Mrs. M. DEVERELL's LETTERS TO CANDIDUS, ON LEARNED AND GOOD LADIES.

TO FULVIA: ON THE TRANQUIL PLEASURE OF RURAL FELICITY.

I HAVE left the busy town, and all its tumultuous joys, for several weeks past, to visit some very worthy friends, who live a retired life in the humble vale of Calmly. That you have not heard from me since I have been there, is owing to my incapacity of entertaining a lady of your gaiety of temper, with volatile news from a village, where amusements seldom rise higher than a mountebank parade, or the rural felicity of a May-pole. No doubt but you will rally me for vul­garity of taste, when I tell you I was a [Page 56] spectator of these rustic diversions. But don't be severe on me, for you know my veneration for antiquity; and I can plead superiors in rank, who attended the festivities of a May-day, long before your humble servant was in being.^* My being accidental­ly here at this time was a fortunate circumstance, as it gave the inhabi­tants (of the highest class) an oppor­tunity to pay their respect to their worthy priest, by inviting his guest to their May-pole. I knew the compli­ment paid me, meant as much respect as a ticket from a duchess to a birth-night ball; and as such I received the simplicity of peasants with grateful sen­sibility. I excused myself from being near the centre of entertainment, as both my friends at the vicarage were invalids, for which reason I confined [Page 57] myself to the limits of their paddock. But though I could not, with proprie­ty, share the honors of the day, in dan­cing round the May-pole, I was near enough stationed to be happy in seeing much innocent joy diffused over the face of the harmless cottagers, without any luxurious expence. How cheaply may pleasure be procured, where the mind is not tainted with ambition or extravagance! A ploughman's whistle, or a milk maid's song, sometimes con­veys as much music as those Italian notes, for which you often pay a very high price at the opera. But then they would not have the force of no­velty, which has a most powerful charm for Fulvia.

Fine weather, and this gay season of the year, when nature wantons in her prime, I suppose, contributed to the chearfulness of this rural assembly. [Page 58] However, the delight so apparent in their aspect, communicated itself to my mind; and it was equal, if not su­perior, to any I ever felt, when I have been a spectator of the proud parade which attends the king when he goes to the parliament house, or the glare and festivity that accompanies a lord mayor's show. These pageants of a day wear off the mind with the exhi­bitions of it, or else leave it to reflect on the caprices of fortune: For you know, the followers of these triumphal appearances are often divided into parties of huzzaers, or hissers, with­out knowing (perhaps) for why, or what; but as one leads the other, they form a clamor, which majesty it­self cannot silence. ‘"What king so strong, can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?"’

That monarch never can, who is [Page 59] giddy with unbridled power, and thirst of unlimited sway; who does not use his prerogative of human greatness for the good of his subjects, and depend­ents, whether in church or state, and bounds his ambition by this reason.

But I must not moralize with you, Fulvia, who, I am sure, will not envy me the rustic enjoyment of plebeian sports, whilst you can range unrival­led in Kensington gardens, and the park; and, at other times, display yourself in all the pride of beauty, glittering with jewels in a side-box, the masquerade, or Ranelagh, with all your surrounding beau attendants: These inflate your mind with empty adulation, and make you think you are something above the human spe­cies, and incapable of change, pain, or the innovations of age and disease. Alas! what is there our weak sex will not believe, when we are compli­mented [Page 60] with the attributes of a deity? Pleasure we still pursue in every delu­sive form, though when it has run its wild career, it generally leaves us near the same ground on which it first found us; seldom on better.

But these, you will tell me, "are cold, phlegmatic sentiments, to which you will not attempt to lower your i­deas: They can only be adopted by some country parson's wife, or forsa­ken old maid, who never breathed the fragrant air of St. James's, and can have no perception of the glorious con­quest of subduing hearts.

Rustic souls in the country may dul­ly attend their dinner and prayers, or be pleased with the stupid amusement of books and work, but such frozen hearts can have no more adequate idea [Page 61] of the homage paid to beauty, than the deaf can be a judge of harmony, the blind of symmetry, or the prude of politeness." Such being the lan­guage of your heart, I am afraid I should have but ill success, were I to invite you to leave the beau-monde party, (who are daily offering up the incense of flattery to your greedy va­nity) and, for variety's sake, wish you to try what the country will afford: A different entertainment I'll assure you, as you have never been out of the smoke of London, I will try to give you a specimen of what delights me here.

My reverend friend, in whose hos­pitable mansion I now am, performs all the duties of his function, with great regularity and exemplary piety. He has long since renounced popular applause, for the solid satisfactions of [Page 62] duty. His congregation highly reve­rence him in the pulpit, and love and esteem him out of it. With gentle remonstrance he silences any little dis­putes that may arise amongst his pa­rishioners, and nips contention in the bud, betwixt dissenting parties. In many of the exigencies that occur in life, this worthy man has shewn him­self the lawyer as well as the divine: and has been thought the former in courts of judicature, where he has pleaded the cause of the widow and orphan with resistless energy, without fee or reward, when he saw his help in the gate.

I often enjoy the luxury of mental food, when I go by invitation) to my friend's library, not with remnants of Latin to puzzle the vicar, but with questions relative to opinions, books, or authors. These my preceptor im­mediately condescends to answer, and [Page 63] conveys instruction to his female pupil, without ostentation of learning, or se­verity of reproof. Most generously my friend points our some latent flaw in my conduct or sentiments, that was before unknown to myself; and by some amicable opposition in argument, rectifies my judgment, by politely ma­king me sensible of my errors. The stream of conversation is generally turned into some improving or plea­sing channel, without degenerating in­to tittle-tattle, or dwelling on the faults of the absent; the errors of whom, this society think it prudent to forget, and seldom allow themselves to make a comment on it. In other company, I have often observed with concern, scandal gives a zest to con­versation, and if one cannot dwell on that topic in modern visits, or enlarge on fashions, &c. &c. a ragout is want­ing to compleat the table. As I can­not [Page 64] always partake of this feast to o­thers with innocence to myself, nor stem its tide by reserve, I have often turned from it, and combated your railery on the occasion, with silent smiles, but not of approbation. To accept of an invitation to an enter­tainment reason condemns, is to me like being duped by that enchantress, whose bed was covered with fine linen, and strewed with roses, but thorns were planted in the pillow of reflecti­on.

But here it is far otherwise, the wan­ton never invited the libertine to come in and smell of her myrrh, cinnamon, &c. &c. with half the propriety that I again solicit you to come and regale your mental faculties, in this society at Calmly.—Believe me, Fulvia, it would strengthen your reason, and give a lasting polish (tho' not a modern one) to your manners. Try to conquer [Page 65] your prejudice to the country, for I know,

But I suppose you would think such a retirement like the valley and shadow of death, and enter into it with as much disgust and solemnity, as you would the convent of the Car­melites: But don't be afraid; I assure my gay friend, this mansion itself wears a chearful aspect; and the minds of the inhabitants are illumi­nated by that light, which is not hid to the world, but of manifest advan­tage to society. I am no favorer of monastic solitude, nor constrained de­votion. "Religion does not send her true votaries to cloisters, to add [Page 67] one crime to another, by retreat into a useless, and too often a discontented life; where uniform and chearful pi­ety cannot shew its light to the world, nor encourage others to tread the same footsteps by example."

Constantia, the vicar's wife, has re­fined sense, and a judicious taste, in most parts of ancient and modern li­terature, being mistress of the French tongue, and not ignorant of the Italian. Her husband often appeals to her judg­ment, in points of criticism, to strength­en his own: Yet, with all the advan­tage of a scholar in abstruse science, the modest Constantia is as humble as either of her maids; and as fearful of displaying her superior knowledge that way, as if she was to be fined for the acquisition. She well knows every branch of domestic oeconomy, and there she constantly shines with pecu­liar grace and dignity. Calm, steady [Page 68] wisdom, seems to direct every part of the compass in her line of duty, and all is prudently executed, without hur­ry or confusion.

The world, in general, have a very illiberal opinion of the conduct and manners of women, who are deemed learned, an epithet of frightful import! With it, we are looked on, by our own sex, as owls among the lesser birds; and, by the lords of the creation, as having a superficial, pragmatical know­ledge. But surely this is an error in judgment; for learning, properly u­sed, renders our sex much more suit­able companions to men of sense and literature, as well as better qualified to instruct their children, and save some expence in their education. That man must have a very contracted soul, who is jealous of prerogative, be­cause his wife happens to know some­thing beyond the government of her [Page 69] table. No such narrow minded jea­lousy reigns in the breast of this wor­thy divine. His and his Constantia's conduct to each other, gives me the highest opinion of the marriage state, in which this couple has lived above forty years, mutual, comforts to each other; and still their happiness seems increasing: For the God-like luxury of promoting each other's felicity, and doing good to society, is a bliss of that nature, that age cannot alter, nor cus­tom cloy.

Montaigne said justly, "that all external acquisitions receive colour and taste from the internal constituti­on." Thus the order of this house, the neatness of the garden, which con­tains every wholesome vegetable and pleasing flower, is an emblem of the order and tranquility of the owner's minds, were religious and social vir­tues [Page 70] were early cultivated, and have long diffused happiness all around them. Another thing, give me leave to observe, to their honor.

Strict oeconomy at home, enables my friends, with a very moderate for­tune, to be very charitable abroad. Constantia is as much a physician to the bodies, as her ecclesiastic is to the souls of his charge. Their superiors in rank are fond of visiting them, as they are sure of being received with chearful hospitality and good man­ners. We often observe, with delight, what a strong bias the law of nature and uncorrupted sense have, to in­fluence exemplary conduct, when we see the reciprocal tenderness that ani­mates this worthy pair, at this advan­ced period of life. I shall relieve you, by concluding their character with this wish, i. e. that their mutual happiness may, if possible, increase as long as [Page 71] life itself can be desirable to them. Long, very long, may it be, before the all conquering tyrant death, leaves the one a mournful survivor on earth, whilst the other leads the way to unfa­ding glory, and immutable felicity I

You may think, Fulvia, whilst my mind is thus happy in my present situ­ation and company, I shall not be in a hurry to leave Calmly, for those splen­did, fatiguing pleasures, which are so avariciously sought after by the great and vain, and of which I had a flight knowledge, during my stay in the me­tropolis.—Simplicity has a greater charm for your Philanthea. The pea­sants here, understanding I was lately come from London, when they saw me at church, looked on me as a being of some other world, of which they had only heard, and of consequence ima­gined strange things of pride, and I know not what, But a freedom of [Page 72] conversation with these rustics, has altered their opinion in my favor; and I presume to flatter myself, I have ma­ny real admirers among the gaping swains: For I appeal to you, if there is not truth in the words of that old song,

But leaving you to your superior con­quests in the high road of gallantry, I retire to the substantial pleasure of sincere friends and moral books, &c. which I hope will always afford rati­onal charms to the heart of your

P. S. Nothing but the performance of my promise to send you a long let­ter, as a demonstration of my exist­ence, and not being eat up with spleen [Page 73] or vapors, (which you foretold would be my fate in the country) should have induced me to have obtruded this dull epistle into the hands of a fine lady. Our minds and persons seem to be en­gaged in very different pursuits. I am a stranger to your ecstatic delights, nor have I a capacity to enjoy their refinements.

AN EPISTLE TO A DIVINE, ON THE UNITED MERITS OF THE PEN AND NEEDLE: In answer to some poetical lines on this subject.

P. S. Your pardon, Sir, when this you read,

ON MARRIAGE; ADDRESSED TO A SISTER.

To be a wife, Maria, such as I could wish you, requires more care, more temper, more conduct and solidity, than young women usually pretend to; therefore, to become a wife, it were necessary to become a new woman, in the most essential parts of her conduct. The very great dif­ference between the obsequiousness of a lover, and the authority of a husband, will set this in a proper light. To the mo­ment of your marriage it is your reign; your lover is proud to oblige you, watches your smiles, is obedient to your commands, anxious to please you, and careful to avoid every thing you disap­prove; but you have no sooner pro­nounced that harsh word obey, than [Page 83] you give up the reins, and it is his turn to rule so long as you live. Then it is that he, very justly expects an ad­equate return. He has served you with fidelity; and the laws of nature, the bonds of society, and the injuncti­ons of religion, now claim your grate­ful obedience—not to the mandates of a tyrant, but your chearful submission, and pleasing compliance to the soft dictates of a friend, a guardian, and protector. Yet this is so opposite to the vain pleasure of a rule, and so dif­ficult to be relished at the first, that many young girls, soon after their mar­riage, think themselves ill treated if they are ever so gently contradicted, and seem, by their perverse manner, to think eternal adoration their parti­cular due, and that their husbands ought to kneel like their lovers, and fawn like their lap dogs, to their lives end. This, however, so far from set­ting [Page 84] them in an advantageous point of view, or making them objects of envy or imitation, would only render the husband contemptible, the wife despi­cable. A quite contrary mode of be­haviour is absolutely necessary in every woman, who is ambitious of honor, or barely desirous of respect.

The moment a woman enters into the nuptial state, she should look up­on herself as a new being, or rather as being in a new kind of existence. She ought to look upon the trifles which before delighted her, with the same eyes as a man views the baubles of his infancy. The pleasing levities, and agreeable fooleries of a girl, are particularly disgusting in a wife, and very often receive a construction not at all redounding to her understand­ing or her modesty. The honor of a woman, and that of a soldier, is justly said to be equally delicate, it must not [Page 85] be trifled with; but the reputation of a wife exceeds both; it must not be injured, even in thought. Hence you may perceive, of what importance it is for a married woman, to attend to seeming trifles, both on account of the unfavorable impressions her husband may receive on her neglect, and what constructions a busy world may put on it. It is necessary for her to relin­quish, in a great measure, her young female acquaintance; at least, to be careful of going abroad with parties of them, except in the company of her husband; for you seldom know a knot of young females without their attendant beaux, whose politeness can­not refuse compliments to a lady mere­ly because she may be married; and these compliments may sometimes be impertinent, often misconstrued, and are generally improper for the ear of [Page 86] a married woman. But the relin­quishing of all male acquaintance is an indispensible point, where reputation is regarded, and intended to be pre­served. Innocent freedoms between the youthful of both sexes may be in­dulged, before matrimony, without the censure even of the most rigid cy­nic; but after that, they become cri­minal in the eye of the world, and can­not be suffered without a manifest inju­ry to the character of a virtuous wo­man.

ON THE TENDERNESS AND FORTITUDE OF THE FEMALE CHARACTER.

ALTHOUGH delicacy and ten­derness be the most amiable ornaments of the female character, and are those properties which more immediately insure our veneration, and command our love; yet is not fortitude in the hour of trial, nor foresight in that of danger, to be ex­empted from their other virtues.

The devotion of women towards the objects of their duty and affection, has been carried, in many cases, to such extremes of sensibility, that the weakness of their natures has been forgotten in the day of trouble, and when the body would have sunk had it not been supported by the vigor of the mind.

[Page 88] How often have these amiable exam­amples of parential affection and con­nubial love hung over the bed of sick­ness, for weary days and sleepless nights, without the sigh of impatience, or the murmer of complaint! The victims of sentiment, and absorbed by duty, how frequently do they testify their attach­ment, although, perhaps, to an unfeel­ing and ungrateful object, when their reward, alas! happens to be insulting language, and a breaking heart! How distressing is it to see them steal aside to wipe away, in private, those tears, which, if publicly encouraged to flow, would strike with contrition and shame the unworthy partaker of their cares! Tender to excess, when tenderness is a duty, and undaunted to the extreme, when courage becomes a virtue; we see them collected in danger, patient of cold, of hunger, and fatigue; con­tent to share the stony pillow or the [Page 89] noisome draught—to despise the how­ling wind, the beating rain, or the lathing surge—provided only they can soften misery, and prove their love.

In those trying and eventful mo­ments of life, when the balanced mind requires a counsellor to fix its resolu­tion, and a friend to point out, and to shew by example, the necessity of for­titude; how often have women exhi­bited, upon those occasions, instances of courage the most heroical, of resig­nation the most philosophical, and of a contempt of death, to be admired, at least, if not imitated! and of this position we have many vouchers in the annals of ancient history, as well as in the occurrences of our own.

The life and death of Portia, one of the most illustrious, as well as one of the most virtuous and accomplished of the Roman matrons, affords a ve­ry prominent, and, if I may be allow­ed [Page 90] the expression, a very striking ex­ample of the intrepid despondency of a female kind, which shares in, and is determined to partake of the misfor­tunes of disappointed and heroic love. The daughter of Cato, the most re­nowned of the senators of Rome, for austerities of manners and integrity of heart; she seemed to have derived from the paternal source the dignity of a more than female deportment in life, and of a more than manly forti­tude in death: and the means that she employed to rid herself of a painful existence were unprecedented for their application and effect. So soon as she heard of the overthrow and fate of her beloved Brutus, she swallowed the burning coal; as if the excess of her virtue could only be measured by the extremity of her suffering.

There are but few characters in hi­story that excite the feelings of the [Page 91] reader so much as the unhappy fortune of Agrippina, the illustrious widow of the great Germanicus. A peculiar tenderness of sentiment is always found to accompany her name; and the eye seems to droop with compassi­on, and the soul to melt with pity, whenever this virtuous and amiable mourner is brought to remembrance, and bears with a feeble step and a de­jected look, the urn that contains the ashes of her lamented husband: a sub­ject that has always been a particular favourite with the lovers of painting, and which will ever strike and interest the mind of sensibility, so long as the pen can immortalize, or the pencil charm.

The fortitude of Arria has been re­corded on marble, and adds, not in­deed an amiable example, but a stub­born proof, of the undaunted vigor of the female mind.

[Page 92] Paetus, the husband of Arria, was a favorite of Nero, and to whom he confided a secret of importance, with a strict injunction that he should not communicate to any person whatever, the nature of its contents; but so sin­gular an affection did he bear to his wife, that he could not help committing to her breast the particulars with which he was instructed; but he soon had occasion to repent of his indiscre­tion, and her life, as well as his own, became the victim of her imprudence and breach of trust.

While the one was lamenting in prison the abuse of confidence, and the weakness of love, and in moment­ary expectation of an ignominious and a painful death, the other found an opportunity to introduce herself into his presence, and with a dagger, which she had hitherto concealed, she inflict­ed in her breast a deadly wound, and [Page 93] then drawing out the fatal instrument, she presented the point to her hus­band, and accompanied it with these memorable words: "The point to me is soft, but the wound that it will occasion thee is truly painful"

This kind of fortitude, resulting from despair, is unamiable, if not dis­gusting in itself, and partakes more of ferocity, than of that patient firmness, and affecting resolution, of which ma­ny bright examples may be given in the English history.

When Prince Edward was wounded by a poison'd arrow from the hand of a Saracen, in the time of the crusades, his wife, the beauteous Eleanor, with signal love and pious hazard, applied her balmy lips to attract the venom it had left; an instance of affection and fortitude without a rival, and which danger could be only justified by the [Page 94] transcendant merit of the object for whom it was incurred.

The conduct of Margaret of Anjou, after the defeat of the Sixth Henry at the battle of Hexham, presents a no­ble instance of female heroism; as the field of combat was at too great a dis­tance from the Scottish territories to permit the Lancastrians to retreat with safety, and as the country abounded with mountains and woods, they were not only annoyed, but frequently cap­tured by the enemy. The Queen, in her flight with the prince, betrayed by the splendor of dress, was surrounded and taken by a party of banditti; but while they were disputing about the spoil, she made an escape, and had not proceeded far before she was again met by a single robber; when, collecting all her fortitude, she advanced towards him, saying, "Here, friend, protect thy prince." The man, struck with [Page 95] awe, instantly obeyed the mandate, and conducted his royal charge to a village adjoinining to the sea, from which they passed into the dominions of the Duke of Burgundy in Holland.

Many other instances of tenderness and fortitude, produced by instinctive or acquired love, might be adduced to the honor of the female character, in the exalted situations of life: and even in the more humble and neglected ha­bits of society, the affection and at­tachment of women, although sur­rounded by distress and misery, have not been without the excitements of applause and imatation; for virtue is often concealed by rags, and greatness of soul confined by want of action.

Do we not frequently observe these amiable ornaments of human nature, these refiners of our pleasures and a­menders of our hearts, whose tender­ness softens the rigor, and whose for­titude [Page 96] instructs us to bear the rebuffs of life;—do we not frequently see these angelic consolers watch over, with care and perseverence, the bodily suffering; and endeavor, by the elo­quence of tears, and the energy of words, to divert the merited afflic­tions of a worthless husband, a cruel parent, or a profligated and ungrateful son!

However painful the knowledge of infidelity and the abuse of tenderness may be, yet is there an unspeakable comfort to be derived from the wil­ling performance of moral duties, be the objects of them ever so undeserving of regard: and he who can affix a ge­neral censure of inhumanity, or want of sentiment, upon that sex, from whom our principal comforts in life are derived, ought to live forever ex­empted from those delights, which a rational intercourse of thought, and a [Page 97] confidence of mind, in an union of love and virtue, can only produce, substantiate, and ensure.

September, 1790

ON CONVERSATION: FROM MISS MORE'S ESSAYS.

IT has been advised, and by very re­spectable authorities too, that in conversation, women should carefully conceal any knowledge or learning they may happen to possess. I own with submission, that I do not see ei­ther the necessity or propriety of this advice. For if a young lady has that discretion and modesty, without which all knowledge is little worth, she will never make an ostentatious parade of it, because she will rather be intent on acquiring more, than on displaying what she has.

I am at a loss to know why a young female is instructed to exhibit, in the most advantageous point of view, her [Page 99] skill in music, her singing, dancing, taste in dress, and her acquaintance with the most fashionable games and amusements, while her piety is to be anxiously concealed, and her know­ledge affectedly disavowed, lest the for­mer should draw on her the appella­tion of an enthusiast, or the latter that of a pedant.

In regard to knowledge, why should she for ever affect to be on her guard, lest she should be found guilty of a small portion of it? She need be the less solicitous about it, as it seldom proves to be so very considerable as to excite astonishment or admiration: for, after all the acquisitions which her talents and her studies have ena­bled her to make, she will, generally speaking, be found to have less of what is called learning, than a common school boy.

It would be to the last degree pre­sumptuous [Page 100] and absurd, for a young woman to pretend to give the ton to the company—to interrupt the plea­sure of others, and her own opportu­nity of improvement, by talking when she ought to listen—or to introduce subjects out of the common road, in order to show her own wit, or to expose the want of it in others: but were the sex to be totally silent when any topic of literature happens to be discussed in their presence, conversati­on would lose much of its vivacity, and society would be robbed of one of its most interesting charms.

How easily and effectually may a well-bred woman promote the most useful and elegant conversation, almost without speaking a word! for the modes of speech are scarcely more va­riable than the modes of silence. The silence of listless ignorance, and the si­lence of the sparkling intelligence, are [Page 101] perhaps as separately marked, and as distinctly expressed, as the same feel­ings could have been by the most un­equivocal language. A woman, in a company where she has the least in­fluence, may promote any subject by a profound and invariable attention, which shows that she is pleased with it, and by an illuminated countenance, which proves she understands it. This obliging attention is the most flat­tering encouragement in the world to men of sense and letters, to continue any topic of instruction or entertain­ment they happen to be engaged in: it owed its introduction perhaps to ac­cident, the best introduction in the world for a subject of ingenuity, which, though it could not have been for­mally proposed without pedantry, may be continued with ease and good hu­mor; but which will be frequently and effectually stopped by the listlessness [Page 102] inattention, or whispering of silly girls, whose weariness betrays their igno­rance, and whose impatience exposes their ill-breeding. A polite man, however deeply interested in the sub­ject on which he is conversing, catches at the slightest hint to have done: a look is a sufficient intimation, and if a pretty simpleton, who sits near him, seems distraite, he puts an end to his remarks, to the great regret of the rea­sonable part of the company, who per­haps might have gained more improve­ment by the continuance of such a con­versation, than a week's reading would have yielded them: for it is such com­pany as this, that give an edge to each other's wit, "as iron sharpeneth iron."

That silence is one of the great arts of conversation is allowed by Cicero himself, who says, there is not only an art, but even an eloquence in it. And this opinion is confirmed by a great [Page 103] modern^* in the following little anec­dote from one of the ancients:

When many Grecian philosophers had a solemn meeting before the am­bassador of a foreign prince, each en­deavored to show his parts by the bril­liancy of his conversation, that the ambassador might have something to relate of the Grecian wisdom. One of them, offended, no doubt, at the loquacity of his companions, observed a profound silence; when the ambas­sador, turning to him, asked, ‘But what have you to say, that I may re­port it?’ He made this laconic, but very pointed reply: ‘Tell your king that you have found one a­mong the Greeks who knew how to be silent.’

There is a quality infinitely more intoxicating to the female mind than [Page 104] knowledge, this is wit, the most capti­vating, but the most dreaded of all ta­lents: the most dangerous to those who have it, and the most feared by those who have it not. Though it is against all the rules, yet I cannot find in my heart to abuse this charming quality. He who is grown rich with­out it, in safe and sober dulness, shuns it as a disease, and looks upon poverty as its invariable concomitant. The moralist disclaims against it, as the source of irregularity; and the frugal citizen dreads it more than bankrupt­cy itself; for he considers it as the pa­rent of extravagance and beggary. The cynic will ask of what use it is! Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet it is allowed as an object of innocent amusement and delightful recreation, A woman who possesses this quality, has received a most dangerous present, perhaps not [Page 105] less so than beauty itself: especially if it be not sheathed in a temper peculi­arly inoffensive, chastised by a most correct judgment, and restrained by more prudence than falls to the com­mon lot.

This talent is more likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for as wit is the immediate property of its possessor, and learning is only an ac­quaintance with the knowledge of other people, there is much more dan­ger, that we should be vain of what is our own, than of what we borrow.

But wit, like learning, is not near so common a thing as is imagined. Let not, therefore, a young lady be alarmed at the acuteness of her own wit, any more than at the abundance of her own knowledge. The great danger is, lest she should mistake pert­ness, flippancy, or imprudence, for [Page 106] this brilliant quality, or imagine she is witty, only because she is indiscreet. This is very frequently the case; and this makes the name of wit so cheap, while its real existence is so rare.

Lest the flattery of her acquaintance, or an overweening opinion of her own qualifications, should lead some vain and petulant girl into a false notion that she has a great deal of wit, when she has only a redundancy of animal spirits, she may not find it useless to attend to the definition of this quality, by one who had as large a portion of it, as most individuals could ever boast:

[Page 107] But those who actually possess this rare talent, cannot be too abstinent in the use of it. It often makes admi­rers, but it never makes friends; I mean, where it is the predominant fea­ture; and the unprotected and de­fenceless state of womanhood calls for friendship more than for admiration. She who does not desire friends, has a sordid and insensible soul; but she who is ambitious of making every man her admirer, has an invincible vanity, and a cold heart.

But to dwell only on the side of po­licy; a prudent woman, who has esta­blished the reputation of some genius, will sufficiently maintain it, without keeping her faculties always on the stretch to say good things. Nay, if re­putation alone be her object, she will gain a more solid one by her forbear­ance; as the wiser part of her acquain­tance will ascribe it to the right mo­tive [Page 108] which is, not that she has less wit, but that she has more judgment.

The fatal fondness for indulging a spirit of ridicule, and the injurious and irreparable consequences which some­times attend the too prompt reply, can never be too seriously or too severely condemned. Not to offend is the first step towards pleasing. To give pain is as much an offence against humani­ty, as against good breeding; and surely it is as well to abstain from an action because it is sinful, as because it is unpolite. In company, young la­dies would do well, before they speak, to reflect, if what they are going to say, may not distress some worthy persons present, by wounding them in their persons, families, connexions, or reli­gious opinions. If they find it will touch them in either of these, I would advise them to suspect, that what they are going to say, is not so very good [Page 109] a thing as they at first imagined. Nay, if even it was one of those bright ideas, which Venus has imbued with a fifth part of her nectar, so much greater will be their merit in suppressing it, if there was a probability it might of­fend. Indeed if they have the temper and prudence to make such a previous reflection, they will be more richly rewarded by their own inward tri­umph, at having suppressed a lively but severe remark, than they could have been with the dissembled ap­plauses of the whole company, who, with that complaisant deceit, which good breeding too much authorises, affect openly to admire what they se­cretly resolve never to forgive.

I have always been delighted with the story of the little girl's eloquence, in one of the children's tales, who re­ceived from a friendly fairy, the gift [Page 110] that at every word she uttered, pinks, roses, diamonds, and pearls, should drop from her mouth. The hidden moral appears to be this, that it was the sweetness of her temper which produced this pretty fanciful effect; for when her malicious sister desired the same gift from the good natured tiny intelligence, the venom of her own heart converted it into poisonous and loathsome reptiles.

A man of sense and breeding will sometimes join in the laugh, which has been raised at his expense, by an ill­natured repartee: but it was very cut­ting, and one of that shocking sort of truths, which, as they can scarcely be pardoned even in private, ought ne-never to be uttered in public, he does not laugh because he is pleased, but because he wishes to conceal how much he is hurt. As the sarcasm was uttered by a lady, so far from [Page 111] seeming to resent it, he will be the first to commend it; but notwith­standing that, he will remember it as a trait of malace, when the whole com­pany shall have forgotten it as a stroke of wit. Women are so far from be­ing priviledged by their sex to say un­handsome or cruel things, that this is the very circumstance which renders them more intolerable. When the arrow is lodged in the heart, it is no relief to him who is wounded, to re­flect, that the hand which shot him was a fair one.

Many women, when they have a fa­vorite point to gain, or an earnest wish to bring any one over to their opini­on, often use a very disingenious me­thod: they will state a cause ambigu­ously, and then avail themselves of it, in whatever manner shall best answer their purpose; leaving your mind in a state of indecision as to their real [Page 112] meaning, while they triumph in the perplexity they have given you, by the unfair conclusions they draw, from premises equivocally stated. They will also frequently argue from excep­tions instead of rules, and are astonish­ed when you are not willing to be con­tented with a prejudice, instead of a reason.

In a sensible company of both sex­es, where women are not restrained by any other reserve than what their na­tural modesty imposes—and where the intimacy of all parties authorises the utmost freedom of communication—should any one enquire what were the general sentiments on some particular subject, it will, I believe, commonly happen that the ladies, whose imagi­nations have kept pace with the narra­tion, have anticipated its end, and are ready to deliver their sentiments on it, as soon as it is finished. While some [Page 113] male hearers, whose minds were busi­ed in settling the propriety, comparing the circumstances, and examining the consistencies of what was said, are o­bliged to pause and discriminate, before they think of answering. Nothing is so embarrassing as a variety of matter; and the conversation of women is often more perspicuous, because it is less la­bored.

A man of deep reflection, if he does not keep up an intimate com­merce with the world, will be some­times so entangled in the intricacies of intense thought, that he will have the appearance of a confused and perplex­ed expression; while a sprightly wo­man will extricate herself with that lively and "rash dexterity," which will almost always please, though it is very far from being always right. It is easier to confound than to convince an opponent; the former may be ef­fected [Page 114] by a turn that has more happi­ness than truth in it. Many an excellent reasoner, well skilled in the theory of the schools, has felt himself discomfited by a reply, which, though as wide of the mark, and as foreign to the quest­ion, as can be conceived, has discon­certed him more than the most start­ling proposition, or the most accurate chain of reasoning could have done; and he has borne the laugh of his fair antagonist, as well as of the whole company, though he could not but feel, that his own argument was at­tended with the fullest demonstration: so true it is, that it is not always ne­cessary to be right, in order to be ap­plauded.

But let not a young lady's vanity be too much elated with this false applause, which is given, not to merit, but to her sex: she has not, perhaps, gained a victory, though she may be allowed a [Page 115] triumph; and it should humble her to reflect, that the tribute is paid, not to her strength, but to her weakness. It is worth while to discriminate between that applause, which is given from the complaisance of others, and that which is paid to our own merit.

Where great sprightliness is the na­tural bent of the temper, girls should endeavor to habituate themselves to a custom of observing, thinking, and rea­soning. I do not mean that they should devote themselves to abstruse speculation, or the study of logic; but she, who is accustomed to give a due arrangement to her thoughts, to rea­son justly and pertinently, on common affairs, and judiciously to deduce ef­fects from their causes, will be a better logician than some of those who claim the name, because they have studied the art: this is being ‘learned with­out the rules;’ the best definition, [Page 116] perhaps, of that sort of literature which is properest for the sex. That species of knowledge, which appears to be the result of reflection rather than of science, sits peculiarly well on wo­men. It is not uncommon to find a lady, who, though she does not know a rule of syntax, scarcely ever violates one, and who constructs every sentence she utters, with more propriety than many a learned dunce, who has every rule of Aristotle by heart, and who can lace his own thread-bare discourse with the golden shreds of Cicero and Virgil.

It has been objected, and I fear with some reason, that female conversation is too frequently tinctured with a cen­sorious spirit, and that ladies are sel­dom apt to discover much tenderness for the errors of a fallen sister. ‘If it be so, it is a grievous fault.’ [Page 117] No arguments can justify, no pleas can extenuate it. To exult over the miseries of an unhappy creature is in­human: not to compassionate them is unchristian. The worthy part of the sex always express themselves humane­ly on the failings of others, in propor­tion to their own undeviating good­ness.

And here I cannot help remarking; that young women do not always care­fully distinguish between running in­to the error of detraction, and its op­posite extreme of indiscriminate ap­plause. This proceeds from the false idea they entertain, that the direct con­trary to what is wrong, must be right. Thus the dread of being only suspected of one fault, makes them actually guilty of another. The desire of a­voiding the imputation of envy, im­pels them to be insincere; and to esta­blish [Page 118] a reputation for sweetness of tem­per and generosity, they affect some­times to speak of very indifferent cha­racters with the most extravagant ap­plause. With such the hyperbole is a favorite figure; and every degree of comparison, but the superlative, is re­jected, as cold and inexpressive. But this habit of exaggeration greatly weakens their credit, and destroys the weight of their opinion on other oc­casions; for people very soon discover what degree of faith is to be given both to their judgment and veracity. And those of real merit will no more be flattered by that approbation, which cannot distinguish the value of what it praises, than the celebrated painter must have been at the judgment passed on his works by an ignorant spectator, who, being asked what he thought of such and such very capital, but very [Page 119] different pieces, cried out in an affect­ed rapture, "All alike! all alike!"

It has been proposed to the young, as a maxim of supreme wisdom, to manage so dexterously in conversation, as to appear to be well acquainted with subjects, of which they are totally ig­norant; and this, by affecting silence in regard to those, on which they are known to excel.—But why counsel this disingenuous fraud? Why add to the numberless arts of deceit, this prac­tice of deceiving, as it were, on a set­tled principle? If to disavow the know­ledge they really have, be a culpable affectation, then certainly to insinuate an idea of their skill where they are actually ignorant, is a most unworthy artifice.

But of all the qualifications for con­versation, humility, if not the most brilliant, is the safest, the most amia­ble, and the most feminine. The af­fectation [Page 120] of introducing subjects, with which others are unacquainted, and of displaying talents superior to the rest of the company, is as dangerous as it is foolish.

There are many, who never can forgive another for being more agree­able and more accomplished than themselves, and who can pardon any offence rather than an eclipsing merit. Had the nightingale in the fable, con­quered his vanity, and resisted the temptation of showing a fine voice, he might have escaped the talons of the hawk. The melody of his singing was the cause of his destruction; his merit brought him into danger, and his vanity cost him his life.

ON THE DANGER OF SENTIMENTAL OR ROMANTIC CONNEXIONS.
From the same.

AMONG the many evils which prevail under the sun, the a­buse of words is not the least conside­rable. By the influence of time, and the perversion of fashion, the plainest and most unequivocal may be so alter­ed, as to have a meaning assigned them almost diametrically opposite to their original signification.

The present age may be termed, by way of distinction, the age of senti­ment, a word, which, in the implica­tion it now bears, was unknown to our plain ancestors. Sentiment is [Page 122] the varnish of virtue, to conceal the deformity of vice; and it is not un­common for the same persons to make a jest of religion, to break through the most solemn ties and engagements, to practise every art of latent fraud and open seduction, and yet to value them­selves on speaking and writing senti­mentally.

But this refined jargon, which has infected letters, and tainted morals, is chiefly admired and adopted by young ladies of a certain turn, who read sen­timental books, write sentimental letters, and contract sentimental friendships.

Error is never likely to do so much mischief, as when it disguises its real tendency, and puts on an engaging and attractive appearance. Many a young woman, who would be shock­ed at the imputation of an intrigue, is extremely flattered at the idea of a sentimental connexion, though per­haps [Page 123] with a dangerous and designing man, who, by putting on this mark of plausibility and virtue, disarms her of her prudence, lays her apprehensions asleep, and involves her in misery—misery the more inevitable, because unsuspected. For she who apprehends no danger, will not think it necessary to be always upon her guard; but will rather invite than avoid the ruin, which comes under so specious and so fair a form.

Such an engagement will be infinite­ly dearer to her vanity, than an avowed and authorized attachment; for one of these sentimental lovers will not scruple very seriously to assure a cre­dulous girl, that her unparalleled me­rit entitles her to the adoration of the whole world, and that the universal homage of mankind, is nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms. No wonder then, the [Page 124] should be so easily prevailed on to be­lieve, that an individual is captivated by perfections which might enslave a million. But she should remember, that he, who endeavours to intoxicate her with adulation, intends one day most effectually to humble her. For an artful man has always a secret de­sign to pay himself in future for eve­ry present sacrifice. And this prodi­gality of praise, which he now appears to lavish with such thoughtless profu­sion, is, in fact, a sum economically laid out to supply his future necessi­ties; of this sum he keeps an exact esti­mate, and at some distant day promi­ses himself the most exorbitant interest for it. If he has address and conduct, and the object of his pursuit much va­nity, and some sensibility, he seldom fails of success; for so powerful will be his ascendancy over his mind, that she will soon adopt his notions and o­pinions. [Page 125] Indeed it is more than pro­bable she possessed most of them before, having gradually acquired them in her initiation into the sentimental charac­ter. To maintain that character with dignity and propriety, it is necessary she should entertain the most elevated ideas of disproportionate alliances, and disinterested love; and consider for­tune, rank, and reputation, as mere chimerical distinctions and vulgar pre­judices.

The lover, deeply versed in all the obliquities of fraud, and skilled to wind himself into every avenue of the heart, which indiscretion has left un­guarded, soon discovers on which side it is most accessible. He avails him­self of this weakness by addressing her in a language exactly consonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own weapons, and opposes rhapsody to sentiment. He professes so sove­reign [Page 126] a contempt for the paltry con­cerns of money, that she thinks it her duty to reward him for so generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully advances of his own unworthiness, is considered by her as a fresh demand, which her gratitude must answer; And she makes it a point of honor to sacrifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to regard. These profes­sions of humility are the common arti­fice of the vain; and these protestati­ons of generosity the refuge of the ra­pacious. And among its many smooth mischiefs, it is one of the sure and suc­cessful frauds of sentiment, to affect the most frigid indifference to those external and pecuniary advantages, which it is its great and real object to obtain.

A sentimental girl very rarely en­tertains any doubt of her personal beauty; for she has been daily accus­tomed [Page 127] to contemplate it herself, and to hear of it from others. She will not therefore be very solicitous for the con­firmation of a truth so self-evident; but she suspects, that her pretensions to understanding are more likely to be disputed, and, for that reason, greedily devours every compliment offered to those perfections, which are less obvi­ous and more refined, She is persua­ded that men need only open their eyes to decide on her beauty, while it will be the most convincing proof of the taste, sense, and elegance of her admirer, that he can discern and flat­ter those qualities in her. A man of the character here supposed, will easi­ly insinuate himself into her affections by means of this latent but leading foi­ble, which may be called the guiding clue to a sentimental heart. He will affect to overlook that beauty which attracts common eyes, and ensnares [Page 128] common hearts, while he will bestow the most delicate praises to the beauties of her mind, and finish the climax of adu­lation, by hinting that she is superior to it.

But nothing, in general, can end less delightfully than these sublime at­tachments, even where no acts of se­duction are ever practised, but they are suffered, like mere sublunary con­nexions, to terminate in the vulgar ca­tastrophe of marriage. That wealth, which lately seemed to be looked on with ineffable contempt by the lover, now appears to be the principal attrac­tion in the eyes of the husband: and he, who but a few short weeks before, in a transport of sentimental generosi­ty, wished her to have been a village maid, with no portion but her crook [Page 129] and her beauty, and that they might spend their days in pastoral love and innocence, has now lost all relish for the Arcadian life, or any other life in which she must be his companion.

On the other hand she who was lately ‘An angel call'd, and angel-like ador'd,’ is shocked to find herself at once strip­ped of all her celestial attributes. This late divinity, who scarcely yielded to her sisters of the sky, now finds herself of less importance in the esteem of the man she has chosen, than any other mere mortal woman. No longer is she gratified with the tear of counter­feited passion, the sigh of dissembled rapture, or the language of premedita­ted adoration. No longer is the altar of her vanity loaded with the oblati­ons [Page 130] of fictitious fondness, the incense of falsehood, or the sacrafice of [...].—Her apothesis is ended! She fe [...] herself degraded from the dignities and privileges of a goddess, to all the imperfections, vanities, and weaknesses of a slighted woman, and a neglected wife. Her faults, which were so lately overlooked, or mistaken for virtues, are now, as Cassius says, set in a note­book. The passion which was vowed eternal, lasted only a few short weeks; and the indifference, which was so far from being included in the bargain, that it was not so much as suspected, follows them through the whole tire­some journey of their insipid, vacant, joyless existence.

Thus much for the completion of the sentimental history. If we trace it back to its beginning, we shall find, that a damsel of this cast had her head originally turned by pernicious read­ing, [Page 131] and her insanity confirmed by im­prudent friendships. She never fails to select a beloved confidante of her own turn and humor, though, if she can help it, not quite so handsome as herself. A violent intimacy ensues, or, to speak the language of sentiment, an intimate union of souls immediately takes place, which is wrought to the highest pitch, by a secret and volumi­nous correspondence, though they live in the same street, or perhaps in the same house. This is the fuel which principally feeds and supplies the dan­gerous flame of sentiment. In this correspondence the two friends en­courage each other in the falsest noti­ons imaginable. They represent ro­mantic love as the great important bu­siness of human life, and describe all the other concerns of it as too low and paltry to merit the attention of such e­levated beings, and fit only to employ [Page 132] the daughters of the plodding vulgar. In these letters, family affairs are mis­represented, family secrets divulged, and family misfortunes aggravated. They are filled with vows of eternal a­mity, and protestations of never-end­ing love. But interjections and quo­tations are the principal embellish­ments of these very sublime epistles. Every panegyric contained in them is extravagant and hyperbolical, every censure exaggerated and excessive. In a favorite, every frailty is heightened into a perfection, and in a foe, degra­ded into a crime. The dramatic po­ets, especially the most tender and ro­mantic, are quoted in almost every line, and every pompous or pathetic thought is forced to give up its natural and ob­vious meaning, and, with all the vio­lence of misapplication, is compelled to suit some circumstance of imaginary woe of the fair transcriber. Alicia is [Page 133] not too mad for her heroics, nor Mo­nimia too mild for her soft emotions.

Fathers have flinty hearts, is an ex­pression worth an empire, and is al­ways used with peculiar emphasis and enthusiasm. For a favorite topic of these epistles is the groveling spirit and sordid temper of the parents, who will be sure to find no quarter at the hands of their daughters, should they pre­sume to be so unreasonable as to direct their course of reading, interfere in their choice of friends, or interrupt their very important correspondence. But as these young ladies are fertile in expedients, and as their genius is ne­ver more agreeably exercised than in finding resources, they are not without their secret exultation, in case, either of the above interesting events should happen, as they carry with them a cer­tain air of tyranny and persecution [Page 134] which is very delightful. For a pro­hibited correspondence is one of the great incidents of a sentimental life—and a letter clandestinely received, the supreme felicity of a sentimental lady.

Nothing can equal the astonishment of these soaring spirits, when their plain friends or prudent relations presume to remonstrate with them on any impropriety in their conduct. But if these worthy people happen to be somewhat advanced in life, their contempt is then a little softened by pity, at the reflection that such very antiquated, poor creatures should pre­tend to judge what is fit or unfit, for ladies of their great refinement, sense, and reading. They consider them as wretches utterly ignorant of the sub­lime pleasures of a dilicate and exalt­ed passion; as tyrants whose authority is to be contemned, and as spies whose vigilance is to be eluded. The pru­dence [Page 135] of these worthy friends they term suspicion, and their experience dotage. For they are persuaded, that the face of things has so totally chang­ed, since their parents were young, that though they might then judge tolera­bly for themselves, yet they are now (with all their advantages of know­ledge and observation; by no means qualified to direct their more enlight­ened daughters; who, if they have made a great progress in the sentimen­tal walk, will be no more influenced by the advice of their mother, than they would go abroad in her laced pin­ner, or her brocade suit.

But young people never show their folly and ignorance more conspicuous­ly, than by this over confidence in their own judgment, and this haughty disdain of the opinion of those who have known more days. Youth has a quickness of apprehension, which it [Page 136] is apt to mistake for an acuteness of pe­netration. But youth, like cunning, though very conceited, is very short­sighted, and never more so than when it disregards the instructions of the wise, and the admonitions of the aged. The same vices and follies influenced the human heart in their day, which influence it now, and nearly in the same manner. One, who well knew the world and its various vanities, has said: ‘The thing which hath been, it is that which shall be, and that which is done is that which shall be done, and there is no new thing un­der the sun.’

It is also a part of the sentimental character, to imagine that none but the young, and the beautiful have any right to the pleasures of society, or e­ven to the common benefits and bles­sings of life. Ladies of this turn also affect the most lofty disregard for use­ful [Page 137] qualities and domestic virtues, and this is a natural consequence; for as this sort of sentiment, is only a word for idleness, she who is constantly and usefully employed, has neither leisure nor propensity to cultivate it.

A sentimental lady principally va­lues herself on the enlargement of her notions, and her liberal way of think­ing. This superiority of soul chiefly manifests itself in the contempt of these minute delicacies, and little decorums, which, trifling as they may be thought, tend at once to dignify the character, and to restrain the levity of the young­er part of the sex.

Perhaps the error here complained of, originates in mistaking sentiment and principle for each other. Now I conceive them to be extremely differ­ent. Sentiment is the virtue of ideas, and principle the virtue of action. Sentiment has its seat in the head, prin­ciple [Page 138] in the heart. Sentiment suggests fine harangues and subtil distinctions [...] principle conceives just notions, and performs good actions in consequence of them. Sentiment refines away the simplicity of truth and the plainness of piety; and, as a celebrated wit^* has remarked of his no less celebrated co­temporary, gives us virtue in words and vice in deeds. Sentiment may be called the Athenian who knew what was right, and principle the Lacedemonian who practised it.

But these qualities will be better ex­emplified by an attentive consideration of two admirably drawn characters of Milton, which are beautifully, delicate­ly, and distinctly marked. These are, Belial, who may not improperly be cal­led the Demon of Sentiment; and Ab­diel, [Page 139] who may be termed the Angel of Principle.

Survey the picture of Belial, drawn by the sublimest hand that ever held the poetic pencil.

Here is a lively and exquisite repre­sentation of art, subtilty, wit, fine breeding, and polished manners: on the whole, of a very accomplished and sentimental spirit.

[Page 140] Now turn to the artless, upright, and unsophisticated Abdiel,

But it is not from these descriptions, just and striking as they are, that their characters are so perfectly known, as from an examination of their conduct through the remainder of this divine work: in which it is well worth while to remark the consonancy of their ac­tions, with what the above pictures seem to promise. It will also be ob­served, that the contrast between them is kept up throughout, with the utmost [Page 141] exactness of delineation, and the most animated strength of colouring. On a review it will be found, that Belial talked all, and Abdiel did all. The former,

In Abdiel you will constantly find the eloquence of action. When tempt­ed by the rebellious angels, with what retorted scorn, with what honest indig­nation he deserts their multitudes, and retreats from their contagious society!

No wonder he was received with such acclamations of joy by the celes­tial powers, when there was

And afterwards, in a close contest with the arch-fiend,

What was the effect of this courage of the vigilant and active seraph?

Abdiel had the superiority of Be­lial as much in the warlike combat, as in the peaceful counsels.

But notwithstanding I have spoken with some asperity against sentiment, as opposed to principle, yet I am con­vinced, that true genuine sentiment [Page 143] (not the sort I have been describing) may be so connected with principle, as to bestow on it its brightest lustre, and its most captivating graces. And enthusiasm is so far from being disa­greeable, that a portion of it is per­haps indispensibly necessary in an en­gaging woman. But it must be the enthusiasm of the heart, not of the senses. It must be the enthusiasm which grows up with a feeling mind, and is cherished by a virtuous educa­tion—not that which is compounded of irregular passions, and artificially refined by books of unnatural fiction and improbable adventure. I will e­ven go so far as to assert, that a young woman cannot have any real greatness of soul, or true elevation of principle, if she has not a tincture of what the vulgar call Romance, but which per­sons of a certain way of thinking will discern to proceed from those fine [Page 144] feelings, and that charming sensibility, without which, though a woman may be worthy, yet she can never be ami­able.

But this dangerous merit cannot be too rigidly watched, as it is very apt to lead those who possess it into incon­veniences, from which less interesting characters are happily exempt. Young women of strong sensibility may be car­ried by the very amiableness of this temper, into the most alarming ex­tremes. Their tastes are passions. They love and hate with all their hearts, and scarcely suffer themselves to feel a reasonable preference, before it strengthens into a violent attachment.

When an innocent girl, of this open, trusting, tender heart, happens to meet with one of her own sex and age, whose address and manners are enga­ging, she is instantly seized with an ar­dent desire to commence a friendship [Page 145] with her. She feels the most lively impatience at the restraints of compa­ny, and the decorums of ceremony. She longs to be alone with her, longs to assure her of the warmth of her tenderness, and generously ascribes to the fair stranger all the good qualities she feels in her own heart, or rather all those which she has met with in her reading, dispersed in a variety of heroines. She is persuaded, that her new friend unites them all in herself, because she carries in her prepossessing countenance the promise of them all. How cruel and how censorious would this inexperienced girl think her mo­ther was, who should venture to hint, that the agreeable unknown had de­fects in her temper, or exceptions in her character! She would mistake these hints of discretion for the insinu­ations of an uncharitable disposition. [Page 146] At first she would perhaps listen to them with a generous impatience, and afterwards with a cold and silent dis­dain. She would despise them as the effect of prejudice, misrepresentation, or ignorance. The more aggravated the censure, the more vehemently would she protest in secret, that her friendship for this dear injured crea­ture (who is raised much higher in her esteem by such injurious suspicions) shall know no bounds, as she is assu­red it can know no end.

Yet this trusting confidence, this honest indiscretion, is, at this early period of life, as amiable as it is natu­ral; and will, if wisely cultivated, produce, at its proper season, fruits in­finitely more valuable, than all the guarded circumspection of premature, and therefore artificial prudence. Men, I believe, are seldom struck with these sudden prepossessions in favor of each [Page 147] other. They are not so unsuspecting, nor so easily led away by the predomi­nance of fancy. They engage more warily, and pass through the several stages of acquaintance, intimacy, and confidence, by slower gradations; but women, if they are sometimes deceived in the choice of a friend, enjoy even then an higher degree of satisfaction, than if they never trusted. For to be always clad in the burdensome armor of suspicion, is more painful and in­convenient, than to run the hazard of suffering now and then a transient in­jury.

But the above observations only ex­tend to the young and the inexperien­ced; for I am very certain, that wo­men are capable of as faithful and du­rable friendship as any of the other sex. They can enter not only into all the enthusiastic tenderness, but into all the solid fidelity of attachment. And [Page 148] if we cannot oppose instances of equal weight with those of Nysus and Eury­alus, Theseus and Pirithous, Pylades and Orestes, let it be remembered, that it is because the recorders of those cha­racters were men, and that the very existence of them is merely poetical.

DESCRIPTION OF A REASONABLE WOMAN.

AFTER a night spent in healthful repose, the reasonable woman rises in that happy tranquil frame of mind, which results from pleasant re­flections on the past day, and anticipa­ting the temperate pleasure and im­portant duties of the commencing one. Its first moments are devoted as due to that Being whom she regards with filial love, gratitude, and reverence; and whom she approaches, not with the lifeless prostrations of fear, but with the devout and cheerful homage of the heart. Before engaging in domes­tic cares, she prepares her mind for meeting with firmness, or bearing with patience, the little rubs and vexations of the day: she plans a thousand schemes of benevolence and utility; [Page 150] and the good she cannot perform, b [...] generously intends, is recorded in hea­ven as virtue. The time necessarily spent at her toilette, is short; it is, however, rendered pleasing by the de­lightful hope of becoming, by means of its adventitious aids, more agreea­ble in the eyes of a husband, whom she loves too tenderly to omit a single opportunity of complying with his taste, or confirming his esteem. Books, work, and, above all, the important duty of impressing the infant minds of her children with that love of goodness which insensibly leads to the practice of it, fill up the rest of the morning. Through the day she checks the little sallies of her own temper, and, unob­served, steals from others, by the influ­ence of her good humor, every disqui­eting care. To them her time, her taste, are often sacrificed; but conscious benevolence does more than repay her▪ [Page 151] Her conversation, equally remote [...]om chilling reserve and petulant lo­ [...]acity, has no aim, but to instruct or [...]use; and in her care to please o­ [...]ers, she seems wholly to forget her­self. Her elegant, yet frugal board, presents a striking emblem of her mind. There, plenty is seen without profusion, and neatness without osten­tation. Good taste, good breeding, good sense, and mild complacency, [...]each her guests to forget they are stran­gers, and to feel they are friends. Her husband beholds her with min­gled pride and pleasure; and his ap­probation though silent, diffuses joy through her heart, and cheerfulness through her conversation. The even­ing is spent amidst the chosen circle, with whom she knows no reserves, and whose accumulated happiness becomes her own. Conversation, if useful or agreeable, is encouraged, if dull; re­lieved [Page 152] by the aids which the fine arts supply to those who cultivate them. Music, dancing, cards, are occasional­ly called in; and even those amuse­ments for which she has no relish her­self, she cheerfully adopts, in the hope of contributing to the enjoyment of o­thers. Public diversions are sometimes visited, but always tend, with the rea­sonable woman, to increase her love of social and domestic pleasures. When in public, she appears with propriety and modesty. She envies not beauty, she covets not grandeur, she seeks not to engage attention; for in the plea­sing consciousness of discharging her duty, in the love of her husband, and esteem of her friends, she finds com­plete happiness. Such is a Reasona­ble Woman! The very opposite of a Fashionable one.