a sense of their
improper behaviour, you must preserve calmness, and even good-breeding;
and thereby convince them of the impotence as well as injustice of
their malice. You must also weigh every circumstance with candour and
charity, and consider whether your showing the resentment deserved may
not produce ill consequences to innocent persons--as is almost always
the case in family quarrels; and whether it may not occasion the breach
of some duty, or necessary connection, to which you ought to sacrifice
even your just resentments. Above all things, take care that a
particular offence to you does not make you unjust to the general
character of the offending person. Generous anger does not preclude
esteem for whatever is really estimable, nor does it destroy good-will
to the person of its object: it even inspires the desire of overcoming
him by benefits, and wishes to inflict no other punishment than the
regret of having injured one who deserved his kindness: it is always
placable, and ready to be reconciled, as soon as the offender is
convinced of his error; nor can any subsequent injury provoke it to
recur to past disobligations, which had been once forgiven. But it is
perhaps unnecessary to give rules for this case. The consciousness of
injured innocence naturally produces dignity, and usually prevents
excess of anger. Our passion is most unruly, when we are conscious of
blame, and when we apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to
contempt. Where we know we have been wrong, the least injustice in the
degree of blame imputed to us, excites our bitterest resentment; but,
where we know ourselves faultless, the sharpest accusation excites pity
or contempt, rather than rage. Whenever, therefore, you feel yourself
very angry, suspect yourself to be in the wrong, and resolve to stand
the decision of your own conscience before you cast upon another the
punishment, which is perhaps due to yourself. This self-examination will
at least give you time to cool, and, if you are just, will dispose you
to balance your own wrong with that of your antagonist, and to settle
the account with him on equal terms.
Peevishness, though not so violent and fatal in its immediate effects,
is still more unamiable than passion, and, if possible, more destructive
of happiness, inasmuch as it operates more continually. Though the
fretful man injures us less, he disgusts us more than the passionate
one; because he betrays a low and little mind, intent on trifles, and
engrossed by a paltry self-love, which knows not how to bear the very
apprehension of any inconvenience. It is self-love then, which we must
combat, when we find ourselves assaulted by this infirmity; and, by
voluntarily induring inconveniences, we shall habituate ourselves to
bear them with ease and good-humour, when occasioned by others. Perhaps
this is the best kind of religious mortification; as the chief end of
denying ourselves any innocent indulgences, must be to acquire a habit
of command over our passions and inclinations, particularly such as are
likely to lead us into evil. Another method of conquering this enemy, is
to abstract our minds from that attention to trifling circumstances,
which usually creates this uneasiness. Those, who are engaged in high
and important pursuits, are very little affected by small
inconveniences. The man, whose head is full of studious thought, or
whose heart is full of care, will eat his dinner without knowing whether
it was well or ill dressed, or whether it was served punctually at the
hour or not: and though absence from the common things of life is far
from desirable--especially in a woman--yet too minute and anxious an
attention to them seldom fails to produce a teasing, mean, and fretful
disposition. I would therefore wish your mind to have always some object
in pursuit worthy of it, that it may not be engrossed by such as are in
themselves scarce worth a moment's anxiety. It is chiefly in the decline
of life, when amusements fail, and when the more importunate passions
subside, that this infirmity is observed to grow upon us; and perhaps it
will seldom fail to do so, unless carefully watched, and counteracted by
reason. We must then endeavour to substitute some pursuits in the place
of those, which can only engage us in the beginning of our course. The
pursuit of glory and happiness in another life, by every means of
improving and exalting our own minds, becomes more and more interesting
to us, the nearer we draw to the end of all sublunary enjoyments.
Reading, reflection, rational conversation, and, above all, conversing
with God, by prayer and meditation, may preserve us from taking that
anxious interest in the little comforts and conveniences of our
remaining days, which usually gives birth to so much fretfulness in old
people. But though the aged and infirm are most liable to this evil--and
they alone are to be pitied for it--yet we sometimes see the young, the
healthy, and those who enjoy most outward blessings, inexcusably guilty
of it. The smallest disappointment in pleasure, or difficulty in the
most trifling employment, will put wilful young people out of temper,
and their very amusements frequently become sources of vexation and
peevishness. How often have I seen a girl, preparing for a ball, or for
some other public appearance--unable to satisfy her own vanity--fret
over every ornament she put on, quarrel with her maid, with her clothes,
her hair; and growing still more unlovely as she grew more cross, be
ready to fight with her looking-glass for not making her as handsome as
she wished to be! She did not consider, that the traces of this
ill-humour on her countenance would be a greater disadvantage to her
appearance than any defect in her dress, or even than the plainest
features enlivened by joy and good-humour. There is a degree of
resignation necessary even to the enjoyment of pleasure: we must be
ready and willing to give up some part of what we could wish for, before
we can enjoy that which is indulged to us. I have no doubt that she, who
frets all the while she is dressing for an assembly, will suffer still
greater uneasiness when she is there. The same craving restless vanity
will there endure a thousand mortifications, which, in the midst of
seeming pleasure, will secretly corrode her heart; whilst the meek and
humble generally find more gratification than they expected, and return
home pleased and enlivened from every scene of amusement, though they
could have staid away from it with perfect ease and contentment.
Sullenness, or obstinacy, is perhaps a worse fault of temper than either
of the former, and, if indulged, may end in the most fatal extremes of
stubborn melancholy, malice, and revenge. The resentment which, instead
of being expressed, is nursed in secret, and continually aggravated by
the imagination, will, in time, become the ruling passion; and then, how
horrible must be his case, whose kind and pleasurable affections are all
swallowed up by the tormenting as well as detestable sentiments of
hatred and revenge? "[25]Admonish thy friend, peradventure he hath not
done it: or, if he hath, that he do it no more.--Admonish thy friend,
peradventure he hath not said it: or, if he hath, that he speak it not
again." Brood not over a resentment which perhaps was at first
ill-grounded, and which is undoubtedly heightened by an heated
imagination. But when you have first subdued your own temper, so as to
be able to speak calmly, reasonably, and kindly, then expostulate with
the person you suppose to be in fault--hear what she has to say; and
either reconcile yourself to her, or quiet your mind under the injury by
the principle of Christian charity. But, if it should appear that you
yourself have been most to blame, or if you have been in an error,
acknowledge it fairly and handsomely; if you feel any reluctance to do
so, be certain that it arises from pride, to conquer which is an
absolute duty. "A soft answer turneth away wrath," and a generous
confession oftentimes more than atones for the fault which requires it.
Truth and justice demand, that we should acknowledge conviction, as soon
as we feel it, and not maintain an erroneous opinion, or justify a wrong
conduct, merely from the false shame of confessing our past ignorance. A
false shame it undoubtedly is, and as impolitic as unjust, since your
error is already seen by those who endeavour to set you right; but your
conviction, and the candour and generosity of owning it freely, may
still be an honour to you, and would greatly recommend you to the person
with whom you disputed. With a disposition strongly inclined to
sullenness or obstinacy, this must be a very painful exertion; and to
make a perfect conquest over yourself at once may perhaps appear
impracticable, whilst the zeal of self-justification, and the abhorrence
of blame, are strong upon you. But, if you are so unhappy as to yield to
your infirmity, at one time, do not let this discourage you from
renewing your efforts. Your mind will gain strength from the contest,
and your internal enemy will by degrees be forced to give ground. Be not
afraid to revive the subject, as soon as you find yourself able to
subdue your temper; and then frankly lay open the conflict you sustained
at the time: by this you will make all the amends in your power for your
fault, and will certainly change the disgust you have given into pity at
least, if not admiration. Nothing is more endearing than such a
confession; and you will find such a satisfaction in your own
consciousness, and in the renewed tenderness and esteem you will gain
from the person concerned, that your task for the future will be made
more easy, and your reluctance to be convinced will on every occasion
grow less and less.
The love of truth, and a real desire of improvement, ought to be the
only motives of argumentation; and, where these are sincere, no
difficulty can be made of embracing the truth, as soon as it is
perceived. But, in fact, people oftener dispute from vanity and pride,
which makes it a grievous mortification to allow that we are the wiser
for what we have heard from another. To receive advice, reproof, and
instruction, properly, is the surest sign of a sincere and humble heart;
and shows a greatness of mind, which commands our respect and reverence,
while it appears so willingly to yield to us the superiority.
Observe, notwithstanding, that I do not wish you to hear of your faults
without pain: Such an indifference would afford small hopes of
amendment. Shame and remorse are the first steps to true repentance; yet
we should be willing to bear this pain, and thankful to the kind hand
that inflicts it for our good. Nor must we, by sullen silence under it,
leave our kind physician in doubt, whether the operation has taken
effect or not, or whether it has not added another malady, instead of
curing the first. You must consider that those who tell you of your
faults, if they do it from motives of kindness, and not of malice, exert
their friendship in a painful office, which must have cost them as great
an effort as it can be to you to acknowledge the service; and, if you
refuse this encouragement, you cannot expect that any one, who is not
absolutely obliged to it by duty, will a second time undertake such an
ill-requited trouble. What a loss would this be to yourself!--How
difficult would be our progress to that degree of perfection, which is
necessary to our happiness, was it not for the assistance we receive
from each other!--This certainly is one of the means of grace held out
to us by our merciful Judge, and, if we reject it, we are answerable for
all the miscarriages we may fall into for want of it.
I know not, whether that strange caprice, that inequality of taste and
behaviour, so commonly attributed to our sex, may be properly called a
fault of temper,--as it seems not to be connected with, or arising from,
our animal frame,--but to be rather the fruit of our own
self-indulgence, degenerating by degrees into such a wantonness of will
as knows not how to please itself. When, instead of regulating our
actions by reason and principle, we suffer ourselves to be guided by
every slight and momentary impulse of inclination, we shall, doubtless,
appear so variable and inconstant, that nobody can guess, by our
behaviour to day, what may be expected from us to-morrow; nor can we
ourselves tell, whether what we delighted in a week ago will now afford
us the least degree of pleasure. It is in vain for others to attempt to
please us--we cannot please ourselves, though all we could wish for
waits our choice: and thus does a capricious woman become "sick of
herself, through very selfishness:" And, when this is the case, it is
easy to judge how sick others must be of her, and how contemptible and
disgusting she must appear. This wretched state is the usual consequence
of power and flattery. May my dear child never meet with the temptation
of that excessive and ill-judged indulgence from a husband, which she
has happily escaped from her parents, and which seldom fails to reduce
women to the miserable condition of a humoured child, always unhappy
from having nobody's will to study but its own! The insolence of such
demands for yourself, and such disregard to the choice and inclinations
of others, can seldom fail to make you as many enemies as there are
persons obliged to bear with your humours; whilst a compliant,
reasonable, and contented disposition, would render you happy in
yourself, and beloved by all your companions; particularly by those, who
live constantly with you; and, of what consequence this is to your
happiness, a moment's reflection will convince you. Family friendships
are the friendships made for us, if I may so speak, by God himself. With
the kindest intentions, he has knit the bands of family love, by
indispensable duties; and wretched are they who have burst them asunder
by violence and ill-will, or worn them out by constant little
disobligations, and by the want of that attention to please, which the
presence of a stranger always inspires, but which is so often shamefully
neglected towards those, whom it is most our duty and interest to
please. May you, my dear, be wise enough to see that every faculty of
entertainment, every engaging qualification, which you possess, is
exerted to the best advantage for those, whose love is of most
importance to you--for those who live under the same roof, and with whom
you are connected for life, either by the ties of blood, or by the still
more sacred obligations of a voluntary engagement.
To make you the delight and darling of your family, something more is
required than barely to be exempt from ill-temper and troublesome
humours. The sincere and genuine smiles of complacency and love must
adorn your countenance. That ready compliance, that alertness to assist
and oblige, which demonstrates true affection, must animate your
behaviour, and endear your most common action. Politeness must accompany
your greatest familiarities, and restrain you from every thing that is
really offensive, or which can give a moment's unnecessary pain.
Conversation, which is so apt to grow dull and insipid in families, nay,
in some to be almost wholly laid aside, must be cultivated with the
frankness and openness of friendship, and by the mutual communication of
whatever may conduce to the improvement or innocent entertainment of
each other.
Reading, whether apart or in common, will furnish useful and pleasing
subjects; and the sprightliness of youth will naturally inspire harmless
mirth and native humour, if encouraged by a mutual desire of diverting
each other, and making the hours pass agreeably in your own house: every
amusement that offers will be heightened by the participation of these
dear companions, and by talking over every incident together and every
object of pleasure. If you have any acquired talent of entertainment,
such as music, painting, or the like, your own family are those before
whom you should most wish to excel, and for whom you should always be
ready to exert yourself; not suffering the accomplishments which you
have gained, perhaps by their means, and at their expense, to lie
dormant, till the arrival of a stranger gives you spirit in the
performance. Where this last is the case, you may be sure vanity is the
only motive of the exertion: a stranger will praise you more: but how
little sensibility has that heart which is not more gratified by the
silent pleasure painted on the countenance of a partial parent, or of an
affectionate brother, than by the empty compliment of a visitor, who is
perhaps inwardly more disposed to criticise and ridicule than to admire
you!
I have been longer in this letter than I intended, yet it is with
difficulty I can quit the subject, because I think it is seldom
sufficiently insisted on, either in books or in sermons; and because
there are many persons weak enough to believe themselves in a safe and
innocent course of life, whilst they are daily harassing every body
about them by their vexatious humours. But you will, I hope, constantly
bear in mind, that you can never treat a fellow-creature unkindly,
without offending the kind Creator and Father of all; and that you can
no way render yourself so acceptable to him, as by studying to promote
the happiness of others, in every instance, small as well as great. The
favour of God, and the love of your companions, will surely be deemed
rewards sufficient to animate your most fervent endeavours; yet this is
not all: the disposition of mind, which I would recommend, is its own
reward, and is in itself essential to happiness. Cultivate it therefore,
my dear child, with your utmost diligence; and watch the symptoms of
ill-temper, as they rise, with a firm resolution to conquer them, before
they are even perceived by any other person. In every such inward
conflict, call upon our Maker, to assist the feeble nature he hath given
you, and sacrifice to _Him_ every feeling that would tempt you to
disobedience: so will you at length attain the true Christian meekness,
which is blessed in the sight of God and man; "which has the promise of
this life as well as of that which is to come." Then will you pity, in
others, those infirmities, which you have conquered in yourself; and
will think yourself as much bound to assist, by your patience and
gentleness, those who are so unhappy as to be under the dominion of evil
passions, as you are to impart a share of your riches to the poor and
miserable.
Adieu, my dearest.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] Ecclus. xix. 13.
LETTER VII.
ON ECONOMY.
_MY DEAREST NIECE_,
ECONOMY is so important a part of a woman's character, so necessary to
her own happiness, and so essential to her performing properly the
duties of a wife and of a mother, that it ought to have the precedence
of all other accomplishments, and take its rank next to the first duties
of life. It is, moreover, an _art_ as well as a _virtue_; and many
well-meaning persons, from ignorance, or from inconsideration, are
strangely deficient in it. Indeed it is too often wholly neglected in a
young woman's education; and she is sent from her father's house to
govern a family, without the least degree of that knowledge which should
qualify her for it: this is the source of much inconvenience; for though
experience and attention may supply, by degrees, the want of
instruction, yet this requires time: the family in the meantime may get
into habits, which are very difficult to alter; and, what is worse, the
husband's opinion of his wife's incapacity may be fixed too strongly to
suffer him ever to think justly of her gradual improvements. I would
therefore earnestly advise you to make use of every opportunity you can
find, for the laying in some store of knowledge on this subject, before
you are called upon to the practice; by observing what passes before
you--by consulting prudent and experienced mistresses of families--and
by entering in a book a memorandum of every new piece of intelligence
you acquire; you may afterwards compare these with more mature
observations, and you can make additions and corrections, as you see
occasion. I hope it will not be long before your mother entrusts you
with some part, at least, of the management of your father's house.
Whilst you are under her eye, your ignorance cannot do much harm, though
the relief to her at first may not be near so considerable as the
benefit to yourself.
Economy consists of so many branches, some of which descend to such
minutenesses, that it is impossible for me in writing to give you
particular directions. The rude outlines may be perhaps described, and I
shall be happy if I can furnish you with any hint that may hereafter be
usefully employed.