And, to return to the first subject of discussion, the reason why most people are more interested by a scene described by a poet, than by a view of nature, probably arises from the want of a lively imagination. The poet contracts the prospect, and, selecting the most picturesque part in hiscamera, the judgment is directed, and the whole force of the languid faculty turned towards the objects which excited the most forcible emotions in the poet's heart; the reader consequently feels the enlivened description, though he was not able to receive a first impression from the operations of his own mind.
Besides, it may be further observed, that gross minds are only to be moved by forcible representations. To rouse the thoughtless, objects must be presented, calculated to produce tumultuous emotions; the unsubstantial, picturesque forms which a contemplative man gazes on, and often follows withardour till he is mocked by a glimpse of unattainable excellence, appear to them the light vapours of a dreaming enthusiast, who gives up the substance for the shadow. It is not within that they seek amusement; their eyes are seldom turned on themselves; consequently their emotions, though sometimes fervid, are always transient, and the nicer perceptions which distinguish the man of genuine taste, are not felt, or make such a slight impression as scarcely to excite any pleasurable sensations. Is it surprising then that they are often overlooked, even by those who are delighted by the same images concentrated by the poet?
But even this numerous class is exceeded, by witlings, who, anxious to appear to have wit and taste, do not allow their understandings or feelings any liberty; for, instead of cultivating their faculties and reflecting on their operations, they are busy collecting prejudices; and are predetermined to admire what the suffrage of time announces as excellent, not to store up a fund of amusement for themselves, but to enable them to talk.
These hints will assist the reader to trace some of the causes why the beauties of nature are not forcibly felt, when civilization, or rather luxury, has made considerable advances—those calm sensations are not sufficiently lively to serve as a relaxation to the voluptuary, or even to the moderate pursuer of artificial pleasures. In the present state of society, the understanding must bring back the feelings to nature, or the sensibility must have such native strength, as rather to be whetted thandestroyed by the strong exercises of passion.
That the most valuable things are liable to the greatest perversion, is however as trite as true:—for the same sensibility, or quickness of senses, which makes a man relish the tranquil scenes of nature, when sensation, rather than reason, imparts delight, frequently makes a libertine of him, by leading him to prefer the sensual tumult of love a little refined by sentiment, to the calm pleasures of affectionate friendship, in whose sober satisfactions, reason, mixing her tranquillizing convictions, whispers, that content, not happiness, is the reward of virtue in this world.
1.
Indolenceis the source of nervous complaints, and a whole host of cares. This devil might say that his name was legion.
2.
It should be one of the employments of women of fortune, to visit hospitals, and superintend the conduct of inferiors.
3.
It is generally supposed, that the imagination of women is particularlyactive, and leads them astray. Why then do we seek by education only to exercise their imagination and feeling, till the understanding, grown rigid by disuse, is unable to exercise itself—and the superfluous nourishment the imagination and feeling have received, renders the former romantic, and the latter weak?
4.
Few men have risen to any great eminence in learning, who have not received something like a regular education. Why are women expected to surmount difficulties that men are not equal to?
5.
Nothing can be more absurd than the ridicule of the critic, that the heroine of his mock-tragedy was in love with the very man whom she oughtleast to have loved; he could not have given a better reason. How can passion gain strength any other way? In Otaheite, love cannot be known, where the obstacles to irritate an indiscriminate appetite, and sublimate the simple sensations of desire till they mount to passion, are never known. There a man or woman cannot love the very person they ought not to have loved—nor does jealousy ever fan the flame.
6.
It has frequently been observed, that, when women have an object in view, they pursue it with more steadiness than men, particularly love. This is not a compliment. Passion pursues with more heat than reason, and with most ardour during the absence of reason.
7.
Men are more subject to the physicallove than women. The confined education of women makes them more subject to jealousy.
8.
Simplicity seems, in general, the consequence of ignorance, as I have observed in the characters of women and sailors—the being confined to one track of impressions.
9.
I know of no other way of preserving the chastity of mankind, than that of rendering women rather objects of love than desire. The difference is great. Yet, while women are encouraged to ornament their persons at the expence of their minds, while indolence renders them helpless and lascivious (for what other name can be given to the common intercourse between the sexes?) they will be, generally speaking, only objects of desire; and, to such women, men cannot be constant. Men, accustomed only to have their senses moved, merely seek for a selfish gratification in the society of women, and their sexual instinct, being neither supported by the understanding nor the heart, must be excited by variety.
10.
We ought to respect old opinions; though prejudices, blindly adopted, lead to error, and preclude all exercise of the reason.
The emulation which often makes a boy mischievous, is a generous spur; and the old remark, that unlucky, turbulent boys, make the wisest and best men, is true, spite of Mr. Knox's arguments. It has been observed, that the most adventurous horses, when tamedor domesticated, are the most mild and tractable.
11.
The children who start up suddenly at twelve or fourteen, and fall into decays, in consequence, as it is termed, of outgrowing their strength, are in general, I believe, those children, who have been bred up with mistaken tenderness, and not allowed to sport and take exercise in the open air. This is analogous to plants: for it is found that they run up sickly, long stalks, when confined.
12.
Children should be taught to feel deference, not to practise submission.
13.
It is always a proof of false refinement, when a fastidious taste overpowers sympathy.
14.
Lust appears to be the most natural companion of wild ambition; and love of human praise, of that dominion erected by cunning.
15.
"Genius decays as judgment increases." Of course, those who have the least genius, have the earliest appearance of wisdom.
16.
A knowledge of the fine arts, is seldom subservient to the promotion of either religion or virtue. Elegance is often indecency; witness our prints.
17.
There does not appear to be any evil in the world, but what is necessary. The doctrine of rewards and punishments, not considered as a means of reformation, appears to me an infamous libel on divine goodness.
18.
Whether virtue is founded on reason or revelation, virtue is wisdom, and vice is folly. Why are positive punishments?
19.
Few can walk alone. The staff of Christianity is the necessary support of human weakness. But an acquaintance with the nature of man and virtue, with just sentiments on the attributes, would be sufficient, without a voice from heaven, to lead some to virtue, but not the mob.
20.
I only expect the natural reward of virtue, whatever it may be. I rely not on a positive reward.
The justice of God can be vindicatedby a belief in a future state—but a continuation of being vindicates it as clearly, as the positive system of rewards and punishments—by evil educing good for the individual, and not for an imaginary whole. The happiness of the whole must arise from the happiness of the constituent parts, or this world is not a state of trial, but a school.
21.
The vices acquired by Augustus to retain his power, must have tainted his soul, and prevented that increase of happiness a good man expects in the next stage of existence. This was a natural punishment.
22.
The lover is ever most deeply enamoured, when it is with he knows not what—and the devotion of a mystichas a rude Gothic grandeur in it, which the respectful adoration of a philosopher will never reach. I may be thought fanciful; but it has continually occurred to me, that, though, I allow, reason in this world is the mother of wisdom—yet some flights of the imagination seem to reach what wisdom cannot teach—and, while they delude us here, afford a glorious hope, if not a foretaste, of what we may expect hereafter. He that created us, did not mean to mark us with ideal images of grandeur, thebaseless fabric of a vision—No—that perfection we follow with hopeless ardour when the whisperings of reason are heard, may be found, when not incompatible with our state, in the round of eternity. Perfection indeed must, even then, be a comparative idea—but the wisdom, the happiness of a superior state, has been supposed to be intuitive, and the happiest effusions of human genius have seemed like inspiration—the deductions of reason destroy sublimity.
23.
I am more and more convinced, that poetry is the first effervescence of the imagination, and the forerunner of civilization.
24.
When the Arabs had no trace of literature or science, they composed beautiful verses on the subjects of love and war. The flights of the imagination, and the laboured deductions of reason, appear almost incompatible.
25.
Poetry certainly flourishes most in the first rude state of society. The passions speak most eloquently, when they are not shackled by reason. Thesublime expression, which has been so often quoted, [Genesis, ch. 1, ver. 3.] is perhaps a barbarous flight; or rather the grand conception of an uncultivated mind; for it is contrary to nature and experience, to suppose that this account is founded on facts—It is doubtless a sublime allegory. But a cultivated mind would not thus have described the creation—for, arguing from analogy, it appears that creation must have been a comprehensive plan, and that the Supreme Being always uses second causes, slowly and silently to fulfil his purpose. This is, in reality, a more sublime view of that power which wisdom supports: but it is not the sublimity that would strike the impassioned mind, in which the imagination took place of intellect. Tell a being, whose affections and passions have been more exercised than his reason, that God said,Let there be light! and there was light; and he would prostrate himself before the Being who could thus call things out of nothing, as if they were: but a man in whom reason had taken place of passion, would not adore, till wisdom was conspicuous as well as power, for his admiration must be founded on principle.
26.
Individuality is ever conspicuous in those enthusiastic flights of fancy, in which reason is left behind, without being lost sight of.
27.
The mind has been too often brought to the test of enquiries which only reach to matter—put into the crucible, though the magnetic and electric fluid escapes from the experimental philosopher.
28.
Mr. Kant has observed, that the understanding is sublime, the imagination beautiful—yet it is evident, that poets, and men who undoubtedly possess the liveliest imagination, are most touched by the sublime, while men who have cold, enquiring minds, have not this exquisite feeling in any great degree, and indeed seem to lose it as they cultivate their reason.
29.
The Grecian buildings are graceful—they fill the mind with all those pleasing emotions, which elegance and beauty never fail to excite in a cultivated mind—utility and grace strike us in unison—the mind is satisfied—things appear just what they ought to be: a calm satisfaction is felt, but the imagination has nothing to do—no obscuritydarkens the gloom—like reasonable content, we can say why we are pleased—and this kind of pleasure may be lasting, but it is never great.
30.
When we say that a person is an original, it is only to say in other words that he thinks. "The less a man has cultivated his rational faculties, the more powerful is the principle of imitation, over his actions, and his habits of thinking. Most women, of course, are more influenced by the behaviour, the fashions, and the opinions of those with whom they associate, than men." (Smellie.)
When we read a book which supports our favourite opinions, how eagerly do we suck in the doctrines, and suffer our minds placidly to reflect the images which illustrate the tenets wehave embraced? We indolently or quietly acquiesce in the conclusion, and our spirit animates and connects the various subjects. But, on the contrary, when we peruse a skilful writer, who does not coincide in opinion with us, how is the mind on the watch to detect fallacy? And this coolness often prevents our being carried away by a stream of eloquence, which the prejudiced mind terms declamation—a pomp of words.—We never allow ourselves to be warmed; and, after contending with the writer, are more confirmed in our own opinion, as much perhaps from a spirit of contradiction as from reason.—Such is the strength of man!
31.
It is the individual manner of seeing and feeling, pourtrayed by a strong imagination in bold images that havestruck the senses, which creates all the charms of poetry. A great reader is always quoting the description of another's emotions; a strong imagination delights to paint its own. A writer of genius makes us feel; an inferior author reason.
32.
Some principle prior to self-love must have existed: the feeling which produced the pleasure, must have existed before the experience.
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PageLetters1Letter on the Preſent Character of the French Nation39Fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants55Letters to Mr. Johnſon61Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale99On Poetry and our Reliſh for the Beauties of Nature159Hints179
September 27.
Whenyou receive this, I ſhall either have landed, or be hovering on the Britiſh coaſt—your letter of the 18th decided me.
By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my queſtions extraordinary and unneceſſary, I cannot determine.—You deſire me to decide—Ihad decided. You muſt have had long ago two letters of mine, from ———, to the ſame purport, to conſider.—In theſe, God knows! there was but too much affection, and the agonies of a diſtracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to ſay?—The negative was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promiſe of meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I ſhould demand a yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harſhneſs, coldneſs I am accuſtomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderneſs of humanity, much leſs of friendſhip.—I only ſee a deſire to heave a load off your ſhoulders.
I am above diſputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you decide.
The tremendous power who formed this heart, muſt have foreſeen that, in a world in which ſelf-intereſt, in various ſhapes, is the principal mobile, I had little chance of eſcaping miſery.—To the fiat of fate I ſubmit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have no cauſe to complain, but for having had too much regard for you—for having expected a degree of permanent happineſs, when you only ſought for a momentary gratification.
I am ſtrangely deficient in ſagacity.—Uniting myſelf to you, your tenderneſs ſeemed to make me amends for all my former miſfortunes.—On this tenderneſs and affection with what confidence did I reſt!—but I leaned on a ſpear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off a faithful friend, topurſue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been ſtamped on my ſoul by ſorrow, I can ſcarcely believe it poſſible. It depends at preſent on you, whether you will ſee me or not.—I ſhall take no ſtep, till I ſee or hear from you.
Preparing myſelf for the worſt—I have determined, if your next letter be like the laſt, to write to Mr. ——— to procure me an obſcure lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few months to obtain the ſum neceſſary to take me to France—from you I will not receive any more.—I am not yet ſufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence.
Some people, whom my unhappineſs has intereſted, though they knownot the extent of it, will aſſiſt me to attain the object I have in view, the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a great way in France—and I will borrow a ſum, which my induſtryſhallenable me to pay at my leiſure, to purchaſe a ſmall eſtate for my girl.—The aſſiſtance I ſhall find neceſſary to complete her education, I can get at an eaſy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to ſuch ſociety as ſhe will like—and thus, ſecuring for her all the chance for happineſs, which depends on me, I ſhall die in peace, perſuaded that the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my graſp. No poor tempeſt-toſſed mariner ever more earneſtly longed to arrive at his port.
* * * *
I ſhall not come up in the veſſel all the way, becauſe I have no place to go to. Captain ——— will inform you where I am. It is needleſs to add, that I am not in a ſtate of mind to bear ſuſpenſe—and that I wiſh to ſee you, though it be for the laſt time.
Sunday, October 4.
I wroteto you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th of laſt month, had determined me to ſet out with captain ———; but, as we ſailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received it.
You ſay, I muſt decide for myſelf.—I had decided, that it was moſt for the intereſt of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be glad, ſome years hence, when the tumult of buſineſs was over, to repoſe in the ſociety of an affectionate friend, and mark the progreſs of our intereſting child, whilſt endeavouring to be of uſe in the circle you at laſt reſolved to reſt in; for you cannot run about for ever.
From the tenour of your laſt letter however, I am led to imagine, that you have formed ſome new attachment.—If it be ſo, let me earneſtly requeſt you to ſee me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require of the friendſhip you profeſs for me. I willthen decide, ſince you boggle about a mere form.
I am labouring to write with calmneſs—but the extreme anguiſh I feel, at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conſcious that the friend whom I moſt wiſh to ſee, will feel a diſagreeable ſenſation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the deſcription of common miſery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of ſorrow—and the playfulneſs of my child diſtreſſes me.—On her account, I wiſhed to remain a few days here, comfortleſs as is my ſituation.—Beſides, I did not wiſh to ſurpriſe you. You have told me, that you would make any ſacrifice to promote my happineſs—and, even in your laſt unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and mychild.—Tell me, that you wiſh it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.
I now moſt earneſtly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return of the poſt. Direct your letter to be left at the poſt-office, and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wedneſday morning.
Do not keep me in ſuſpenſe.—I expect nothing from you, or any human being: my die is caſt!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my duty; yet I cannot raiſe my depreſſed ſpirits, or calm my trembling heart.—That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up by the roots the propenſity to affection which has been the torment of my life—but life will have an end!
Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you will find me at ———. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.
Yours affectionately
* * * *
I writeyou now on my knees; imploring you to ſend my child and the maid with ——, to Paris, to be conſigned to the care of Madame ——, rue ——, ſection de ——. Should they be removed, —— can give their direction.
Let the maid have all my clothes, without diſtinction.
Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confeſſion which I forced from her—a little ſooner or later is of no conſequence. Nothing but my extreme ſtupidity could have rendered me blind ſo long. Yet, whilſt you aſſured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might ſtill have lived together.
I ſhall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs ſleep with me! Soon, very ſoon ſhall I be at peace. When you receive this, my burning head will be cold.
I would encounter a thouſand deaths, rather than a night like the laſt. Your treatment has thrown my mind into a ſtate of chaos; yet I am ſerene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be inſulted byan endeavour to recal my hated exiſtence. But I ſhall plunge into the Thames where there is the leaſt chance of my being ſnatched from the death I ſeek.
God bleſs you! May you never know by experience what you have made me endure. Should your ſenſibility ever awake, remorſe will find its way to your heart; and, in the midſt of buſineſs and ſenſual pleaſure, I ſhall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.
* * * *
Sunday Morning.
I haveonly to lament, that, when the bitterneſs of death was paſt, I was inhumanly brought back to life and miſery. But a fixed determination is not to be baffled by diſappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmeſt acts of reaſon. In this reſpect, I am only accountable to myſelf. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circumſtances that I ſhould be diſhonoured.
You ſay, "that you know not how to extricate ourſelves out of the wretchedneſs into which we have been plunged."You are extricated long ſince.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am condemned to live longer, it is a living death.
It appears to me, that you lay much more ſtreſs on delicacy, than on principle; for I am unable to diſcover what ſentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your viſiting a wretched friend—if indeed you have any friendſhip for me.—But ſince your new attachment is the only thing ſacred in your eyes, I am ſilent—Be happy! My complaints ſhall never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am miſtaken in ſuppoſing that even my death could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call magnanimity—It is happy for yourſelf, that you poſſeſs this quality in the higheſt degree.
Your continually aſſerting, that youwill do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary aſſiſtance), appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not ſuch vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart—That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I ſhould not ſhrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I ſay, that I ſhall conſider any direct or indirect attempt to ſupply my neceſſities, as an inſult which I have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderneſs for your own reputation, than for me. Do not miſtake me; I do not think that you value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do much leſs, becauſe certain privations are not painful to me.When I am dead, reſpect for yourſelf will make you take care of the child.
I write with difficulty—probably I ſhall never write to you again.—Adieu!
God bleſs you!
* * * *
Monday Morning.
I amcompelled at laſt to ſay that you treat me ungenerouſly. I agree with you, that
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But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the taſk of writing—and explanations are not neceſſary.
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My child may have to bluſh for her mother's want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but ſhe ſhall not deſpiſe me for meanneſs.—You are now perfectly free.—God bleſs you.
* * * *
Saturday Night.
I havebeen hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderneſs to me.—You aſk "If I am well or tranquil?"—They who think me ſo, muſt want a heart to eſtimate my feelings by.—I chuſe then to be the organ of my own ſentiments.
I muſt tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary aſſiſtance—and, conſidering your going to the new houſe, as an open avowal that you abandon me, letme tell you that I will ſooner periſh than receive any thing from you—and I ſay this at the moment when I am diſappointed in my firſt attempt to obtain a temporary ſupply. But this even pleaſes me; an accumulation of diſappointments and miſfortunes ſeems to ſuit the habit of my mind.—
Have but a little patience, and I will remove myſelf where it will not be neceſſary for you to talk—of courſe, not to think of me. But let me ſee, written by yourſelf—for I will not receive it through any other medium—that the affair is finiſhed.—It is an inſult to me to ſuppoſe, that I can be reconciled, or recover my ſpirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the ſame thing to you.
* * * *
Even your ſeeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to ſooth my diſtracted mind.
Thurſday Afternoon.
Mr.——— having forgot to deſire you to ſend the things of mine which were left at the houſe, I have to requeſt you to let ——— bring them onto ———.
I ſhall go this evening to the lodging; ſo you need not be reſtrained from coming here to tranſact your buſineſs.—And, whatever I may think, and feel—you need not fear that I ſhall publicly complain—No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been moſt ungenerouſly treated: but, wiſhing now only to hide myſelf, I ſhall be ſilent as the grave in which I long to forget myſelf. I ſhall protect and provide for my child.—I only mean by this to ſay, that you having nothing to fear from my deſperation.
Farewel.
* * * *
London, November 27.
Theletter, without an addreſs, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till juſt now.—I had thrown the letters aſide—I did not wiſh to look over a regiſter of ſorrow.
My not having ſeen it, will account for my having written to you with anger—under the impreſſion your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my ſufferings.
In fact, "the decided conduct, whichappeared to me ſo unfeeling," has almoſt overturned my reaſon; my mind is injured—I ſcarcely know where I am, or what I do.—The grief I cannot conquer (for ſome cruel recollections never quit me, baniſhing almoſt every other) I labour to conceal in total ſolitude.—My life therefore is but an exerciſe of fortitude, continually on the ſtretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.
But I meant to reaſon with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, "that I ſhall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, ſome time hence." But is it not poſſible thatpaſſionclouds your reaſon, as much as it does mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether thoſe principles are ſo "exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In other words,whether it be juſt to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have foſtered, and the expectations you have excited?
My affection for you is rooted in my heart.—I know you are not what you now ſeem—nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may never be comforted by the change.—Even at Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will ſee my pale face—and ſometimes the tears of anguiſh will drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.
I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all youringeniousarguments; but my head is confuſed.—Right or wrong, I am miſerable!
It ſeems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the ſtricteſt principles of juſtice and truth.—Yet,how wretched have my ſocial feelings, and delicacy of ſentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my whole ſoul, only to diſcover that I had no chance of a return—and that exiſtence is a burthen without it.
I do not perfectly underſtand you.—If, by the offer of your friendſhip, you ſtill only mean pecuniary ſupport—I muſt again reject it.—Trifling are the ills of poverty in the ſcale of my miſfortunes.—God bleſs you!
* * * *
I have been treated ungenerouſly—if I underſtand what is generoſity.——You ſeem to me only to have been anxious to ſhake me off—regardleſs whether you daſhed me to atoms by the fall.—In truth I have been rudely handled.Do you judge coolly, and I truſtyou will not continue to call thoſe capricious feelings "the moſt refined," which would undermine not only the moſt ſacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no ſuch thing as a father!—If your theory of morals is the moſt "exalted," it is certainly the moſt eaſy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to pleaſe ourſelves for the moment, let others ſuffer what they will!
Excuſe me for again tormenting you, my heart thirſts for juſtice from you—and whilſt I recollect that you approved Miſs ———'s conduct—I am convinced you will not always juſtify your own.
Beware of the deceptions of paſſion! It will not always baniſh from yourmind, that you have acted ignobly—and condeſcended to ſubterfuge to gloſs over the conduct you could not excuſe.—Do truth and principle require ſuch ſacrifices?
London, December 8.
Havingjuſt been informed that ——— is to return immediately to Paris, I would not miſs a ſure opportunity of writing, becauſe I am not certain that my laſt, by Dover has reached you.
Reſentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—andI wiſhed to tell you ſo, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an enemy.
That I have not been uſedwellI muſt ever feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguiſh I do at preſent—for I began even now to write calmly, and I cannot reſtrain my tears.
I am ſtunned!—Your late conduct ſtill appears to me a frightful dream.—Ah! aſk yourſelf if you have not condeſcended to employ a little addreſs, I could almoſt ſay cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are ſacred things—and we never play with truth, with impunity.
The expectation (I have too fondly nouriſhed it) of regaining your affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed, it ſeems to me, when I am more ſad than uſual, that I ſhallnever ſee you more.—Yet you will not always forget me.—You will feel ſomething like remorſe, for having lived only for yourſelf—and ſacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. In a comfortleſs old age, you will remember that you had one diſintereſted friend, whoſe heart you wounded to the quick. The hour of recollection will come—and you will not be ſatiſfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of action, are all ſuperior to your preſent conduct. You do, you muſt, reſpect me—and you will be ſorry to forfeit my eſteem.
You know beſt whether I am ſtill preſerving the remembrance of an imaginary being.—I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I am obliged to leave ſome doubts thatinvoluntarily preſs on me, to be cleared up by time.
You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own eyes.—I ſhall ſtill be able to ſupport my child, though I am diſappointed in ſome other plans of uſefulneſs, which I once believed would have afforded you equal pleaſure.
Whilſt I was with you, I reſtrained my natural generoſity, becauſe I thought your property in jeopardy.—When I went to ————, I requeſted you,if you could conveniently, not to forget my father, ſiſters, and ſome other people, whom I was intereſted about.—Money was laviſhed away, yet not only my requeſts were neglected, but ſome trifling debts were not diſcharged, that now come on me.—Was this friendſhip—or generoſity? Will you not grantyou have forgotten yourſelf? Still I have an affection for you.—God bleſs you.
* * * *
Asthe parting from you for ever is the moſt ſerious event of my life, I will once expoſtulate with you, and call not the language of truth and feeling ingenuity!
I know the ſoundneſs of your underſtanding—and know that it is impoſſible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with the manly dictates of principle.
You tell me "that I torment you."—Why do I?——Becauſe you cannot eſtrange your heart entirely from me—and you feel that juſtice is on my ſide. You urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."—It was not.—When your coolneſs has hurt me, with what tenderneſs have you endeavoured to remove the impreſſion!—and even before I returned to England, you took great pains to convince me, that all my uneaſineſs was occaſioned by the effect of a worn-out conſtitution—and you concluded your letter with theſe words, "Buſineſs alone has kept me from you.—Come to any port, and I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own."
With theſe aſſurances, is it extraordinary that I ſhould believe what I wiſhed? I might—and did think thatyou had a ſtruggle with old propenſities; but I ſtill thought that I and virtue ſhould at laſt prevail. I ſtill thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which would enable you to conquer yourſelf.
————, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.—You could reſtore me to life and hope, and the ſatiſfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.
In tearing myſelf from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even in the moment of paſſion, you cannot deſpiſe.—I would owe every thing to your generoſity—but, for God's ſake, keep me no longer in ſuſpenſe!—Let me ſee you once more!—
Youmuſt do as you pleaſe with reſpect to the child.—I could wiſh that it might be done ſoon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is now finiſhed.—Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendſhip, I diſdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reaſon to think, that the "forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.—It is however of no conſequence.—I am glad you are ſatiſfied with your own conduct.
I now ſolemnly aſſure you, that this is an eternal farewel.—Yet I flinch not from the duties which tie me to life.
That there is "ſophiſtry" on one ſide or other, is certain; but now it matters not on which. On my part it has not been a queſtion of words. Yet your underſtanding or mine muſt be ſtrangely warped—for what you term "delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the ſenſations which lead you to follow an ancle or ſtep, be the ſacred foundation of principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have ſtood the brunt of your ſarcaſms.
The ſentiment in me is ſtill ſacred. If there be any part of me that will ſurvive the ſenſe of my miſfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The impetuoſity of your ſenſes, may have led you to term mere animal deſire, theſource of principle; and it may give zeſt to ſome years to come.—Whether you will always think ſo, I ſhall never know.
It is ſtrange that, in ſpite of all you do, ſomething like conviction forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.
I part with you in peace.
Paris, February 15, 1793.
My dear friend,
Itis neceſſary perhaps for an obſerver of mankind, to guard as carefully the remembrance of the firſt impreſſion made by a nation, as by a countenance; becauſe we imperceptibly loſe ſight of the national character, when we become more intimate with individuals. It is not then uſeleſs or preſumptuous to note, that, when I firſt entered Paris,the ſtriking contraſt of riches and poverty, elegance and ſlovenlineſs, urbanity and deceit, every where caught my eye, and ſaddened my ſoul; and theſe impreſſions are ſtill the foundation of my remarks on the manners, which flatter the ſenſes, more than they intereſt the heart, and yet excite more intereſt than eſteem.
The whole mode of life here tends indeed to render the people frivolous, and, to borrow their favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing, they are always ſipping the ſparkling joy on the brim of the cup, leaving ſatiety in the bottom for thoſe who venture to drink deep. On all ſides they trip along, buoyed up by animal ſpirits, and ſeemingly ſo void of care, that often, when I am walking on theBoulevards, it occurs to me, that they alone underſtandthe full import of the term leiſure; and they trifle their time away with ſuch an air of contentment, I know not how to wiſh them wiſer at the expence of their gaiety. They play before me like motes in a ſunbeam, enjoying the paſſing ray; whilſt an Engliſh head, ſearching for more ſolid happineſs, loſes, in the analyſis of pleaſure, the volatile ſweets of the moment. Their chief enjoyment, it is true, riſes from vanity: but it is not the vanity that engenders vexation of ſpirit; on the contrary, it lightens the heavy burthen of life, which reaſon too often weighs, merely to ſhift from one ſhoulder to the other.
Inveſtigating the modification of the paſſion, as I would analyze the elements that give a form to dead matter, I ſhall attempt to trace to their ſourcethe cauſes which have combined to render this nation the moſt poliſhed, in a phyſical ſenſe, and probably the moſt ſuperficial in the world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various ſtreams that diſembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature is abſorbed. For every thing has conſpired to make the French the moſt ſenſual people in the world; and what can render the heart ſo hard, or ſo effectually ſtifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of ſenſuality?
The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me then make a previous obſervation, which I beg you not to loſe ſight of, when I ſpeak rather harſhly of a land flowing with milk and honey. Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would decry; for are wenot all of the ſame ſtock? But I wiſh calmly to conſider the ſtage of civilization in which I find the French, and, giving a ſketch of their character, and unfolding the circumſtances which have produced its identity, I ſhall endeavour to throw ſome light on the hiſtory of man, and on the preſent important ſubjects of diſcuſſion.
I would I could firſt inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I ſaw the fair form of Liberty ſlowly riſing, and Virtue expanding her wings to ſhelter all her children! I ſhould then hear the account of the barbarities that have rent the boſom of France patiently, and bleſs the firm hand that lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the ariſtocracy of birth is levelled with the ground, only to make roomfor that of riches, I am afraid that the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the government rendered leſs venal. Still it is not juſt to dwell on the miſery produced by the preſent ſtruggle, without adverting to the ſtanding evils of the old ſyſtem. I am grieved—ſorely grieved—when I think of the blood that has ſtained the cauſe of freedom at Paris; but I alſo hear the ſame live ſtream cry aloud from the highways, through which the retreating armies paſſed with famine and death in their rear, and I hide my face with awe before the inſcrutable ways of providence, ſweeping in ſuch various directions the beſom of deſtruction over the ſons of men.
Before I came to France, I cheriſhed, you know, an opinion, that ſtrong virtues might exiſt with the poliſhed manners produced by the progreſs of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the courſe of improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being goaded on by miſery. But now, the perſpective of the golden age, fading before the attentive eye of obſervation, almoſt eludes my ſight; and, loſing thus in part my theory of a more perfect ſtate, ſtart not, my friend, if I bring forward an opinion, which at the firſt glance ſeems to be levelled againſt the exiſtence of God! I am not become an Atheiſt, I aſſure you, by reſiding at Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or, if you will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that, when the paſſions are juſtly poized, we become harmleſs, and in the ſame proportion uſeleſs.
The wants of reaſon are very few; and, were we to conſider diſpaſſionately the real value of moſt things, we ſhould probably reſt ſatiſfied with the ſimple gratification of our phyſical neceſſities, and be content with negative goodneſs: for it is frequently, only that wanton, the Imagination, with her artful coquetry, who lures us forward, and makes us run over a rough road, puſhing aſide every obſtacle merely to catch a diſappointment.
The deſire alſo of being uſeful to others, is continually damped by experience; and, if the exertions of humanity were not in ſome meaſure their own reward, who would endure miſery, or ſtruggle with care, to make ſome people ungrateful, and others idle?
You will call theſe melancholy effuſions, and gueſs that, fatigued by the vivacity, which has all the buſtling folly of childhood, without the innocence which renders ignorance charming, I am too ſevere in my ſtrictures. It may be ſo; and I am aware that the good effects of the revolution will be laſt felt at Paris; where ſurely the ſoul of Epicurus has long been at work to root out the ſimple emotions of the heart, which, being natural, are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by the ſelfiſh enjoyments of the ſenſes, which the government foſtered, is it ſurpriſing that ſimplicity of manners, and ſingleneſs of heart, rarely appear, to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, ſo paſſing ſweet?
Seeing how deep the fibres of miſchief have ſhot, I ſometimes aſk, with a doubting accent, Whether a nation cango back to the purity of manners which has hitherto been maintained unſullied only by the keen air of poverty, when, emaſculated by pleaſure, the luxuries of proſperity are become the wants of nature? I cannot yet give up the hope, that a fairer day is dawning on Europe, though I muſt heſitatingly obſerve, that little is to be expected from the narrow principle of commerce which ſeems every where to be ſhoving aſidethe point of honourof thenobleſſe. I can look beyond the evils of the moment, and do not expect muddied water to become clear before it has had time to ſtand; yet, even for the moment, it is the moſt terrific of all ſights, to ſee men vicious without warmth—to ſee the order that ſhould be the ſuperſcription of virtue, cultivated to give ſecurity to crimes which only thoughtleſſneſs couldpalliate. Diſorder is, in fact, the very eſſence of vice, though with the wild wiſhes of a corrupt fancy humane emotions often kindly mix to ſoften their atrocity. Thus humanity, generoſity, and even ſelf-denial, ſometimes render a character grand, and even uſeful, when hurried away by lawleſs paſſions; but what can equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who lives for himſelf alone, and conſidering his fellow-creatures merely as machines of pleaſure, never forgets that honeſty is the beſt policy? Keeping ever within the pale of the law, he cruſhes his thouſands with impunity; but it is with that degree of management, which makes him, to borrow a ſignificant vulgariſm, a villainin grain. The very exceſs of his depravation preſerves him, whilſt the more reſpectable beaſt of prey, who prowlsabout like the lion, and roars to announce his approach, falls into a ſnare.
You may think it too ſoon to form an opinion of the future government, yet it is impoſſible to avoid hazarding ſome conjectures, when every thing whiſpers me, that names, not principles, are changed, and when I ſee that the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old ſyſtem to corrupt the new. For the ſame pride of office, the ſame deſire of power are ſtill viſible; with this aggravation, that, fearing to return to obſcurity after having but juſt acquired a reliſh for diſtinction, each hero, or philoſopher, for all are dubbed with theſe new titles, endeavours to make hay while the ſun ſhines; and every petty municipal officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day, ſtalks like a cock on a dunghil.
I ſhall now conclude this deſultory letter; which however will enable you to foreſee that I ſhall treat more of morals than manners.
Yours ———