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                             C[OE]LEBS

                        IN SEARCH OF A WIFE.

                        BY MRS. HANNAH MORE.

    NEW YORK:
    DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET.
    1858.

    "Among unequals what society
    Can sort, what harmony or true delight?
    Of fellowship, I speak, fit to participate
    All rational enjoyment."

PREFACE.

When I quitted home, on a little excursion in the spring of this present
year 1808, a thought struck me, which I began to put into immediate
execution. I determined to commit to paper any little circumstances that
might arise, and any conversations in which I might be engaged, when the
subject was at all important, though there might be nothing particularly
new or interesting in the discussion itself.

I fulfilled my intention as occasions arose to furnish me with
materials; and on my return to the North, in the autumn of this same
year, it was my amusement on my journey to look over and arrange these
papers.

As soon as I arrived at my native place, I lent my manuscript to a
confidential friend, as the shortest way of imparting to him whatever
had occurred to me during our separation, together with my reflections
on those occurrences. I took care to keep his expectations low, by
apprizing him, that in a tour from my house in Westmoreland to the house
of a friend in Hampshire, he must not look for adventures, but content
himself with the every-day details of common life, diversified only by
the different habits and tempers of the persons with whom I had
conversed.

He brought back my manuscript in a few days, with an earnest wish that I
would consent to its publication, assuring me that he was of opinion
that it might not be altogether useless, not only to young men engaged
in the same pursuit with myself, but to the general reader. He obviated
all my objections arising from my want of leisure, during my present
interesting engagements, by offering to undertake the whole business
himself, and to release me from any further trouble, as he was just
setting out for London, where he proposed passing more time than the
printing would require.

Thus I am driven to the stale apology for publishing what perhaps it
would have been more prudent to have withheld--_the importunity of
friends_; an apology so commonly unfounded, and so repeatedly alleged,
from the days of John Faustus to the publication of C[oe]lebs.

But whether my friend, or my vanity, had the largest share of influence,
I am willing to indulge the hope that a better motive than either
friendship or vanity was an operating ingredient in my consent. Be that
as it may--I sent him my copy "_with all its imperfections on its
head_." It was accompanied by a letter of which the following extract
shall conclude these short prefatory remarks:

"I here send you my manuscript, with permission to make what use of it
you please. By publishing it I fear you will draw on me the particular
censure of two classes of critics. The novel reader will reject it as
dull. The religious may throw it aside as frivolous. The one will accuse
it of excessive strictness; the other of censurable levity. Readers of
the former description must be satisfied with the following brief and
general answer:

"Had it been my leading object to have indulged in details that have
amusement only for their end, it might not have been difficult to have
produced a work more acceptable to the tastes accustomed to be gratified
with such compositions. But to entertain that description of readers
makes no part of my design.

"The persons with whom I have associated in my excursion were
principally, though not exclusively, the family of a country gentleman,
and a few of his friends--a narrow field, and unproductive of much
variety! The generality of these characters move in the quiet and
regular course of domestic life. I found them placed in no difficult
situations. It was a scene rather favorable to reflection than
description. Social intercourse, and not striking events, marked the
daily progress of my visit. I had little of pathetic scenes or trying
circumstances to work on my own feelings, or, by the relation of them,
to work on the feelings of others. My friend's house resembled the
reign of some pacific sovereigns. It was the pleasantest to live in, but
its annals were not the most splendid to record. The periods which make
life happy do not always render history brilliant.

"Great passions, therefore, and great trials growing out of them as I
did not witness, I have not attempted to delineate. Love itself appears
in these pages, not as an ungovernable impulse, but as a sentiment
arising out of qualities calculated to inspire attachment in persons
under the dominion of reason and religion, brought together by the
ordinary course of occurrences, in a private family party.

"The familiar conversations of this little society comprehend a
considerable portion of this slender work. The texture of the narrative
is so slight, that it barely serves for a ground into which to weave the
sentiments and observations which it was designed to introduce.

"It may not be unnecessary to anticipate an objection to which these
conversations may sometimes be thought liable. In a few instances, the
speeches may be charged with a degree of stiffness, and with a length
not altogether consistent with familiar dialogue. I must apologize for
this by observing, that when the subjects were serious, the dialogue
would not, in every instance, bend to such facilities, nor break into
such small parcels, as may easily be effected in the discussion of
topics of gayer intercourse.

"But it is time to meet the objections of the more pious reader, if any
such should condescend to peruse this little performance. If it be
objected, that religious characters have been too industriously brought
forward, and their faults somewhat too severely treated, let it be
remembered, that while it is one of the principal objects of the work to
animadvert on those very faults, it has never been done with the
insidious design of depreciating the religion, but with the view, by
exposing the fault, to correct the practice. Grossly vicious characters
have seldom come in my way; but I had frequent occasion to observe the
different shapes and shades of error in various descriptions of society,
not only in those worldly persons who do not quite leave religion out of
their scheme, but on the mistakes and inconsistencies of better
characters, and even on the errors of some who would be astonished not
to find themselves reckoned altogether religious. I have not so much
animadverted on the unavoidable faults and frailties inseparable from
humanity, even in the best characters, and which the best characters
most sensibly feel, and most feelingly deplore, as on those errors which
are often tolerated, justified, and in some instances systematized.

"If I have been altogether deceived in the ambitious hope that these
pages may not be entirely useless; if I have failed in my endeavors to
show how religion may be brought to mix with the concerns of ordinary
life, without impairing its activity, lessening its cheerfulness, or
diminishing its usefulness; if I have erred in fancying that material
defects exist in fashionable education; if I have been wrong in
supposing that females of the higher class may combine more domestic
knowledge with more intellectual acquirement, that they may be at the
same time more knowing and more useful, than has always been thought
necessary or compatible; in short, if I shall be found to have totally
disappointed you, my friend, in your too sanguine opinion that some
little benefit might arise from the publication, I shall rest satisfied
with a low and negative merit. I must be content with the humble hope
that no part of these volumes will be found injurious to the important
interests which it was rather in my wish than in my ability to advance;
that where I failed in effecting good, little evil has been done; that
if my book has answered no valuable purpose, it has, at least, not added
to the number of those publications which, by impairing the virtue, have
diminished the happiness of mankind; that if I possessed not talents to
promote the cause of Christian morals, I possessed an abhorrence of
those principles which lead to their contamination.

"C[OE]LEBS."

C[OE]LEBS.

CHAPTER I.

I have been sometimes surprised when in conversation I have been
expressing my admiration of the character of Eve in her state of
innocence, as drawn by our immortal poet, to hear objections started by
those, from whom of all critics I should have least expected it--the
ladies. I confess that as the Sophia of Rousseau had her young
imagination captivated by the character of Fenelon's Telemachus, so I
early became enamored of that of Milton's Eve. I never formed an idea of
conjugal happiness, but my mind involuntarily adverted to the graces of
that finished picture.

The ladies, in order to justify their censure, assert that Milton, a
harsh domestic tyrant, must needs be a very inadequate judge, and of
course a very unfair delineator, of female accomplishments. These fair
cavilers draw their inference from premises, from which I have always
been accustomed to deduce a directly contrary conclusion. They insist
that it is highly derogatory from the dignity of the sex, that the poet
should affirm that it is the perfection of the character of a wife,

              To study household good,
    And good works in her husband to promote.

Now according to my notion of "household good," which does not include
one idea of drudgery or servility, but which involves a large and
comprehensive scheme of excellence, I will venture to affirm, that let a
woman know what she may, yet if she knows not this, she is ignorant of
the most indispensable, the most appropriate branch of female knowledge.
Without it, however she may inspire admiration abroad, she will never
excite esteem, nor of coarse, durable affection, at home, and will bring
neither credit nor comfort to her ill-starred partner.

The domestic arrangements of such a woman as filled the capacious mind
of the poet resemble, if I may say it without profaneness, those of
Providence, whose under-agent she is. Her wisdom is seen in its effects.
Indeed it is rather felt than seen. It is sensibly acknowledged in the
peace, the happiness, the virtue of the component parts; in the order,
regularity and beauty of the whole system, of which she is the moving
spring. The perfection of her character, as the divine poet intimates,
does not arise from a prominent quality, or a showy talent, or a
brilliant accomplishment, but it is the beautiful combination and result
of them all. Her excellencies consist not so much in acts as in habits,
in

    Those thousand decencies which daily flow
    From all her words and actions.

A description more calculated than any I ever met with to convey an idea
of the purest conduct resulting from the best principles. It gives an
image of that tranquillity, smoothness, and quiet beauty, which is the
very essence of perfection in a wife; while the happily chosen verb
_flow_ takes away any impression of dullness, or stagnant torpor, which
the _still_ idea might otherwise suggest.

But the offense taken by the ladies against the uncourtly bard is
chiefly occasioned by his having presumed to intimate that conjugal
obedience

    Is woman's highest honor and her praise.

This is so nice a point that I, as a bachelor, dare only just hint, that
on this delicate question the poet has not gone an inch further than the
apostle. Nay, Paul is still more uncivilly explicit than Milton. If,
however, I could hope to bring over to my side critics, who, being of
the party, are too apt to prejudge the cause, I would point out to them
that the supposed harshness of the observation is quite done away by the
recollection that this scrupled "obedience" is so far from implying
degradation, that it is connected with the injunction to the woman "to
promote good works" in her husband; an injunction surely inferring a
degree of influence that raises her condition, and restores her to all
the dignity of equality; it makes her not only the associate but the
inspirer of his virtues.

But to return to the economical part of the character of Eve. And here
she exhibits a consummate specimen and beautiful model of domestic skill
and elegance. How exquisitely conceived is her reception and
entertainment of Raphael! How modest and yet how dignified! I am afraid
I know some husbands who would have had to encounter very ungracious
looks, not to say words, if they had brought home even an angel,
_unexpectedly_ to dinner. Not so our general mother:

                          Her dispatchful looks,
    Her hospitable thoughts, * * * intent
    What choice to choose for delicacy best,

all indicate not only the "prompt" but the cheerful "obedience." Though
her repast consisted only of the fruits of Paradise,

    Whatever earth, all bearing mother, yields;

yet of these, with a liberal hospitality,

    She gathers tribute large, and on the board
    Heaps with unsparing hand.

The finest modern lady need not disdain the arrangement of her table,
which was

                                So contrived as not to mix
    Tastes not well join'd, inelegant, but bring
    Taste after taste, upheld by kindliest change.

It must, however, I fear, be conceded, by the way, that this "taste
_after_ taste" rather holds out an encouragement to second courses.

When this unmatched trio had finished their repast, which, let it be
observed, before they tasted, Adam acknowledged that

    These bounties from our _Nourisher_ are given,
    From whom all perfect good descends,

Milton, with great liberality to that sex against which he is accused of
so much severity, obligingly permitted Eve to sit much longer after
dinner, than most modern husbands would allow. She had attentively
listened to all the historical and moral subjects so divinely discussed
between the first Angel and the first Man; and perhaps there can
scarcely be found a more beautiful trait of a delicately attentive wife,
than she exhibits, by withdrawing at the exact point of propriety. She
does not retire in consequence of any look or gesture, any broad sign of
impatience, much less any command or intimation of her husband; but with
the ever watchful eye of vigilant affection and deep humility:

                   When by his countenance he seem'd
    Entering on thoughts abstruse,

instructed only by her own quick intuition of what was right and
delicate, she withdrew. And here again how admirably does the poet
sustain her intellectual dignity, softened by a most tender stroke of
conjugal affection.

    Yet went she not, as not with such discourse
    Delighted, or not capable her ear
    Of what was high--such pleasure she reserved,
    Adam relating, she sole auditress----

On perusing, however, the tête-à-tête which her absence occasioned,
methinks I hear some sprightly lady, fresh from the Royal Institution,
express her wonder why Eve should be banished by her husband from
Raphael's fine lecture on astronomy which follows; was not she as
capable as Adam of understanding all he said, of

    Cycle and Epicycle, Orb on Orb?

If, however, the imaginary fair objector will take the trouble to read
to the end of the eighth book of this immortal work, it will raise in
her estimation both the poet and the heroine, when she contemplates the
just propriety of her being absent before Adam enters on the account of
the formation, beauty and attractions of his wife, and of his own love
and admiration. She will further observe, in her progress through this
divine poem, that the author is so far from making Eve a mere domestic
drudge, an unpolished housewife, that he pays an invariable attention
even to external elegance, in his whole delineation, ascribing grace to
her steps and dignity to her gesture. He uniformly keeps up the same
combination of intellectual worth and polished manners;

    For softness she, and sweet attractive grace.

And her husband, so far from a churlish insensibility to her
perfections, politely calls her

    Daughter of God and man, _accomplish'd_ Eve.

I will not, however, affirm that Adam, or even Milton, annexed to the
term _accomplished_ precisely the idea with which it is associated in
the mind of a true modern-bred lady.

It may be objected to the poet's gallantry that he remarks

    How beauty is excell'd by manly grace,
    And wisdom, which alone is truly fair;

let it be remembered that the observation proceeds from the lips of Eve
herself, and thus adds to her other graces, the crowning grace of
humility.

But it is high time that I should proceed from my criticism to myself.
The connexion, and of course the transition, will be found more natural
than may appear, till developed by my slight narrative.

CHAPTER II.

I am a young man, not quite four and twenty, of an ancient and
respectable family, and considerable estate in one of the northern
counties. Soon after I had completed my studies in the university of
Edinburgh, my father fell into a lingering illness. I attended him with
an assiduity which was richly rewarded by the lessons of wisdom, and the
example of piety, which I daily received from him. After languishing
about a year, I lost him, and in him the most affectionate father, the
most enlightened companion, and the most Christian friend.

The grief of my mother was so poignant and so lasting, that I could
never prevail on myself to leave her, even for the sake of attaining
those advantages, and enjoying those pleasures, which may be reaped by a
wider range of observation, by a more extended survey of the
multifarious tastes, habits, pursuits, and characters of general
society. I felt with Mr. Gray that we can never have but one mother, and
postponed from time to time the moment of leaving home.

I was her only child, and though it was now her sole remaining wish to
see me happily married, yet I was desirous of first putting myself in a
situation which might afford me a more extensive field of inquiry before
I ventured to take so irretrievable a step, a step which might perhaps
affect my happiness in both worlds. But time did not hang heavy on my
hands; if I had little society, I had many books. My father had left me
a copious library, and I had learnt from him to select whatever was most
valuable in that best species of literature which tends to form the
principles, the understanding, the taste, and the character. My father
had passed the early part of his life in the gay and busy world; and our
domestic society in the country had been occasionally enlivened by
visits from some of his London friends, men of sense and learning, and
some of them men of piety.

My mother, when she was in tolerable spirits, was now frequently
describing the kind of woman whom she wished me to marry. "I am so
firmly persuaded, Charles," would she kindly say, "of the justness of
your taste, and the rectitude of your principles, that I am not much
afraid of your being misled by the captivating exterior of any woman who
is greatly deficient either in sense or conduct; but remember, my son,
that there are many women against whose characters there lies nothing
very objectionable, who are yet little calculated to taste or to
communicate rational happiness. Do not indulge romantic ideas, of
super-human excellence. Remember that the fairest creature is a fallen
creature. Yet let not your standard be low. If it be absurd to expect
perfection, it is not unreasonable to expect _consistency_. Do not
suffer yourself to be caught by a shining quality, till you know it is
not counteracted by the opposite defect. Be not taken in by strictness
in one point, till you are assured there is no laxity in others. In
character, as in architecture, proportion is beauty. The education of
the present race of females is not very favorable to domestic happiness.
For my own part I call education, not that which smothers a woman with
accomplishments, but that which tends to consolidate a firm and regular
system of character; that which tends to form a friend, a companion, and
a wife. I call education not that which is made up of the shreds and
patches of useless arts, but that which inculcates principles, polishes
taste, regulates temper, cultivates reason, subdues the passions,
directs the feelings, habituates to reflection, trains to self-denial,
and, more especially, that which refers all actions, feelings,
sentiments, tastes, and passions, to the love and fear of God."

I had yet had little opportunity of contrasting the charms of my native
place with the less wild and romantic beauties of the south. I was
passionately fond of the scenery that surrounded me, which had never yet
lost that power of pleasing which it is commonly imagined that novelty
can alone confer.

The priory, a handsome Gothic mansion, stands in the middle of a park,
not extensive, but beautifully varied. Behind are lofty mountains, the
feet of which are covered with wood that descends almost to the house.
On one side a narrow cultivated valley winds among the mountains; the
bright variegated tints of its meadows and corn fields, with here and
there a little white cottage, embosomed in trees, are finely contrasted
with the awful and impassable fells which contain it.

An inconsiderable but impetuous river rushes from the mountains above,
through this unadorned but enchanting little valley, and passes through
the park at the distance of about a hundred yards from the house. The
ground falls beautifully down to it; and on the other side is a fine
wood of birch overhanging the river, which is here crossed by a small
rustic bridge; after being enlarged by many streams from the neighboring
hills, it runs about half a mile to the lake below, which, from the
front of the house, is seen in full beauty. It is a noble expanse of
water. The mountains that surround it are some of them covered with
wood, some skirted with cultivation, some rocky and barren to the
water's edge; while the rugged summits of them all present every variety
of fantastic outline. Toward the head of the lake a neat little village
ornaments the banks, and wonderfully harmonizes with the simple beauty
of the scene. At an opening among the hills, a view is caught of the
distant country, a wide vale richly wooded, adorned everywhere with
towns, villages, and gentlemen's houses, and backed by sublime
mountains, rivaling in height, though not in their broken and Alpine
forms, those that more immediately surround us.

While I was thus dividing my time between the enjoyment of this
exquisite scenery, my books, the care of my affairs, my filial
attentions, and my religious duties, I was suddenly deprived of my
inestimable mother. She died the death of the righteous.

Addison has finely touched on the singular sort of delicate and refined
tenderness of a father for a daughter: but I am persuaded that there is
no affection of the human heart more exquisitely pure than that which is
felt by a grateful son toward a mother who fostered his infancy with
fondness, watched over his childhood with anxiety, and his youth with an
interest compounded of all that is tender, wise, and pious.

My retirement was now become solitude: the former is, I believe, the
best state for the mind of man, the latter almost the worst. In
complete solitude the eye wants objects, the heart wants attachments,
the understanding wants reciprocation. The character loses its
tenderness when it has nothing to love, its firmness when it has none to
strengthen it, its sweetness when it has nothing to soothe it; its
patience when it meets no contradiction, its humility when it is
surrounded by dependants, and its delicacy in the conversation of the
uninformed. Where the intercourse is very unequal, society is something
worse than solitude.

I had naturally a keen relish for domestic happiness; and this
propensity had been cherished by what I had seen and enjoyed in my
father's family. Home was the scene in which my imagination had pictured
the only delights worthy of a rational, feeling, intellectual, immortal
man:

                    sole bliss of Paradise
    Which has survived the fall.

This inclination had been much increased by my father's turn of
conversation. He often said to me, "I know your domestic propensities;
and I know, therefore, that the whole color of your future life will be,
in a particular manner, determined by the turn of mind of the woman you
may marry. Were you to live in the busy haunts of men; were you of any
profession, or likely to be engaged in public life, though I would still
counsel you to be equally careful in your choice, yet your happiness
would not so immediately, so exclusively depend on the individual
society of a woman, as that of a retired country gentleman must do. A
man of sense who loves home, and lives at home, requires a wife who can
and will be at half the expense of mind necessary for keeping up the
cheerful, animated, elegant intercourse which forms so great a part of
the bond of union between intellectual and well-bred persons. Had your
mother been a woman of an uninformed, inelegant mind, virtuous and
pious as she is, what abatement must there have been in the blessings of
my lot! The _exhibiting_, the _displaying_ wife may entertain your
company, but it is only the informed, the refined, the cultivated woman
who can entertain yourself; and I presume whenever you marry you will
marry primarily for yourself, and not for your friends; you will want a
COMPANION: an ARTIST you may hire.

"But remember, Charles, that when I am insisting so much on mental
delicacy, I am assuming that all is right in still more essential
points. Do not be contented with this superstructure, till you have
ascertained the solidity of the foundation. The ornaments which decorate
do not support the edifice! Guarded as you are by Christian principles,
and confirmed in virtuous habits, I trust you may safely look abroad
into the world. Do not, however, irrevocably dispose of your affections
till you have made the long-promised visit to my earliest, wisest, and
best friend, Mr. Stanley. I am far from desiring that your friends
should direct your choice. It is what even your father would not do: but
he will be the most faithful and most disinterested of counselors."

I resolved now for a few months to leave the priory, the seat of my
ancestors, to make a tour not only to London, but to Stanley Grove, in
Hampshire, the residence of my father's friend; a visit I was about to
make with him just before his last illness. He wished me to go alone,
but I could not prevail on myself to desert his sick-bed for any scheme
of amusement.

I began to long earnestly for the pleasures of conversation, pleasures
which, in our small, but social and select circle of cultivated friends,
I had been accustomed to enjoy. I am aware that certain fine town-bred
men would ridicule the bare mention of learned and polished conversation
at a village in Westmoreland, or indeed at any place out of the
precincts of the metropolis; just as a London physician or lawyer smiles
superciliously at the suggested merits of a professional brother in a
provincial town. Good sense, however, is of all countries, and even
knowledge is not altogether a mere local advantage. These, and not the
topics of the hour, furnish the best raw materials for working up an
improving intercourse.

It must be confessed, however, as I have since found, that for giving a
terseness and polish to conversation; for rubbing out prejudices; for
correcting egotism; for keeping self-importance out of sight, if not
curing it; for bringing a man to condense what he has to say, if he
intends to be listened to; for accustoming him to endure opposition; for
teaching him not to think every man who differs from him in matters of
taste, a fool, and in politics, a knave; for cutting down harangues; for
guarding him from producing as novelties and inventions, what has been
said a thousand times; for quickness of allusion, which brings the idea
before you without detail or quotation; nothing is equal to the
miscellaneous society of London. The advantages, too, which it possesses
in being the seat of the court, the parliament, and the courts of law,
as well as the common centre of arts and talents of every kind, all
these raise it above every other scene of intellectual improvement, or
colloquial pleasure, perhaps, in the whole world.

But this was only the secondary motive of my intended migration. I
connected with it the hope, that, in a more extended survey, I might be
more likely to select a deserving companion for life. "In such a
companion," said I, as I drove along in my post-chaise, "I do not want a
Helen, a Saint Cecilia, or a Madame Dacier; yet she must be elegant, or
I should not love her; sensible, or I should not respect her; prudent,
or I could not confide in her; well-informed, or she could not educate
my children; well-bred, or she could not entertain my friends;
_consistent_, or I should offend the shade of my mother; pious, or I
should not be happy with her, because the prime comfort in a companion
for life is the delightful hope that she will be a companion for
eternity."

After this soliloquy, I was frightened to reflect that so much was
requisite; and yet when I began to consider in which article I could
make any abatement, I was willing to persuade myself that my
requisitions were moderate.

CHAPTER III.

I had occasionally visited two or three families in our own county, who
were said to make a very genteel appearance on narrow fortunes. As I was
known not to consider money as a principal consideration, it had often
been intimated to me what excellent wives the daughters of these
families would make, because on a very slender allowance their
appearance was as elegant as that of women of ten times their
expectations. I translated this respectable appearance into a language
not the most favorable, as I instantly inferred, and afterward was
convinced, that this personal figure was made by the sacrifice of their
whole time to those decorations which procured them credit, by putting
their outward figure on a par with the most affluent. If a girl with a
thousand pounds rivals in her dress one with ten thousand, is it not
obvious, that not only all her time must be employed, but all her money
devoted to this one object? Nothing but the clippings and parings from
her personal adornments could enable her to supply the demands of
charity; and these sacrifices, it is evident she is not disposed to
make.

Another inducement suggested to me was, that these young ladies would
make the better wives, because they had never been corrupted by the
expensive pleasures of London, and had not been spoiled by the gay
scenes of dissipation which it afforded. This argument would have
weighed powerfully with me, had I not observed, that they never
abstained from any amusement in the country that came within their
reach.

I naturally inferred, that she who eagerly grasped at every petty
provincial dissipation, would with increased alacrity have plunged into
the more alluring gayeties of the metropolis had it been in her power. I
thought she had even less apology to plead than the town lady; the fault
was equal, while the temptation was less: and she who was as dissipated
as her limited bounds permitted, where there was little to attract,
would, I feared, be as dissipated as she possibly could be, when her
temptations were multiplied, and her facilities increased.

I had met with several young ladies of a higher description, daughters
of our country gentlemen, a class which furnishes a number of valuable
and elegant women. Some of these, whom I knew, seemed unexceptional in
manner and in mind. They had seen something of the world, without having
been spoiled by it; had read with advantage; and acquitted themselves
well in the duties which they had been called to practice. But I was
withheld from cultivating that degree of intimacy which would have
enabled me to take an exact measure of their minds, by the injunction of
my father, that I would never attach myself to any woman till I had seen
and consulted Mr. Stanley. This direction, which, like all his wishes,
was a law to me, operated as a sort of sedative in the slight
intercourse I had with ladies; and resolving to postpone all such
intimacy as might have led to attachment, I did not allow myself to
come near enough to feel with interest, or to judge with decision.

As soon as I got to town I visited some of my father's friends. I was
kindly received for his sake, and at their houses soon enlarged the
sphere of my acquaintance. I was concerned to remark that two or three
gentlemen, whom I had observed to be very regular in their attendance on
public worship in the country, seldom went to church in London; in the
afternoon never. "Religion," they said, by way of apology, "was entirely
a thing of example; it was of great political importance; society was
held together by the restraints it imposed on the lower orders. When
they were in the country it was highly proper that their tenants and
workmen should have the benefit of their example, but in London the case
was different. Where there were so many churches, no one knew whether
you went or not, and where no scandal was given, no harm was done." As
this was a logic which had not found its way into my father's religion,
I was not convinced by it. I remember Mr. Burke, speaking of the
English, who were so humane at home, and whom he unjustly accused of
wanting humanity in India, says, "that the humanity of Britain is a
humanity of points and parallels." Surely the religion of the gentlemen
in question is not a less geographical distinction.

This error, I conceive, arises from religion being too much considered
as a mere institution of decorum, of convention, of society; and not as
an institution founded on the condition of human nature, a covenant of
mercy for repairing the evils which sin has produced. It springs from
the want of a conviction that Christianity is an individual as well as
general concern; that religion is a personal thing, previous to its
being a matter of example; that a man is not infallibly saved or lost as
a portion of any family, or any church, or any community; but that, as
he is individually responsible, he must be individually brought to a
deep and humbling sense of his own personal wants, without taking any
refuge in the piety he may see around him, of which he will have no
benefit, if he be no partaker.

I regretted, even for inferior reasons, the little distinction which was
paid to this sacred day. To say nothing of the elevating views which the
soul acquires from devoting itself to its proper object; the man of
business, methinks, should rejoice in its return; the politician should
welcome its appearance, not only as a rest from anxiety and labor, but
as an occasion of cooling and quieting the mind, of softening its
irritation, of allaying its ferment, and thus restoring the repaired
faculties and invigorated spirits to the demands of the succeeding week,
in a frame of increased aptitude for meeting its difficulties and
encountering its duties.

The first person whom I visited was a good-natured, friendly man, whom I
had occasionally seen in the North. As I had no reason to believe that
he was religious, in the true sense of the word, I had no intention of
looking for a wife in his family. I, however, thought it not amiss to
associate a little with persons of different descriptions, that by a
wider range I might learn to correct my general judgment, as well as to
guide my particular pursuit. Nothing, it is true, would tempt me to
select a woman on whose pious dispositions I could not form a reasonable
dependence: yet to come at the reality of those dispositions was no easy
matter.

I had heard my father remark, that he had, more than once, known a
right-minded girl, who seemed to have been first taught of heaven, and
afterward supported in her Christian course under almost every human
disadvantage; who boldly, but meekly, maintained her own principles,
under all the hourly temptations and oppositions of a worldly and
irreligious family, and who had given the best evidence of her piety
toward God, by her patient forbearance toward her erring friends. Such
women had made admirable wives when they were afterward transplanted
into families where their virtues were understood, and their piety
cherished. While, on the other hand, he had known others, who,
accustomed from childhood to the sober habits of family religion, under
pious but injudicious parents, had fallen in mechanically with the
domestic practices, without having ever been instructed in Christian
principles, or having ever manifested any religious tendencies. The
implantation of a new principle never having been inculcated, the
religious habit has degenerated into a mere form, the parents acting as
if they thought that religion must come by nature or infection in a
religious family. These girls, having never had their own hearts
impressed, nor their own characters distinctly considered, nor
individually cultivated, but being taken out as a portion from the mass,
have afterward taken the cast and color of any society into which they
have happened to be thrown; and they who before had lived religiously
with the religious, have afterward assimilated with the gay and
dissipated, when thus thrown into their company, as cordially as if they
had never been habituated to better things.

At dinner there appeared two pretty-looking young ladies, daughters of
my friend, who had been some time a widower. I placed myself between
them for the purpose of prying a little into their minds, while the rest
of the company were conversing on indifferent subjects. Having formerly
heard this gentleman's deceased wife extolled as the mirror of managers,
and the arrangements of his table highly commended, I was surprised to
see it so ill-appointed, and every thing wearing marks of palpable
inelegance. Though no epicure, I could not forbear observing that many
of the dishes were out of season, ill-chosen, and ill-dressed.

While I was puzzling my head for a solution, I recollected that I had
lately read in a most respectable periodical work, a paper (composed, I
believe, however, by a raw recruit of that well-disciplined corps) which
insisted that nothing tended to make ladies so useless and inefficient
in the _ménage_ as the study of the dead languages. I jumped to the
conclusion, and was in an instant persuaded that my young hostesses must
not only be perfect mistresses of Latin, but the _tout ensemble_ was so
ill arranged as to induce me to give them full credit for Greek also.

Finding, therefore, that my appetite was balked, I took comfort in the
certainty that my understanding would be well regaled; and after
secretly regretting that learning should so effectually destroy
usefulness, I was resolved to derive intellectual comfort from this too
classical repast. Turning suddenly to the eldest lady, I asked her at
once if she did not think Virgil the finest poet in the world. She
blushed, and thus confirmed me in the opinion that her modesty was equal
to her erudition. I repeated my question with a little circumlocution.
She stared, and said she had never heard of the person I mentioned, but
that she had read Tears of Sensibility, and Rosa Matilda, and Sympathy
of Souls, and Too Civil by Half, and the Sorrows of Werter, and the
Stranger, and the Orphans of Snowdon.

"Yes, sir," joined in the younger sister, who did not rise to so high a
pitch of literature, "and we have read Perfidy Punished, and Jemmy and
Jenny Jessamy, and the Fortunate Footman, and the Illustrious
Chambermaid." I blushed and stared in my turn; and here the
conversation, through the difficulty of our being intelligible to each
other, dropped; and I am persuaded that I sunk much lower in their
esteem for not being acquainted with their favorite authors, than they
did in mine for having never heard of Virgil.

I arose from the table with a full conviction that it is very possible
for a woman to be totally ignorant of the ordinary but indispensable,
duties of common life without knowing one word of Latin; and that her
being a bad companion is no infallible proof of her being a good
economist.

I am afraid the poor father saw something of my disappointment in my
countenance, for when we were alone in the evening, he observed, that a
heavy addition to his other causes of regret for the loss of his wife,
was her excellent management of his family. I found afterward that,
though she had brought him a great fortune, she had had a very low
education. Her father, a coarse country esquire, to whom the pleasures
of the table were the only pleasures for which he had any relish, had no
other ambition for his daughter but that she should be the most famous
housewife in the country. He gloried in her culinary perfections, which
he understood; of the deficiencies of her mind he had not the least
perception. Money and good eating, he owned, were the only things in
life which had a real intrinsic value; the value of all other things, he
declared, existed in the imagination only.

The poor lady, when she became a mother, and was brought out into the
world, felt keenly the deficiencies of her own education. The dread of
Scylla, as is usual, wrecked her on Charybdis. Her first resolution, as
soon as she had daughters, was, that they should _learn every thing_.
All the masters who teach things of little intrinsic use were
extravagantly paid for supernumerary attendance; and as no one in the
family was capable of judging of their improvements, their progress was
but slow. Though they were taught much, they learned but little, even of
these unnecessary things; and of things necessary they learned nothing.
Their well-intentioned mother was not aware that her daughters'
education was almost as much calculated to gratify the senses, though in
a different way, and with more apparent refinement, as her own had been;
and that _mind_ is left nearly as much out of the question in making an
ordinary artist as in making a good cook.

CHAPTER IV.

From my fondness for conversation, my imagination had been early fired
with Dr. Johnson's remark, that there is no pleasure on earth comparable
to the _fine full flow of London talk_. I, who, since I had quitted
college had seldom had my mind refreshed, but with the petty rills and
penurious streams of knowledge which country society afforded, now
expected to meet it in a strong and rapid current, fertilizing wherever
it flowed, producing in abundance the rich fruits of argument, and the
gay flowers of rhetoric. I looked for an uninterrupted course of profit
and delight. I flattered myself that every dinner would add to my stock
of images; that every debate would clear up some difficulty, every
discussion elucidate some truth; that every allusion would be purely
classical, every sentence abound with instruction, and every period be
pointed with wit.

On the tiptoe of expectation I went to dine with Sir John Belfield, in
Cavendish-square. I looked at my watch fifty times. I thought it would
never be six o'clock. I did not care to show my country breeding, by
going too early, to incommode my friend, nor my town breeding, by going
too late, and spoiling his dinner. Sir John is a valuable,
elegant-minded man, and, next to Mr. Stanley, stood highest in my
father's esteem for his mental accomplishments and correct morals. As I
knew he was remarkable for assembling at his table men of sense, taste,
and learning, my expectations of pleasure were very high. "Here, at
least," said I as I heard the name of one clever man announced after
another, "here at least, I can not fail to find

    The feast of reason and the flow of soul:

here, at least, all the energies of my mind will be brought into
exercise. From this society I shall carry away documents for the
improvement of my taste; I shall treasure up hints to enrich my
understanding, and collect aphorisms for the conduct of life."

At first there was no fair opportunity to introduce any conversation
beyond the topics of the day, and to those, it must be confessed, this
eventful period gives a new and powerful interest. I should have been
much pleased to have had my country politics rectified, and any
prejudices, which I might have contracted, removed or softened, could
the discussion have been carried on without the frequent interruption of
the youngest man in the company. This gentleman broke in on every
remark, by descanting successively on the merits of the various dishes;
and, if it be true that experience only can determine the judgment, he
gave proof of that best right to peremptory decision by not trusting to
delusive theory, but by actually eating of every dish at table.

His animadversions were uttered with the gravity of a German
philosopher, and the science of a French cook. If any of his opinions
happened to be controverted, he quoted in confirmation of his own
judgment, _l'Almanac des Gourmands_, which he assured us was the most
valuable work that had appeared in France since the Revolution. The
author of this book he seemed to consider of as high authority in the
science of eating, as Coke or Hale in that of jurisprudence, or
Quintilian in the art of criticism. To the credit of the company,
however, be it spoken, he had the whole of this topic to himself. The
rest of the party were, in general, of quite a different calibre, and as
little acquainted with his favorite author, as he probably was with
theirs.

The lady of the house was perfectly amiable and well-bred. Her dinner
was excellent; and every thing about her had an air of elegance and
splendor; of course she completely escaped the disgrace of being thought
a scholar, but not the suspicion of having a very good taste. I longed
for the removal of the cloth, and was eagerly anticipating the pleasure
and improvement which awaited me.

As soon as the servants were beginning to withdraw, we got into a sort
of attitude of conversation; all except the eulogist of l'Almanac des
Gourmands, who, wrapping himself up in the comfortable consciousness of
his own superior judgment, and a little piqued that he had found neither
support nor opposition (the next best thing to a professed talker), he
seemed to have a perfect indifference to all topics except that on which
he had shown so much eloquence with so little effect.

The last tray was now carried out, the last lingering servant had
retired. I was beginning to listen with all my powers of attention to an
ingenious gentleman who was about to give an interesting account of
Egypt, where he had spent a year, and from whence he was lately
returned. He was just got to the catacombs,

          When on a sudden open fly,
    With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,

the mahogany folding doors, and in at once, struggling who should be
first, rushed half a dozen children, lovely, fresh, gay, and noisy. This
sudden and violent irruption of the pretty barbarians necessarily
caused a total interruption of conversation. The sprightly creatures ran
round the table to choose where they would sit. At length this great
difficulty of courts and cabinets, _the choice of places_, was settled.
The little things were jostled in between the ladies, who all contended
who should get possession of the _little beauties_. One was in raptures
with the rosy cheeks of a sweet girl she held in her lap. A second
exclaimed aloud at the beautiful lace with which the frock of another
was trimmed, and which she was sure mamma had given her for being good.
A profitable, and doubtless a lasting and inseparable association was
thus formed in the child's mind between lace and goodness. A third cried
out, "Look at the pretty angel!--do but observe--her bracelets are as
blue as her eyes. Did you ever see such a match?" "Surely, Lady
Belfield," cried a fourth, "you carried the eyes to the shop, or there
must have been a shade of difference." I myself, who am passionately
fond of children, eyed the sweet little rebels with complacency,
notwithstanding the unseasonableness of their interruption.

At last, when they were all disposed of, I resumed my inquiries about
the resting-place of the mummies. But the grand dispute who should have
oranges and who should have almonds and raisins, soon raised such a
clamor that it was impossible to hear my Egyptian friend. This great
contest was, however, at length settled, and I was returning to the
antiquities of Memphis, when the important point, who should have red
wine, and who should have white, who should have half a glass, and who a
whole one, set us again in an uproar. Sir John was visibly uneasy, and
commanded silence. During this interval of peace, I gave up the
catacombs and took refuge in the pyramids. But I had no sooner proposed
my question about the serpent said to be found in one of them, than the
son and heir, a fine little fellow just six years old, reaching out his
arm to dart an apple across the table at his sister, roguishly intending
to overset her glass, unluckily overthrew his own, brimful of port wine.
The whole contents were discharged on the elegant drapery of a
white-robed nymph.

All was now agitation, and distress, and disturbance, and confusion; the
gentlemen ringing for napkins, the ladies assisting the dripping fair
one; each vying with the other who should recommend the most approved
specific for getting out the stain of red wine, and comforting the
sufferer by stories of similar misfortunes. The poor little culprit was
dismissed, and all difficulties and disasters seemed at last surmounted.
But you can not heat up again an interest which has been so often
cooled. The thread of conversation had been so frequently broken that I
despaired of seeing it tied together again. I sorrowfully gave up
catacombs, pyramids, and serpent, and was obliged to content myself with
a little desultory chat with my next neighbor; sorry and disappointed to
glean only a few scattered ears where I had expected so abundant a
harvest; and the day from which I had promised myself so much benefit
and delight passed away with a very slender acquisition of either.

CHAPTER V.

I went almost immediately after, at the invitation of Mr. Ranby, to pass
a few days at his villa at Hampstead. Mr. and Mrs. Ranby were esteemed
pious persons, but having risen to great affluence by a sudden turn of
fortune in a commercial engagement, they had a little self-sufficiency,
and not a little disposition to ascribe an undue importance to wealth.
This I should have thought more pardonable under their circumstances,
had I not expected that religion would in this respect have more than
supplied the deficiencies of education. Their religion, however,
consisted almost exclusively in a disproportionate zeal for a very few
doctrines. And though they were far from being immoral in their own
practice, yet, in their discourse, they affected to undervalue morality.

This was, indeed, more particularly the case with the lady, whose chief
object of discourse seemed to be, to convince me of her great
superiority to her husband in polemical skill. Her chaste conversation
certainly was not coupled with fear. In one respect she was the very
reverse of those pharisees who were scrupulously exact about their petty
observances. Mrs. Ranby was, on the contrary, anxious about a very few
important particulars, and exonerated herself from the necessity of all
inferior attentions. She was strongly attached to one or two preachers,
and discovered little candor for all others, or for those who attended
them. Nay, she somewhat doubted of the soundness of the faith of her
friends and acquaintance who would not incur great inconvenience to
attend one or other of her favorites.

Mrs. Ranby's table was "more than hospitably good." There was not the
least suspicion of Latin here. The eulogist of female ignorance might
have dined in comfortable security against the intrusion and vanity of
erudition. She had three daughters, not unpleasing young women. But I
was much concerned to observe, that they were not only dressed to the
very extremity of fashion, but their drapery was as transparent, as
short, and as scanty, there was as sedulous a disclosure of their
persons, and as great a redundancy of ornaments, as I had seen in the
gayest circles.

"Expect not perfection," said my good mother, "but look for
_consistency_." This principle my parents had not only taught me in the
closet, but had illustrated by their deportment in the family and in the
world. They observed a uniform correctness in their general demeanor.
They were not over anxious about character for its own sake, but they
were tenderly vigilant not to bring any reproach on the Christian name
by imprudence, negligence, or inconsistency, even in small things.
"Custom," said my mother, "can never alter the immutable nature of
right; fashion can never justify any practice which is improper in
itself; and to dress indecently is as great an offence against purity
and modesty, when it is the fashion, as when it is obsolete. There
should be a line of demarcation somewhere. In the article of dress and
appearance, Christian mothers should make a stand. They should not be so
unreasonable as to expect that a young girl will of herself have courage
to oppose the united temptations of fashion without, and the secret
prevalence of corruption within: and authority should be called in where
admonition fails."

The conversation after dinner took a religious turn. Mrs. Ranby was not
unacquainted with the subject, and expressed herself with energy on many
serious points. I could have been glad, however, to have seen her views
a little more practical; and her spirit a little less censorious. I saw
she took the lead in debate, and that Mr. Ranby submitted to act as
subaltern, but whether his meekness was the effect of piety or fear, I
could not at that time determine. She protested vehemently against all
dissipation, in which I cordially joined her, though I hope with
something less intemperance of manner, and less acrimony against those
who pursued it. I began, however, to lose sight of the errors of the
daughters' dress in the pleasure I felt at conversing with so pious a
mother of a family. For pious she really was, though her piety was a
little debased by coarseness, and not a little disfigured by asperity.

I was sorry to observe that the young ladies not only took no part in
the conversation, but that they did not even seem to know what was going
on, and I must confess the _manner_ in which it was conducted was not
calculated to make the subject interesting. The girls sat jogging and
whispering each other, and got away as fast as they could.

As soon as they were withdrawn--"There sir," said the mother, "are three
girls who will make three excellent wives. They were never at a ball or
a play in their lives; and yet, though I say it, who should not say it,
they are as highly accomplished as any ladies at St. James." I cordially
approved the former part of her assertion, and bowed in silence to the
latter.

I took this opportunity of inquiring what had been her mode of religious
instruction for her daughters; but though I put the question with much
caution and deference, she looked displeased, and said she did not think
it necessary to do a great deal in that way; all these things must come
from above; it was not human endeavors, but divine grace which made
Christians. I observed that the truth appeared to be, that divine grace
_blessing_ human endeavors seemed most likely to accomplish that great
end. She replied that experience was not on my side, for that the
children of religious parents were not always religious. I allowed that
it was too true. I knew that she drew her instances from two or three of
her own friends, who, while they discovered much earnestness about their
own spiritual interests, had almost totally neglected the religious
cultivation of their children; the daughters in particular had been
suffered to follow their own devices, and to waste their days in company
of their own choosing and in the most frivolous manner. "What do ye
more than others?" is an interrogation which this negligence has
frequently suggested. Nay, professing serious piety, if ye do not more
than those who profess it not, ye do less.

I took the liberty to remark that though there was no such thing as
hereditary holiness, no entail of goodness; yet the Almighty had
promised in the Scriptures many blessings to the offspring of the
righteous. He never meant, however, that religion was to be transferred
arbitrarily like an heir-loom; but the promise was accompanied with
conditions and injunctions. The directions were express and frequent, to
inculcate early and late the great truths of religion; nay, it was
enforced with all the minuteness of detail, "precept upon precept, line
upon line, here a little, and there a little"--at all times and seasons,
"walking by the way, and sitting in the house." I hazarded the
assertion, that it would _generally_ be found that where the children of
pious parents turned out ill, there had been some mistake, some neglect,
or some fault on the part of the parents; that they had not used the
right methods. I observed that I thought it did not at all derogate from
the sovereignty of the Almighty that he appointed certain means to
accomplish certain ends; and that the adopting these, in conformity to
his appointment, and dependence on his blessing, seemed to be one of the
cases in which we should prove our faith by our obedience.

I found I had gone too far: she said, with some warmth, that she was not
wanting in any duty to her daughters; she set them a good example, and
she prayed daily for their conversion. I highly commended her for both,
but risked the observation, "that praying without instilling principles,
might be as inefficacious as instruction without prayer. That it was
like a husbandman who should expect that praying for sunshine should
produce a crop of corn in a field where not one grain had been sown.
God, indeed, _could_ effect this, but he does not do it; and the means
being of his own appointment, his omnipotence is not less exerted, by
his directing certain effects to follow certain causes, than it would be
by any arbitrary act." As it was evident that she did not choose to
quarrel with me, she contented herself with saying coldly, that she
perceived I was a _legalist_, and had but a low view of divine things.

At tea I found the young ladies took no more interest in the
conversation, than they had done at dinner, but sat whispering and
laughing, and netting white silk gloves till they were summoned to the
harpsichord. Despairing of getting on with them in company, I proposed a
walk in the garden. I now found them as willing to talk, as destitute of
any thing to say. Their conversation was vapid and frivolous. They laid
great stress on small things. They seemed to have no shades in their
understanding, but used the strongest terms for the commonest occasions,
and admiration was excited by things hardly worthy to command attention.
They were extremely glad, and extremely sorry, on subjects not
calculated to excite affections of any kind. They were animated about
trifles, and indifferent on things of importance. They were, I must
confess, frank and good-natured, but it was evident, that as they were
too open to have any thing to conceal, so they were too uninformed to
have any thing to produce: and I was resolved not to risk my happiness
with a woman who could not contribute her full share toward spending a
wet winter cheerfully in the country.

The next day, all the hours from breakfast to dinner were devoted to the
harp. I had the vanity to think that this sacrifice of time was made in
compliment to me, as I had professed to like music; till I found that
all their mornings were spent in the same manner, and the only fruit of
their education, which seemed to be used to any purpose was, that after
their family devotions in the evening, they sung and played a hymn. This
was almost the only sign they gave of intellectual or spiritual life.
They attended morning prayers if they were dressed before the bell rang.
One morning when they did not appear till late, they were reproved by
their father; Mrs. Ranby said, "she should be more angry with them for
their irregularity, were it not that Mr. Ranby obstinately persisted in
reading a printed form which she was persuaded could not do any body
much good." The poor man, who was really well disposed, very properly
defended himself by saying, that he hoped his own heart went along with
every word he read; and as to his family, he thought it much more
beneficial for them to join in an excellent composition of a judicious
divine, than to attend to any such crude rhapsody as he should be able
to produce, whose education had not qualified him to lead the devotions
of others. I had never heard him venture to make use of his
understanding before; and I continued to find it much better than I had
at first given him credit for. The lady observed, with some asperity,
that where there were _gifts_ and _graces_, it superseded the necessity
of learning.

In vindication of my own good breeding, I should observe that in my
little debates with Mrs. Ranby, to which I was always challenged by her,
I never lost sight of that becoming example of the son of Cato, who,
when about to deliver sentiments which might be thought too assuming in
so young a man, introduced his admonitions with the modest preface,

    Remember what our _father_ oft has taught us.

I, without quoting the son of the sage of Utica, constantly adduced the
paternal authority for opinions which might savor too much of arrogance
without such a sanction.

I observed, in the course of my visit, that self-denial made no part of
Mrs. Ranby's religious plan. She fancied, I believe that it savored of
works, and of works she was evidently afraid. She talked as if activity
were useless, and exertion unnecessary, and as if, like inanimate
matter, we had nothing to do but sit still and be shone upon.

I assured her that though I depended on the mercy of God, through the
merits of his Son, for salvation, as entirely as she could do, yet I
thought that Almighty grace, so far from setting aside diligent
exertion, was the principle which promoted it. That salvation is in no
part of Scripture represented as attainable by the indolent Christian,
if I might couple such contradictory terms. That I had been often
awfully struck with the plain declarations, "that the kingdom of
heaven suffereth violence"--"strive to enter in at the strait
gate"--"whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy
might"--"give diligence to make your calling sure"--"work out your own
salvation." To this labor, this watchfulness, this sedulity of endeavor,
the crown of life is expressly promised, and salvation is not less the
free gift of God, because he has annexed certain conditions to our
obtaining it.

The more I argued, the more I found my reputation decline, yet to argue
she compelled me. I really believe she was sincere, but she was ill
informed, governed by feelings and impulses, rather than by the plain
express rule of Scripture. It was not that she did not read Scripture,
but she interpreted it her own way; built opinions on insulated texts;
did not compare Scripture with Scripture, except as it concurred to
strengthen her bias. She considered with a disproportionate fondness,
those passages which supported her preconceived opinions, instead of
being uniformly governed by the general tenor and spirit of the sacred
page. She had far less reverence for the preceptive, than for the
doctrinal parts, because she did not sufficiently consider faith as an
operative influential principle; nor did she conceive that the sublimest
doctrines involve deep practical consequences. She did not consider the
government of the tongue, nor the command of her passions, as forming
any material part of the Christian character. Her zeal was fiery because
her temper was so; and her charity was cold because it was an expensive
propensity to keep warm. Among the perfections of the Redeemer's
character, she did not consider his being "meek and lowly" as an
example, the influence of which was to extend to her. She considered it
indeed as _admirable_ but not as _imitable_; a distinction she was very
apt to make in all her practical dissertations, and in her
interpretation of Scripture.

In the evening Mrs. Ranby was lamenting in general and rather customary
terms, her own exceeding sinfulness. Mr. Ranby said, "You accuse
yourself rather too heavily, my dear: you have sins to be sure." "And
pray what sins have I, Mr. Ranby?" said she, turning upon him with so
much quickness that the poor man started. "Nay," said he meekly, "I did
not mean to offend you; so far from it, that hearing you condemn
yourself so grievously, I intended to comfort you, and to say that
except a few faults--" "And pray what faults?" interrupted she,
continuing to speak however, lest he should catch an interval to tell
them. "I defy you, Mr. Ranby, to produce one." "My dear," replied he,
"as you charged yourself with all, I thought it would be letting you off
cheaply by naming only two or three, such as--." Here, fearing matters
would go too far, I interposed, and softening things as much as I could
for the lady, said, "I conceived that Mr. Ranby meant, that though she
partook of the general corruption--" Here Ranby, interrupting me with
more spirit than I thought he possessed, said "General corruption, sir,
must be the source of particular corruption: I did not mean that my
wife was worse than other women."--"Worse, Mr. Ranby, worse?" cried she.
Ranby, for the first time in his life, not minding her, went on, "As she
is always insisting that the whole species is corrupt, she can not help
allowing that she herself has not quite escaped the infection. Now to be
a sinner in the gross and a saint in the detail; that is, to have all
sins, and no faults, is a thing I do not quite comprehend."

After he had left the room, which he did as the shortest way of allaying
the storm, she apologized for him, said, "he was a well-meaning man, and
acted up to the little light he had;" but added, "that he was
unacquainted with religious feelings, and knew little of the nature of
conversion."

Mrs. Ranby, I found, seems to consider Christianity as a kind of
free-masonry, and therefore thinks it superfluous to speak on serious
subjects to any but the initiated. If they do not _return the sign_, she
gives them up as blind and dead. She thinks she can only make herself
intelligible to those to whom certain peculiar phrases are familiar; and
though her friends may be correct, devout, and both doctrinally and
practically pious; yet if they can not catch a certain mystic meaning,
if there is not a sympathy of intelligence between her and them, if they
do not fully conceive of impressions, and can not respond to mysterious
communications, she holds them unworthy of intercourse with her. She
does not so much insist on high moral excellence as the criterion of
their worth, as on their own account of their internal feelings.

She holds very cheap, that gradual growth in piety which is, in reality,
no less the effect of divine grace, than those instantaneous
conversions, which she believes to be so common. She can not be
persuaded that, of every advance in piety, of every improvement in
virtue, of every illumination of the understanding, of every amendment
in the heart, of every rectification of the will, the Spirit of God is
no less the author, because it is progressive, than if it were sudden.
It is true Omnipotence can, when he pleases, still produce these
instantaneous effects, as he has sometimes done; but as it is not his
established or common mode of operation, it seems vain and rash,
presumptuously to wait for these miraculous interferences. An implicit
dependence, however, on such interferences, is certainly more gratifying
to the genius of enthusiasm, than the anxious vigilance, the fervent
prayer, the daily struggle, the sometimes scarcely perceptible though
constant progress of the sober-minded Christian. Such a Christian is
fully aware that his heart requires as much watching in the more
advanced as in the earliest stages of his religious course. He is
cheerful in a well-grounded hope, and looks not for ecstasies, till that
hope be swallowed up in fruition. Thankful if he feel in his heart a
growing love to God, and an increasing submission to his will, though he
is unconscious of visions, and unacquainted with any revelation but that
which God has made in his word. He remembers, and he derives consolation
from the remembrance, that his Saviour, in his most gracious and
soothing invitation to the "heavy laden," has mercifully promised
"rest," but he has no where promised rapture.

CHAPTER VI.

But to return to Mrs. Ranby's daughters. Is this _consistency_, said I
to myself, when I compared the inanity of the life with the seriousness
of the discourse: and contrasted the vacant way in which the day was
spent, with the decent and devout manner in which it was begun and
ended? I recollected, that under the early though imperfect sacred
institution, the fire of the morning and evening sacrifice was never
suffered to be extinguished during the day.

Though Mrs. Ranby would have thought it a little heathenish to have had
her daughters instructed in polite literature, and to have filled a
leisure hour in reading to her a useful book, that was not professedly
religious, she felt no compunction at their waste of time, or the
trifling pursuits in which the day was suffered to spend itself. The
piano-forte, when they were weary of the harp, copying some indifferent
drawings, gilding a set of flower-pots, and netting white gloves and
veils, seemed to fill up the whole business of these immortal beings, of
these Christians, for whom it had been solemnly engaged that they should
manfully fight under Christ's banner.

On a further acquaintance, I was much more inclined to lay the blame on
their education than their dispositions. I found them not only
good-humored, but charitably disposed: but their charities were small
and casual, often ill applied, and always without a plan. They knew
nothing of the state, character, or wants of the neighboring poor; and
it had never been pointed out to them that the instruction of the young
and ignorant made any part of the duty of the rich toward them.

When I once ventured to drop a hint on this subject to Mrs. Ranby, she
drily said there were many other ways of doing good to the poor, besides
exposing her daughters to the probability of catching diseases, and the
certainty of getting dirt by such visits. Her subscription was never
wanting when she was _quite sure_ that the object was deserving. As I
suspected that she a little over-rated her own charity, I could not
forbear observing, that I did not think it demanded a combination of all
the virtues to entitle a poor sick wretch to a dinner. And though I
durst not quote so light an authority as Hamlet to her, I could not
help saying to myself, _Give every man his due, and who shall 'scape
whipping_? O! if God dealt so rigidly with us; if he waited to bestow
his ordinary blessings till we were good enough to deserve them, who
would be clothed? who would be fed? who would have a roof to shelter
him?

It was not that she gave nothing away, but she had a great dislike to
relieve any but those of her own religious persuasion. Though her
Redeemer laid down his life for all people, nations, and languages, she
will only lay down her money for a very limited number of a very limited
class. To be religious is not claim sufficient on her bounty, they must
be religious in a particular way.

The Miss Ranbys had not been habituated to make any systematic provision
for regular charity, or for any of those accidental calamities for which
the purse of the affluent should always be provided; and being very
expensive in their persons, they had often not a sixpence to bestow,
when the most deserving case presented itself. This must frequently
happen where there is no specific fund for charity, which should be
included in the general arrangement of expenses; and the exercise of
benevolence not be left to depend on the accidental state of the purse.
If no new trinket happened to be wanted, these young ladies were liberal
to any application, though always without judging of its merits by their
own eyes and ears. But if there was a competition between a sick family
and a new brooch, the brooch was sure to carry the day. This would not
have been the case, had they been habituated to visit themselves the
abodes of penury and woe. Their flexible young hearts would have been
wrought upon by the actual sight of miseries, the impression of which
was feeble when it reached their ears at a distance, surrounded as they
were with all the softnesses and accommodations of luxurious life.
"They would do what they could. They hoped it was not so bad as was
represented." They fell into the usual way of pacifying their
consciences by their regrets; and brought themselves to believe that
their sympathy with the suffering was an atonement for their not
relieving it.

I observed with concern, during my visit, how little the Christian
temper seemed to be considered as a part of the Christian religion. This
appeared in the daily concerns of this high professor. An opinion
contradicted, a person of different religious views commended, the
smallest opposition to her will, the intrusion of an unseasonable
visitor, even an imperfection in the dressing of some dish at table:
such trifles not only discomposed her, but the discomposure was
manifested with a vehemence which she was not aware was a fault; nor did
she seem at all sensible that her religion was ever to be resorted to
but on great occasions, forgetting that great occasions but rarely occur
in common life, and that these small passes, at which the enemy is
perpetually entering, the true Christian will vigilantly guard.

I observed in Mrs. Ranby one striking inconsistency. While she
considered it as forming a complete line of separation from the world,
that she and her daughters abstained from public places, she had no
objection to their indemnifying themselves for this forbearance, by
devoting so monstrous a disproportion of their time to that very
amusement which constitutes so principal a part of diversion abroad. The
time which is redeemed from what is wrong, is of little value, if not
dedicated to what is right; and it is not enough that the doctrines of
the gospel furnish a subject for discussion, if they do not furnish a
principle of action.

One of the most obvious defects which struck me in this and two or three
other families, whom I afterward visited, was the want of
companionableness in the daughters. They did not seem to form a part of
the family compact; but made a kind of distinct branch of themselves.
Surely, when only the parents and a few select friends are met together
in a family way, the daughters should contribute their portion to
enliven the domestic circle. They were always ready to sing and to play,
but did not take the pains to produce themselves in conversation; but
seemed to carry on a distinct intercourse by herding, and whispering,
and laughing together.

In some women who seemed to be possessed of good ingredients, they were
so ill mixed up together as not to produce an elegant, interesting
companion. It appeared to me that three of the grand inducements in the
choice of a wife, are, that a man may have a directress for his family,
a preceptress for his children, and a companion for himself. Can it be
honestly affirmed that the present habits of domestic life are generally
favorable to the union of these three essentials? Yet which of them can
a man of sense and principle consent to relinquish in his conjugal
prospects?

CHAPTER VII.

I returned to town at the end of a few days. To a speculative stranger,
a _London day_ presents every variety of circumstance in every
conceivable shape, of which human life is susceptible. When you trace
the solicitude of the morning countenance, the anxious exploring of the
morning paper, the eager interrogation of the morning guest; when you
hear the dismal enumeration of losses by land, and perils by sea--taxes
trebling, dangers multiplying, commerce annihilating, war protracted,
invasion threatening, destruction impending--your mind catches and
communicates the terror, and you feel yourself "falling, with a falling
state."

But when, in the course of the very same day, you meet these gloomy
prognosticators at the sumptuous, not "dinner but Hecatomb," at the
gorgeous fête, the splendid spectacle; when you hear the frivolous
discourse, witness the luxurious dissipation, contemplate the boundless
indulgence, and observe the ruinous gaming, you would be ready to
exclaim, "Am I not supping in the antipodes of that land in which I
breakfasted? Surely this is a country of different men, different
characters, and different circumstances. This at least is a place in
which there is neither fear nor danger, nor want, nor misery, nor war."

If you observed the overflowing subscriptions raised, the innumerable
societies formed, the committees appointed, the agents employed, the
royal patrons engaged, the noble presidents provided, the palace-like
structures erected; and all this to alleviate, to cure, and even to
prevent, every calamity which the indigent can suffer, or the affluent
conceive; to remove not only want but ignorance; to suppress not only
misery but vice--would you not exclaim with Hamlet, "What a piece of
work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In action
how like an angel! In compassion how like a god!"

If you looked into the whole comet-like eccentric orb of the human
character; if you compared all the struggling contrariety of principle
and of passion; the clashing of opinion and of action, of resolution and
of performance; the victories of evil over the propensities to good; if
you contrasted the splendid virtue with the disorderly vice; the exalted
generosity with the selfish narrowness; the provident bounty with the
thoughtless prodigality; the extremes of all that is dignified, with the
excesses of all that is abject, would you not exclaim, in the very
spirit of Pascal, O! the grandeur and the littleness, the excellence
and the corruption, the majesty and the meanness of man!

If you attended the debates in our great deliberative assemblies; if you
heard the argument and the eloquence, "the wisdom and the wit," the
public spirit and the disinterestedness; Curtius's devotedness to his
country, and Regulus's disdain of self, expressed with all the logic
which reason can suggest, and embellished with all the rhetoric which
fancy can supply, would you not rapturously cry out, this is

    Above all Greek, above all Roman fame?

But if you discerned the bitter personality, the incurable prejudice,
the cutting retort, the suspicious implication, the recriminating sneer,
the cherished animosity; if you beheld the interests of an empire
standing still, the business of the civilized globe suspended, while two
intellectual gladiators are thrusting each to give the other a fall, and
to show his own strength; would you not lament the littleness of the
great, the infirmities of the good, and the weaknesses of the wise?
Would you not, soaring a flight far above Hamlet or Pascal, apostrophize
with the royal Psalmist, "Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of
him, or the son of man that thou regardest him?"

But to descend to my individual concerns. Among my acquaintance, I
visited two separate families, where the daughters were remarkably
attractive; and more than usually endowed with beauty, sense, and
elegance; but I was deterred from following up the acquaintance, by
observing, in each family, practices which, though very different,
almost equally revolted me.

In one, where the young ladies had large fortunes, they insinuated
themselves into the admiration, and invited the familiarity, of young
men, by attentions the most flattering, and civilities the most
alluring. When they had made sure of their aim, and the admirers were
encouraged to make proposals, the ladies burst out into a loud laugh,
wondered what the man could mean; they never dreamt of any thing more
than common politeness; then petrified them with distant looks, and
turned about to practice the same arts on others.

The other family in which I thought I had secured an agreeable intimacy,
I instantly deserted on observing the gracious and engaging reception
given by the ladies to more than one libertine of the most notorious
profligacy. The men were handsome, and elegant, and fashionable, and had
figured in newspapers and courts of justice. This degrading popularity
rather attracted than repelled attention; and while the guilty
associates in their crimes were shunned with abhorrence by these very
ladies, the specious undoers were not only received with complaisance,
but there was a sort of competition who should be most strenuous in
their endeavors to attract them. Surely women of fashion can hardly make
a more corrupt use of influence, a talent for which they will be
peculiarly accountable. Surely, mere personal purity can hardly deserve
the name of virtue in those who can sanction notoriously vicious
characters, which their reprobation, if it could not reform, would at
least degrade.

On a further acquaintance, I found Sir John and Lady Belfield to be
persons of much worth. They were candid, generous, and sincere. They saw
the errors of the world in which they lived, but had not resolution to
emancipate themselves from its shackles. They partook, indeed, very
sparingly of its diversions, not so much because they suspected their
evil tendency, as because they were weary of them, and because they had
better resources in themselves.

Indeed, it is wonderful that more people from mere good sense and just
taste, without the operation of any religious consideration, do not,
when the first ardor is cooled, perceive the futility of what is called
pleasure, and decline it as the man declines the amusements of the
child. But fashionable society produces few persons, who, like the
ex-courtier of King David, assign their fourscore years as a reason for
no longer "delighting in the voice of singing men and singing women."

Sir John and Lady Belfield, however, kept a large general acquaintance;
and it is not easy to continue to associate with the world, without
retaining something of its spirit. Their standard of morals was high,
compared with that of those with whom they lived; but when the standard
of the gospel was suggested, they drew in a little, and thought _things
might be carried too far_. There was nothing in their practice which
made it their interest to hope that Christianity might not be true. They
both assented to its doctrines, and lived in a kind of general hope of
its final promises. But their views were neither correct, nor elevated.
They were contented to generalize the doctrines of Scripture, and though
they venerated its awful truths in the aggregate, they rather took them
upon trust than labored to understand them, or to imbue their minds with
the spirit of them. Many a high professor, however, might have blushed
to see how carefully they exercised not a few Christian dispositions;
how kind and patient they were! how favorable in their construction of
the actions of others! how charitable to the necessitous! how exact in
veracity! and how tender of the reputation of their neighbor!

Sir John had been early hurt by living so much with men of the world,
with wits, politicians, and philosophers. This, though he had escaped
the contagion of false principles, had kept back the growth of such as
were true. Men versed in the world, and abstracted from all religious
society, begin, in time, a little to suspect whether their own religious
opinions may not possibly be wrong, or at least rigid, when they see
them so opposite to those of persons to whose judgment they are
accustomed to look up in other points. He found too, that, in the
society in which he lived, the reputation of religion detracted much
from that of talents; and a man does not care to have his understanding
questioned by those in whose opinion he wishes to stand well. This
apprehension did not, indeed, drive him to renounce his principles, but
it led him to conceal them; and that piety which is forcibly kept out of
sight, which has nothing to fortify, and every thing to repel it, is too
apt to decline.

His marriage with an amiable woman, whose virtues and graces attached
him to his own home, drew him off from the most dangerous of his prior
connections. This union had at once improved his character, and
augmented his happiness. If Lady Belfield erred, it was through excess
of kindness and candor. Her kindness led to the too great indulgence of
her children; and her candor to the too favorable construction of the
errors of her acquaintance. She was the very reverse of my Hampstead
friend. Whereas Mrs. Ranby thought hardly any body would be saved, Lady
Belfield comforted herself that hardly any body was in danger. This
opinion was not taken up as a palliative to quiet her conscience, on
account of the sins of her own conduct, for her conduct was remarkably
correct; but it sprang from a natural sweetness of temper, joined to a
mind not sufficiently informed and guided by scriptural truth. She was
candid and teachable, but as she could not help seeing that she had more
religion than most of her acquaintance; she felt a secret complacency in
observing how far her principles rose above theirs, instead of an
humbling conviction of how far her own fell below the requisitions of
the gospel.

The fundamental error was, that she had no distinct view of the
corruptions of human nature. She often lamented the weaknesses and
vices of individuals, but thought all vice an incidental, not a radical
mischief, the effect of thoughtlessness and casual temptation. She
talked with discrimination of the faults of some of her children; but
while she rejoiced in the happier dispositions of the others, she never
suspected that they had all brought into the world with them any natural
tendency to evil; and thought it cruel to suppose that such, innocent
little things had any such wrong propensities as education would not
effectually cure. In every thing the complete contrast of Mrs. Ranby--as
the latter thought education could do nothing, Lady Belfield thought it
would do every thing; that there was no good tendency which it would not
bring to perfection, and no corruption which it could not completely
eradicate. On the operation of a higher influence she placed too little
dependence; while Mrs. Ranby rested in an unreasonable trust on an
interference not warranted by Scripture.

In regard to her children, Lady Belfield was led by the strength of her
affection to extreme indulgence. She encouraged no vice in them, but she
did not sufficiently check those indications which are the seeds of
vice. She reproved the actual fault, but never thought of implanting a
principle which might extirpate the evil from whence the fault sprung;
so that the individual error and the individual correction were
continually recurring.

As Mrs. Ranby, I had observed, seldom quoted any sacred writer but St.
Paul, I remarked that Lady Belfield admired almost exclusively
Ecclesiastes, Proverbs, and the historical books of the Bible. Of the
Epistles, that of St. James was her favorite; the others she thought
chiefly, if not entirely, applicable to the circumstances of the Jews
and Pagans, to the converts from among whom they were addressed. If she
entertained rather an awful reverence for the doctrinal parts, than an
earnest wish to study them, it arose from the common mistake of
believing that they were purely speculative, without being aware of
their deep practical importance. But if these two ladies were
diametrically opposite to each other in certain points, both were
frequently right in what they assumed, and both wrong only in what they
rejected. Each contended for one half of that which will not save when
disjointed from the other, but which when united to it, makes up the
complete Christian character.

Lady Belfield, who was, if I may so speak, constitutionally charitable,
almost thought that heaven might be purchased by charity. She inverted
the valuable superstructure of good works, and laid them as her
foundation; and while Mrs. Ranby would not, perhaps, much have blamed
Moses for breaking the tables of the law, had he only demolished the
second, Lady Belfield would have saved the second, as the more important
of the two.

Lady Belfield had less vanity than any woman I ever knew who was not
governed by a very strict religious principle. Her modesty never courted
the admiration of the world, but her timidity too much dreaded its
censure. She would not do a wrong thing to obtain any applause, but she
omitted some right ones from the dread of blame.

CHAPTER VIII.

The house of Sir John Belfield was become a pleasant kind of home to me.
He and his lady seldom went out in an evening. Happy in each other and
in their children, though they lived much with the rational, they
associated as little as they thought possible with the racketing world.
Yet being known to be generally at home, they were exposed to the
inroads of certain invaders, called fine ladies, who, always afraid of
being too early for their parties, are constantly on the watch how to
disburden themselves for the intermediate hour, of the heavy commodity
_time_; a raw material, which as they seldom work up at home, they are
always willing to truck against the time of their more domestic
acquaintance. Now as these last _have_ always something to do, it is an
unfair traffic; "all the reciprocity is on one side," to borrow the
expression of an illustrious statesman; and the barter is as
disadvantageous to the sober home-trader, as that of the honest negroes,
who exchange their gold-dust and ivory for the beads and bits of glass
of the wily English.

These nightly irruptions, though sometimes inconvenient to my friends,
were of use to me, as they enabled me to see and judge more of the gay
world than I could have done without going in search of it; a risk which
I thought bore no proportion to the gain. It was like learning the
language of the enemy's country at home.

One evening, when we were sitting happily alone in the library, Lady
Belfield, working at her embroidery, cheerfully joining in our little
discussions, and comparing our peaceful pleasures with those pursued by
the occupiers of the countless carriages which were tearing up the
"wheel-worn streets," or jostling each other at the door of the next
house, where a grand assembly was collecting its myriads--Sir John asked
what should be the evening book. Then rising, he took down from the
shelf Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination.

"Is it," said he, as soon as he sat down, "the rage for novelty, or a
real degeneracy of taste, that we now so seldom hear of a poet, who,
when I was a boy, was the admiration of every man who had a relish for
true genius? I can not defend his principles, since in a work, of which
_Man_ is professedly the object, he has overlooked his _immortality_: a
subject which one wonders did not force itself upon him, as so congenial
to the sublimity of his genius, whatever his religious views might have
been. But to speak of him only as a poet; a work which abounds in a
richer profusion of images, and a more variegated luxuriance of
expression than the Pleasures of Imagination, can not easily be found.
The flimsy metre of our day seems to add fresh value to his sinewy
verse. We have no happier master of poetic numbers; none who better knew

    To build the lofty rhyme.

The condensed vigor, so indispensable to blank verse, the skillful
variation of the pause, the masterly structure of the period, and all
the occult mysteries of the art, can, perhaps, be best learned from
Akenside. If he could have conveyed to Thomson his melody and rhyme, and
Thomson would have paid him back in perspicuity and transparency of
meaning, how might they have enriched each other!"

"I confess," said I, "in reading Akenside, I have now and then found the
same passage at once enchanting and unintelligible. As it happens to
many frequenters of the opera, the music always transports, but the
words are not always understood." I then desired my friend to gratify us
with the first book of the Pleasures of Imagination.

Sir John is a passionate lover of poetry, in which he has a fine taste.
He read it with much spirit and feeling, especially these truly
classical lines,

    _Mind, Mind_ alone, bear witness earth and heaven,
    The living fountains in itself contains
    Of beauteous and sublime: here hand in hand
    Sit paramount the graces; here enthroned
    Celestial Venus, with divinest airs
    Invites the soul to never-fading joy.

"The reputation of this exquisite passage," said he, laying down the
book, "is established by the consenting suffrage of all men of taste,
though by the critical countenance you are beginning to put on, you look
as if you had a mind to attack it."

"So far from it," said I, "that I know nothing more splendid in the
whole mass of our poetry. And I feel almost guilty of high treason
against the majesty of the sublimer Muses, in the remark I am going to
hazard, on the celebrated lines which follow. The poet's object, through
this and the two following pages, is to establish the infinite
superiority of mind over unconscious matter, even in its fairest forms.
The idea is as just as the execution is beautiful; so also is his
supreme elevation of intellect, over

    Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts.

Nothing again can be finer, than his subsequent preference of

    The powers of genius and design,

over even the stupendous range

    Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres.

He proceeds to ransack the stores of the mental and the moral world, as
he had done the world of matter, and with a pen dipped in Hippocrene,
opposes to the latter,

    The charms of virtuous friendship, etc.
                         The candid blush
    Of him who strives with fortune to be just.
    All the mild majesty of private life.

    The graceful tear that streams from others' woes.

"Why, Charles," said Sir John, "I am glad to find you the enthusiastic
eulogist of the passage of which I suspected you were about to be the
saucy censurer."

"Censure," replied I, "is perhaps too strong a term for any part
especially the most admired part of this fine poem. I need not repeat
the lines on which I was going to risk a slight observation; they live
in the mind and memory of every lover of the Muses."

"I will read the next passage, however," said Sir John, "that I may be
better able to controvert your criticism:

    Look then abroad through nature to the range
    Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres,
    Wheeling unshaken through the void immense,
    And speak, oh man! does the capacious scene
    With half that kindling majesty dilate
    Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose
    Refulgent from the stroke of Cæsar's fate
    Amid the crowd of patriots, and his arm
    Aloft extending, like eternal Jove
    When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud
    On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel,
    And bade the father of his country hail;
    For lo! the tyrant prostrate in the dust,
    And Rome again is free?

"What a grand and powerful passage!" said Sir John.

"I acknowledge it," said I, "but is it as just as it is grand? _Le vrai
est le seul beau._ Is it a fair and direct opposition between mind and
matter? The poet could not have expressed the image more nobly, but
might he not, out of the abundant treasures of his opulent mind have
chosen it with more felicity? Is an act of murder, even of an usurper,
as happily contrasted with the organization of matter, as the other
beautiful instances I named, and which he goes on to select? The
superiority of mental beauty is the point he is establishing, and his
elaborate preparation leads you to expect all his other instances to be
drawn from pure mental excellence. His other exemplifications are
general, this is particular. They are a class, this is only a variety. I
question if Milton, who was at least as ardent a champion for liberty,
and as much of a party-man as Akenside, would have used this
illustration. Milton, though he often insinuates a political stroke in
his great poem, always, I think, generalizes. Whatever had been his
principles, or at whatever period he had written, I question, when he
wanted to describe the overthrow of authority by the rebel angels, if he
would have illustrated it by Cromwell's seizing the mace, or the
decapitation of Charles. Much less, if he would have selected those two
instances as the triumph of mind over matter."

"But," said Sir John, "you forget that Akenside professedly adopts the
language of Cicero in his second Philippic." He then read the note
beginning with, Cæsare interfecto, etc.

"True," said I; "I am not arguing the matter as a point of fact, but as
a point of just application. I pass over the comparison of Brutus with
Jove, which by the way would have become Tully better than Akenside, but
which Tully would have perhaps thought too bold. Cicero adorns his
oration with this magnificent description. He relates it as an event,
the other uses it as an illustration of that to which I humbly conceive
it does not exactly apply. The orator paints the violent death of a
hero; the poet adopts the description of the violent death, or rather of
the stroke which caused it, to illustrate the perfection of intellectual
grandeur. After all, it is as much a party question as a poetical one. A
question on which the critic will be apt to be guided in his decision by
his politics rather than by his taste. The splendor of the passage,
however, will inevitably dazzle the feeling reader, till it produce the
common effect of excessive brightness, that of somewhat blinding the
beholder."

CHAPTER IX.

While we were thus pleasantly engaged, the servant announced Mrs.
Fentham; and a fashionable looking woman, about the middle of life,
rather youthfully dressed, and not far from handsome, made her
appearance. Instead of breaking forth into the usual modish jargon, she
politely entered into the subject in which she found us engaged; envied
Lady Belfield the happiness of elegant quiet, which she herself might
have been equally enjoying at her own house, and professed herself a
warm admirer of poetry. She would probably have professed an equal
fondness for metaphysics, geometry, military tactics, or the Arabic
language, if she had happened to have found us employed in the study of
either.

From poetry the transition to painting was easy and natural. Mrs.
Fentham possessed all the phraseology of connoisseurship, and asked me
if I was fond of pictures. I professed the delight I took in them in
strong, that is in true terms. She politely said that Mr. Fentham had a
very tolerable collection of the best masters, and particularly a
Titian, which she would be happy to have the honor of showing me next
morning. I bowed my thankful assent; she appointed the hour, and soon
after, looking at her watch, said she was afraid she must leave the
delights of such a select and interesting society for a far less
agreeable party.

When she was gone, I expressed my obligations to her politeness, and
anticipated the pleasure I should have in seeing her pictures. "She is
much more anxious that you should see her _Originals_," said Lady
Belfield smiling; "the kindness is not _quite_ disinterested; take care
of your heart." Sir John, rather gravely, said, "It is with reluctance
that I ever say any thing to the prejudice of any body that I receive in
my house; but as the son of my valued friend, I think it fair to tell
you that this vigilant matron keeps a keen look out after all young men
of fortune. This is not the first time that the Titian has been made the
bait to catch a promising acquaintance. Indeed it is now grown so stale,
that had you not been a new man, she would hardly have risked it. If you
had happened not to like painting, some book would have been offered
you. The return of a book naturally brings on a visit. But all these
devices have not yet answered. The damsels still remain, like
Shakspeare's plaintive maid, 'in single blessedness.' They do not,
however, like her, spend gloomy nights

    Chaunting cold hymns to the pale, lifeless moon,

but in singing sprightlier roundelays to livelier auditors."

I punctually attended the invitation, effectually shielded from danger
by the friendly intimation, and a still more infallible Ægis, the charge
of my father never to embark in any engagement till I had made my visit
to Mr. Stanley. My veneration for his memory operated as a complete
defence.

I saw and admired the pictures. The pictures brought on an invitation to
dinner. I found Mrs. Fentham to be in her conversation, a sensible,
correct, knowing woman. Her daughters were elegant in their figures,
well instructed in the usual accomplishments, well-bred, and apparently
well tempered. Mr. Fentham was a man of business, and of the world. He
had a great income from a place under government, out of which the
expenses of his family permitted him to save nothing. Private fortune he
had little or none. His employment engaged him almost entirely, so that
he interfered but little with domestic affairs. A general air of
elegance, almost amounting to magnificence, pervaded the whole
establishment.

I at first saw but little to excite any suspicion of the artificial
character of the lady of the house. The first gleam of light which let
in the truth was the expressions most frequent in Mrs. Fentham's
mouth--"What will the world say?" "What will people think?" "How will
such a thing appear?" "Will it have a good look?" "The world is of
opinion." "Won't such a thing be censured?" On a little acquaintance I
discovered that human applause was the motive of all she said, and
reputation her great object in all she did. Opinion was the idol to
which she sacrificed. Decorum was the inspirer of her duties, and praise
the reward of them. The standard of the world was the standard by which
she weighed actions. She had no higher principle of conduct. She adopted
the forms of religion, because she saw that, carried to a certain
degree, they rather produced credit than censure. While her husband
adjusted his accounts on the Sunday morning, she regularly carried her
daughters to church, except a head-ache had been caught at the
Saturday's opera; and as regularly exhibited herself and them afterward
in Hyde-Park. As she said it was Mr. Fentham's leisure day, she
complimented him with always having a great dinner on Sundays, but
alleged her piety as a reason for not having cards in the evening at
home, though she had no scruple to make one at a private party at a
friend's house; soberly conditioning, however, that there should not be
more than _three tables_; the right or wrong, the decorum or
impropriety, the gayety or gravity always being made specifically to
depend on the number of tables.

She was, in general, extremely severe against women who had lost their
reputation; though she had no hesitation in visiting a few of the most
dishonorable, if they were of high rank or belonged to a certain set.
In that case, she excused herself by saying, "That as fashionable people
continued to countenance them, it was not for her to be scrupulous; one
must sail with the stream; I can't set my face against the world." But
if an unhappy girl had been drawn aside, or one who had not rank to bear
her out had erred, that altered the case, and she then expressed the
most virtuous indignation. When modesty happened to be in repute, not
the necks of Queen Elizabeth and her courtly virgins were more
entrenched in ruffs and shrouded in tuckers, than those of Mrs. Fentham
and her daughters; but when _display_ became the order of the day, the
Grecian Venus was scarcely more unconscious of a vail.

With a very good understanding she never allowed herself one original
thought, or one spontaneous action. Her ideas, her language, and her
conduct were entirely regulated by the ideas, language, and conduct of
those who stood well in the world. Vanity in her was a steady, inward,
but powerfully pervading principle. It did not evaporate in levity or
indiscretion, but was the hidden, though forcible spring of her whole
course of action. She had all the gratification which vanity affords in
secret, and all the credit which its prudent operation procures in
public. She was apparently guilty of no excess of any kind. She had a
sober scale of creditable vices, and never allowed herself to exceed a
few stated degrees in any of them. She reprobated gaming, but could not
exist without cards. Masquerades she censured as highly extravagant and
dangerous, but when given by ladies of high quality, at their own
houses, she thought them an elegant and proper amusement. Though she
sometimes went to the play, she did not care for what passed on the
stage, for she confessed the chief pleasure the theatre afforded was to
reckon up when she came home, how many duchesses and countesses had
bowed to her across the house.

A complete despot at home, her arbitrariness is so vailed by correctness
of manner, and studied good breeding, that she obtains the credit of
great mildness and moderation. She is said not to love her daughters,
who come too near her in age, and go too much beyond her in beauty to be
forgiven; yet like a consummate politician, she is ever laboring for
their advancement. She has generally several schemes in hand, and always
one scheme under another, the under-plot ready to be brought forward if
the principal one fails. Though she encourages pretenders, yet she is
afraid to accept of a tolerable proposal, lest a better should present
itself; but if the loftier hope fails, she then contrives to lure back
the inferior offer. She can balance to a nicety, in the calculation of
chances, the advantages or disadvantages of a higher possibility against
a lower probability.

Though she neither wants reading nor taste, her mind is never
sufficiently disengaged to make her an agreeable companion. Her head is
always at work conjecturing the event of every fresh ball and every new
acquaintance. She can not even

    Take her tea without a stratagem.

She set out in life with a very slender acquaintance, and clung for a
while to one or two damaged peeresses, who were not received by women of
their own rank. But I am told it was curious to see with what adroitness
she could extricate herself from a disreputable acquaintance, when a
more honorable one stepped in to fill the niche. She made her way
rapidly, by insinuating to one person of note how intimate she was with
another, and to both what handsome things each said of the other. By
constant attentions, petty offices, and measured flattery, she has got
footing into almost every house of distinction. Her decorum is
invariable. She boasts that she was never guilty of the indecency of
violent passion. Poor woman! she fancies there is no violent passion but
that of anger. Little does she think that ambition, vanity, the hunger
of applause, a rage for being universally known, are all violent
passion, however modified by discretion or varnished by art. She suffers
too all that "vexation of spirit" which treads on the heels of "vanity."
Disappointment and jealousy poison the days devoted to pleasure. The
party does not answer. The wrong people never stay away, and the right
ones never come. The guest for whom the fête is made is sure to fail.
Her party is thin, while that of her competitor overflows; or there is a
plenty of dowagers and a paucity of young men. When the costly and
elaborate supper is on the table excuses arrive; even if the supper is
crowded, the daughters remain upon hands. How strikingly does she
exemplify the strong expression of--"laboring in the fire for very
vanity"--"of giving her money for that which is not bread, and her labor
for that which satisfieth not!"

After spending the day at Mrs. Fentham's, I went to sup with my friends
in Cavendish-square. Lady Belfield was impatient for my history of the
dinner. But Sir John said, laughing, "You shall not say a word,
Charles--I can tell how it was as exactly as if I had been there.
Charlotte, who has the best voice, was brought out to sing, but was
placed a little behind, as her person is not quite perfect; Maria, who
is the most picturesque figure, was put _to attitudinize_ at the harp,
arrayed in the costume, and assuming the fascinating graces of Marmion's
Lady Heron:

    Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er
    The strings her fingers flow.

"Then, Charles, was the moment of peril! then, according to your favorite
Milton's most incongruous image,

    You took in sounds that might create a soul
    Under the ribs of death.

"For fear, however, that your heart of adamant should hold out against
all these perilous assaults, its vulnerability was tried in other
quarters. The Titian would naturally lead to Livinia's drawings. A
beautiful sketch of the lakes would be produced, with a gentle
intimation, what a sweet place Westmoreland must be to live in! When you
had exhausted all proper raptures on the art and on the artist, it would
be recollected, that as Westmoreland was so near Scotland, you would
naturally be fond of a reel. The reel of course succeeded." Then,
putting himself into an attitude and speaking theatrically, he
continued,

                  "Then universal Pan
    Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance--

"Oh! no, I forgot universal Pan could not join, but he could admire. Then
all the perfections of all the nymphs burst on you in full blaze. Such a
concentration of attractions you never could resist! You are _but_ a
man, and now, doubtless, a lost man." Here he stopped to finish his
laugh, and I was driven reluctantly to acknowledge that his picture,
though a caricature, was, notwithstanding, a resemblance.

"And so," said Sir John, "you were brought under no power of incantation
by this dangerous visit. You will not be driven, like the tempted
Ithacan, to tie yourself to a mast, or to flee for safety from the
enchantment of these Sirens."

While we were at supper, with more gravity, he said, "Among the various
objects of ambition, there are few in life which bring less accession
to its comfort, than an unceasing struggle to rise to an elevation in
society very much above the level of our own condition, without being
aided by any stronger ascending power than mere vanity. Great talents,
of whatever kind, have a natural tendency to rise, and to lift their
possessor. The flame in mounting does but obey its impulse. But when
there is no energy more powerful than the passion to be great, destitute
of the gifts which confer greatness, the painful efforts of ambition are
like water, forced above its level by mechanical powers. It requires
constant exertions of art, to keep up what art first set a-going. Poor
Mrs. Fentham's head is perpetually at work to maintain the elevation she
has reached. And how little after all is she considered by those on
whose caresses her happiness depends! She has lost the esteem of her
original circle, where she might have been respected, without gaining
that of her high associates, who, though they receive her, still refuse
her claims of equality. She is not considered as of their
_establishment_; it is but _toleration_ at best.

"At Mrs. Fentham's, I encountered Lady Bab Lawless, a renowned modish
dowager, famous for laying siege to the heart of every distinguished
man, with the united artillery of her own wit and her daughters' beauty.
How many ways there are of being wrong! She was of a character
diametrically opposite to that of Mrs. Fentham. She had the same end in
view, but the means she used to accomplish it were of a bolder strain.
Lady Bab affected no delicacy, she laughed at reserve; she had shaken
hands with decorum.

    She held the _noisy_ tenor of her way

with no assumed refinement; and, so far from shielding her designs
behind the mask of decency, she disdained the obsolete expedient. Her
plans succeeded the more infallibly, because her frankness defeated all
suspicion. A man could never divine that such gay and open assaults
could have their foundation in design, and he gave her full credit for
artless simplicity, at the moment she was catching him in her toils. If
she now and then had gone too far, and by a momentary oversight, or
excessive levity had betrayed too much, with infinite address she would
make a crane-neck turn, and fall to discussing, not without ability,
some moral or theological topic. Thus she affected to establish the
character of a woman, thoughtless through wit, indiscreet through
simplicity, but religious on principle.

As there is no part of the appendage to a wife, which I have ever more
dreaded than a Machiavelian mother, I should have been deaf to wit and
blind to beauty, and dead to advances, had their united batteries been
directed against me. But I had not the ambition to aspire to that honor.
I was much too low a mark for her lofty aim. She had a natural antipathy
to every name that could not be found in the red book. She equally
shrunk from untitled opulence and indigent nobility. She knew by
instinct if a younger son was in the room, and by a petrifying look
checked his most distant approaches; while with her powerful spells she
never failed to draw within her magic circle the splendid heir, and
charm him to her purpose.

Highly born herself, she had early been married to a rich man of
inferior rank, for the sake of a large settlement. Her plan was, that
her daughters (who, by the way, are modest and estimable), should find
in the man they married, still higher birth than her own, and more
riches than her husband's.

It was a curious speculation to compare these two friends, and to
observe how much less the refined maneuvers of Mrs. Fentham answered,
than the open assaults of the intrepid Lady Bab. All the intricacies
and labyrinths which the former has been so skillful and so patient in
weaving, have not yet enthralled one captive, while the composed
effrontery, the affecting to take for granted the offer which was never
meant to be made, and treating that as concluded, which was never so
much as intended, drew the unconscious victim of the other into the
trap, before he knew it was set: the depth of her plot consisting in not
appearing to have any. It was a novelty in intrigue. An originality
which defied all competition, and in which no imitator had any chance of
success.

CHAPTER X.

Sir John carried me one morning to call on Lady Denham, a dowager of
fashion, who had grown old in the trammels of the world. Though she
seems resolved to die in the harness, yet she piques herself on being
very religious, and no one inveighs against infidelity or impiety with
more pointed censure. "She has a grand-daughter," said Sir John, "who
lives with her, and whom she has trained to walk precisely in her own
steps, and which, she thinks, _is the way she should go_. The girl,"
added he, smiling, "is well looking, and will have a handsome fortune,
and I am persuaded that, as a friend, I could procure you a good
reception."

We were shown into her dressing-room, where we found her with a book
lying open before her. From a glance which I caught of the large black
letter, I saw it was a _Week's Preparation_. This book, it seems,
constantly lay open before her from breakfast to dinner, at this
season. It was Passion week. But as this is the room in which he sees
all her morning visitors, to none of whom is she ever denied, even at
this period of retreat, she could only pick up momentary snatches of
reading in the short intervals between one person bowing out and another
courtesying in. Miss Denham sat by, painting flowers.

Sir John asked her ladyship if she would go and dine in a family way
with Lady Belfield. She drew up, looked grave, and said with much
solemnity, that she should never think of dining abroad at this holy
season. Sir John said, "As we have neither cards nor company, I thought
you might as well have eaten your chicken in my house as in your own."
But though she thought it a sin to dine with a sober family, she made
herself amends for the sacrifice, by letting us see that her heart was
brimful of the world, pressed down and running over. She indemnified
herself for her abstinence from its diversions, by indulging in the only
pleasures which she thought compatible with the sanctity of the season,
uncharitable gossip, and unbounded calumny. She would not touch a card
for the world, but she played over to Sir John the whole game of the
preceding Saturday night: told him by what a shameful inattention her
partner had lost the odd trick; and that she should not have been beaten
after all, had not her adversary, she verily believed, contrived to look
over her hand.

Sir John seized the only minute in which we were alone, to ask her to
add a guinea to a little sum he was collecting for a poor tradesman with
a large family, who had been burned out a few nights ago. "His wife,"
added he, "was your favorite maid Dixon, and both are deserving people."
"Ah, poor Dixon! She was always unlucky," replied the lady. "How could
they be so careless? Surely they might have put the fire out sooner.
They should not have let it get ahead. I wonder people are not more
active." "It is too late to inquire about that," said Sir John; "the
question now is, not how their loss might have been prevented, but how
it may be repaired." "I am really quite sorry," said she, "that I can
give you nothing. I have had so many calls lately, that my charity purse
is completely exhausted--and that abominable property-tax makes me quite
a beggar."

While she was speaking, I glanced at the open leaf at, "Charge them that
are rich in this world that they be ready to give;" and directing my eye
further, it fell on, "Be not deceived. God is not mocked." These were
the awful passages which formed a part of her _Preparation_; and this
was the practical use she made of them!

A dozen persons of both sexes "had their exits and their entrances"
during our stay; for the scene was so strange, and the character so new
to me, that I felt unwilling to stir. Among other visitors was Signor
Squallini, a favorite opera singer, whom she patronized. Her face was
lighted up with joy at the sight of him. He brought her an admired new
air in which he was preparing himself, and sung a few notes, that she
might say she had heard it the first. She felt all the dignity of the
privilege, and extolled the air with all the phrases, cant, and rapture
of _dilettanteism_.

After this, she drew a paper from between the leaves of her still open
book, which she showed him. It contained a list of all the company she
had engaged to attend his benefit. "I will call on some others," said
she, "to-morrow after prayers. I am sorry this is a week in which I can
not see my friends at their assemblies, but on Sunday you know it will
be over, and I shall have my house full in the evening. Next Monday will
be Easter, and I shall be at our dear Duchess's private masquerade, and
then I hope to see and engage the whole world. Here are ten guineas,"
said she in a half whisper to the obsequious Signor; "you may mention
what I gave for _my_ ticket, and it may set the fashion going." She then
pressed a ticket on Sir John and another on me. Ho declined, saying with
great _sang froid_, "You know we are _Handelians_." What excuse I made I
do not well know; I only know that I saved my ten guineas with a very
bad grace, but felt bound in conscience to add them to what I had before
subscribed to poor Dixon.

Hitherto I had never seen the gnat-strainer and the camel-swallower so
strikingly exemplified. And it is observable how forcibly the truth of
Scripture is often illustrated by those who live in the boldest
opposition to it. If you have any doubt while you are reading, go into
the world and your belief will be confirmed.

As we took our leave, she followed us to the door, I hoped it was with
the guinea for the fire; but she only whispered Sir John, though he did
not go himself, to prevail on such and such ladies to go to Squallini's
benefit. "Pray do," said she, "it will be charity. Poor fellow! he is
sadly out at elbows; he has a fine liberal spirit, and can hardly make
his large income do."

When we got into the street we admired the splendid chariot and laced
liveries of this _indigent_ professor, for whom our charity had been
just solicited, and whose "liberal spirit," my friend assured me,
consisted in sumptuous living and the indulgence of every fashionable
vice.

I could not restrain my exclamations as soon as we got out of hearing.
To Sir John, the scene was amusing, but to him it had lost the interest
of novelty. "I have known her ladyship about twelve years," said he,
"and of course have witnessed a dozen of these annual paroxysms of
devotion. I am persuaded that she is a gainer by them on her own
principle, that is, in the article of pleasure. This short periodical
abstinence whets her appetite to a keener relish for suspended
enjoyment; and while she fasts from amusements, her blinded conscience
enjoys a feast of self-gratulation. She feeds on the remembrance of her
self-denial, even after she has returned to those delights which she
thinks her retreat has fairly purchased. She considers religion as a
system of pains and penalties, by the voluntary enduring of which, for a
short time, she shall compound for all the indulgences of the year. She
is persuaded that something must be annually forborne, in order to make
her peace. After these periodical atonements, the Almighty being in her
debt, will be obliged at last to pay her with heaven. This composition,
which rather brings her in on the creditor side, not only quiets her
conscience for the past, but enables her joyfully to enter on a new
score."

I asked Sir John how Lady Belfield _could_ associate with a woman of a
character so opposite to her own? "What can we do?" said he, "we can not
be singular. We must conform a _little_ to the world in which we live."
Trusting to his extreme good nature, and fired at the scene to which I
had been a witness, I ventured to observe that non-conformity to such a
world as that of which this lady was a specimen, was the very criterion
of the religion taught by Him who had declared by way of pre-eminent
distinction, that "his kingdom was not of this world."

"You are a young man," answered he mildly, "and this delicacy and these
prejudices would soon wear off if you were to live some time in the
world." "My dear Sir John," said I, warmly, "by the grace of God, I
never _will_ live in the world; at least, I never will associate with
that part of it whose society would be sure to wear off that delicacy
and remove those prejudices. Why this is retaining all the worst part of
popery. Here is the abstinence without the devotion; the outward
observance without the interior humiliation; the suspending of sin, not
only without any design of forsaking it, but with a fixed resolution of
returning to it, and of increasing the gust by the forbearance. Nay,
the sins she retains in order to mitigate the horrors of forbearance,
are as bad as those she lays down. A postponed sin, which is fully
intended to be resumed, is as much worse than a sin persisted in, as
deliberate hypocrisy is worse than the impulse of passion. I desire not
a more explicit comment on a text which I was once almost tempted to
think unjust; I mean, the greater facility of the entrance of gross and
notorious offenders into heaven than of these formalists. No! If Miss
Denham were sole heiress to Cr[oe]sus, and joined the beauty of
Cleopatra to the wit of Sappho, I never would connect myself with a
disciple of that school."

"How many ways there are of being unhappy!" said Sir John, as we
returned one day from a ride we had taken some miles out of town, to
call on a friend of his. "Mr. Stanhope, whom we have just quitted, is a
man of great elegance of mind. His early life was passed in liberal
studies, and in the best company. But his fair prospects were blasted by
a disproportionate marriage. He was drawn in by a vanity too natural to
young men, that of fancying himself preferred by a woman who had no one
recommendation but beauty. To be admired by her whom all his
acquaintance admired, gratified his _amour propre_. He was overcome by
her marked attentions so far as to declare himself, without knowing her
real disposition. It was some time before his prepossession allowed him
to discover that she was weak and ill-informed, selfish and
bad-tempered. What she wanted in understanding, she made up in spirit.
The more she exacted, the more he submitted; and her demands grew in
proportion to his sacrifices. My friend, with patient affection,
struggled for a long time to raise her character, and to enlighten her
mind; but finding that she pouted whenever he took up a book, and that
she even hid the newspaper before he had read it, complaining that he
preferred any thing to her company; the softness of his temper and his
habitual indolence at length prevailed. His better judgment sunk in the
hopeless contest. For a quiet life, he has submitted to a disgraceful
life. The compromise has not answered. He has incurred the degradation
which, by a more spirited conduct, he might have avoided, and has missed
the quiet which he sacrificed his dignity to purchase. He compassionates
her folly, and continues to translate her wearisome interruptions into
the flattering language of affection.

"In compliment to her, no less than in justification of his own choice,
he has persuaded himself that all women are pretty much alike. That in
point of capacity, disposition, and knowledge he has but drawn the
common lot, with the balance in his favor, of strong affection and
unsullied virtue. He hardly ever sees his fine library, which is the
object of her supreme aversion, but wastes his days in listless idleness
and his evenings at cards, the only thing in which she takes a lively
interest. His fine mind is, I fear, growing mean and disingenuous. The
gentleness of his temper leads him not only to sacrifice his peace, but
to infringe on his veracity in order to keep her quiet. All the
entertainment he finds at dinner is a recapitulation of the faults of
her maids, or the impertinence of her footmen, or the negligence of her
gardener. If to please her he joins in the censure, she turns suddenly
about, and defends them. If he vindicates them, she insists on their
immediate dismission; and no sooner are they irrevocably discharged,
than she is continually dwelling on their perfections, and then it is
only their successors who have any faults.

"He is now so afraid of her driving out his few remaining old servants,
if she sees his partiality for them, that in order to conceal it, he
affects to reprimand them as the only means for them to secure her
favor. Thus the integrity of his heart is giving way to a petty
duplicity, and the openness of his temper to shabby artifices. He could
submit to the loss of his comfort, but sensibly feels the diminution of
his credit. The loss of his usefulness too is a constant source of
regret. She will not even suffer him to act as a magistrate, lest her
doors should be beset with vagabonds, and her house dirtied by men of
business. If he chance to commend a dish he has tasted at a friend's
house--Yes, every body's things are good but hers, she can never please.
He had always better dine abroad, if nothing is fit to be eaten at home.

"Though poor Stanhope's conduct is so correct, and his attachment to his
wife so notorious, he never ventures to commend any thing that is said
or done by another woman. She has, indeed, no definitive object of
jealousy, but feels an uneasy vague sensation of envy at any thing or
person he admires. I believe she would be jealous of a fine day, if her
husband praised it.

"If a tale reaches her ears of a wife who has failed of her duty, or if
the public newspapers record a divorce, then she awakens her husband to
a sense of his superior happiness, and her own irreproachable virtue. O
Charles, the woman who, reposing on the laurels of her boasted virtue,
allows herself to be a disobliging, a peevish, a gloomy, a discontented
companion, defeats one great end of the institution, which is happiness.
The wife who violates the marriage vow, is indeed more criminal; but the
very magnitude of her crime emancipates her husband; while she who makes
him not dishonorable, but wretched, fastens on him a misery for life,
from which no laws can free him, and under which religion alone can
support him."

We continued talking, till we reached home, on the multitude of
marriages in which the parties are "joined not matched," and where the
term union is a miserable misnomer. I endeavored to turn all these new
acquaintances to account, and considered myself at every visit I made,
as taking a lesson for my own conduct. I beheld the miscarriages of
others, not only with concern for the individual, but as beacons to
light me on my way. It was no breach of charity to use the aberrations
of my acquaintance for the purpose of making my own course more direct.
I took care however, never to lose sight of the humbling consideration
that my own deviations were equally liable to become the object of their
animadversion, if the same motive had led them to the same scrutiny.

I remained some weeks longer in town, indulging myself in all its safe
sights, and all its sober pleasures. I examined whatever was new in art,
or curious in science. I found out the best pictures, saw the best
statues, explored the best museums, heard the best speakers in the
courts of law, the best preachers in the church, and the best orators in
parliament; attended the best lectures, and visited the best company, in
the most correct, though not always the most fashionable sense of the
term. I associated with many learned, sensible, and some pious men,
commodities with which London, with all its faults, abounds, perhaps,
more than any other place on the habitable globe. I became acquainted
with many agreeable, well informed, valuable women, with a few who even
seemed in a good measure to live above the world while they were living
in it.

There is a large class of excellent female characters who on account of
that very excellence, are little known, because to be known is not their
object. Their ambition has a better taste. They pass through life
honored and respected in their own small, but not unimportant sphere,
and approved by Him, "whose they are, and whom they serve," though their
faces are hardly known in promiscuous society. If they occasion little
sensation abroad, they produce much happiness at home. And when once a
woman who has "all appliances and means to get it," _can_ withstand the
intoxication of the flatterer, and the adoration of the fashionable;
_can_ conquer the fondness for public distinction, _can_ resist the
temptations of that magic circle to which she is courted, and in which
she is qualified to shine--this is indeed a trial of firmness; a trial
in which those who have never been called to resist themselves, can
hardly judge of the merit of resistance in others.

These are the women who bless, dignify, and truly adorn society. The
painter indeed does not make his fortune by their sitting to him; the
jeweler is neither brought into vogue by furnishing their diamonds, nor
undone by not being paid for them; the prosperity of the milliner does
not depend on affixing their name to a cap or a color; the poet does not
celebrate them; the novelist does not dedicate to them; but they possess
the affection of their husbands, the attachment of their children, the
esteem of the wise and good, and above all they possess _His_ favor,
"whom to know is life eternal." Among these I doubt not I might have
found objects highly deserving of my heart, but the injunction of my
father was a sort of panoply which guarded it.

I am persuaded that such women compose a larger portion of the sex, than
is generally allowed. It is not the number, but the noise which makes a
sensation, and a set of fair dependent young creatures who are every
night forced, some of them reluctantly, upon the public eye; and a bevy
of faded matrons rouged and repaired for an ungrateful public, dead to
their blandishments, do not compose the whole female world! I repeat
it--a hundred amiable women, who are living in the quiet practice of
their duties, and the modest exertion of their talents, do not fill the
public eye, or reach the public ear, like one aspiring leader, who,
hungering for observation, and disdaining censure, dreads not abuse but
oblivion; who thinks it more glorious to head a little phalanx of
fashionable followers, than to hold out, as from her commanding
eminence, and imposing talents she might have done, a shining example of
all that is great, and good, and dignified in woman. These
self-appointed queens maintain an absolute but ephemeral empire over
that little _fantastic aristocracy_ which they call the
world--admiration besets them, crowds attend them, conquests follow
them, inferiors imitate them, rivals envy them, newspapers extol them,
sonnets deify them. A few ostentatious charities are opposed as a large
atonement for a _few amiable weaknesses_, while the unpaid tradesman is
exposed to ruin by their vengeance if he refuses to trust them, and to a
jail if he continue to do it.

CHAPTER XI.

The three days previous to my leaving London were passed with Sir John
and Lady Belfield. Knowing I was on the wing for Hampshire, they
promised to make their long intended visit to Stanley Grove during my
stay there.

On the first of these days we were agreeably surprised at the appearance
of Dr. Barlow, an old friend of Sir John, and the excellent rector of
Mr. Stanley's parish. Being obliged to come to town on urgent business
for a couple of days, he was charged to assure me of the cordial welcome
which awaited me at the Grove. I was glad to make this early
acquaintance with this highly respectable divine. I made a thousand
inquiries about his neighbors, and expressed my impatience to know more
of a family in whose characters I already felt a more than common
interest.

"Sir," said he, "if you set me talking of Mr. Stanley, you must abide by
the consequences of your indiscretion, and bear with the loquacity of
which that subject never fails to make me guilty. He is a greater
blessing to me as a friend, and to my parish as an example and a
benefactor than I can describe." I assured him that he could not be too
minute in speaking of a man whom I had been early taught to admire, by
that exact judge of merit, my late father.

"Mr. Stanley," said the worthy doctor, "is about six-and-forty, his
admirable wife is about six or seven years younger. He passed the early
part of his life in London, in the best society. His commerce with the
world was, to a mind like his, all pure gain; for he brought away from
it all the good it had to give, without exchanging for it one particle
of his own integrity. He acquired the air, manners, and sentiments of a
gentleman, without any sacrifice of his sincerity. Indeed, he may be
said to have turned his knowledge of the world to a religious account,
for it has enabled him to recommend religion to those who do not like it
well enough to forgive, for its sake, the least awkwardness of gesture,
or inelegance of manner.

"When I became acquainted with the family," continued he, "I told Mrs.
Stanley that I was afraid her husband hurt religion in one sense as much
as he recommended it in another; for that some men who would forgive him
his piety for the sake of his agreeableness, would be led to dislike
religion more than ever in other men in whom the jewel was not so well
set. 'We should like your religious men well enough,' will they say, 'if
they all resembled Stanley.' Whereas the truth is, they do not so much
_like_ Mr. Stanley's religion, as _bear_ with it for the pleasure which
his other qualities afford them. She assured me that this was not
altogether the case, for that his other qualities having pioneered his
way, and hewed down the prejudices which the reputation of piety
naturally raises, his endeavors to be useful to them were much
facilitated, and he not only kept the ground he had gained, but was
often able to turn this influence over his friends to a better account
than they had intended. He converted their admiration of him into arms
against their own errors.

"He possesses in perfection," continued Dr. Barlow, "that sure criterion
of abilities, a great power over the minds of his acquaintance, and has
in a high degree that rare talent, the art of conciliation without the
aid of flattery. I have seen more men brought over to his opinion by a
management derived from his knowledge of mankind, and by a principle
which forbade his ever using this knowledge but for good purposes, than
I ever observed in any other instance; and this without the slightest
deviation from his scrupulous probity.

"He is master of one great advantage in conversation, that of not only
knowing _what_ to say that may be useful, but exactly _when_ to say it;
in knowing when to press a point, and when to forbear; in his sparing
the self-love of a vain man, whom he wishes to reclaim, by contriving to
make him feel himself wrong without making him appear ridiculous. The
former he knows is easily pardoned, the latter never. He has studied the
human heart long enough to know that to wound pride is not the way to
cure, but to inflame it; and that exasperating self-conceit will never
subdue it. He seldom, I believe, goes into company without an earnest
desire to be useful to some one in it; but if circumstances are adverse;
if the _mollia tempora fandi_ does not present itself; he knows he
should lose more than they would gain, by trying to make the occasion
when he does not find it. And I have often heard him say, that when he
can not benefit others, or be benefited by them, he endeavors to benefit
himself by the disappointment, which does his own mind as much good by
humbling him with the sense of his own uselessness, as the subject he
wished to have introduced, might have done them.

"The death of his only son, about six years ago, who had just entered
his eighth year, is the only interruption his family has had to a
felicity so unbroken, that I told Mr. Stanley some such calamity was
necessary to convince him that he was not to be put off with so poor a
portion as this world has to give. I added that I should have been
tempted to doubt his being in the favor of God, if he had totally
escaped chastisement. A circumstance which to many parents would have
greatly aggravated the blow, rather lightened it to him. The boy, had he
lived to be of age, was to have had a large independent fortune from a
distant relation, which will now go to a remote branch, unless there
should be another son. 'This wealth,' said he to me, 'might have proved
the boy's snare, and this independence his destruction. He who does all
things well has afflicted the parents, but he has saved the child.' The
loss of an only son, however, sat heavy on his heart, but it was the
means of enabling him to glorify God by his submission, I should rather
say, by his acquiescence. Submission is only yielding to what we can not
help. Acquiescence is a more sublime kind of resignation. It is a
conviction that the divine will is holy, just, and good. He once said to
me, 'We were too fond of the mercy, but not sufficiently grateful for
it. We loved him so passionately that we might have forgotten who
bestowed him. To preserve us from this temptation, God in great mercy
withdrew him. Let us turn our eyes from the one blessing we have lost,
to the countless mercies which are continued to us, and especially to
the hand which confers them; to the hand which, if we continue to
murmur, may strip us of our remaining blessings.'

"I can not," continued Dr. Barlow, "make a higher eulogium of Mrs.
Stanley than to say, that she is every way worthy of the husband whose
happiness she makes. They have a large family of lovely daughters of all
ages. Lucilla, the eldest, is near nineteen; you would think me too
poetical were I to say she adorns every virtue with every grace; and yet
I should only speak the simple truth. Ph[oe]be, who is just turned
fifteen, has not less vivacity and sweetness than her sister, but, from
her extreme naïveté and warmheartedness, she has somewhat less
discretion; and her father says, that her education has afforded him,
not less pleasure, but more trouble, for the branches shot so fast as to
call for more pruning."

Before I had time to thank the good doctor for his interesting little
narrative, a loud rap announced company. It was Lady Bab Lawless. With
her usual versatility she plunged at once into every subject with every
body. She talked to Lady Belfield of the news and her nursery, of poetry
with Sir John, of politics with me, and religion with Dr. Barlow. She
talked well upon most of these points, and not ill upon any of them; for
she had the talent of embellishing subjects of which she knew but
little, and a kind of conjectural sagacity and rash dexterity, which
prevented her from appearing ignorant, even when she knew nothing. She
thought that a full confidence in her own powers was the sure way to
raise them in the estimation of others, and it generally succeeded.

Turning suddenly to Lady Belfield, she said, "Pray my dear, look at my
flowers." "They are beautiful roses, indeed," said Lady Belfield, "and
as exquisitely exact as if they were artificial." "Which in truth they
are," replied Lady Bab. "Your mistake is a high compliment to them, but
not higher than they deserve. Look especially at these roses in my cap.
You positively shall go and get some at the same place." "Indeed," said
Lady Belfield, "I am thinking of laying aside flowers, though my
children are hardly old enough to take them." "What affectation!"
replied Lady Bab, "why you are not above two or three and thirty; I am
almost as old again, and yet I don't think of giving up flowers to my
children, or my grandchildren, who will be soon wanting them. Indeed, I
only now wear _white_ roses." I discovered by this, that white roses
made the same approximation to sobriety in dress, that three tables made
to it in cards. "Seriously, though," continued Lady Bab, "you must and
shall go and buy some of Fanny's flowers. I need only tell you, it will
be the greatest charity you ever did, and then I know you won't rest
till you have been. A beautiful girl maintains her dying mother by
making and selling flowers. Here is her direction," throwing a card on
the table. "Oh no, this is not it. I have forgot the name, but it is
within two doors of your hair-dresser, in what d'ye call the lane, just
out of Oxford-street. It is a poor miserable hole, but her roses are as
bright as if they grew in the gardens of Armida." She now rung the bell
violently, saying she had overstaid her time, though she had not been in
the house ten minutes.

Next morning I attended Lady Belfield to the exhibition. In driving home
through one of the narrow passages near Oxford-street, I observed that
we were in the street where the poor flower-maker lived. Lady Belfield
directed her footman to inquire for the house. We went into it, and in a
small but clean room, up three pair of stairs, we found a very pretty
and very genteel young girl at work on her gay manufacture. The young
woman presented her elegant performances with an air of uncommon grace
and modesty.

She was the more interesting, because the delicacy of her appearance
seemed to proceed from ill health, and a tear stood in her eye while she
exhibited her works. "You do not seem well, my dear," said Lady
Belfield, with a kindness which was natural to her. "I never care about
my own health, madam," replied she, "but I fear my dear mother is
dying." She stopped, and the tears which she had endeavored to restrain
now flowed plentifully down her cheeks. "Where is your mother, child?"
said Lady Belfield. "In the next room, madam." "Let us see her," said
her ladyship, "if it won't too much disturb her." So saying, she led the
way, and I followed her.

We found the sick woman lying on a little poor, but clean, bed, pale and
emaciated, but she did not seem so near her end as Fanny's affection had
made her apprehend. After some kind expressions of concern, Lady
Belfield inquired into their circumstances, which she found were
deplorable. "But for that dear girl, madam, I should have perished with
want," said the good woman; "since our misfortunes I have had nothing to
support me but what she earns by making these flowers. She has ruined
her own health, by sitting up the greatest part of the night to procure
me necessaries, while she herself lives on a crust."

I was so affected with this scene, that I drew Lady Belfield into the
next room; "if we can not preserve the mother, at least let us save the
daughter from destruction," said I; "you may command my purse." "I was
thinking of the same thing," she replied. "Pray, my good girl, what sort
of education have you had?" "O, madam," said she, "one much too high for
my situation. But my parents, intending to qualify me for a governess,
as the safest way of providing for me, have had me taught every thing
necessary for that employment. I have had the best masters, and I hope I
have not misemployed my time." "How comes it then," said I, "that you
were not placed out in some family?" "What, sir! and leave my dear
mother helpless and forlorn? I had rather live only on my tea and dry
bread, which indeed I have done for many months, and supply her little
wants, than enjoy all the luxuries in the world at a distance from her."

"What were your misfortunes occasioned by?" said I, while Lady Belfield
was talking with the mother. "One trouble followed another, sir," said
she, "but what most completely ruined us, and sent my father to prison,
and brought a paralytic stroke on my mother; was his being arrested for
a debt of seven hundred pounds. This sum, which he had promised to pay,
was long due to him for laces, and to my mother for millinery and fancy
dresses, from a lady who has not paid it to this moment, and my father
is dead, and my mother dying! This sum would have saved them both!"

She was turning away to conceal the excess of her grief, when a
venerable clergyman entered the room. It was the rector of the parish,
who came frequently to administer spiritual consolation to the poor
woman. Lady Belfield knew him slightly, and highly respected his
character. She took him aside, and questioned him as to the disposition
and conduct of these people, especially the young woman. His testimony
was highly satisfactory. The girl, he said, had not only had an
excellent education, but her understanding and principles were equally
good. He added, that he reckoned her beauty among her misfortunes. It
made good people afraid to take her into the house, and exposed her to
danger from those of the opposite description.

I put my purse into Lady Belfield's hands, declining to make any present
myself, lest, after the remark he had just made, I should incur the
suspicions of the worthy clergyman.

We promised to call again the next day, and took our leave, but not
till we had possessed ourselves of as many flowers as she could spare. I
begged that we might stop and send some medical assistance to the sick
woman, for though it was evident that all relief was hopeless, yet it
would be a comfort to the affectionate girl's heart to know that nothing
was omitted which might restore her mother.

CHAPTER XII.

In the evening we talked over our little adventure with Sir John, who
entered warmly into the distresses of Fanny and was inclined to adopt
our opinion, that if her character and attainments stood the test of a
strict inquiry, she might hereafter be transplanted into their family as
governess. We were interrupted in the formation of this plan by a visit
from Lady Melbury, the acknowledged queen of beauty and of ton. I had
long been acquainted with her character, for her charms and her
accomplishments were the theme of every man of fashion, and the envy of
every modish woman.

She is one of those admired but pitiable characters, who, sent by
Providence as an example to their sex, degrade themselves into a
warning. Warm-hearted, feeling, liberal on the one hand; on the other
vain, sentimental, romantic, extravagantly addicted to dissipation and
expense, and with that union of contrarieties which distinguishes her,
equally devoted to poetry and gaming, to liberality and injustice. She
is too handsome to be envious, and too generous to have any relish for
detraction, but she gives to excess into the opposite fault. As Lady
Denham can detect blemishes in the most perfect, Lady Melbury finds
perfections in the most depraved. From a judgment which can not
discriminate, a temper which will not censure, and a hunger for
popularity, which can feed on the coarsest applause, she flatters
egregiously and universally, on the principle of being paid back
usuriously in the same coin. Prodigal of her beauty, she exists but on
the homage paid to it from the drawing-room at St. James's, to the mob
at an election. Candor in her is as mischievous as calumny in others,
for it buoys up characters which ought to sink. Not content with being
blind to the bad qualities of her favorites, she invents good ones for
them, and you would suppose her corrupt "little senate" was a choir of
seraphims.

A recent circumstance related by Sir John was quite characteristical.
Her favorite maid was dangerously ill, and earnestly begged to see her
lady, who always had loaded her with favors. To all company she talked
of the virtues of the poor Toinette, for whom she not only expressed,
but felt real compassion. Instead of one apothecary who would have
sufficed, two physicians were sent for; and she herself resolved to go
up and visit her, as soon as she had finished setting to music an elegy
on the death of her Java sparrow. Just as she had completed it, she
received a fresh entreaty to see her maid, and was actually got to the
door in order to go up stairs, when the milliner came in with such a
distracting variety of beautiful new things, that there was no
possibility of letting them go till she had tried every thing on, one
after the other. This took up no little time. To determine which she
should keep and which return, where all was so attractive, took up still
more. After numberless vicissitudes and fluctuations of racking thought,
it was at length decided she should take the whole. The milliner
withdrew; the lady went up--Toinette had just expired.

I found her manners no less fascinating than her person. With all her
modish graces, there was a tincture of romance and an appearance of
softness and sensibility which gave her the variety of two characters.
She was the enchanting woman of fashion, and the elegiac muse.

Lady Belfield had taken care to cover her work-table with Fanny's
flowers, with a view to attract any chance visitor. Lady Melbury admired
them excessively. "You must do more than admire them," said Lady
Belfield, "you must buy and recommend." She then told her the affecting
scene we had witnessed, and described the amiable girl who supported the
dying mother by making these flowers. "It is quite enchanting,"
continued she, resolving to attack Lady Melbury in her own sentimental
way, "to see this sweet girl twisting rose-buds, and forming hyacinths
into bouquets." "Dear, how charming!" exclaimed Lady Melbury, "it is
really quite touching. I will make a subscription for her, and write at
the head of the list a melting description of her case. She shall bring
me all her flowers, and as many more as she can make. But no, we will
make a party, and go and see her. You shall carry me. How interesting to
see a beautiful creature making roses and hyacinths! her delicate hands
and fair complexion must be amazingly set off by the contrast of the
bright flowers. If it were a coarse-looking girl spinning hemp, to be
sure one should pity her, but it would not be half so moving. It will be
delightful. I will call on you to-morrow, exactly at two, and carry you
all. Perhaps," whispered she to Lady Belfield, "I may work up the
circumstances into a sonnet. Do think of a striking title for it. On
second thoughts, the sonnet shall be sent about with the subscription,
and I'll get a pretty vignette to suit it."

"That fine creature," said Sir John, in an accent of compassion, as she
went out, "was made for nobler purposes. How grievously does she fall
short of the high expectations her early youth had raised! Oh! what a
sad return does she make to Providence for his rich and varied
bounties. Vain of her beauty, lavish of her money, careless of her
reputation; associating with the worst company, yet formed for the best;
living on the adulation of parasites, whose understanding she despises!
I grieve to compare what she is with what she might have been, had she
married a man of spirit, who would prudently have guided and tenderly
have restrained her. He has ruined her and himself by his indifference
and easiness of temper. Satisfied with knowing how much she is admired
and he envied, he never thought of reproving or restricting her. He is
proud of her, but has no particular delight in her company, and trusting
to her honor, lets her follow her own devices, while he follows his. She
is a striking instance of the eccentricity of that bounty which springs
from mere sympathy and feeling. Her charity requires stage effect;
objects that have novelty, and circumstances which, as Mr. Bayes says,
'elevate and surprise.' She lost, when an infant, her mother, a woman of
sense and piety; who, had she lived, would have formed the ductile mind
of the daughter, turned her various talents into other channels, and
raised her character to the elevation it was meant to reach."

"How melancholy a consideration is it," said I, "that so superior a
woman should live so much below her high destination! She is doubtless
utterly destitute of any thought of religion."

"You are much mistaken," replied Sir John, "I will not indeed venture to
pronounce that she entertains much _thought_ about it; but she by no
means denies its truth, nor neglects occasionally to exhibit its outward
and visible signs. She has not yet completely forgotten

    All that the nurse and all the priest have taught.

I do not think that, like Lady Denham, she considers it as a
commutation, but she preserves it as a habit. A religious exercise,
however, never interferes with a worldly one. They are taken up in
succession, but with this distinction, the worldly business is to be
done, the religious one is not altogether to be left undone. She has a
moral chemistry which excels in the amalgamation of contradictory
ingredients. On a Sunday at Melbury castle if by any strange accident
she and her lord happen to be there together, she first reads him a
sermon, and plays at cribbage with him the rest of the evening. In town
one Sunday when she had a cold she wrote a tract on the sacrament, for
her maids, and then sat up all night at deep play. She declared if she
had been successful she would have given her winnings to charity; but as
she lost some hundreds, she said she could now with a safe conscience
borrow that sum from her charity purse, which she had hoped to add to
it, to pay her debt of honor."

Next day, within two hours of her appointed time, she came, and was
complimented by Sir John on her punctuality. "Indeed," said she, "I _am_
rather late, but I met with such a fascinating German novel, that it
positively chained me to my bed till past three. I assure you, I never
lose time by not rising. In the course of a few winters I have exhausted
half Hookham's catalogue, before some of my acquaintance are awake, or I
myself out of bed."

We soon stopped at the humble door of which we were in search. Sir John
conducted Lady Melbury up the little winding stairs. I assisted Lady
Belfield. We reached the room, where Fanny was just finishing a
beautiful bunch of jonquils. "How picturesque," whispered Lady Melbury
to me. "Do lend me your pencil; I must take a sketch of that sweet girl
with the jonquils in her hand. My dear creature," continued she, "you
must not only let me have these, but you must make me twelve dozen more
flowers as fast as possible, and be sure let me have a great many sprigs
of jessamine and myrtle." Then snatching up a wreath of various colored
geraniums--"I must try this on my head by the glass." So saying she ran
into an adjoining room, the door of which was open; Lady Belfield having
before stolen into it to speak to the poor invalid.

As soon as Lady Melbury got into the room, she uttered a loud shriek.
Sir John and I ran in, and were shocked to find her near fainting. "Oh,
Belfield," said she, "this is a trick, and a most cruel one! Why did you
not tell me where you were bringing me? Why did you not tell me the
people's name?" "I have never heard it myself," said Sir John, "on my
honor I do not understand you." "You know as much of the woman as I
know," said Lady Belfield. "Alas, much more," cried she, as fast as her
tears would give her leave to speak. She retired to the window for air,
wringing her hands, and called for a glass of water to keep her from
fainting. I turned to the sick woman for an explanation; I saw her
countenance much changed.

"This sir," said she, "is the lady, whose debt of seven hundred pounds
ruined me, and was the death of my husband." I was thunderstruck, but
went to assist Lady Melbury, who implored Sir John to go home with her
instantly, saying, her coach should come back for us. "But, dear Lady
Belfield, do lend me twenty guineas, I have not a shilling about me."
"Then, my dear Lady Melbury," said Lady Belfield, "how _could_ you order
twelve dozen expensive flowers?" "Oh," said she, "I did not mean to have
paid for them till next year." "And how," replied Lady Belfield, "could
the debt which was not to have been paid for a twelvemonth have relieved
the pressing wants of a creature who must pay ready money for her
materials? However, as you are so distressed we will contrive to do
without your money." "I would pawn my diamond necklace directly,"
returned she, but speaking lower, "to own the truth, it is already in
the jeweler's hands, and I wear a paste necklace of the same form."

Sir John knowing I had been at my banker's that morning, gave me such a
significant look as restrained my hand, which was already on my
pocket-book. In great seeming anguish, she gave Sir John her hand, who
conducted her to her coach. As he was leading her down stairs, she
solemnly declared she would never again run in debt, never order more
things than she wanted, and above all, would never play while she lived.
She was miserable, because she durst not ask Lord Melbury to pay this
woman, he having already given her money three times for the purpose,
which she had lost at Faro. Then retracting, she protested, if ever she
_did_ touch a card again, it should be for the sole purpose of getting
something to discharge this debt. Sir John earnestly conjured her not to
lay "that flattering unction to her soul," but to convert the present
vexation into an occasion of felicity, by making it the memorable and
happy era of abandoning a practice which injured her fortune, her fame,
her principles, and her peace. "Poor thing," said Sir John, when he
repeated this to us,

                  "Ease will recant
    Vows made in pain, as violent and void."

"In an interval of weeping, she told me," added he, "that she was to be
at the opera to-night. To the opera Faro will succeed, and to-morrow
probably the diamond earrings will go to Grey's in pursuit of the
necklace."

Lady Belfield inquired of Fanny how it happened that Lady Melbury, who
talked with _her_, without surprise or emotion, discovered so much of
both at the bare sight of her mother. The girl explained this by saying,
that she had never been in the way while they lived in Bond-street when
her ladyship used to come, having been always employed in an upper room,
or attending her masters.

Before we parted, effectual measures were taken for the comfortable
subsistence of the sick mother, and for alleviating the sorrows, and
lightening the labors of her daughter, and next morning I set out on my
journey for Stanley Grove, Sir John and Lady Belfield promising to
follow me in a few weeks.

As soon as I got into my post-chaise, and fairly turned my back on
London, I fell into a variety of reflections on the persons with whom I
had been living. In this soliloquy, I was particularly struck with that
discrepancy of characters, all of which are yet included under the broad
comprehensive appellation of _Christians_. I found that though all
differed widely from each other, they differed still more widely from
that rule by which they professed to walk. Yet not one of these
characters was considered as disreputable. There was not one that was
profane or profligate. Not one who would not in conversation have
defended Christianity if its truth had been attacked. Not one who
derided or even neglected its forms; and who in her own class would not
have passed for religious. Yet how little had any one of them adorned
the profession she adopted! Of Mrs. Ranby, Mrs. Fentham, Lady Bab
Lawless, Lady Denham, Lady Melbury, which of them would not have been
startled had her Christianity been called in question? Yet how merely
speculative was the religion of even the most serious among them! How
superficial, or inconsistent, or mistaken, or hollow, or hypocritical,
or self-deceiving was that of all the others! Had either of them been
asked from what source she drew her religion, she would indignantly have
answered, from the Bible. Yet if we compare the copy with the model,
the Christian with Christianity, how little can we trace the
resemblance! In what particular did their lives imitate the life of Him
_who pleased not himself_, who _did the will of his Father_; who _went
about doing good_? How irreconcilable is their faith with the principles
which He taught! How dissimilar their practice with the precepts He
delivered! How inconsistent their lives with the example He bequeathed!
How unfounded their hope of heaven, if an entrance into heaven be
restricted to those who are _like minded with Christ_!

CHAPTER XIII.

My father had been early in life intimately connected with the family of
Mr. Stanley. Though this gentleman was his junior by several years, yet
there subsisted between them such a similarity of tastes, sentiments,
views, and principles, that they lived in the closest friendship; and
both their families having in the early part of their lives resided in
London, the occasions of that thorough mutual knowledge that grows out
of familiar intercourse, were much facilitated. I remembered Mr.
Stanley, when I was a very little boy, paying an annual visit to my
father at the Priory, and I had retained an imperfect but pleasing
impression of his countenance and engaging manners.

Having had a large estate left him in Hampshire, he settled there on his
marriage; an intercourse of letters had kept up the mutual attachment
between him and my father. On the death of each parent, I had received a
cordial invitation to come and soothe my sorrows in his society. My
father enjoined me that one of my first visits after his death, should
be to the Grove; and in truth I now considered my Hampshire engagement
as the _bonne bouche_ of my southern excursion.

I reached Stanley Grove before dinner. I found a spacious mansion,
suited to the ample fortune and liberal spirit of its possessor. I was
highly gratified with fine forest scenery in the approach to the park.
The house had a noble appearance without; and within, it was at once
commodious and elegant. It stood on the south side of a hill, nearer the
bottom than the summit, and was sheltered on the north-east by a fine
old wood. The park, though it was not very extensive, was striking from
the beautiful inequality of the ground, which was richly clothed with
the most picturesque oaks I ever saw, interspersed with stately beeches.
The grounds were laid out in good taste, but though the hand of modern
improvement was visible, the owner had in one instance spared

    "The obsolete prolixity of shade,"

for which the most interesting of poets so pathetically pleads. The
poet's plea had saved the avenue.

I was cordially welcomed by Mr. and Mrs. Stanley; and by that powerful
and instantaneous impression which fine sense and good breeding, joined
to high previous veneration of character, produce on the feelings of the
guest, I at once felt myself at home. All the preliminaries of gradual
acquaintance were in a manner superseded, and I soon experienced that
warm and affectionate esteem, which seemed scarcely to require
intercourse to strengthen, or time to confirm it. Mr. Stanley had only a
few minutes to present me to his lady and two lovely daughters, before
we were summoned to dinner, to which a considerable party had been
invited; for the neighborhood was populous and rather polished.

The conversation after dinner was rational, animated, and instructive. I
observed that Mr. Stanley lost no opportunity, which fairly offered, for
suggesting useful reflections. But what chiefly struck me in his manner
of conversing, was, that without ever pressing religion unseasonably
into the service, he had the talent of making the most ordinary topics
subservient to instruction, and of extracting some profitable hint, or
striking out some important light, from subjects which, in ordinary
hands, would have been unproductive of improvement. It was evident that
piety was the predominating principle of his mind, and that he was
consulting its interests as carefully when prudence made him forbear to
press it, as when propriety allowed him to introduce it. This piety was
rather visible in the sentiment than the phrase. He was of opinion that
bad taste could never advance the interests of Christianity. And he gave
less offense to worldly men, than most religious people I have known,
because though he would, on no human consideration, abate one atom of
zeal, or lower any doctrine, nor disguise any truth, nor palliate, nor
trim, nor compromise, yet he never contended for words or trifling
distinctions. He thought it detracted from no man's piety to bring all
his elegance of expression, his correctness of taste, and his accuracy
of reasoning to the service of that cause which lies the nearest to the
heart of every Christian, and demands the exertion of his best
faculties.

He was also forward to promote subjects of practical use in the affairs
of common life, suited to the several circumstances and pursuits of his
guests. But he particularly rejoiced that there was so broad, and safe,
and uninclosed a field as general literature. This he observed always
supplies men of education with an ample refuge from all vulgar, and
dangerous, and unproductive topics. "If we can not," said he, "by
friendly intercourse, always raise our principles, we may always keep
our understanding in exercise; and those authors who supply so peccable
a creature as man with subjects of elegant and innocent discussion, I do
not reckon among the lowest benefactors of mankind."

In my further acquaintance with Mr. Stanley, I have sometimes observed
with what address he has converted a merely moral passage to a religious
purpose. I have known him, when conversing with a man who would not have
relished a more sacred authority, seize on a sentiment in Tully's
Offices, for the lowest degree in his scale of morals, and then
gradually ascending, trace and exalt the same thought through Paley or
Johnson, or Addison or Bacon, till he has unsuspectedly landed his
opponent in the pure ethics of the Gospel, and surprised him into the
adoption of a Christian principle.

As I had heard there was a fine little flock of children, I was
surprised, and almost disappointed every time the door opened, not to
see them appear, for I already began to take an interest in all that
related to this most engaging family. The ladies having, to our great
gratification, sat longer than is usual at most tables, at length obeyed
the signal of the mistress of the house. They withdrew, followed by the
Miss Stanleys,

                       With grace
    Which won who saw to wish their stay.

After their departure the conversation was not changed. There was no
occasion; it could not become more rational, and we did not desire that
it should become less pure. Mrs. Stanley and her fair friends had taken
their share in it with a good sense and delicacy which raised the tone
of our society; and we did not give them to understand by a loud laugh
before they were out of hearing, that we rejoiced in being emancipated
from the restraint of their presence.

Mrs. Stanley is a graceful and elegant woman. Among a thousand other
excellences, she is distinguished for her judgment in adapting her
discourse to the character of her guests, and for being singularly
skillful in selecting her topics of conversation. I never saw a lady who
possessed the talent of diffusing at her table so much pleasure to those
around her, without the smallest deviation from her own dignified
purity. She asks such questions as strangers may be likely to gain, at
least not to lose, credit by answering; and she suits her interrogations
to the kind of knowledge they may be supposed likely to possess. By
this, two ends are answered: while she gives her guest an occasion of
appearing to advantage, she puts herself in the way of gaining some
information. From want of this discernment, I have known ladies ask a
gentleman just arrived from the East Indies, questions about America;
and others, from the absence of that true delicacy, which, where it
exists, shows itself even on the smallest occasions, who have inquired
of a person how he liked such a book, though she knew, that in the
nature of things, there was no probability of his ever having heard of
it: thus assuming an ungenerous superiority herself, and mortifying
another by a sense of his own comparative ignorance. If there is any one
at table who from his station has least claim to attention, he is sure
to be treated with particular kindness by Mrs. Stanley, and the
diffident never fail to be encouraged, and the modest to be brought
forward, by the kindness and refinement of her attentions.

When we were summoned to the drawing-room, I was delighted to see four
beautiful children, fresh as health and gay as youth could make them,
busily engaged with the ladies. One was romping; another singing; a
third was showing some drawings of birds, the natural history of which
she seemed to understand; a fourth had spread a dissected map on the
carpet, and had pulled down her eldest sister on the floor to show her
Copenhagen. It was an animating scene. I could have devoured the sweet
creatures. I got credit with the little singer by helping her to a line
which she had forgotten, and with the geographer by my superior
acquaintance with the shores of the Baltic.

In the evening when the company had left us, I asked Mrs. Stanley how
she came so far to deviate from established custom as not to produce her
children immediately after dinner? "You must ask me," said Mr. Stanley,
smiling, "for it was I who first ventured to suggest this bold
innovation. I love my children fondly, but my children I have always at
home; I have my friends but seldom; and I do not choose that any portion
of the time that I wish to dedicate to intellectual and social enjoyment
should be broken in upon by another, and an interfering pleasure, which
I have always within my reach. At the same time I like my children to
see my friends. Company amuses, improves, and polishes them. I therefore
consulted with Mrs. Stanley how we could so manage as to enjoy our
friends without locking up our children. She recommended this expedient.
The time, she said, spent by the ladies from their leaving the
dining-room till the gentlemen came in to tea, was often a little heavy,
it was rather an interval of anticipation than of enjoyment. Those
ladies who had not much _mind_, had soon exhausted their admiration of
each other's worked muslins, and lace sleeves; and those who _had_,
would be glad to rest it so agreeably. She therefore proposed to enliven
that dull period by introducing the children.

"This little change has not only succeeded in our own family, but has
been adopted by many of our neighbors. For ourselves, it has answered a
double purpose. It not only delights the little things, but it delights
them with less injury than the usual season of their appearance. Our
children have always as much fruit as they like, after their own dinner;
they do not therefore want or desire the fruits, the sweetmeats, the
cakes, and the wine with which the guests, in order to please mamma, are
too apt to cram them. Besides, poor little dears, it mixes too much
selfishness with the natural delight they have in seeing company, by
connecting it with the idea of the good things they shall get. But by
this alteration we do all in our power to infuse a little
disinterestedness into the pleasure they have in coming to us. We love
them too tenderly to crib their little enjoyments, so we give them two
pleasures instead of one, for they have their dessert and our company in
succession."

Though I do not approve of too great familiarity with servants, yet I
think that to an old and faithful domestic, superior consideration is
due. My attendant on my present tour had lived in our family from his
youth, and had the care of me before I can remember. His fidelity and
good sense, and I may add, his piety, had obtained for him the privilege
of free speaking. "Oh, sir," said he, when he came to attend me next
morning, "we are got into the right house at last. Such a family! so
godly! so sober! so charitable! 'Tis all of a piece here, sir. Mrs.
Comfit, the housekeeper, tells me that her master and mistress are the
example of all the rich, and the refuge of all the poor in the
neighborhood. And as to Miss Lucilla, if the blessing of them that are
ready to perish can send any body to heaven, she will go there sure
enough."

This rhapsody of honest Edwards warmed my heart, and put me in mind that
I had neglected to inquire after this worthy housekeeper, who had lived
with my grandfather, and was at his death transplanted into the family
of Mr. Stanley. I paid a visit, the first opportunity, to the good
woman in her room, eager to learn more of a family who much resembled my
own parents, and for whom I had already conceived something more tender
than mere respect.

I congratulated Mrs. Comfit on the happiness of living in so valuable a
family. In return, she was even eloquent in their praises. "Her
mistress," she said, "was a pattern for ladies, so strict, and yet so
kind! but now, indeed, Miss Lucilla has taken almost all the family
cares from her mamma. The day she was sixteen, sir, that is about two
years and a half ago, she began to inspect the household affairs a
little, and as her knowledge increased, she took more and more upon her.
Miss Ph[oe]be will very soon be old enough to relieve her sister; but my
mistress won't let her daughters have any thing to do with family
affairs till they are almost women grown, both for fear it should take
them off from their learning, and also give them a low turn about eating
and caring for niceties, and lead them into vulgar gossip and
familiarity with servants. It is time enough, she says, when their
characters are a little formed, they will then gain all the good and
escape all the danger."

Seeing me listen with the most eager and delighted attention, the worthy
woman proceeded. "In summer, sir, Miss Stanley rises at six, and spends
two hours in her closet, which is stored with the best books. At eight
she consults me on the state of provisions, and other family matters,
and gives me a bill of fare, subject to the inspection of her mamma. The
cook has great pleasure in acting under her direction, because she
allows that Miss understands when things are well done, and never finds
fault in the wrong place; which, she says, is a great mortification in
serving ignorant ladies, who praise or find fault by chance, not
according to the cook's performance, but their own humor. She looks
over my accounts every week, which being kept so short, give her but
little trouble, and once a month she settles every thing with her
mother.

"'Tis a pleasure, sir, to see how skillful she is in accounts! One can't
impose upon her a farthing if one would; and yet she is so mild and so
reasonable! and so quick at distinguishing what are mistakes, and what
are willful faults! Then she is so compassionate! It will be a
heart-breaking day at the Grove, sir, whenever Miss marries. When my
master is sick, she writes his letters, reads to him, and assists her
mamma in nursing him.

"After her morning's work, sir, does she come into company, tired and
cross, as ladies do who have done nothing or are but just up? No, she
comes in to make breakfast for her parents, as fresh as a rose, and as
gay as a lark. An hour after breakfast, she and my master read some
learned books together. She then assists in teaching her little sisters,
and never were children better instructed. One day in a week, she sets
aside both for them and herself to work for the poor, whom she also
regularly visits at their own cottages, two evenings in the week; for
she says it would be troublesome and look ostentatious to have her
father's doors crowded with poor people, neither could she get at their
wants and their characters half so well as by going herself to their own
houses. My dear mistress has given her a small room as a store-house for
clothing and books for her indigent neighbors. In this room each of the
younger daughters, the day she is seven years old, has her own drawer,
with her name written on it; and almost the only competition among them
is, whose shall be soonest filled with caps, aprons, and handkerchiefs.
The working day is commonly concluded by one of these charitable visits.
The dear creatures are loaded with their little work-baskets, crammed
with necessaries. This, sir, is the day--and it is always looked
forward to with pleasure by them all. Even little Celia, the youngest,
who is but just turned of five, will come to me and beg for something
good to put in her basket for poor Mary or Betty such a one. I wonder I
do not see any thing of the little darlings; it is about the time they
used to pay me a visit.

"On Sundays before church they attend the village school; when the
week's pocket-money, which has been carefully hoarded for the purpose,
is produced for rewards to the most deserving scholars. And yet, sir,
with all this, you may be in the house a month without hearing a word of
the matter; it is all done so quietly; and when they meet at their meals
they are more cheerful and gay than if they had been ever so idle."

Here Mrs. Comfit stopped, for just then two sweet little cherry-cheeked
figures presented themselves at the door, swinging a straw basket
between them, and crying out, in a little begging voice, "Pray, Mrs.
Comfit, bestow your charity--we want something coarse for the hungry,
and something nice for the sick--poor Dame Alice and her little
grand-daughter!" They were going on, but spying me, they colored up to
the ears, and ran away as fast as they could, though I did all in my
power to detain them.

CHAPTER XIV.

When Miss Stanley came in to make breakfast, she beautifully exemplified
the worthy housekeeper's description. I have sometimes seen young women,
whose simplicity was destitute of elegance, and others in whom a too
elaborate polish had nearly effaced their native graces: Lucilla
appeared to unite the simplicity of nature to the refinement of good
breeding. It was thus she struck me at first sight. I forbore to form a
decided opinion till I had leisure to observe whether her mind fulfilled
all that her looks promised.

Lucilla Stanley is rather perfectly elegant than perfectly beautiful. I
have seen women as striking, but I never saw one so interesting. Her
beauty is countenance: it is the stamp of mind intelligibly printed on
the face. It is not so much the symmetry of features as the joint
triumph of intellect and sweet temper. A fine old poet has well
described her:

                  Her pure and eloquent blood
    Spoke in her cheeks and so distinctly wrought.
    That one could almost say her body thought.

Her conversation, like her countenance, is compounded of liveliness,
sensibility, and delicacy. She does not say things to be quoted, but the
effect of her conversation is that it leaves an impression of pleasure
on the mind, and a love of goodness on the heart. She enlivens without
dazzling, and entertains without overpowering. Contented to please, she
has no ambition to shine. There is nothing like effort in her
expression, or vanity in her manner. She has rather a playful gayety
than a pointed wit. Of repartee she has little, and dislikes it in
others; yet I have seldom met with a truer taste for inoffensive wit.
This is indeed the predominating quality of her mind; and she may rather
be said to be a nice judge of the genius of others than to be a genius
herself. She has a quick perception of whatever is beautiful or
defective in composition or in character. The same true taste pervades
her writing, her conversation, her dress, her domestic arrangements, and
her gardening, for which last she has both a passion and a talent.
Though she has a correct ear, she neither sings nor plays; and her
taste is so exact in drawing, that she really seems to have _le compass
dans l'[oe]uil_; yet I never saw a pencil in her fingers, except to
sketch a seat or a bower for the pleasure-grounds. Her notions are too
just to allow her to be satisfied with mediocrity in any thing, and for
perfection in many things, she thinks that life is too short, and its
duties too various and important. Having five younger sisters to assist,
has induced her to neglect some acquisitions which she would have liked.
Had she been an only daughter, she owns that she would have indulged a
little more in the garnish and decoration of life.

At her early age, the soundness of her judgment on persons and things
can not be derived from experience; she owes it to a _tact_ so fine as
enables her to seize on the strong feature, the prominent circumstance,
the leading point, instead of confusing her mind and dissipating her
attention, on the inferior parts of a character, a book, or a business.
This justness of thinking teaches her to rate things according to their
worth, and to arrange them according to their place. Her manner of
speaking adds to the effect of her words, and the tone of her voice
expresses with singular felicity, gayety or kindness, as her feelings
direct, and the occasion demands. This manner is so natural, and her
sentiments spring so spontaneously from the occasion, that it is obvious
that display is never in her head, nor an eagerness for praise in her
heart. I never heard her utter a word which I could have wished unsaid,
or a sentiment I could have wished unthought.

As to her dress, it reminds me of what Dr. Johnson once said to an
acquaintance of mine, of a lady who was celebrated for dressing well.
"The best evidence that I can give you of her perfection in this respect
is, that one can never remember what she had on." The dress of Lucilla
is not neglected, and it is not studied. She is as neat as the strictest
delicacy _demands_, and as fashionable as the strictest delicacy
_permits_; and her nymph-like form does not appear to less advantage for
being vailed with scrupulous modesty.

Oh! if women in general knew what was their real interest! if they could
guess with what a charm even the _appearance_ of modesty invests its
possessor, they would dress decorously from mere self-love, if not from
principle. The designing would assume modesty as an artifice, the coquet
would adopt it as an allurement, the pure as her appropriate attraction,
and the voluptuous as the most infallible art of seduction.

What I admire in Miss Stanley, and what I have sometime regretted the
want of in some other women, is, that I am told she is so lively, so
playful, so desirous of amusing her father and mother when alone, that
they are seldom so gay as in their family party. It is then that her
talents are all unfolded, and that her liveliness is without restraint.
She was rather silent the two or three first days after my arrival, yet
it was evidently not the silence of reserve or inattention, but of
delicate propriety. Her gentle frankness and undesigning temper
gradually got the better of this little shyness, and she soon began to
treat me as the son of her father's friend. I very early found, that
though a stranger might behold her without admiration, it was impossible
to converse with her with indifference. Before I had been a week at the
Grove, my precautions vanished, my panoply was gone, and yet I had not
consulted Mr. Stanley.

In contemplating the captivating figure, and the delicate mind of this
charming girl, I felt that imagination, which misleads so many youthful
hearts, had preserved mine. The image my fancy had framed, and which had
been suggested by Milton's heroine, had been refined indeed, but it had
not been romantic. I had early formed an ideal standard in my mind; too
high, perhaps; but its very elevation had rescued me from the common
dangers attending the society of the sex. I was continually comparing
the women with whom I conversed, with the fair conception which filled
my mind. The comparison might be unfair to them; I am sure it was not
unfavorable to myself, for it preserved me from the fascination of mere
personal beauty, the allurements of fictitious character, and the
attractions of ordinary merit.

I am aware that love is apt to throw a radiance around the being it
prefers, till it becomes dazzled, less perhaps with the brightness of
the object itself, than with the beams with which imagination has
invested it. But religion, though it had not subdued my imagination, had
chastised it. It had sobered the splendors of fancy, without obscuring
them. It had not extinguished the passions, but it had taught me to
regulate them.----I now seemed to have found the being of whom I had
been in search. My mind felt her excellences, my heart acknowledged its
conqueror. I struggled, however, not to abandon myself to its impulses.
I endeavored to keep my own feelings in order, till I had time to
appreciate a character which appeared as artless as it was correct. And
I did not allow myself to make this slight sketch of Lucilla, and of the
effect she produced on my heart, till more intimate acquaintance had
justified my prepossessions.

But let me not forget that Mr. Stanley had another daughter. If
Lucilla's character is more elevated, Ph[oe]be's is not less amiable.
Her face is equally handsome, but her figure is somewhat less delicate.
She has a fine temper, and strong virtues. The little faults she has,
seem to flow from the excess of her good qualities. Her susceptibility
is extreme, and to guide and guard it, finds employment for her
mother's fondness, and her father's prudence. Her heart overflows with
gratitude for the smallest service. This warmth of her tenderness keeps
her affections in more lively exercise than her judgment; it leads her
to over-rate the merit of those she loves, and to estimate their
excellences, less by their own worth than by their kindness to her. She
soon behaved to me with the most engaging frankness, and her innocent
vivacity encouraged, in return, that affectionate freedom with which one
treats a beloved sister.

The other children are gay, lovely, interesting, and sweet-tempered.
Their several acquisitions, for I detest the term _accomplishments_,
since it has been warped from the true meaning in which Milton used it,
seem to be so many individual contributions brought in to enrich the
common stock of domestic delight. Their talents are never put into
exercise by artificial excitements. Habitual industry, quiet exertion,
successive employments, affectionate intercourse, and gay and animated
relaxation, make up the round of their cheerful day.

I could not forbear admiring in this happy family the graceful union of
piety with cheerfulness; strictness of principle embellished, but never
relaxed by gayety of manners; a gayety, not such as requires turbulent
pleasures to stimulate it, but evidently the serene, yet animated,
result of well-regulated minds;--of minds actuated by a tenderness of
conscience, habitually alive to the perception of the smallest sin, and
kindling into holy gratitude at the smallest mercy.

I often called to my mind that my father, in order to prevent my being
deceived, and run away with by persons who appeared lively at first
sight, had early accustomed me to discriminate carefully, whether it was
not the _animal_ only that was lively, and the man dull. I have found
this caution of no small use in my observations on the other sex. I had
frequently remarked, that the musical and the dancing ladies, and those
who were most admired for modish attainments, had little _intellectual_
gayety. In numerous instances I found that the mind was the only part
which was not kept in action; and no wonder, for it was the only part
which had received no previous forming, no preparatory molding.

When I mentioned this to Mr. Stanley, "the education," replied he,
"which now prevails, is a Mohammedan education. It consists entirely in
making woman an object of attraction. There are, however, a few
reasonable people left, who, while they retain the object, improve upon
the plan. They too would make woman attractive; but it is by sedulously
laboring to make the understanding, the temper, the mind, and the
manners of their daughters, as engaging as these Circassian parents
endeavor to make the person."

CHAPTER XV.

The friendly rector frequently visited at Stanley Grove, and, for my
father's sake, honored me with his particular kindness. Dr. Barlow
filled up all my ideas of a country clergyman of the higher class. There
is a uniform consistency runs through his whole life and character,
which often brings to my mind, allowing for the revolution in habits
that almost two hundred years have necessarily produced, the
incomparable _country parson_ of the ingenious Mr. George Herbert.[1]

[Footnote 1: See Herbert's Country Parson, under the heads of the parson
in his house, the parson praying, the parson preaching, the parson
comforting, the parson's church, the parson catechizing, the parson in
mirth, &c., &c. The term parson has now indeed a vulgar and
disrespectful sound, but in Herbert's time it was used in its true sense
_persona ecclesiæ_. I would recommend to those who have not seen it,
this sketch of the ancient clerical life. As Mr. Herbert was a man of
quality, he knew what became the more opulent of his function; as he was
eminently pious, he practiced all that he recommended. "This appellation
of parson," says Judge Blackstone, "however depreciated by clownish and
familiar use, is the most legal, most beneficial, and most honorable
title, which a parish priest can enjoy." _Vide Blackstone's
Commentaries._]

"I never saw _Zeal without Innovation_," said Mr. Stanley, "more
exemplified than in Dr. Barlow. His piety is as enlightened as it is
sincere. No errors in religion escape him, through ignorance of their
existence, or through carelessness in their detection, or through
inactivity in opposing them. He is too honest not to attack the
prevailing evil, whatever shape it may assume; too correct to excite in
the wise any fears that his zeal may mislead his judgment, and too
upright to be afraid of the censures which active piety must ever have
to encounter from the worldly and the indifferent, from cold hearts and
unfurnished heads.

"From his affectionate warmth, however, and his unremitting application,
arising from the vast importance he attaches to the worth of souls, the
man of the world might honor him with the title of enthusiast; while his
prudence, sober-mindedness, and regularity, would draw on him from the
fanatic, the appellation of formalist. Though he is far from being
'content to _dwell_ in decencies,' he is careful never to neglect them.
He is a clergyman all the week as well as on Sunday; for he says, if he
did not spend much of the intermediate time in pastoral visits, there
could not be kept up that mutual intercourse of kindness which so much
facilitates his own labors, and his people's improvement. They listen to
him because they love him, and they understand him, because he has
familiarized them by private discourse to the great truths which he
delivers from the pulpit.

"Dr. Barlow has greatly diminished the growth of innovation in his
parishes, by attacking the innovator with his own weapons. Not indeed by
stooping to the same disorderly practices, but by opposing an
enlightened earnestness to an eccentric earnestness; a zeal _with_
knowledge to a zeal _without_ it. He is of opinion that activity does
more good than invective, and that the latter is too often resorted to,
because it is the cheaper substitute.

"His charity, however, is large, and his spirit truly catholic. He
honors all his truly pious brethren, who are earnest in doing good,
though they may differ from him as to the manner of doing it. Yet his
candor never intrenches on his firmness; and while he will not dispute
with others about shades of difference, he maintains his own opinions
with the steadiness of one who embraced them on the fullest conviction.

"He is a 'scholar, and being a good and a ripe one,' it sets him above
aiming at the paltry reputation to be acquired by those false
embellishments of style, those difficult and uncommon words, and that
labored inversion of sentences, by which some injudicious clergymen make
themselves unacceptable to the higher, and unintelligible to the lower,
and of course, the larger part of their audience. He always bears in
mind that the common people are not foolish, they are only ignorant. To
meet the one he preaches good sense, to suit the other, plain language.
But while he seldom shoots over the heads of the uninformed, he never
offends the judicious. He considers the advice of Polonius to his son
to be as applicable to preachers as to travelers--

    Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

"In his pulpit he is no wrangling polemic, but a genuine Bible
Christian, deeply impressed himself with the momentous truths he so
earnestly presses upon others. His mind is so imbued, so saturated, if I
may hazard the expression, with scriptural knowledge, that from that
rich store-house, he is ever ready to bring forth _treasures, new and
old_, and to apply them wisely, temperately, and seasonably.

"Though he carefully inculcates universal holiness in all his
discourses, yet his practical instructions are constantly deduced from
those fundamental principles of Christianity which are the root and life
and spirit of all goodness. Next to a solid piety, and a deep
acquaintance with the Bible, he considers it of prime importance to a
clergyman to be thoroughly acquainted with human nature in general, and
with the state of his own parish in particular. The knowledge of both
will alone preserve him from preaching too personally so as to hurt, or
too generally so as not to touch.

"He is careful not to hurry over the prayers in so cold, inattentive,
and careless a manner, as to make the audience suspect he is saving
himself, that he may make a greater figure in delivering the sermon.
Instead of this, the devout, reverential, and impressive manner in which
he pronounces the various parts of the Liturgy, best prepares his own
heart, and the hearts of his people, to receive benefit from his
discourse. His petitions are delivered with such sober fervor, his
exhortations with such humble dignity, his thanksgiving with such holy
animation as carry the soul of the hearer along with him. When he
ascends the pulpit, he never throws the liturgical service into the back
ground by a long elaborate composition of his own, delivered with
superior force and emphasis. And he pronounces the Lord's prayer with a
solemnity which shows that he recollects its importance and its author.

"In preaching, he is careful to be distinctly heard, even by his
remotest auditors, and by constant attention to this important article,
he has brought his voice, which was not strong, to be particularly
audible. He affixes so much importance to a distinct delivery, that he
smilingly told me he suspected the grammatical definition of a
substantive was originally meant for a clergyman, whose great object it
was, if possible, _to be seen_, but indispensably to be _heard_, _felt_,
and _understood_.

"His whole performance is distinguished by a grave and majestic
simplicity, as far removed from the careless reader of a common story,
as from the declamation of an actor. His hearers leave the church, not
so much in raptures with the preacher, as affected with the truths he
has delivered. He says, he always finds he has done most good when he
has been least praised, and that he feels most humbled when he receives
the warmest commendation, because men, generally extol most the sermons
which have probed them least; whereas those which really do good, being
often such as make them most uneasy, are consequently the least likely
to attract panegyric. '_They_ only bear true testimony to the excellence
of a discourse,' added he, 'not who commend the composition or the
delivery, but who are led by it to examine their own hearts, to search
out its corruptions, and to reform their lives. Reformation is the
flattery I covet.'

"He is aware that the generality of hearers like to retire from the
sermon with the comfortable belief, that little is to be done on _their_
parts. Such hearers he always disappoints, by leaving on their minds at
the close, some impressive precept deduced from, and growing out of, the
preparatory doctrine. He does not press any one truth to the exclusion
of all others. He proposes no subtleties, but labors to excite
seriousness, to alarm the careless, to quicken the supine, to confirm
the doubting. He presses eternal things as things near at hand; as
things in which every living man has an equal interest.

"Mr. Stanley says, that though Dr. Barlow was considered at Cambridge as
a correct young man, who carefully avoided vice and even irregularity,
yet being cheerful, and addicted to good society, he had a disposition
to innocent conviviality, which might, unsuspectedly, have led him into
the errors he abhorred. He was struck with a passage in a letter from
Dr. Johnson to a young man who had just taken orders, in which, among
other wholesome counsel, he advises him 'to acquire the courage to
refuse _sometimes_ invitations to dinner.' It is inconceivable what a
degree of force and independence his mind acquired by the occasional
adoption of this single hint. He is not only, Mr. Stanley, the spiritual
director, but the father, the counselor, the arbitrator, and the friend
of those whom Providence has placed under his instruction.

"He is happy in an excellent wife, who, by bringing him a considerable
fortune, has greatly enlarged his power of doing good. But still more
essentially has she increased his happiness, and raised his character,
by her piety and prudence. By the large part she takes in his affairs,
he is enabled to give himself wholly up to the duties of his profession.
She is as attentive to the bodies, as her husband is to the souls of his
people, and educates her own family as sedulously as he instructs his
parish.

"One day when I had been congratulating Dr. Barlow on the excellence of
his wife's character, the conversation fell, by a sudden transition, on
the celibacy of the Romish clergy. He smiled and said, 'Let us
ministers of the Reformation be careful never to provoke the people to
wish for the restoration of that part of popery. I often reflect how
peculiarly incumbent it is on us, to select such partners as shall never
cause our emancipation from the old restrictions to be regretted. And we
ourselves ought, by improving the character of our wives, to repay the
debt we owe to the ecclesiastical laws of Protestantism for the
privilege of possessing them.'

"Will it be thought too trifling to add, how carefully this valuable
pair carry their consistency into the most minute details of their
family arrangements? Their daughters are no less patterns of decorum and
modesty in their dress and appearance, than in the more important parts
of their conduct. The Doctor says, 'that the most distant and
inconsiderable appendages to the temple of God, should have something of
purity and decency. Besides,' added he, 'with what face could I censure
improprieties from the pulpit, if the appearance of my own family in the
pew below were to set my precepts at defiance, by giving an example of
extravagance and vanity to the parish, and thus by making the preacher
ridiculous make his expostulations worse than ineffectual.

"So conscientious a rector," added Mr. Stanley, "could not fail to be
particularly careful in the choice of a curate; and a more humble,
pious, diligent assistant than Mr. Jackson could not easily be found. He
is always a welcome guest at my table. But this valuable man, who was
about as good a judge of the world as the great Hooker, made just such
another indiscreet marriage. He was drawn in to choose his wife, the
daughter of a poor tradesman in the next town, because he concluded that
a woman bred in humble and active life, would necessarily be humble and
active herself. _Her_ reason for accepting _him_ was because she
thought that as every clergyman was a _gentleman_, she of course, as his
wife, should be a _gentlewoman_, and fit company for any body.

"'He instructs my parish admirably,' said Dr. Barlow, 'but his own
little family he can not manage. His wife is continually reproaching
him, that though he may know the way to heaven, he does not know how to
push his way in the world. His daughter is the finest lady in the
parish, and outdoes them all, not only in the extremity, but the
immodesty of the fashion. It is her mother's great ambition that she
should excel the Miss Stanleys and my daughters in music, while her good
father's linen betrays sad marks of negligence. I once ventured to tell
Mrs. Jackson that there was only one reason which could excuse the
education she had given her daughter, which was that I presumed she
intended to qualify her for getting her bread; and that if she would
correct the improprieties of the girl's dress, and get her instructed in
useful knowledge, I would look out for a good situation for her. This
roused her indignation. She refused my offer with scorn, saying, that
when she asked my charity, she would take my advice; and desired that I
would remember that one clergyman's daughter was as good as another. I
told her that there was indeed a sense in which one clergyman was as
good as another, because the profession dignified the lowest of the
order, if, like her husband, he was a credit to that order. Yet still
there were gradations in the church as well as in the state. But between
the _wives_ and _daughters_ of the higher and lower clergy, there were
the same distinction which riches and poverty have established between
those of the higher and lower orders of the laity; and that rank and
independence in the one case, confer the same outward superiority with
rank and independence in the other."

CHAPTER XVI.

Among the visitors at Stanley Grove, there was a family of ladies, who,
though not particularly brilliant, were singularly engaging from their
modesty, gentleness, and good sense. One day when they had just left us,
Mr. Stanley obliged me with the following little relation: Mrs. Stanley
and Lucilla only being present.

"Lady Aston has been a widow almost seven years. On the death of Sir
George, she retired into this neighborhood with her daughters, the
eldest of whom is about the age of Lucilla. She herself had had a pious
but a very narrow education. Her excessive grief for the loss of her
husband augmented her natural love of retirement which she cultivated,
not to the purpose of improvement, but to the indulgence of melancholy.
Soon after she settled here, we heard how much good she did, and in how
exemplary a manner she lived, before we saw her. She was not very easy
of access even to us; and after we had made our way to her, we were the
only visitors she admitted for a long time. We soon learned to admire
her deadness to the world, and her unaffected humility. Our esteem for
her increased with our closer intercourse, which however enabled us also
to observe some considerable mistakes in her judgment, especially in the
mode in which she was training up her daughters. These errors we
regretted, and with all possible tenderness ventured to point out to
her. The girls were the prettiest demure little nuns you ever saw, mute
and timid, cheerless and inactive, but kind, good, and gentle.

"Their pious mother, who was naturally of a fearful and doubting mind,
had had this pensive turn increased by several early domestic losses,
which, even previous to Sir George's death, had contributed to fix
something of a too tender and hopeless melancholy on her whole
character. There are two refuges for the afflicted; two diametrically
opposite ways of getting out of sorrow--religion and the world. Lady
Aston had wisely chosen the former. But her scrupulous spirit had made
the narrow way narrower than religion required. She read the Scriptures
diligently, and she prayed over them devoutly; but she had no judicious
friend to direct her in these important studies. As your Mrs. Ranby
attended only to the doctrines, and our friend Lady Belfield trusted
indefinitely to the promises, so poor Lady Aston's broken spirit was too
exclusively carried to dwell on the threatenings; together with the
rigid performance of those duties which she earnestly hoped might enable
her to escape them. This round of duty, of watchfulness, and prayer, she
invariably performed with almost the sanctity of an apostle, but with a
little too much of the scrupulosity of an ascetic. While too many were
rejoicing with unfounded confidence in those animating passages of
Scripture, which the whole tenor of their lives demonstrates not to
belong to them, she trembled at those denunciations which she could not
fairly apply to herself. And the promises from which she might have
derived reasonable consolation, she overlooked as designed for others.

"Her piety, though sincere, was a little tinctured with superstition. If
any petty strictness was omitted, she tormented herself with causeless
remorse. If any little rule was broken, she repaired the failure with
treble diligence the following day; and labored to retrieve her
perplexed accounts with the comfortless anxiety of a person who is
working out a heavy debt. I endeavored to convince her, that an inferior
duty which clashed with one of a higher order, might be safely postponed
at least, if not omitted.

"A diary has been found useful to many pious Christians, as a record of
their sins, and of their mercies. But this poor lady spent so much time
in weighing the offenses of one day against those of another, that
before the scruple was settled, the time for action was past. She
brought herself into so much perplexity by reading over this journal of
her infirmities, that her difficulties were augmented by the very means
she had employed to remove them; and her conscience was disturbed by the
method she had taken to quiet it. This plan, however, though distressing
to a troubled mind, is wholesome to one of a contrary cast.

"_My_ family, as you have seen, are rather exact in the distribution of
their time, but we do not distress ourselves at interruptions which are
unavoidable: but _her_ arrangements were carried on with a rigor which
made her consider the smallest deviation as a sin that required severe
repentance. Her alms were expiations, her self-denials penances.

"She was rather a disciple of the mortified Baptist, than of the merciful
Redeemer. Her devotions were sincere but discouraging. They consisted
much in contrition, but little in praise; much in sorrow for sin, but
little in hope of its pardon. She did not sufficiently cast her care and
confidence on the great propitiation. She firmly believed all that her
Saviour had done and suffered, but she had not the comfort of
practically appropriating the sacrifice. While she was painfully working
out her salvation with fear and trembling, she indulged the most
unfounded apprehensions of the divine displeasure. At Aston Hall the
Almighty was literally feared, but he was not glorified. It was the
obedience of a slave, and not the reverential affection of a child.

"When I saw her denying herself and her daughters the most innocent
enjoyments, and suspecting sin in the most lawful indulgences, I took
the liberty to tell her how little acceptable uncommanded austerities
and arbitrary impositions were to the God of mercies. I observed to her
that the world, that human life, that our own sins and weaknesses, found
us daily and hourly occasions of exercising patience and self-denial;
that life is not entirely made up of great evils or heavy trials, but
that the perpetual recurrence of petty evils and small trials is the
ordinary and appointed exercise of the Christian graces. To bear with
the failings of those about us, with their infirmities, their bad
judgment, their ill-breeding, their perverse tempers; to endure neglect
where we feel we have deserved attention, and ingratitude where we
expected thanks; to bear with the company of disagreeable people, whom
Providence has placed in our way, and whom he has perhaps provided on
purpose for the trial of our virtue: these are the best exercises; and
the better because not chosen by ourselves. To bear with vexations in
business, with disappointments in our expectations, with interruptions
of our retirement, with folly, intrusion, disturbance, in short, with
whatever opposes our will, and contradicts our humor; this habitual
acquiescence appears to be more of the essence of self-denial than any
little rigors or inflictions of our own imposing. These constant,
inevitable, but inferior evils, properly improved, furnish a good moral
discipline, and might well in the days of ignorance have superseded
pilgrimage and penance. It has this advantage too over the other, that
it sweetens the temper and promotes humility, while the former gives
rigidness instead of strength, and inflexibility instead of firmness."

"I have often thought," said I, when Mr. Stanley made a pause, "that we
are apt to mistake our vocation by looking out of the way for occasions
to exercise great and rare virtues, and by stepping over those ordinary
ones which lie directly in the road before us. When we read, we fancy we
could be martyrs, and when we come to act, we can not even bear a
provoking word."

Miss Stanley looked pleased at my remark, and in a modest tone observed
that "in no one instance did we deceive ourselves more than in fancying
we could do great things well, which we were never likely to be called
to do at all; while, if we were honest, we could not avoid owning how
negligently we performed our own little appointed duties, and how
sedulously we avoided the petty inconveniences which these duties
involved."

"By kindness," resumed Mr. Stanley, "we gradually gained Lady Aston's
confidence, and of that confidence we have availed ourselves to give
something of a new face to the family. Her daughters, good as they were
dutiful, by living in a solitude unenlivened by books, and unvaried by
improving company, had acquired a manner rather resembling fearfulness
than delicacy. Religious they were, but they had contracted gloomy views
of religion. They considered it as something that must be endured in
order to avoid punishment, rather than as a principle of peace, and
trust, and comfort; as a task to be gone through, rather than as a
privilege to be enjoyed. They were tempted to consider the Almighty as a
hard master, whom however they were resolved to serve, rather than as a
gracious father who was not only loving, but LOVE in the abstract. Their
mother was afraid to encourage a cheerful look, lest it might lead to
levity, or a sprightly thought, for fear it might have a wrong tendency.
She forgot, or rather she did not know, that young women were not formed
for contemplative life. She forgot that in all our plans and operations
we should still bear in mind that there are two worlds. As it is the
fault of too many to leave the _next_ out of their calculation, it was
the error of Lady Aston, in forming the minds of her children, to leave
out _this_. She justly considered heaven as their great aim and end; but
neglected to qualify them for the present temporal life, on the due use
and employment of which so obviously depends the happiness of that which
is eternal.

"Her charities were very extensive, but of these charities her sweet
daughters were not made the active dispensers, because an old servant,
who governed not only the family but her lady also, chose that office
herself. Thus the bounty being made to flow in partial channels, the
woman's relations and favorites almost entirely engrossing it, it did
little comparative good.

"With fair understandings the Miss Astons had acquired very little
knowledge: their mother's scrupulous mind found something dangerous in
every author who did not professedly write on religious subjects. If
there were one exceptionable page in a book, otherwise valuable, instead
of suppressing the page, she suppressed the book. And indeed, my dear
Charles, grieved am I to think how few authors of the more entertaining
kind we _can_ consider as perfectly pure, and put without caution,
restriction, or mutilation, into the hands of our daughters. I am,
however, of opinion, that as they will not always have their parents for
tasters, and as they will everywhere, even in the most select libraries,
meet with these mixed works, in which, though there is much to admire,
yet there is something to expunge, it is the safest way to accustom them
early to hear read the most unexceptionable parts of these books.

"Read them yourself to them without any air of mystery; tell them that
what you omit is not worth reading, and then the omissions will not
excite but stifle curiosity. The books to which I allude are those where
the principle is sound and the tendency blameless, and where the few
faults consist rather in coarseness than in corruption.

"But to return; she fancied that these inexperienced creatures, who had
never tried the world, and whose young imaginations had perhaps painted
it in all the brilliant colors with which erring fancy gilds the scenes
it has never beheld, and the pleasure it has never tried, could
renounce it as completely as herself, who had exhausted what it has to
give, and was weary of it. She thought they could live contentedly in
their closets, without considering that she had neglected to furnish
their minds with that knowledge which may make the closet a place of
enjoyment, by supplying the intervals of devotional with entertaining
reading.

"We carried Lucilla and Ph[oe]be to visit them; I believe she was a
little afraid of their gay countenances. I talked to her of the
necessity of literature to inform her daughters, and of pleasures to
enliven them. The term pleasure alarmed her still more than that of
literature. 'What pleasures were allowed to religious people? She would
make her daughters as happy as she dared without offending her Maker.' I
quoted the devout but liberal Hooker, who exhorts us not to regard the
Almighty as a captious sophist, but as a merciful Father.

"During this conversation we were sitting under the fine spreading oak
on my lawn, in front of that rich bank of flowers which you so much
admire. It was a lovely evening in the end of June, the setting sun was
all mild radiance, the sky all azure, the air all fragrance. The birds
were in full song. The children, sitting on the grass before us, were
weaving chaplets of wild flowers.

    It looked like nature in the world's first spring.

"My heart was touched with joy and gratitude. 'Look, madam,' said I, 'at
the bountiful provision which a beneficent Father makes, not only for
the necessities, but for the pleasures of his children;

                               ----not content
    With every food of life to nourish man,
    He makes all nature beauty to his eye,
    And music to his ear.

"'These flowers are of so little apparent use, that it might be thought
profuseness in any economy short of that which is divine, to gratify us
at once with such forms, and such hues, and such fragrance. It is a
gratification not necessary, yet exquisite, which lies somewhere between
the pleasure of sense and intellect, and in a measure partakes of both.
It elevates while it exhilarates, and lifts the soul from the gift to
the Giver. God has not left his goodness to be _inferred_ from abstract
speculation, from the conclusions of reason, from deduction and
argument: we not only collect it from observation, but have palpable
evidences of his bounty, we feel it with our senses. Were God a hard
master, might he not withhold these superfluities of goodness? Do you
think he makes such rich provision for us, that we should shut our eyes
and close our ears to them? Does he present such gifts with one hand,
and hold in the other a stern interdict of 'touch not, taste not, handle
not?' And can you believe he is less munificent in the economy of grace,
than in that of nature? Do you imagine that he provides such abundant
supplies for our appetites and senses here, without providing more
substantial pleasures for our future enjoyment? Is not what we see a
prelude to what we hope for, a pledge of what we may expect? A specimen
of larger, higher, richer bounty, an encouraging cluster from the land
of promise? If from his works we turn to his word, we shall find the
same inexhaustible goodness exercised to still nobler purposes. Must we
not hope then, even by analogy, that he has in store blessings exalted
in their nature, and eternal in their duration, for all those who love
and serve him in the gospel of his Son?'

"We now got on fast. She was delighted with my wife, and grew less and
less afraid of my girls. I believe, however, that we should have made a
quicker progress in gaining her confidence if we had looked less happy.
I suggested to her to endeavor to raise the tone of her daughters'
piety, to make their habits less monastic, their tempers more cheerful,
their virtues more active; to render their lives more useful, by making
them the immediate instruments of her charity; to take them out of
themselves, and teach them to compare their fictitious distresses with
real substantial misery, and to make them feel grateful for the power
and the privilege of relieving it.

"As Dr. Barlow has two parishes which join, and we had pre-occupied the
ground in our own, I advised them to found a school in the next, for the
instruction of the young, and a friendly society for the aged of their
own sex. We prevailed on them to be themselves not the nominal but the
active patronesses; to take the measure of all the wants and all the
merit of their immediate neighborhood; to do every thing under the
advice and superintendence of Dr. Barlow, and to make him their 'guide,
philosopher, and friend.' By adopting this plan, they now see the
poverty of which they only used to hear, and know personally the
dependants whom they protect.

"Dr. Barlow took infinite pains to correct Lady Aston's views of
religion. 'Let your notions of God,' said he, 'be founded, not on your
own gloomy apprehensions, and visionary imaginations, but on what is
revealed in his word, else the very intenseness of your feelings, the
very sincerity of your devotion, may betray you into enthusiasm, into
error, into superstition, into despair. Spiritual notions which are not
grounded on scriptural truth, and directed and guarded by a close
adherence to it, mislead tender hearts and warm imaginations. But while
you rest on the sure unperverted foundation of the word of God, and pray
for his Spirit to assist you in the use of his word, you will have
little cause to dread that you shall fear him too much, or serve him too
well. I earnestly exhort you,' continued he, 'not to take the measure of
your spiritual state from circumstances which have nothing to do with
it. Be not dismayed at an incidental depression which may depend on the
state of your health, or your spirits, or your affairs. Look not for
sensible communications. Do not consider rapturous feelings as any
criterion of the favor of your Maker, nor the absence of them as any
indication of his displeasure. An increasing desire to know him more,
and serve him better; an increasing desire to do, and to suffer his
whole will; a growing resignation to his providential dispensations is a
much surer, a much more unequivocal test.'

"I next," continued Mr. Stanley, "carried our worthy curate, Mr.
Jackson, to visit her, and proposed that she should engage him to spend
a few hours every week with the young ladies. I recommended that after
he had read with them a portion of Scripture, of which he would give
them a sound and plain exposition, he should convince them he had not
the worse taste for being religious, by reading with them some books of
general instruction, history, travels, and polite literature. This would
imbue their minds with useful knowledge, form their taste, and fill up
profitably and pleasantly that time which now lay heavy on their hands;
and, without intrenching on any of their duties, would qualify them to
discharge them more cheerfully.

"I next suggested that they should study gardening; and that they should
put themselves under the tuition of Lucilla, who is become the little
Repton of the valley. To add to the interest, I requested that a fresh
piece of ground might be given them, that they might not only exercise
their taste, but be animated with seeing the complete effect of their
own exertions, as a creation of their own would be likely to afford them
more amusement than improving on the labors of another.

"I had soon the gratification of seeing my little Carmelites, who used
when they walked in the garden to look as if they came to dig a daily
portion of their own graves, now enjoying it, embellishing it, and
delighted by watching its progress; and their excellent mother, who,
like Spenser's Despair, used to look 'as if she never dined,' now
enjoying the company of her select friends. The mother is become almost
cheerful, and the daughters almost gay. Their dormant faculties are
awakened. Time is no longer a burden, but a blessing: the day is too
short for their duties, which are performed with alacrity since they
have been converted into pleasures. You will believe I did not hazard
all these terrible innovations as rapidly as I recount them, but
gradually, as they were able to bear it.

"This happy change in themselves has had the happiest consequences.
Their friends had conceived the strongest prejudices against religion,
from the gloomy garb in which they had seen it arrayed at Aston Hall.
The uncle who was also the guardian, had threatened to remove the girls
before they were quite moped to death; the young baronet was actually
forbidden to come home at the holidays; but now the uncle is quite
reconciled to them, and almost to _religion_. He has resumed his
fondness for the daughters; and their brother, a fine youth at
Cambridge, is happy in spending his vacations with his family, to whom
he is become tenderly attached. He has had his own principles and
character much raised by the conversation and example of Dr. Barlow, who
contrives to be at Aston Hall as much as possible when Sir George is
there. He is daily expected to make his mother a visit, when I shall
recommend him to your particular notice and acquaintance."

Lucilla blushing, said, she thought her father had too exclusively
recommended the _brother_ to my friendship; she would venture to say the
_sisters_ were equally worthy of my regard, adding, in an affectionate
tone, "they are every thing that is amiable and kind. The more you know
them, sir, the more you will admire them; for their good qualities are
kept back by the best quality of all, their modesty." This candid and
liberal praise did not sink the fair eulogist herself in my esteem.

CHAPTER XVII.

I had now been near three weeks at the Grove. Ever since my arrival I
had contracted the habit of pouring out my heart to Mr. and Mrs. Stanley
with grateful affection and filial confidence. I still continued to do
so on all subjects except one.

The more I saw of Lucilla, the more difficult I found it to resist her
numberless attractions. I could not persuade myself that either prudence
or duty demanded that I should guard my heart against such a combination
of amiable virtues and gentle graces: virtues and graces which, as I
before observed, my mind had long been combining as a delightful idea,
and which I now saw realized in a form more engaging than even my own
imagination had allowed itself to picture.

I did not feel courage sufficient to risk the happiness I actually
enjoyed, by aspiring too suddenly to a happiness more perfect. I dared
not yet avow to the parents, or the daughter, feelings which my fears
told me might possibly be discouraged, and which, if discouraged, would
at once dash to the ground a fabric of felicity that my heart, not my
fancy, had erected, and which my taste, my judgment, and my principles
equally approved, and delighted to contemplate.

The great critic of antiquity, in his treatise on the drama, observes
that the introduction of a new person is of the next importance to a new
incident. Whether the introduction of two interlocutors is equal in
importance to two incidents, Aristotle has forgotten to establish. This
dramatic rule was illustrated by the arrival of Sir John and Lady
Belfield, who, though not new to the reader or the writer, were new at
Stanley Grove.

The early friendship of the two gentlemen had suffered little diminution
from absence, though their intercourse had been much interrupted. Sir
John, who was a few years younger than his friend, since his marriage,
having lived as entirely in town as Mr. Stanley had done in the country.
Mrs. Stanley had, indeed, seen Lady Belfield a few times in
Cavendish-square, but her ladyship had never before been introduced to
the other inhabitants of the Grove.

The guests were received with cordial affection, and easily fell into
the family habits, which they did not wish to interrupt, but from the
observation of which they hoped to improve their own. They were charmed
with the interesting variety of characters in the lovely young family,
who in return were delighted with the politeness, kindness, and
cheerfulness of their father's guests.

Shall I avow my own meanness? Cordially as I loved the Belfields, I am
afraid I saw them arrive with a slight tincture of jealousy. They would,
I thought, by enlarging the family circle, throw me at a further
distance from the being whom I wished to contemplate nearly. They would,
by dividing her attention, diminish my proportion. I had been hitherto
the sole guest, I was now to be one of several. This was the first
discovery I made that love is a narrower of the heart. I tried to subdue
the ungenerous feeling, and to meet my valuable friends with a warmth
adequate to that which they so kindly manifested. I found that a wrong
feeling at which one has virtue enough left to blush, is seldom lasting,
and shame soon expelled it.

The first day was passed in mutual inquiries and mutual communications.
Lady Belfield told me that the amiable Fanny, after having wept over the
grave of her mother, was removed to the house of the benevolent
clergyman, who had kindly promised her an asylum till Lady Belfield's
return to town, when it was intended she should be received into her
family; that worthy man and his wife having taken on themselves a full
responsibility for her character and disposition; and generously
promised that they would exert themselves to advance her progress in
knowledge during the interval. Lady Belfield added, that every inquiry
respecting Fanny, whom we must now call Miss Stokes, had been attended
with the most satisfactory result, her principles being as
unquestionable as her talents.

After dinner, I observed that whenever the door opened, Lady Belfield's
eye was always turned toward it, in expectation of seeing the children.
Her affectionate heart felt disappointed on finding that they did not
appear, and she could not forbear whispering to me, who sat next her,
"that she was afraid the piety of our good friends was a little
tinctured with severity. For her part, she saw no reason why religion
should diminish one's affection for one's children, and rob them of
their innocent pleasures." I assured her gravely I thought so too; but
forbore telling her how totally inapposite her application was to Mr.
and Mrs. Stanley. She seemed glad to find me of her opinion, and gave up
all hope of seeing the "little melancholy recluses," as she called them,
"unless," she said, laughing, "she might be permitted to look at them
through the grate of their cells." I smiled, but did not undeceive her,
and affected to join in her compassion. When we went to attend the
ladies in the drawing-room, I was delighted to find lady Belfield
sitting on a low stool, the whole gay group at play around her. A blush
mixed itself with her good-natured smile as we interchanged a
significant look. She was questioning one of the elder ones, while the
youngest sat on her lap singing. Sir John entered, with that kindness
and good humor so natural to him, into the sports of the others, who,
though wild with health and spirits, were always gentle and docile. He
had a thousand pleasant things to entertain them with. He, too, it
seems, had not been without his misgivings.

"Are not these poor miserable recluses?" whispered I maliciously to her
ladyship, "and are not these rueful looks proof positive that religion
diminishes our affection for our children? and is it not abridging their
innocent pleasures, to give them their full range in a fresh airy
apartment, instead of cramming them into an eating-room, of which the
air is made almost fetid by the fumes of the dinner and a crowded table?
and is it not better that they should spoil the pleasure of the company,
though the mischief they do is bought by the sacrifice of their own
liberty?" "I make my _amende_," said she. "I never will be so forward
again to suspect piety of ill nature." "So far from it, Caroline," said
Sir John, "that we will adopt the practice we were so forward to blame;
and I shall not do it," said he, "more from regard to the company, than
to the children, who I am sure will be gainers in point of enjoyment;
liberty, I perceive, is to them positive pleasure, and paramount to any
which our false epicurism can contrive for them."

"Well, Charles," said Sir John, as soon as he saw me alone, "now tell us
about this Lucilla, this paragon, this nonpareil of Dr. Barlow's. Tell
me what is she? or rather what is she not?"

"First," replied I, "I will as you desire, define her by negatives--she
is _not_ a professed beauty, she is _not_ a professed genius, she is
_not_ a professed philosopher, she is _not_ a professed wit, she is
_not_ a professed any thing; and, I thank my stars, she is _not_ an
artist!" "Bravo, Charles, now as to what she is." "She is," replied I,
"from nature--a woman, gentle, feeling, animated, modest. She is by
education, elegant, informed, enlightened. She is, from religion, pious,
humble, candid, charitable."

"What a refreshment will it be," said Sir John, "to see a girl of fine
sense, more cultivated than accomplished--the creature, not of fiddlers
and dancing-masters, but of nature, of books, and of good company! If
there is the same mixture of spirit and delicacy in her character, that
there is of softness and animation in her countenance, she is a
dangerous girl, Charles."

"She certainly does," said I, "possess the essential charm of beauty
where it exists; and the most effectual substitute for it, where it does
not; the power of prepossessing the beholder by her look and manner, in
favor of her understanding and temper."

This prepossession I afterward found confirmed, not only by her own
share in the conversation, but by its effect on myself; I always feel
that our intercourse unfolds, not only her powers, but my own. In
conversing with such a woman, I am apt to fancy that I have more
understanding, because her animating presence brings it more into
exercise.

After breakfast, next day, the conversation happened to turn on the
indispensable importance of unbounded confidence to the happiness of
married persons. Mr. Stanley expressed his regret, that though it was
one of the grand ingredients of domestic comfort, yet it was sometimes
unavoidably prevented by an unhappy inequality of mind between the
parties, by violence, or imprudence, or imbecility on one side, which
almost compelled the other to a degree of reserve, as incompatible with
the design of the union, as with the frankness of the individual.

"We have had an instance among our own friends," replied Sir John, "of
this evil being produced, not by any of the faults to which you have
adverted, but by an excess of misapplied sensibility, in two persons of
near equality as to merit, and in both of whom the utmost purity of
mind, and exactness of conduct rendered all concealment superfluous. Our
worthy friends Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton married from motives of affection,
and with a high opinion of each other's merit, which their long and
intimate connection has rather contributed to exalt than to lower; and
yet, now at the end of seven years, they are only beginning to be happy.
They contrived to make each other and themselves as uncomfortable by an
excess of tenderness, as some married pairs are rendered by the want of
it. A mistaken sensibility has intrenched, not only on their comfort,
but on their sincerity. Their resolution never to give each other pain
has led them to live in a constant state of petty concealment. They are
neither of them remarkably healthy, and to hide from each other every
little indisposition, have kept up a continual vigilance to conceal
illness on the one part, and to detect it on the other, till it became a
trial of skill which could make the other most unhappy; each suffering
much more by suspicion when there was no occasion for it, than they
could have done by the acknowledgment of slight complaints when they
actually existed.

"This valuable pair, after seven years' apprenticeship to a petty
martyrdom, have at last found out that it is better to submit to the
inevitable ills of life cheerfully and in concert, and to comfort each
other under them cordially, than alternately to suffer and inflict the
pain of perpetual disingenuousness. They have at last discovered that
uninterrupted prosperity is not the lot of man. Each is happier now
with knowing that the other is sometimes sick, than they used to be with
suspecting they were always so. The physician is now no longer secretly
sent for to one, when the other is known to be from home. The apothecary
is at last allowed to walk boldly up the public staircase fearless of
detection.

"These amiable persons have at length attained all that was wanting to
their felicity, that of each believing the other to be well when they
_say_ they are so. They have found out that unreserved communication is
the lawful commerce of conjugal affection, and that all concealment is
contraband."

"Surely," said I, when Sir John had done speaking, "it is a false
compliment to the objects of our affection, if, for the sake of sparing
them a transient uneasiness, we rob them of the comfort to which they
are entitled, of mitigating our sufferings by partaking it. All
dissimulation is disloyal to love. Besides, it appears to me to be an
introduction to wider evils, and I should fear, both for the woman I
loved and for myself, that if once we allowed ourselves concealment in
one point, where we thought the motive excused us, we might learn to
adopt it in others, where the principle was more evidently wrong."

"Besides," replied Mr. Stanley, "it argues a lamentable ignorance of
human life, to set out with an expectation of health without
interruption, and of happiness without alloy. When young persons marry
with the fairest prospects, they should never forget that infirmity is
inseparably bound up with their very nature, and that in bearing one
another's burdens, they fulfill one of the highest duties of the
union."

CHAPTER XVIII.

After supper, when only the family party were present, the conversation
turned on the unhappy effects of misguided passion. Mrs. Stanley
lamented that novels, with a very few admirable exceptions, had done
infinite mischief, by so completely establishing the omnipotence of
love, that the young reader was almost systematically taught an
unresisting submission to a feeling, because the feeling was commonly
represented as irresistible.

"Young ladies," said Sir John, smiling, "in their blind submission to
this imaginary omnipotence, are apt to be necessarians. When they _fall_
in love, as it is so justly called, they then obey their _fate_; but in
their stout opposition to prudence and duty, they most manfully exert
their _free will_; so that they want nothing but _knowledge absolute_ of
the miseries attendant on an indiscreet attachment, completely to
exemplify the occupation assigned by Milton to a class of beings to whom
it would not be gallant to resemble young ladies."

Mrs. Stanley continued to assert, that ill-placed affection only became
invincible, because its supposed invincibility had been first erected
into a principle. She then adverted to the power of religion in subduing
the passions, that of love among the rest.

I ventured to ask Lucilla, who was sitting next me (a happiness which,
by some means or other, I generally contrived to enjoy), what were her
sentiments on this point? With a little confusion, she said, "to conquer
an ill placed attachment, I conceive may be effected by motives inferior
to religion. Reason, the humbling conviction of having made an unworthy
choice, for I will not resort to so bad a motive as pride, may easily
accomplish it. But to conquer a well-founded affection, a justifiable
attachment, I should imagine, requires the powerful principle of
Christian piety; and what can not that effect?" She stopped and blushed,
as fearing she had said too much.

Lady Belfield observed, that she believed a virtuous attachment might
possibly be subdued by the principle Miss Stanley had mentioned; yet she
doubted if it were in the power of religion itself, to enable the heart
to conquer aversion, much less to establish affection for an object for
whom dislike had been entertained.

"I believe," said Mr. Stanley, "the example is rare, and the exertion
difficult; but that which is difficult to us, is not impossible to him
who has the hearts of all men in his hand. And I am happy to resolve
Lady Belfield's doubt by a case in point.

"You can not, Sir John, have forgotten our old London acquaintance,
Carlton?" "No," replied he, "nor can I ever forget what I have since
heard of his ungenerous treatment of that most amiable woman, his wife.
I suppose he has long ago broken her heart."

"You know," resumed Mr. Stanley, "they married not only without any
inclination on either side, but on her part with something more than
indifference, with a preference for another person. _She_ married
through an implicit obedience to her mother's will, which she had never
in any instance opposed: _He_, because his father had threatened to
disinherit him if he married any other woman; for as they were distant
relations, there was no other way of securing the estate in the family."

"What a motive for a union so sacred and so indissoluble!" exclaimed I,
with an ardor which raised a smile in the whole party. I asked pardon
for my involuntary interruption, and Mr. Stanley proceeded.

"She had long entertained a partiality for a most deserving young
clergyman, much her inferior in rank and fortune. But though her high
sense of filial duty led her to sacrifice this innocent inclination, and
though she resolved never to see him again, and had even prevailed on
him to quit the country, and settle in a distant place, yet Carlton was
ungenerous and inconsistent enough to be jealous of her without loving
her. He was guilty of great irregularities, while Mrs. Carlton set about
acquitting herself of the duties of a wife, with the most meek and
humble patience, burying her sorrows in her own bosom, and not allowing
herself even the consolation of complaining.

"Among the many reasons for his dislike, her piety was the principal. He
said religion was of no use but to disqualify people for the business of
life; that it taught them to make a merit of despising their duties, and
hating their relations; and that pride, ill-humor, opposition, and
contempt for the rest of the world, were the meat and drink of all those
who pretended to religion.

"At first she nearly sunk under his unkindness; her health declined, and
her spirits failed. In this distress she applied to the only sure refuge
for the unhappy, and took comfort in the consideration that her trials
were appointed, by a merciful Father, to detach her from a world which
she might have loved too fondly, had it not been thus stripped of its
delights.

"When Mrs. Stanley, who was her confidential friend, expressed the
tenderest sympathy in her sufferings, she meekly replied, 'Remember who
are they whose robes are washed white in the kingdom of glory, _it is
they who come out of great tribulation_. I endeavor to strengthen my
faith with a view of what the best Christians have suffered, and my hope
with meditating on the shortness of all suffering. I will confess my
weakness,' added she: 'of the various motives to patience under the
ills of life, which the Bible presents, though my reason and religion
acknowledge them all, there is not one which comes home so powerfully to
my feelings as this--_the time is short_.'

"Another time Mrs. Stanley, who had heard of some recent irregularities
of Carlton, called upon her, and lamenting the solitude to which she was
often left for days together, advised her to have a female friend in the
house, that her mind might not be left to prey upon itself by living so
much alone. She thanked her for the kind suggestion, but said she felt
it was wiser and better not to have a confidential friend always at
hand, 'for of what subject should we talk,' said she, 'but of my
husband's faults? Ought I to allow myself in such a practice? It would
lead me to indulge a habit of complaint which I am laboring to subdue.
The compassion of my friend would only sharpen my feelings, which I wish
to blunt. Giving vent to a flame only makes it rage the more; if
suppressing can not subdue it, at least the consciousness that I am
doing my duty will enable me to support it. When we feel,' added she,
'that we are _doing_ wrong, the opening our heart may strengthen our
virtue; but when we are _suffering_ wrong, the mind demands another sort
of strength; it wants higher support than friendship has to impart. It
pours out its sorrows in prayer with fuller confidence, knowing that he
who sees can sustain; that he who hears will recompense; that he will
judge, not our weakness, but our efforts to conquer it; not our success,
but our endeavors; with him endeavor is victory.

"'The grace I most want,' added she, 'is humility. A partial friend, in
order to support my spirits, would flatter my conduct: gratified with
her soothing, I should, perhaps, not so entirely cast myself for comfort
on God. Contented with human praise, I might rest in it. Besides, having
endured the smart, I would not willingly endure it in vain. We know who
has said, 'If you suffer with me, you shall also reign with me.' It is
not, however, to mere suffering that the promise is addressed, but to
suffering for his sake, and in his spirit.' Then turning to the Bible
which lay before her, and pointing to the sublime passage of St Paul,
which she had just been reading, 'Our light affliction which is but for
a moment worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory.' 'Pray,' said she, 'read this in connection with the next verse,
which is not always done. _When_ is it that it works for us this weight
of glory? _Only_ 'while we are looking at the things which are not
seen.' Do admire the beauty of this position, and how the good is
weighed against the evil, like two scales differently filled; the
affliction is light, and but for a moment; the glory is a _weight_, and
it is _forever_. 'Tis a feather against lead, a grain of sand against
the universe, a moment against eternity. Oh, how the scale which
contains this world's light trouble kicks the beam, when weighed against
the glory which shall be revealed.'

"At the end of two years she had a little girl; this opened to her a new
scene of duties, and a fresh source of consolation. Her religion proved
itself to be of the right stamp, by making her temper still more sweet,
and diffusing the happiest effects through her whole character and
conversation. When her husband had staid out late, or even all night,
she never reproached him. When he was at home, she received his friends
with as much civility as if she had liked them. He found that his house
was conducted with the utmost prudence, and that while she maintained
his credit at his table, her personal expenses were almost nothing:
indeed, self seemed nearly annihilated in her. He sometimes felt
disappointed, because he had no cause of complaint, and was angry that
he had nothing to condemn.

"As he has a very fine understanding, he was the more provoked, because
he could not help seeing that her blameless conduct put him continually
in the wrong. All this puzzled him. He never suspected there was a
principle, out of which such consequences could grow, and was ready to
attribute to insensibility, that patience which nothing short of
Christian piety could have inspired. He had conceived of religion as a
visionary system of words and phrases, and concluded that from so
unsubstantial a theory, it would be a folly to look for practical
effects.

"Sometimes, when he saw her nursing his child, of whom he was very fond,
he was almost tempted to admire the mother, who is a most pleasing
figure; and now and then when his heart was thus softened for a moment,
he would ask himself, what reasonable ground of objection there was
either to her mind or person?

"Mrs. Carlton, knowing that his affairs must necessarily be embarrassed,
by the extraordinary expenses he had incurred, when the steward brought
her usual year's allowance she refused to take more than half, and
ordered him to employ the remainder on his master's account. The
faithful old man was ready to weep, and could not forbear saying,
'Madam, you could not do more for a kind husband. Besides, it is but a
drop of water in the ocean.' 'That drop,' said she, 'it is my duty to
contribute.' When the steward communicated this to Carlton, he was
deeply affected, refused to take the money, and again was driven to
resort to the wonderful principle from which such right but difficult
actions could proceed."

Here I interrupted Mr. Stanley. "I am quite of the steward's opinion,"
said I. "That a woman should do this and much more for the man who loved
her, and whom she loved, is quite intelligible to every being who has a
heart. But for a cruel, unfeeling tyrant! I do not comprehend it. What
say you, Miss Stanley?"

"Under the circumstance you suppose," said she, blushing, "I think the
woman would have no shadow of merit; her conduct would be a mere
gratification, an entire indulgence of her own feelings. The triumph of
affection would have been cheap; Mrs. Carlton's was the triumph of
religion; of a principle which could subdue an attachment to a worthy
object, and act with such generosity toward an unworthy one."

Mr. Stanley went on. "Mrs. Carlton frequently sat up late, reading such
books as might qualify her for the education of her child, but always
retired before she had reason to expect Mr. Carlton, lest he might
construe it into upbraiding. One night, as he was not expected to come
home at all, she sat later than usual, and had indulged herself with
taking her child to pass the night in her bed. With her usual
earnestness she knelt down and offered up her devotions by her bed-side,
and in a manner particularly solemn and affecting, prayed for her
husband. Her heart was deeply touched, and she dwelt on these petitions
in a strain peculiarly fervent. She prayed for his welfare in both
worlds, and earnestly implored that she might be made the humble
instrument of his happiness. She meekly acknowledged her own many
offenses; of his she said nothing.

"Thinking herself secure from interruption, her petitions were uttered
aloud; her voice often faltering, and her eyes streaming with tears.
Little did she suspect that the object of her prayers was within hearing
of them. He had returned home unexpectedly, and coming softly into the
room, heard her pious aspirations. He was inexpressibly affected. He
wept, and sighed bitterly. The light from the candles on the table fell
on the blooming face of his sleeping infant, and on that of his weeping
wife. It was too much for him. But he had not the virtuous courage to
give way to his feelings. He had not the generosity to come forward and
express the admiration he felt. He withdrew unperceived, and passed the
remainder of the night in great perturbation of spirit. Shame, remorse,
and confusion, raised such a conflict in his mind, as prevented him from
closing his eyes; while she slept in quiet, and awoke in peace.

"The next morning, during a very short interview, he behaved to her with
a kindness which she had never before experienced. He had not resolution
to breakfast with her, but promised, with affection in his words and
manners, to return to dinner. The truth was, he never quitted home, but
wandered about his woods to compose and strengthen his mind. This
self-examination was the first he had practiced; its effects were
salutary.

"A day or two previous to this, they had dined at our house. He had
always been much addicted to the pleasures of the table. He expressed
high approbation of a particular dish, and mentioned again when he got
home how much he liked it. The next morning Mrs. Carlton wrote to
Lucilla to beg the receipt for making this ragout; and this day, when he
returned from his solitary ramble and 'compunctuous visitings,' the
favorite dish, most exquisitely dressed, was produced at his dinner. He
thanked her for this obliging attention, and turning to the butler,
directed him to tell the cook that no dish was ever so well dressed.
Mrs. Carlton blushed when the honest butler said, 'Sir, it was my
mistress dressed it with her own hands, because she knew your honor was
fond of it.'

"Tears of gratitude rushed into Carlton's eyes, and tears of joy
overflowed those of the old domestic, when his master, rising from the
table, tenderly embraced his wife, and declared he was unworthy of such
a treasure. 'I have been guilty of a public wrong, Johnson,' said he to
his servant, 'and my reparation shall be as public. I can never deserve
her, but my life shall be spent in endeavoring to do so.'

"The little girl was brought in, and her presence seemed to cement this
new formed union. An augmented cheerfulness on the part of Mrs. Carlton
invited an increased tenderness on that of her husband. He began every
day to discover new excellences in his wife, which he readily
acknowledged to herself, and to the world. The conviction of her worth
had been gradually producing esteem, esteem now ripened into affection,
and his affection for his wife was mingled with a blind sort of
admiration of that piety which had produced such effects. He now began
to think home the pleasantest place, and his wife the pleasantest
companion.

"A gentle censure from him on the excessive frugality of her dress,
mixed with admiration of the purity of its motive, was an intimation to
her to be more elegant. He happened to admire a gown worn by a lady whom
they had visited. She not only sent for the same materials, but had it
made by the same pattern. A little attention of which he felt the
delicacy.

"He not only saw, but in no long time acknowledged, that a religion
which produced such admirable effects, could not be so mischievous a
principle as he had supposed, nor could it be an inert principle. Her
prudence has accomplished what her piety began. She always watched the
turn of his eye, to see how far she might venture, and changed the
discourse when the look was not encouraging. She never tired him with
lectures, never obtruded serious discourse unseasonably, nor prolonged
it improperly. His early love of reading, which had for some years given
way to more turbulent pleasures, he has resumed; and frequently
insists, that the books he reads to her shall be of her own choosing. In
this choice she exercises the nicest discretion, selecting such as may
gently lead his mind to higher pursuits, but which at the same time are
so elegantly written as not to disgust his taste. In all this Mrs.
Stanley is her friend and counselor.

"While Mrs. Carlton is advancing her husband's relish for books of
piety, he is forming hers to polite literature. She herself often
proposes an amusing book, that he may not suspect her of a wish to
abridge his innocent gratifications; and by this complaisance she gains
more than she loses, for, not to be outdone in generosity, he often
proposes some pious one in return. Thus their mutual sacrifices are
mutual benefits. She has found out that he has a highly cultivated
understanding, and he has discovered that she has a mind remarkably
susceptible of cultivation. He has by degrees dropped most of his former
associates, and has entirely renounced the diversions into which they
led him. He is become a frequent and welcome visitor here. His conduct
is uniformly respectable, and I look forward with hope to his becoming
even a shining character. There is, however, a pertinacity, I may say a
sincerity, in his temper, which somewhat keeps him back. He will never
adopt any principle without the most complete conviction of his own
mind; nor profess any truth of which he himself does not actually feel
the force."

Lady Belfield, after thanking Mr. Stanley for his interesting little
narrative, earnestly requested that Sir John would renew his
acquaintance with Mr. Carlton, that she herself might be enabled to
profit by such an affecting example of the power of genuine religion as
his wife exhibited; confessing that one such living instance would weigh
more with her than a hundred arguments. Mrs. Stanley obligingly promised
to invite them to dinner the first leisure day. Mr. Stanley now
informed us that Sir George Aston was arrived from Cambridge on a visit
to his mother and sisters; that he was a youth of great promise whom he
begged to introduce to us as a young man in whose welfare he took a
lively concern, and on the right formation of whose character much would
depend, as he had a large estate, and the family interest in the county
would give him a very considerable influence; to this influence it was,
therefore, of great importance to give a right direction. We next
morning took a ride to Aston Hall, and I commenced an acquaintance with
the engaging young baronet, which I doubt not, from what I saw and
heard, will hereafter ripen into friendship.

CHAPTER XIX.

The good rector joined the party at dinner. The conversation afterward
happened to turn on the value of human opinion, and Sir John Belfield
made the hackneyed observation, that the desire of obtaining it should
never be discouraged, it being highly useful as a motive of action.

"Yes," said Dr. Barlow, "it certainly has its uses in a world, the
affairs of which must be chiefly carried on by worldly men; a world
which is itself governed by low motives. But human applause is not a
Christian principle of action; nay, it is so adverse to Christianity
that our Saviour himself assigns it as a powerful cause of men's not
believing, or at least not confessing Him; _because they loved the
praise of men_. The eager desire of fame is a sort of separation line
between Paganism and Christianity. The ancient philosophers have left us
many shining examples of moderation in earthly things, and of the
contempt of riches. So far the light of reason, and a noble self-denial
carried them; and many a Christian may blush at these instances of their
superiority; but of an indifference to fame, of a deadness to human
applause except as founded on loftiness of spirit, disdain of their
judges, and self-sufficient pride, I do not recollect any instance."

"And yet," said Sir John, "I remember Seneca says in one of his
epistles, that no man expresses such a respect and devotion to virtue as
he who forfeits the _repute_ of being a good man, that he may not
forfeit the _conscience_ of being such."

"They might," replied Mr. Stanley, "incidentally express some such
sentiment, in a well turned period, to give antithesis to an expression,
or weight to an apothegm; they might declaim against it in a fit of
disappointment in the burst of indignation excited by a recent loss of
popularity; but I question if they ever once acted upon it. I question
if Marius himself, sitting amid the ruins of Carthage, actually felt it.
Seldom, if ever, does it seem to have been inculcated as a principle, or
enforced as a rule of action: nor could it--it was against the canon law
of their foundation."

"Yet," said Sir John, "a good man struggling with adversity is, I think,
represented by one of their authors as an object worthy of the attention
of the gods."

"Yes," said Mr. Stanley, "but the divine approbation alone was never
proposed as the standard of right, or the reward of actions, except by
divine revelation."

"Nothing seems more difficult," said I, "to settle than the standard of
right. Every man has a standard of his own, which he considers as of
universal application. One makes his own tastes, desires, and appetites,
his rule of right; another the example of certain individuals, fallible
like himself; a third, and indeed the generality, the maxims, habits,
and manners of the fashionable part of the world."

Sir John remarked, "That since it is so difficult to discriminate
between allowable indulgence and criminal conformity, the life of a
conscientious man, if he be not constitutionally temperate, or
habitually firm, must be poisoned with solicitude, and perpetually
racked with the fear of exceeding his limits."

"My dear Belfield," replied Mr. Stanley, "the peace and security of a
Christian, we well know, are not left to depend on constitutional
temperance, or habitual firmness. These are, as the young Numidian says,

     Perfections that are placed in bones and nerves.

There is a higher and surer way to prevent the solicitude, which is, by
correcting the principle; to get the heart set right; to be jealous over
ourselves; to be careful never to venture to the edge of our lawful
limits; in short, and that is the only infallible standard, to live in
the conscientious practice of measuring all we say, and do, and think,
by the unerring rule of God's word."

"The impossibility of reaching the perfection which that rule requires,"
said Sir John, "sometimes discourages well-meaning men, as if the
attempt were hopeless."

Dr. Barlow replied, "That is, sir, because they take up with a hearsay
Christianity. Its reputed pains and penalties drive them off from
inquiring for themselves. They rest on the surface. If they would go
deeper, they would see that the Spirit which dictated the Scriptures is
a Spirit of power, as well as a Spirit of promise. All that he requires
us to do, he enables us to perform. He does not prescribe 'rules'
without furnishing us with 'arms.'"

In answer to some further remarks of Sir John, who spoke with due
abhorrence of any instance of actual vice, but who seemed to have no
just idea of its root and principle, Dr. Barlow observed: "While every
one agrees in reprobating wicked actions, few, comparatively, are aware
of the natural and habitual evil which lurks in the heart. To this the
Bible particularly directs our attention. In describing a bad character,
it does not say that his actions are flagitious, but that 'God is not in
all his _thoughts_.' This is the description of a thoroughly worldly
man. Those who are given up completely to the world, to its maxims, its
principles, its cares, or its pleasures, can not entertain thoughts of
God. And to be unmindful of his providence, to be regardless of his
presence, to be insensible to his mercies, must be nearly as offensive
to him as to deny his existence. Excessive dissipation, a supreme love
of money, or an entire devotedness to ambition, drinks up that spirit,
swallows up that affection, exhausts that vigor, starves that zeal, with
which a Christian should devote himself to serve his Maker.

"Pray observe," continued Dr. Barlow, "that I am not speaking of avowed
profligates, but of decent characters; men who, while they are pursuing
with keen intenseness the great objects of their attachment, do not
deride or even totally neglect religious observances, yet think they do
much and well, by affording some odd scraps of refuse time to a few
weary prayers, and sleepy thoughts, from a mind worn down with
engagements of pleasure, or projects of accumulation, or schemes of
ambition. In all these several pursuits, there may be nothing which, to
the gross perceptions of the world, would appear to be moral turpitude.
The pleasure may not be profligacy, the wealth so cherished may not have
been fraudulently obtained, the ambition, in human estimation, may not
be dishonorable; but an alienation from God, an indifference to eternal
things, a spirit incompatible with the spirit of the gospel, will be
found at the bottom of all these restless pursuits."

"I am entirely of your opinion, Doctor," said Mr. Stanley; "it is taking
up with something short of real Christianity; it is an apostacy from the
doctrines of the Bible; it is the substitution of a spurious and popular
religion for that which was revealed from heaven; it is a departure from
the faith once delivered to the saints, that has so fatally sunk our
morality; and given countenance to that low standard of practical virtue
which prevails. If we lower the principle, if we obscure the light, if
we reject the influence, if we sully the purity, if we abridge the
strictness of the divine law, there will remain no ascending power in
the soul, no stirring spirit, no quickening aspiration after perfection,
no stretching forward after that holiness to which the beatific vision
is specifically promised. It is vain to expect that the practice will
rise higher than the principle which inspires it; that the habits will
be superior to the motives which govern them."

"Selfishness, security, and sensuality," said the Doctor, "are predicted
by our Saviour, as the character of the last times. In alluding to the
antediluvian world, and the cause of its destruction, eating, drinking,
and marrying could not be named in the gospel as things censurable in
themselves, they being necessary to the very existence of that world
which the abuse of them was tending to destroy. Our Saviour does not
describe criminality by the excess, but by the spirit of the act. He
speaks of eating, not gluttony; of drinking, not intoxication; of
marriage, not licentious intercourse. This seems a plain intimation,
that carrying on the transactions of the world in the spirit of the
world, and that habitual deadness to the concerns of eternity, in beings
so alive to the pleasures or the interests of the present moment, do not
indicate a state of safety, even where gross acts of vice may be rare."

Mr. Stanley said it was his opinion that it is not by a few, or even by
many, instances of excessive wickedness, that the moral state of a
country is to be judged, but by a general averseness and indifference to
_real_ religion. "A few examples of glaring impiety," said he, "may
furnish more subject for declamation, but are not near so deadly a
symptom. It is no new remark, that more men are undone by an excessive
indulgence in things permitted, than by the commission of avowed sins."

"How happy," said Sir John, "are those who by their faith and piety are
delivered from these difficulties!"

"My dear Belfield," replied Mr. Stanley, "where are those privileged
beings? It is one sad proof of human infirmity, that the best men have
continually these things to struggle with. What makes the difference is,
that those whom we call good men struggle on to the end, while the
others, not seeing the danger, do not struggle at all."

"Christians," said Dr. Barlow, "who would strictly keep within the
bounds prescribed by their religion, should imitate the ancient Romans,
who carefully watched that their god Terminus, who defined their limits,
should never recede; the first step of his retreat, they said, would be
the destruction of their security."

"But, Doctor," said Sir John, "pray what remedy do you recommend against
this natural, I had almost said this invincible, propensity to
over-value the world? I do not mean a propensity merely to over-rate its
pleasures and its honors, but a disposition to yield to its dominion
over the mind, to indulge a too earnest desire of standing well with it,
to cherish a too anxious regard for its good opinion?"

"The knowledge of the disease," replied the worthy Doctor, "should
precede the application of the remedy. Human applause is, by a worldly
man, reckoned not only among the luxuries of life, but among articles of
the first necessity. An undue desire to obtain it has certainly its
foundation in vanity; and it is one of our grand errors to reckon vanity
a trivial fault. An over-estimation of character, and an anxious wish to
conciliate all suffrages, is an infirmity from which even worthy men are
not exempt; nay, it is a weakness from which, if they are not governed
by a strict religious principle, worthy men are in most danger.
Reputation being in itself so very desirable a good, those who actually
possess it, and in some sense deserve to possess it, are apt to make it
their standard, and to rest in it as their supreme aim and end."

"You have," said Sir John, "exposed the latent principle; it remains
that you suggest its cure."

"I believe," said Dr. Barlow, "that the most effectual remedy would be,
to excite in the mind frequent thoughts of our divine Redeemer, and of
_his_ estimate of that world on which we so fondly set our affections,
and whose approbation we are too apt to make the chief object of our
ambition."

"I allow it to have been necessary," replied Sir John, "that Christ, in
the great end which he had to accomplish, should have been poor, and
neglected, and contemned, and that he should have trampled on the great
things of this world, human applause among the rest; but I do not
conceive that this obligation extends to his followers, nor that we are
called upon to partake the poverty which he preferred, or to renounce
the wealth and grandeur which he set at naught, or to imitate him in
making himself of no reputation."

"It is true," said the Doctor, "we are not called to resemble him in his
external circumstances. It is not our bounden duty to be necessarily
exposed to the same contempt; nor are we obliged to embrace the same
ignominy. Yet it seems a natural consequence of our Christian
profession, that the things which he despised, we should not venerate;
the vanities he trampled on, we should not admire; the world which he
censured, we ought not to idolize; the ease which he renounced, we
should not rate too highly; the fame which he set at naught, we ought
not anxiously to covet. Surely, the followers of him who was 'despised
and rejected of men' should not seek their highest gratification from
the flattery and applause of men. The truth is, in all discourses on
this subject, we are compelled continually to revert to the observation,
that Christianity is a religion of the _heart_. And though we are not
called upon to partake the poverty and meanness of his situation, yet
the precept is clear and direct, respecting the temper by which we
should be governed: 'Let the same _mind_ be in you which was also in
Christ Jesus.' If, therefore, we happen to possess that wealth and
grandeur which he disdained, we should _possess them as though we
possessed them not_. We have a fair and liberal permission to use them
as his gift, and to his glory, but not to erect them into the supreme
objects of our attachment. In the same manner, in every other point, it
is still the spirit of the act, the temper of the mind, to which we are
to look. For instance, I do not think that I am obliged to show my faith
by sacrificing my son, nor my obedience by selling all that I have, to
give to the poor; but I think I am bound by the spirit of these two
powerful commands, to practice a cheerful acquiescence in the whole will
of God, in suffering and renouncing as well as in doing, when I know
what is really his will."

CHAPTER XX.

The pleasant reflections excited by the interesting conversation of the
evening were cruelly interrupted by my faithful Edwards. "Sir," said he,
when he came to attend me, "do you know that all the talk of the Hall
to-night at supper was, that Miss Stanley is going to be married to
young Lord Staunton. He is a cousin of Mrs. Carlton's, and Mr. Stanley's
coachman brought home the news from thence yesterday. I could not get at
the very truth, because Mrs. Comfit was out of the way, but all the
servants agree, that though he is a lord, and rich and handsome, he is
not half good enough for her. Indeed, sir, they say he is no better than
he should be."

I was thunderstruck at this intelligence. It was a trial I had not
suspected. "Does he visit here, then, Edwards," said I, "for I have
neither seen nor heard of him?" "No sir," said he, "but Miss meets him
at Mr. Carlton's." This shocked me beyond expression. Lucilla meet a man
at another house? Lucilla carry on a clandestine engagement? Can Mrs.
Carlton be capable of conniving at it? Yet if it were not clandestine,
why should he not visit at the Grove?

These tormenting reflections kept me awake the whole night. To acquit
Lucilla, Edward's story made difficult; to condemn her my heart found
impossible. One moment I blamed my own foolish timidity, which had kept
me back from making any proposal, and the next, I was glad that the
delay would enable me to sift the truth, and to probe her character. "If
I do not find consistency here," said I, "I shall renounce all
confidence in human virtue."

I arose early, and went to indulge my meditations in the garden. I saw
Mr. Stanley sitting under the favorite oak. I was instantly tempted to
go and open my heart to him, but seeing a book in his hand, I feared to
interrupt him, and was turning into another walk till I had acquired
more composure. He called after me, and invited me to sit down.

How violent were my fluctuations! How inconsistent were my feelings? How
much at variance was my reason with my heart! The man on earth with whom
I wished to confer invited me to a conference. With a mind under the
dominion of a passion which I was eager to declare, yet agitated with an
uncertainty which I had as much reason to fear might be painfully as
pleasantly removed, I stood doubtful whether to seize or to decline the
occasion which thus presented itself to me. A moment's reflection
however convinced me that the opportunity was too inviting to be
neglected. My impatience for an eclaircissement on Lord Staunton's
subject was too powerful to be any longer resisted.

At length with a most unfeigned diffidence, and a hesitation which I
feared would render my words unintelligible, I ventured to express my
tender admiration of Miss Stanley, and implored permission to address
her.

My application did not seem to surprise him. He only gravely said, "We
will talk of this some future day." This cold and laconic reply
instantly sunk my spirits. I was shocked and visibly confused. "It is
too late," said I to myself; "happy Lord Staunton!" He saw my distress,
and taking my hand, with the utmost kindness of voice and manner said,
"My dear young friend, content yourself for the present with the
assurance of my entire esteem and affection. This is a very early
declaration. You are scarcely acquainted with Lucilla; you do not yet
know," added he smiling, "half her faults."

"Only tell me, my dear sir," said I, a little re-assured and grasping
his hand, "that when you know all mine, you will not reject me. Only
tell me that you feel no repugnance; that you have no other views; that
Miss Stanley has no other"--here I stopped, my voice failed; the excess
of my emotion prevented me from finishing my sentence. He encouragingly
said, "I know not that Lucilla has any attachment. For myself, I have no
views hostile to your wishes. You have a double interest in my heart.
You are endeared to me by your personal merit, and by my tender
friendship for your beloved father. But be not impetuous. Form no sudden
resolution. Try to assure yourself of my daughter's affection before you
ask it of her. Remain here another month as my welcome guest, as the son
of my friend. Take that month to examine your own heart, and to endeavor
to obtain an interest in hers; we will then resume the subject."

"But, my dear sir," said I, "is not Lord Staunton--" "Set your heart at
rest," said he. "Though we are both a little aristocratic in our
political principles, yet when the competition is for the happiness of
life, and the interests of virtue, both Lucilla and her father think
with Dumont, that

                        "A lord
    Opposed against a man, is but a man."

So saying, he quitted me; but with a benignity in his countenance and
manner that infused not only consolation but joy into my heart. My
spirits were at once elated. To be allowed to think of Lucilla! To be
permitted to attach myself to her! To be sure her heart was not engaged!
To be invited to remain a month longer under the same roof with her; to
see her; to hear her; to talk to her; all this was a happiness so great
that I did not allow myself to repine because it was not all I had
wished to obtain.

I met Mrs. Stanley soon after. I perceived by her illuminated
countenance, that my proposal had been already communicated to her. I
ventured to take her hand, and with the most respectful earnestness
intreated her friendship; her good offices. "I dare not trust myself
with you just now," said she with an affectionate smile; "Mr. Stanley
will think I abet rebellion, if through my encouragement you should
violate your engagements with him. But," added she, kindly pressing my
hand; "you need not be much afraid of _me_. Mr. Stanley's sentiments on
this point, as on all others, are exactly my own. We have but one heart
and one mind, and that heart and mind are not unfavorable to your
wishes." With a tear in her eyes and affection in her looks, she tore
herself away, evidently afraid of giving way to her feelings.

I did not think myself bound by any point of honor to conceal the state
of my heart from Sir John Belfield, who with his lady joined me soon
after in the garden. I was astonished to find that my passion for Miss
Stanley was no secret to either of them. Their penetration had left me
nothing to disclose. Sir John however looked serious, and affected an
air of mystery which a little alarmed me. "I own," said he, "there is
some danger of your success." I eagerly inquired what he thought I had
to fear? "You have every thing to fear," replied he, in a tone of grave
irony, "which a man not four-and-twenty, of an honorable family, with a
clear estate of four thousand a year, a person that all the ladies
admire, a mind which all the men esteem, and a temper which endears you
to men, women, and children, can fear from a little country girl, whose
heart is as free as a bird, and who, if I may judge by her smiles and
blushes whenever you are talking to her, would have no mortal objection
to sing in the same cage with you."

"It will be a sad dull novel, however," said Lady Belfield: "all is
likely to go on so smoothly that we shall flag for want of incident. No
difficulties, nor adventures to heighten the interest. No cruel
step-dame, no tyrant father, no capricious mistress, no moated castle,
no intriguing confidante, no treacherous spy, no formidable rival, not
so much as a duel or even a challenge, I fear, to give variety to the
monotonous scene."

I mentioned Edwards's report respecting Lord Staunton, and owned how
much it had disturbed me. "That he admires her," said Lady Belfield, "is
notorious. That his addresses have not been encouraged, I have also
heard, but not from the family. As to Lucilla, she is the last girl that
would ever insinuate even to me, to whom she is so unreserved, that she
had rejected so great an offer. I have heard her express herself with an
indignation, foreign to her general mildness, against women who are
guilty of this fashionable, this dishonorable indelicacy."

"Well, but Charles," said Sir John "you must positively assume a little
dejection, to diversify the business. It will give interest to your
countenance and pathos to your manner, and tenderness to your accent.
And you must forget all attentions, and neglect all civilities. And you
must appear absent, and _distrait_ and _réveur_; especially while your
fate hangs in some suspense. And you must read Petrarch, and repeat
Tibullus, and write sonnets. And when you are spoken to, you must not
listen. And you must wander in the grove by moonshine, and talk to the
Oreads, and the Dryads, and the Naiads; oh no, unfortunately, I am
afraid there are no Naiads within hearing. You must make the woods vocal
with the name of Lucilla; luckily 'tis such a poetical name that Echo
won't be ashamed to repeat it. I have gone through it all, Charles, and
know every highway and byway in the map of love. I will, however, be
serious for one moment, and tell you for your comfort, that though at
your age I was full as much in for it as you are now, yet after ten
years' union, Lady Belfield has enabled me to declare

    "How much the wife is dearer than the bride."

A tear glistened in her soft eyes, at this tender compliment.

Just at that moment, Lucilla happened to cross the lawn at a distance.
At sight of her, I could not, as I pointed to her, forbear exclaiming in
the words of Sir John's favorite poet,

                 There doth beauty dwell,
    There most conspicuous, e'en in outward shape,
    Where dawns the high expression of a MIND.

"This is very fine," said Sir John, sarcastically; "I admire all you
young enthusiastic philosophers, with your intellectual refinement. You
pretend to be captivated only with _mind_. I observe, however, that
previous to your raptures, you always take care to get this mind lodged
in a fair and youthful form. This mental beauty is always prudently
enshrined in some elegant corporeal frame, before it is worshiped. I
should be glad to see some of these intellectual adorers in love with
the mind of an old or ugly woman. I never heard any of you fall into
ecstasies in descanting on the mind of your grandmother." After some
further irony, they left me to indulge my meditations, in the nature of
which a single hour had made so pleasant a revolution.

CHAPTER XXI.

The conversation of two men bred at the same school or college, when
they happen to meet afterward, is commonly uninteresting, not to say
tiresome, to a third person, as involving local circumstances in which
he has no concern. But this was not always the case since the meeting of
my two friends. Something was generally to be gained by their
communications even on these unpromising topics.

At breakfast Mr. Stanley said, "Sir John, you will see here at dinner
to-morrow our old college acquaintance, Ned Tyrrel. Though he does not
commonly live at the family house in this neighborhood, but at a little
place he has in Buckinghamshire, he comes among us periodically to
receive his rents. He always invites himself, for his society is not the
most engaging."

"I heard," replied Sir John, "that he became a notorious profligate
after he left Cambridge, though I have lost sight of him ever since we
parted there. But I was glad to learn lately that he is become quite a
reformed man."

"He is so far reformed," replied Mr. Stanley, "that he is no longer
grossly licentious. But in laying down the vices of youth, he has taken
up successively those which he thought better suited to the successive
stages of his progress. As he withdrew himself from his loose habits and
connections, ambition became his governing passion; he courted public
favor, thirsted for place and distinction, and labored by certain
obliquities, and some little sacrifices of principle, to obtain
promotion. Finding it did not answer, and all his hopes failing, he now
rails at ambition, wonders men will wound their consciences and renounce
their peace for vain applause and 'the bubble reputation.' His sole
delight at present, I hear, is in amassing money and reading
controversial divinity. Avarice has supplanted ambition, just as
ambition expelled profligacy.

"In the interval in which he was passing from one of these stages to the
other, in a very uneasy state of mind he dropped in by accident where a
famous irregular preacher was disseminating his Antinomian doctrines.
Caught by his vehement but coarse eloquence, and captivated by an
alluring doctrine which promised much while it required little, he
adopted the soothing but fallacious tenet. It is true, I hear he is
become a more respectable man in his conduct, but I doubt, though I have
not lately seen him, if his present state may not be rather worse than
his former ones.

"In the two previous stages, he was disturbed and dissatisfied. Here he
has taken up his rest. Out of this stronghold, it is not probable that
any subsequent vice will ever drive him, or true religion draw him. He
sometimes attends public worship, but as he thinks no part of it but the
sermon of much value, it is only when he likes the preacher. He has
little notion of the respect due to established institutions, and does
not heartily like any precomposed form of prayer, not even our
incomparable Liturgy. He reads such religious books only as tend to
establish his own opinions, and talks and disputes loudly on certain
doctrinal points. But an accumulating Christian, and a Christian who,
for the purpose of accumulation, is said to be uncharitable, and even
somewhat oppressive, is a paradox which I can not solve, and an anomaly
which I can not comprehend. Covetousness is, as I said, a more
creditable vice than Ned's former ones, but for that very reason more
dangerous."

"From this sober vice," said I, "proceeded the blackest crime ever
perpetrated by human wickedness; for it does not appear that Judas, in
his direful treason, was instigated by malice. It is observable, that
when our Saviour names this sin, it is with an emphatical warning, as
knowing its mischief to be greater because its scandal was less. Not
contented with a single caution, he doubles his exhortation. '_Take heed
and beware_ of covetousness.'"

After some remarks of Sir John, which I do not recollect, Mr. Stanley
said, "I did not intend making a philippic against covetousness, a sin
to which I believe no one here is addicted. Let us not, however, plume
ourselves in not being guilty of a vice to which, as we have no natural
bias so in not committing it, we resist no temptation. What I meant to
insist on was, that exchanging a turbulent for a quiet sin, or a
scandalous for an orderly one, is not reformation; or, if you will allow
me the strong word, is not conversion."

Mr. Tyrrel, according to his appointment, came to dinner, and brought
with him his nephew, Mr. Edward Tyrrel, whom he had lately entered at
the university, with a design to prepare him for holy orders. He was a
well-disposed young man, but his previous education was said to have
been very much neglected, and was rather deficient in the necessary
learning. Mr. Stanley had heard that Tyrrel had two reasons for breeding
him to the church. In the first place, he fancied it was the cheapest
profession, and in the next he had labored to infuse into him some
particular opinions of his own, which he wished to disseminate through
his nephew. Sir George Aston having accidentally called, he was
prevailed on to stay, and Dr. Barlow was one of the party.

Mr. Tyrrel, by his observations, soon enabled us to discover that his
religion had altered nothing but his language. He seemed evidently more
fond of controversy than of truth, and the whole turn of his
conversation indicated that he derived his religious security rather
from the adoption of a party, than from the implantation of a new
principle. "His discourse is altered," said Mr. Stanley to me
afterward, "but I greatly fear his heart and affections remain
unchanged."

Mr. Stanley contrived, for the sake of his two academical guests,
particularly young Tyrrel, to divert the conversation to the subject of
learning, more especially clerical learning.

In answer to a remark of mine on the satisfaction I had felt in seeing
such a happy union of learning and piety in two clergymen who had lately
dined at the Grove, Mr. Stanley said, "Literature is an excellent thing,
when it is not the best thing a man has. It can surely be no offense to
our Maker to cultivate carefully his highest natural gift, our reason.
In pious men it is peculiarly important, as the neglect of such
cultivation, in certain individuals, has led to much error in religion,
and given much just offense to the irreligious, who are very
sharp-sighted to the faults of pious characters. I therefore truly
rejoice to see a higher tone of literature now prevailing, especially in
so many of our pious young divines; the deficiency of learning in some
of their well-meaning predecessors having served to bring not only
themselves, but religion also, into contempt, especially with men who
have only learning."

"I say nothing," remarked Mr. Tyrrel, "against the necessity of learning
in a lawyer, because it may help him to lead a judge, and to mislead a
jury; nor in a physician, because it may advance his credit by enabling
him to conceal the deficiencies of his art; nor in a private gentleman,
because it may keep him out of worse mischief. But I see no use of
learning in the clergy. There is my friend Dr. Barlow. I would willingly
give up all his learning, if he would go a little deeper into the
doctrines he professes to preach."

"Indeed," said Mr. Stanley, "I should think Dr. Barlow's various
knowledge of little value, did he exhibit the smallest deficiency in the
great points to which you allude. But when I am persuaded that his
learning is so far from detracting from his piety that it enables him
to render it more extensively useful, I can not wish him dispossessed of
that knowledge which adorns his religion without diminishing its good
effects."

"You will allow," said Mr. Tyrrel, "that those first great publishers of
Christianity, the Apostles, had none of this vain learning."

"I admit," said Mr. Stanley, "that it is frequently pleaded by the
despisers of learning, that the Apostles were illiterate. The fact is
too notorious, and the answer too obvious to require to be dwelt upon.
But it is unfortunately adduced to illustrate a position to which it can
never apply, the vindication of an unlettered clergy. It is a hackneyed
remark, but not the less true for being old, that the wisdom of God
chose to accomplish the first promulgation of the gospel by illiterate
men, to prove that the work was his own, and that its success depended
not on the instruments employed, but on the divinity of the truth
itself. But if the Almighty chose to establish his religion by miracles,
he chooses to carry it on by means. And he no more sends an ignorant
peasant or fisherman to instruct men in Christianity now, than he
appointed a Socrates or a Plato to be its publisher at first. As,
however, there is a great difference in the situations, so there may be
a proportionate difference allowed in the attainments of the clergy. I
do not say it is necessary for every village curate to be a profound
scholar, but as he may not always remain in obscurity, there is no
necessity for his being a contemptible one."

Sir John remarked, that what has been said of those who affect to
despise birth, has been applied also to those who decry learning;
neither is ever undervalued except by men who are destitute of them; and
it is worthy of observation, that as literature and religion both sunk
in the dark ages, so both emerged at the same auspicious era.

Mr. Stanley finding that Dr. Barlow was not forward to embark in a
subject which he considered as rather personal, said, "It is
presumptuous to observe, that the Apostles were unlettered men, yet
those instruments who were to be employed in services singularly
difficult, the Almighty condescended partly to fit for their peculiar
work by great human attainments. The Apostle of the Gentiles was brought
up at the feet of Gamaliel; and Moses, who was destined to the high
office of a great legislator, was instructed in all the wisdom of the
most learned nation then existing. The Jewish law-giver, though under
the guidance of inspiration itself, did not fill his station the worse
for this preparatory instruction. To how important a use the Apostle
converted _his_ erudition, we may infer from his conduct in the most
learned and polished assembly in the world. He did not unnecessarily
exasperate the polite Athenians, by coarse upbraiding, or illiterate
clamor, but he attacked them on their own ground. With what
discriminating wisdom, with what powerful reasoning did he unfold to
them that God whom they ignorantly worshiped! With what temper, with
what elegance, did he expose their shallow theology! Had he been as
unacquainted with _their_ religion, as they were with _his_, he had
wanted the appropriate ground on which to build his instruction. He
seized on the inscription of their own pagan altar, as a text from which
to preach the doctrine of Christianity. From his knowledge of their
errors, he was enabled to advance the cause of truth. He made their
poetry, which he quoted, and their mythology which he would not have
been able to explode, if he had not understood it, a thesis from which
to deduce the doctrine of the Resurrection; thus softening their
prejudices, and letting them see the infinite superiority of that
Christianity which he enforced, to the mere learning and mental
cultivation on which they so highly valued themselves. By the same
sober discretion, acute reasoning, and graceful elegance, he afterward
obtained a patient hearing, and a favorable judgment from King Agrippa."

"It has always appeared to me," returned Dr. Barlow, "that a strong
reason why the younger part of a clergyman's life should be in a good
measure devoted to learning is, that he may afterward discover its
comparative vanity. It would have been a less difficult sacrifice for
St. Paul to profess that he renounced all things for religion, if he had
had nothing to renounce; and to count all things as dross in the
comparison, if he had had no gold to put in the empty scale. Gregory
Nazianzen, one of the most accomplished masters of Greek literature,
declared that the chief value which he set upon it was, that in
possessing it, he had something of worth to esteem as nothing in
comparison of Christian truth. And it is delightful to hear Selden and
Grotius, and Pascal and Salmasius, whom I may be allowed to quote,
without being suspected of professional prejudice, as none of them were
clergymen, while they warmly recommended to others that learning of
which they themselves were the most astonishing examples, at the same
time dedicating their lives to the advancement of religion. It is
delightful, I say, to hear them acknowledge that their learning was only
valuable as it put it in their power to promote Christianity, and to
have something to sacrifice for its sake."

"I can willingly allow," said Mr. Tyrrel, "that a poet, a dramatic poet
especially, may study the works of the great critics of antiquity with
some profit; but that a Christian writer of sermons can have any just
ground for studying a pagan critic, it is to me quite inconceivable."

"And yet, sir," replied Mr. Stanley, "a sermon is a work which demands
regularity of plan, as well as a poem. It requires, too, something of
the same unity, arrangement, divisions, and lucid order as a tragedy;
something of the exordium and the peroration which belong to the
composition of the orator. I do not mean that he is constantly to
exhibit all this, but he should always understand it. And a discreet
clergyman, especially one who is to preach before auditors of the higher
rank, and who, in order to obtain respect from them, wishes to excel in
the art of composition, will scarcely be less attentive to form his
judgment by some acquaintance with Longinus and Quintilian than a
dramatic poet. A writer of verse, it is true, may please to a certain
degree by the force of mere genius, and a writer of sermons will
instruct by the mere power of his piety; but neither the one nor the
other will ever write well, if they do not possess the principles of
good writing, and form themselves on the models of good writers."

"Writing," said Sir John, "to a certain degree is an art, or, if you
please, a trade. And as no man is allowed to set up in an ordinary trade
till he has served a long apprenticeship to its _mysteries_ (the word, I
think, used in indentures), so no man should set up for a writer till he
knows somewhat of the mysteries of the art he is about to practice. He
may, after all, if he want talents, produce a vapid and inefficient
book; but possess what talents he may, he will, without knowledge,
produce a crude and indigested one."

Mr. Tyrrel, however, still insisted upon it, that in a Christian
minister the lustre of learning is tinsel, and human wisdom folly.

"I am entirely of your opinion," returned Mr. Stanley, "if he rest in
his learning as an _end_ instead of using it as a _means_; if the fame,
or the pleasure, or even the human profit of learning be his ultimate
object. Learning in a clergyman without religion is dross, is nothing;
not so religion without learning. I am persuaded that much good is done
by men who, though deficient in this respect, are abundant in zeal and
piety; but the good they do arises from the exertion of their piety, and
not from the deficiency of their learning. Their labors are beneficial
from the talent they exercise, and not from their want of another
talent. The Spirit of God can work, and often does work, by feeble
instruments, and divine truth by its own omnipotent energy can effect
its own purposes. But particular instances do not go to prove that the
instrument ought not to be fitted, and polished, and sharpened for its
allotted work. Every student should be emulously watchful that he do not
diminish the stock of professional credit by his idleness; he should be
stimulated to individual exertion by bearing in mind that the English
clergy have always been allowed by foreigners to be the most learned
body in the world."

Dr. Barlow was of opinion that what Mr. Stanley had said of the value of
knowledge, did not at all militate against such fundamental prime truths
as--"This is life eternal to _know_ God and Jesus Christ whom he has
sent. I desire to _know_ nothing, save Jesus Christ. The natural man can
not _know_ the things of the Spirit of God. The world by wisdom _knew_
not God;" and a hundred other such passages.

"Ay, Doctor," said Mr. Tyrrel, "now you talk a little more like a
Christian minister. But from the greater part of what has been asserted,
you are all of you such advocates for human reason and human learning as
to give an air of paganism to your sentiments."

"Surely," said Mr. Stanley, "it does not diminish the utility, though it
abases the pride of learning, that Christianity did not come into the
world by human discovery, or the disquisitions of reason, but by
immediate revelation. Those who adopt your way of thinking, Mr. Tyrrel,
should bear in mind that the work of God, in changing the heart, is not
intended to supply the place of the human faculties. God expects, in
his most highly favored servants, the diligent exercise of their natural
powers; and if any human being has a stronger call for the exercise of
wisdom and judgment than another, it is a religious clergyman.
Christianity does not supersede the use of natural gifts, but turns them
into their proper channel.

"One distinction has often struck me. The enemy of mankind seizes on the
soul through the medium of the passions and senses: the divine friend of
man addresses him through his rational powers--_the eyes of your
understanding being enlightened_, says the Apostle."

Here I ventured to observe, that the highest panegyric bestowed on one
of the brightest luminaries of our church is, that his name is seldom
mentioned without the epithet _judicious_ being prefixed to it. Yet does
Hooker want fervor? Does Hooker want zeal? Does Hooker want courage in
declaring the whole counsel of God?

"I hope," said Sir John, "we have now no clergymen to whom we may apply
the biting sarcasm of Dr. South on some of the popular but illiterate
preachers of the opposite party in his day, 'that there was all the
confusion of Babel without the gift of tongues.'"

"And yet," returned Mr. Stanley, "that party produced some great
scholars, and many eminently pious men. But look back to that day, and
especially to the period a little antecedent to it, at those prodigies
of erudition, the old bishops and other divines of our church. They
were, perhaps, somewhat too profuse of their learning in their
discourses, or rather they were so brimful, that they involuntarily
overflowed. A juster taste, in our time, avoids that lavish display
which then not only crowded the margin, but forced itself into every
part of the body of the work. The display of erudition might be wrong,
but one thing is clear, it proved they had it; and, as Dryden said, when
he accused of having too much wit, 'after all, it is a good crime.'"

"We may justly," said Dr. Barlow, "in the refinement of modern taste,
censure their prolixity, and ridicule their redundancies; we may smile
at their divisions, which are numberless, and at their subdivisions,
which are endless; we may allow that this labor for perspicuity
sometimes produced perplexity. But let us confess they always went to
the bottom of whatever they embarked in. They ransacked the stores of
ancient learning, and the treasures of modern science, not to indulge
their vanity by obtruding their acquirements, but to prove, to adorn,
and to illustrate the doctrine they delivered. How incredible must their
industry have been, when the bare transcript of their voluminous folios
seems alone sufficient to have occupied a long life?"

"The method," said I, "which they adopted, of saying every thing that
could be said on all topics, and exhausting them to the very dregs,
though it may and does tire the patience of the reader, yet it never
leaves him ignorant; and of two evils, had not an author better be
tedious than superficial? From an overflowing vessel you may gather more
indeed than you want, but from an empty one you can gather nothing."

"It appears to me," said Mr. Tyrrel, "that you wish to make a clergyman
every thing but a Christian, and to bestow upon him every requisite
except faith."

"God forbid that I should make any comparison between human learning and
Christian principle," replied Mr. Stanley; "the one is indeed lighter
than the dust of the balance, when weighed against the other. All I
contend for is, that they are not incompatible, and that human
knowledge, used only in subserviency to that of the Scriptures, may
advance the interests of religion. For the better elucidation of those
Scriptures, a clergyman should know not a little of ancient languages.
Without some insight into remote history and antiquities, especially the
Jewish, he will be unable to explain many of the manners and customs
recorded in the sacred volume. Ignorance on some of these points has
drawn many attacks on our religion from skeptical writers. As to a
thorough knowledge of ecclesiastical history, it would be superfluous to
recommend that, it being the history of his own immediate profession. It
is therefore requisite, not only for the general purposes of
instruction, but that he may be enabled to guard against modern
innovation, by knowing the origin and progress of the various heresies
with which the Church in all ages has been infested."

"But," said Mr. Tyrrel, "he may be thoroughly acquainted with all this,
and not have one spark of light."

"He may indeed," said the Doctor; "with deep concern I allow it. I will
go further. The pride of learning, when not subdued by religion, may
help to extinguish that spark. Reason has been too much decried by one
party and too much deified by the other. The difference between reason
and revelation seems to be the same as between the eye and the light;
the one is the organ of vision, the other the source of illumination."

"Take notice, Stanley," observed Mr. Tyrrel, "that if I can help it,
I'll never attend your accomplished clergyman."

"I have not yet completed the circle of his accomplishments," said Mr.
Stanley, smiling; "besides what we call book learning, there is another
species of knowledge in which some truly good men are sadly deficient: I
mean an acquaintance with human nature. The knowledge of the world, and
of him who made it; the study of the heart of man, and of him who has
the hearts of all men in his hand, enable a minister to excel in the
art of instruction; one kind of knowledge reflecting light upon the
other. The knowledge of mankind, then, I may venture to assert, is, next
to religion, one of the first requisites of a preacher; and I can not
help ascribing the little success which has sometimes attended the
ministry of even worthy men, to their want of this grand ingredient. It
will diminish the use they might make of the great doctrines of our
religion, if they are ignorant of the various modifications of the human
character to which those doctrines are to be addressed.

"As no man ever made a true poet without this talent, one may venture to
say that few without it have ever made eminent preachers. Destitute of
this, the most elaborate addresses will be only random shot, which, if
they hit, will be more owing to chance than to skill. Without this
knowledge, warmed by Christian affection, guided by Christian judgment,
and tempered with Christian meekness, a clergyman will not be able in
the pulpit to accommodate himself to the various wants of his hearers;
without this knowledge, in his private spiritual visits he will resemble
those empirics in medicine who have but one method of treatment for all
diseases, and who apply indiscriminately the same pill and the same drop
to the various distempers of all ages, sexes, and constitutions. This
spirit of accommodation does not consist in falsifying, or abridging, or
softening, or disguising any truth; but in applying truth in every form,
communicating it in every direction, and diverting it into every
channel. Some good men seem sadly to forget that precept--_making a
difference_--for they act as if all characters were exactly alike."

"You talk," said Mr. Tyrrel, "as if you would wish clergymen to depart
from the singleness of truth, and preach two gospels."

"Far from it," replied Mr. Stanley, "but though truth is single, the
human character is multiplied almost to infinity, and can not be
addressed with advantage if it be not well understood. I am ashamed of
having said so much on such a subject in presence of Dr. Barlow, who is
silent through delicacy. I will only add, that a learned young clergyman
is not driven for necessary relaxation to improper amusements. His mind
will be too highly set to be satisfied with those light diversions which
purloin time without affording the necessary renovation to the body and
spirits, which is the true and lawful end of all amusement. In all
circumstances, learning confers dignity on his character. It enables him
to raise the tone of general conversation, and is a safe kind of medium
with persons of a higher class who are not religious; and it will always
put it in his power to keep the standard of intercourse above the
degrading topics of diversions, sports, and vulgar gossip."

"You see, Mr. Tyrrel," said the Doctor, "that a prudent combatant thinks
only of defending himself on that side where he is assaulted. If Mr.
Stanley's antagonist had been a vehement advocate for clerical learning
as the great essential to his profession, he would have been the first
to caution him against the pride and inflation which often attend
learning, when not governed by religion. Learning, not so governed,
might injure Christian humility, and thus become a far more formidable
enemy to religion than that which it was called in to oppose."

Sir John said, smiling, "I will not apply to the clergy what Rasselas
says to Imlac, after he had been enumerating the numberless qualities
necessary to the perfection of the poetic art--'Thou hast convinced me
that no man can be a poet;'--but if all Stanley says be just, I will
venture to assert that no common share of industry and zeal will qualify
a young student for that sacred profession. I have indeed no experience
on the subject, as it relates to the clerical order, but I conceive in
general, that learning is the best human preservative of virtue; that it
safely fills up leisure, and honorably adorns life, even where it does
not form the business of it."

"Learning, too," said I, "has this strong recommendation, that it is the
offspring of a most valuable virtue, I mean industry; a quality on which
I am ashamed to see pagans frequently set a higher value than we seem to
do."

"I believe, indeed," replied Sir John, "that the ancients had a higher
idea of industry and severe application than we have. Tully calls them
the _imperatoriæ virtutes_, and Alexander said that slaves might indulge
in sloth, but that it was a most royal thing to labor."

"It has been the error of sensible men of the world to erect talents and
learning into idols, which they would have universally and exclusively
worshiped. This has, perhaps, driven some religious men into such a fear
of over-cultivating learning, that they do not cultivate it at all.
Hence the intervals between their religious employments, and intervals
there must be while we are invested with these frail bodies, are languid
and insipid, wasted in trifling and sauntering. Nay, it is well if this
disoccupation of the intellect do not lead from sloth to improper
indulgences."

"You are perfectly right," said Sir John; "our worthy friend Thompson is
a living illustration of your remark. He was at college with us; he
brought from thence a competent share of knowledge; has a fair
understanding, and the manners of a gentleman. For several years past he
has not only adopted a religious character, but is truly pious. As he is
much in earnest, he very properly assigns a considerable portion of his
time to religious reading. But as he is of no profession, the
intermediate hours often hang heavy on his hands. He continues to live
in some measure in the world, without the inconsistency of entering into
its pursuits; but having renounced the study of human learning, and yet
accustoming himself to mix occasionally with general society, he has few
subjects in common with his company, but is dull and silent in all
rational conversation, of which religion is not the professed object. He
takes so little interest in any literary or political discussion,
however useful, that it is evident nothing but his good breeding
prevents his falling asleep. At the same time, he scruples not to
violate consistency in another respect, for his table is so elaborately
luxurious, that it seems as if he were willing to add to the pleasures
of sense what he deducts from those of intellect."

"I have often thought," said Mr. Stanley, "of sending him Dr. Barlow's
_three sermons on industry in our calling as Christians, industry as
gentlemen, and industry as scholars_; which sermons, by the way, I
intended to have made my son read at least once a year, had he lived,
that he might see the consistency, the compatibility, nay, the analogy
of the two latter with the former. I wish the spirit of these three
discourses was infused into every gentleman, every scholar, and every
Christian through the land. For my own part, I should have sedulously
labored to make my son a sound scholar; while I should have labored
still more sedulously to convince him that the value of learning depends
solely on the purposes to which it is devoted. I would have a Christian
gentleman able to beat the world at its own weapons, and convince it,
that it is not from penury of mind, or inability to distinguish himself
in other matters, that he applies himself to seek that wisdom which is
from above; that he does not fly to religion as a shelter from the
ignominy of ignorance, but from a deep conviction of the comparative
vanity of that very learning which he yet is so assiduous to acquire."

During this conversation, it was amusing to observe the different
impressions made on the minds of our two college guests. Young Tyrrel,
who, with moderate parts and slender application, had been taught to
adopt some of his uncle's dogmas as the cheapest way of being wise,
greedily swallowed his eulogium of clerical ignorance, which the young
man seemed to feel as a vindication of his own neglected studies, and an
encouragement to his own mediocrity of intellect. While the interesting
young baronet, though silent through modesty, discovered in his
intelligent eyes evident marks of satisfaction in hearing that
literature, for which he was every day acquiring a higher relish, warmly
recommended as the best pursuit of a gentleman, by the two men in the
world for whose judgment he entertained the highest reverence. At the
same time it raised his veneration for Christian piety, when he saw it
so sedulously practiced by these advocates for human learning.

CHAPTER XXII.

During these conversations I remarked that Lucilla, though she commonly
observed the most profound silence, had her attention always riveted on
the speaker. If that speaker was Dr. Barlow, or her father, or any one
whom she thought entitled to particular respect, she gently laid down
her work, and as quietly resumed it when they had done speaking.

I observed to Sir John Belfield, afterward, as we were walking together,
how modestly flattering her manner was when any of us were reading; how
intelligent her silence; how well-bred her attention.

"I have often contrasted it," replied he, "with the manners of some
other ladies of my acquaintance, who are sometimes of our quiet evening
party. When one is reading history, or any ordinary book, aloud to them,
I am always pleased that they should pursue their little employments. It
amuses themselves, and gives ease and familiarity to the social circle.
But while I have been reading, as has sometimes happened, a passage of
the highest sublimity, or most tender interest, I own I feel a little
indignant to see the shuttle plied with as eager assiduity as if the
Destinies themselves were weaving the thread. I have known a lady take
up the candlestick to search for her netting-pin, in the midst of Cato's
soliloquy; or stoop to pick up her scissors while Hamlet says to the
ghost, 'I'll go no further.' I remember another who would whisper across
the table to borrow thread while Lear has been raving in the storm, or
Macbeth starting at the spirit of Banquo; and make signs for a
thread-paper while cardinal Beaufort 'dies, and makes no sign.' Nay,
once I remember when I was with much agitation hurrying through the
gazette of the battle of Trafalgar, while I pronounced, almost agonized,
the last memorable words of the immortal Nelson, I heard one lady
whisper to another that she had broken her needle."

"It would be difficult to determine," replied I, "whether this
inattention most betrays want of sense, of feeling, or of good breeding.
The habit of attention should be carefully formed in early life, and
then the mere force of custom would teach these ill-bred women 'to
assume the virtue if they have it not.'"

The family at the Grove was, with us, an inexhaustible topic whenever we
met. I observed to Sir John, "that I had sometimes noticed in charitable
families a display, a bustle, a kind of animal restlessness, a sort of
mechanical _besoin_ to be charitably busy. That though they fulfilled
conscientiously one part of the apostolic injunction, that of 'giving,'
yet they failed in the other clause, that of doing it 'with simplicity.'"

"Yes," replied he, "I visit a charitable lady in town, who almost puts
me out of love with benevolence. Her own bounties form the entire
subject of her conversation. As soon as the breakfast is removed, the
table is regularly covered with plans, and proposals, and subscription
papers. This display conveniently performs the threefold office of
publishing her own charities, furnishing subjects of altercation, and
raising contributions on the visitor. Her narratives really cost me more
than my subscription. She is so full of debate, and detail, and
opposition; she makes you read so many papers of her own drawing up, and
so many answers to the schemes of other people, and she has so many
objections to every other person's mode of doing good, and so many
arguments to prove that her own is the best, that she appears less like
a benevolent lady than a chicaning attorney."

"Nothing," said I, "corrects this bustling bounty so completely, as when
it is mixed up with religion, I should rather say, as when it flows from
religion. This motive, so far from diminishing the energy, augments it;
but it cures the display, and converts the irritation into a principle.
It transfers the activity from the tongue to the heart. It is the only
sort of charity which 'blesses twice.' All charity, indeed, blesses the
receiver; but the blessing promised to the giver, I have sometimes
trembled to think, may be forfeited even by a generous mind, from
ostentation and parade in the manner, and want of purity in the motive."

"In Stanley's family," replied he, in a more serious tone, "I have met
with a complete refutation of that favorite maxim in the world, that
religion is a dull thing itself, and makes its professors gloomy and
morose. Charles! I have often frequented houses where pleasure was the
avowed object of idolatry. But to see the votaries of the 'reeling
goddess,' after successive nights passed in her temples! to see the
languor, the listlessness, the discontent--you would rather have taken
them for her victims than her worshipers. So little mental vivacity, so
little gayety of heart! In short, after no careless observations, I am
compelled to declare, that I never saw two forms less alike than those
of Pleasure and Happiness."

"Your testimony, Sir John," said I, "is of great weight in a case of
which you are so experienced a judge. What a different scene do we now
contemplate! Mr. Stanley seems to have diffused his own spirit through
the whole family. What makes his example of such efficacy is, that he
considers the Christian _temper_ as so considerable a part of
Christianity. This temper seems to imbue his whole soul, pervade his
whole conduct, and influence his whole conversation. I see every day
some fresh occasion to admire his candor, his humility, his constant
reference, not as a topic of discourse, but as a principle of conduct,
to the gospel as the standard by which actions are to be weighed. His
conscientious strictness of speech, his serious reproof of calumnies,
his charitable construction of every case which has two sides; 'his
simplicity and godly sincerity;' his rule of referring all events to
providential direction, and his invariable habit of vindicating the
divine goodness under dispensations apparently the most unfavorable."

Here Sir John left me, and I could not forbear pursuing the subject in
soliloquy as I proceeded in my walk. I reflected with admiration that
Mr. Stanley, in his religious conversation, rendered himself so useful,
because instead of the uniform nostrum of _the drop and the pill_, he
applied a different class of arguments, as the case required, to
objectors to the different parts of Christianity; to ill informed
persons who adopted a partial gospel without understanding it as a
scheme, or embracing it as a whole; to those who allow its truth merely
on the same ground of evidence that establishes the truth of any other
well authenticated history, and who, satisfied with this external
evidence, not only do not feel its power on their own heart, but deny
that it has any such influence on the hearts of others; to those who
believe the gospel to be a mere code of ethics; to their antipodes, who
assert that Christ has lowered the requisitions of the law; to Lady
Belfield, who rests on her charities--Sir John, on his correctness--Lady
Aston, on her austerities; to this man, who values himself solely on the
stoutness of his orthodoxy; to another, on the firmness of his
integrity; to a third, on the peculiarities of his party, he addresses
himself with a particular view to their individual errors. This he does
with such a discriminating application to the case as might lead the
ill-informed to suspect that he was not equally earnest in those other
points, which, not being attacked, he does not feel himself called on to
defend, but which, had they been attacked, he would then have defended
with equal zeal as relative to the discussion. To crown all, I
contemplated that affectionate warmth of heart, that sympathizing
kindness, that tenderness of feeling, of which the gay and the
thoughtless fancy that they themselves possess the monopoly, while they
make over harshness, austerity, and want of charity to religious men, as
their inseparable characteristics.

These qualities excite in my heart a feeling compounded of veneration,
and of love. And oh! how impossible it is, even in religion itself, to
be disinterested! All these excellences I contemplate with a more
heartfelt delight from the presumptuous hope that I may one day have the
felicity of connecting myself still more intimately with them.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Some days after, while we were conversing over our tea, we heard the
noise of a carriage; and Mr. Stanley, looking out from a bow window in
which he and I were sitting, said it was Lady and Miss Rattle driving up
the avenue. He had just time to add, "These are our _fine_ neighbors.
They always make us a visit as soon as they come down, while all the
gloss and lustre of London is fresh upon them. We have always our
regular routine of conversation. While her Ladyship is pouring the
fashions into Mrs. Stanley's ear, Miss Rattle, who is about Ph[oe]be's
age, entertains my daughters and me with the history of her own talents
and acquirements."

Here they entered. After a few compliments, Lady Rattle seated herself
between Lady Belfield and Mrs. Stanley at the upper end of the room;
while the fine, sprightly, boisterous girl of fifteen or sixteen threw
herself back on the sofa at nearly her full length between Mr. Stanley
and me, the Miss Stanleys and Sir John sitting near us, within hearing
of her lively loquacity.

"Well, Miss Amelia," said Mr. Stanley, "I dare say you have made good
use of your time this winter; I suppose you have ere now completed the
whole circle of the arts. Now let me hear what you have been doing, and
tell me your whole achievements as frankly as you used to do when you
were a little girl." "Indeed," replied she, "I have not been idle, if I
must speak the truth. One has so many things to learn, you know. I have
gone on with my French and Italian of course, and I am beginning German.
Then comes my drawing-master; he teaches me to paint flowers and shells,
and to draw ruins and buildings, and to take views. He is a good soul,
and is finishing a set of pictures, and half a dozen fire-screens, which
I began for mamma. He _does_ help me to be sure, but indeed I do some of
it myself, don't I, mamma?" calling out to her mother, who was too much
absorbed in her own narratives to attend to her daughter.

"And then," pursued the young prattler, "I learn varnishing, and
gilding, and japaning. And next winter I shall learn modeling, and
etching, and engraving in mezzotinto and aquatinta; for Lady Di. Dash
learns etching, and mamma says, as I shall have a better fortune than
Lady Di., she vows I shall learn every thing she does. Then I have a
dancing-master, who teaches me the Scotch and Irish steps; and another
who teaches me attitudes, and I shall soon learn the waltz, and I can
stand longer on one leg already than Lady Di. Then I have a
singing-master, and another who teaches me the harp, and another for the
piano-forte. And what little time I can spare from these _principal_
things, I give by odd minutes to ancient and modern history, and
geography, and astronomy, and grammar, and botany. Then I attend
lectures on chemistry, and experimental philosophy, for as I am not yet
come out, I have not much to do in the evenings; and mamma says there is
nothing in the world that money can pay for but what I shall learn. And
I run so delightfully fast from one thing to another that I am never
tired. What makes it so pleasant is, as soon as I am fairly set in with
one master, another arrives. I should hate to be long at the same thing.
But I sha'n't have a great while to work so hard, for as soon as I come
out, I shall give it all up, except music and dancing."

All this time Lucilla sat listening with a smile, behind the complacency
of which she tried to conceal her astonishment. Ph[oe]be, who had less
self-control, was on the very verge of a broad laugh. Sir John, who had
long lived in a soil where this species is indigenous, had been too long
accustomed to all its varieties to feel much astonishment at this
specimen, which, however, he sat contemplating with philosophical but
discriminating coolness.

For my own part, my mind was wholly absorbed in contrasting the coarse
manners of this voluble and intrepid, but good-humored girl, with the
quiet, cheerful, and unassuming elegance of Lucilla.

"I should be afraid, Miss Rattle," said Mr. Stanley, "if you did not
look in such blooming health, that, with all these incessant labors, you
did not allow yourself time for rest. Surely you never sleep?"

"O yes, that I do, and eat too," said she; "my life is not quite so hard
and moping as you fancy. What between shopping and morning visits with
mamma, and seeing sights, and the park, and the gardens (which, by the
way, I hate, except on a Sunday when they are crowded), and our young
balls, which are four or five in a week after Easter, and mamma's music
parties at home, I contrive to enjoy myself tolerably, though after I
have been presented, I shall be a thousand times better off, for then I
sha'n't have a moment to myself. Won't that be delightful?" said she,
twitching my arm rather roughly, by way of recalling my attention,
which, however, had seldom wandered.

As she had now run out her London materials, the news of the
neighborhood next furnished a subject for her volubility. After she had
mentioned in detail one or two stories of low village gossip, while I
was wondering how she could come at them, she struck me dumb by quoting
the coachman as her authority. This enigma was soon explained. The
mother and daughter having exhausted their different topics of discourse
nearly at the same time, they took their leave, in order to enrich
every family in the neighborhood, on whom they were going to call, with
the same valuable knowledge which they had imparted to us.

Mr. Stanley conducted Lady Rattle, and I led her daughter; but as I
offered to hand her into the carriage she started back with a sprightly
motion, and screamed out, "O no, not in the inside, pray help me up to
the _dickey_; I always protest I never _will_ ride with any body but the
coachman, if we go ever so far." So saying, with a spring which showed
how much she despised my assistance, the little hoyden was seated in a
moment, nodding familiarly at me as if I had been an old friend.

Then with a voice, emulating that which, when passing by Charing Cross,
I have heard issue from an over-stuffed vehicle, when a robust sailor
has thrust his body out at the window, the fair creature vociferated,
"Drive on, coachman!" He obeyed, and turning round her whole person, she
continued nodding at me till they were out of sight.

"Here is a mass of accomplishments," said I, "without one particle of
mind, one ray of common sense, or one shade of delicacy! Surely somewhat
less time and less money might have sufficed to qualify a companion for
the coachman!"

"What poor creatures are we men," said I to Mr. Stanley as soon as he
came in. "We think it very well, if, after much labor and long
application, we can attain to one or two of the innumerable acquirements
of this gay little girl. Nor is this I find the rare achievement of one
happy genius--there is a whole class of these miraculous females. Miss
Rattle

    "Is knight of the shire, and represents them all."

"It is only young ladies," replied he, "whose vast abilities, whose
mighty grasp of mind can take in every thing. Among men, learned men,
talents are commonly directed into some one channel, and fortunate is he
who, in that one, attains to excellence. The linguist is rarely a
painter, nor is the mathematician often a poet. Even in one profession,
there are divisions and subdivisions. The same lawyer never thinks of
presiding both in the King's Bench, and in the Court of Chancery. The
science of healing is not only divided into its three distinct branches,
but in the profession of surgery only, how many are the subdivisions!
One professor undertakes the eye, another the ear, and a third the
teeth. But woman, ambitious, aspiring, universal, triumphant, glorious
woman, even at the age of a school-boy, encounters the whole range of
arts, attacks the whole circle of sciences!"

"A mighty maze, and _quite_ without a plan," replied Sir John, laughing.
"But the truth is, the misfortune does not so much consist in their
learning every thing, as in their knowing nothing; I mean nothing well.
When gold is beaten out so wide, the lamina must needs be very thin. And
you may observe, the more valuable attainments, though they are not to
be left out of the modish plan, are kept in the background; and are to
be picked up out of the odd remnants of that time, the sum of which is
devoted to frivolous accomplishments. All this gay confusion of
acquirements, these holiday splendors, this superfluity of enterprise,
enumerated in the first part of her catalogue, is the _real business_ of
education, the latter part is incidental, and if taught is not learned.

"As to the lectures so boastfully mentioned, they may doubtless be made
very useful subsidiaries to instruction. They most happily illustrate
book-knowledge; but if the pupil's instructions in private do not
precede, and keep pace with these useful public exhibitions, her
knowledge will be only presumptuous ignorance. She may learn to talk of
oxygen and hydrogen, and deflagration, and trituration but she will know
nothing of the science except the terms. It is not knowing the name of
his tools that makes an artist; and I should be afraid of the vanity
which such superficial information would communicate to a mind not
previously prepared, nor exercised at home in corresponding studies. But
as Miss Rattle honestly confessed, as soon as she _comes out_, all these
things will die away of themselves, and dancing and music will be almost
all which will survive of her multifarious pursuits."

"I look upon the great predominance of music in female education," said
Mr. Stanley, "to be the source of more mischief than is suspected; not
from any evil in the thing itself, but from its being such a gulf of
time, as really to leave little room for solid acquisitions. I love
music, and, were it only cultivated as an amusement, should commend it.
But the monstrous proportion, or rather disproportion of life which it
swallows up, even in many religious families--and this is the chief
subject of my regret--has converted an innocent diversion into a
positive sin. I question if many gay men devote more hours in a day to
idle purposes, than the daughters of many pious parents spend in this
amusement. All these hours the mind lies fallow, improvement is at a
stand, if even it does not retrograde. Nor is it the shreds and scraps
of time, stolen in the intervals of better things, that are so devoted;
but it is the morning, the prime, the profitable, the active hours, when
the mind is vigorous, the spirits light, the intellect awake and fresh,
and the whole being wound up by the refreshment of sleep, and animated
by the return of light and life, for nobler services."

"If," said Sir John, "music were cultivated to embellish retirement, to
be practiced where pleasures are scarce, and good performers are not to
be had, it would quite alter the case. But the truth is, these highly
taught ladies are not only living in public where they constantly hear
the most exquisite professors, but they have them also at their own
houses. Now one of these two things must happen. Either the performance
of the lady will be so inferior as not to be worth hearing on the
comparison, or so good that she will fancy herself the rival, instead of
the admirer of the performer, whom she had better pay and praise than
fruitlessly emulate."

"This anxious struggle to reach the unattainable excellence of the
professor," said Mr. Stanley, "often brings to my mind the contest for
victory between the ambitious nightingale and the angry lutanist in the
beautiful Prolusion of Strada."

"It is to the predominance of this talent," replied I, "that I ascribe
that want of companionableness of which I complain. The excellence of
musical performance is a decorated screen, behind which all defects in
domestic knowledge, in taste, judgment, and literature, and the talents
which make an elegant companion, are creditably concealed."

"I have made," said Sir John, "another remark. Young ladies, who from
apparent shyness do not join in the conversation of a small select
party, are always ready enough to entertain them with music on the
slightest hint. Surely it is equally modest to _say_ as to _sing_,
especially to sing those melting strains we sometimes hear sung, and
which we should be ashamed to hear said. After all, how few hours are
there in a week, in which a man engaged in the pursuits of life, and a
woman in the duties of a family, wish to employ in music. I am fond of
it myself, and Lady Belfield plays admirably; but with the cares
inseparable from the conscientious discharge of her duty with so many
children, how little time has she to play, or I to listen! But there is
no day, no hour, no meal in which I do not enjoy in her the ever ready
pleasure of an elegant and interesting companion. A man of sense, when
all goes smoothly, wants to be entertained; under vexation to be
soothed; in difficulties to be counseled; in sorrow to be comforted. In
a mere artist can he reasonably look for these resources?"

"Only figure to yourself," replied Mr. Stanley, "my six girls daily
playing their four hours a piece, which is now a moderate allowance! As
we have but one instrument they must be at it in succession, day and
night, to keep pace with their neighbors. If I may compare light things
with serious ones, it would resemble," added he, smiling, "the perpetual
psalmody of good Mr. Nicholars Ferrar, who had relays of musicians every
six hours to sing the whole Psalter through every day and night! I mean
not to ridicule that holy man; but my girls thus keeping their useless
vigils in turn, we should only have the melody without any of the piety.
No, my friend! I will have but two or three singing birds to cheer my
little grove. If all the world are performers, there will soon be no
hearers. Now, as I am resolved in my own family that some shall listen,
I will have but few to perform."

"It must be confessed," said Sir John, "that Miss Rattle is no servile
imitator of the vapid tribe of the superficially accomplished. Her
violent animal spirits prevent her from growing smooth by attrition. She
is as rough and angular as rusticity itself could have made her. Where
strength of character, however, is only marked by the worst concomitant
of strength, which is coarseness, I should almost prefer inanity
itself."

"I should a little fear," said I, "that I lay too much stress on
companionableness; on the _positive duty of being agreeable at home_,
had I not early learned the doctrine from my father, and seen it
exemplified so happy in the practice of my mother."

"I entirely agree with you, Charles," said Mr. Stanley, "as to the
absolute _morality_ of being agreeable and even entertaining in one's
own family circle. Nothing so soon, and so certainly wears out the
happiness of married persons, as that too common bad effect of
familiarity, the sinking down into dullness and insipidity; neglecting
to keep alive the flame by the delicacy which first kindled it; want of
vigilance in keeping the temper cheerful by Christian discipline, and
the faculties bright by constant use. Mutual affection decays of itself,
even where there is no great moral turpitude, without mutual endeavors,
not only to improve, but to amuse.

"This," continued he, "is one of the great arts of _home enjoyment_.
That it is so little practiced, accounts in a good measure for the
undomestic turn of too many married persons. The man meets abroad with
amusements, and the woman with attentions, to which they are not
accustomed at home. Whereas a capacity to please on the one part, and a
disposition to be pleased on the other, in their own house, would make
most visits appear dull. But then the disposition and the capacity must
be cultivated antecedently to marriage. A woman, whose whole education
has been rehearsal, will always be dull, except she lives on the stage,
constantly displaying what she has been sedulously acquiring. Books, on
the contrary, well chosen books, do not lead to exhibition. The
knowledge a woman acquires in private, desires no witnesses; the
possession is the pleasure. It improves herself, it embellishes her
family society, it entertains her husband, it informs her children. The
gratification is cheap, is safe, is always to be had at home."

"It is superfluous," said Sir John, "to decorate women so highly for
early youth; youth is itself a decoration. We mistakingly adorn most
that part of life which least requires it, and neglect to provide for
that which will want it most. It is for that sober period when life has
lost its freshness, the passions their intenseness, and the spirits
their hilarity, that we should be preparing. Our wisdom would be to
anticipate the wants of middle life, to lay in a store of notions,
ideas, principles, and habits, which may preserve or transfer to the
mind that affection which was at first partly attracted by the person.
But to add a vacant mind to a form which has ceased to please; to
provide no subsidiary aid to beauty while it lasts, and especially no
substitute when it is departed, is to render life comfortless, and
marriage dreary."

"The reading of a cultivated woman," said Mr. Stanley, "commonly
occupies less time than the music of a musical woman, or the idleness of
an indolent woman, or the dress of a vain woman, or the dissipation of a
fluttering woman; she is therefore likely to have more leisure for her
duties, as well as more inclination, and a sounder judgment for
performing them. But pray observe, that I assume my reading woman to be
a religious woman; and I will not answer for the effect of a literary
vanity, more than for that of any other vanity, in a mind not habitually
disciplined by Christian principle, the only safe and infallible
antidote for knowledge of every kind."

Before we had finished our conversation, we were interrupted by the
arrival of the post. Sir John eagerly opened the newspaper; but, instead
of gratifying our impatience with the intelligence for which we panted
from the glorious Spaniards, he read a paragraph which stated "that Miss
Denham had eloped with Signor Squallini, that they were on their way to
Scotland, and that Lady Denham had been in fits ever since."

Lady Belfield with her usual kindness was beginning to express how much
she pitied her old acquaintance. "My dear Caroline," said Sir John,
"there is too much substantial and inevitable misery in the world, for
you to waste much compassion on this foolish woman. Lady Denham has
little reason to be surprised at an event which all reasonable people
must have anticipated. Provoking and disgraceful as it is, what has she
to blame but her own infatuation? This Italian was the associate of all
her pleasures; the constant theme of her admiration. He was admitted
when her friends were excluded. The girl was continually hearing that
music was the best gift, and that Signor Squallini was the best gifted.
Miss Denham," added, he laughing, "had more wit than your Strada's
nightingale. Instead of dropping down dead on the lute for envy, she
thought it better to run away with the lutanist for love. I pity the
poor girl, however, who has furnished such a commentary to our text, and
who is rather the victim of a wretched education than of her own bad
propensities."

CHAPTER XXIV.

I had generally found that a Sunday passed in a visit was so heavy a
day, that I had been accustomed so to arrange my engagements, as
commonly to exclude this from the days spent from home. I had often
found that even where the week had been pleasantly occupied, the
necessity of passing several hours of a season peculiarly designed for
religious purposes, with people whose habits have little similarity with
our own, either draws one into their relaxed mode of getting rid of the
day, or drives one to a retirement which having an unsociable
appearance, is liable to the reproach of austerity and gloom.

The case was quite different at Stanley Grove. The seriousness was
without severity, and the cheerfulness had no mixture of levity. The
family seemed more than usually animated, and there was a variety in the
religious pursuits of the young people, enlivened by intervals of
cheerful and improving conversation, which particularly struck Lady
Belfield. She observed to me, that the difficulty of getting through the
Sunday, without any mixture of worldly occupations or amusements on the
one hand, or of disgust and weariness on the other, was among the many
right things which she had never been able to accomplish in her own
family.

As we walked from church one Sunday, Miss Stanley told me that her
father does not approve the habit of criticising the sermon. He says
that the custom of pointing out the faults, can not be maintained
without the custom of watching for them; that it gives the attention a
wrong turn, and leads the hearer only to treasure up such passages as
may serve for animadversion, and a display, not of Christian temper, but
of critical skill. If the general tenor and principle be right, that is
the main point they are to look to, and not to hunt for philosophical
errors; that the hearer would do well to observe, whether it is not "he
that sleeps," as often, at least, as "Homer nods:" a remark exemplified
at church, as often as on the occasion which suggested it; that a
critical spirit is the worst that can be brought out of church, being a
symptom of an unhumbled mind, and an evidence that whatever the sermon
may have done for others, it has not benefited the caviler.

Here Mr. Stanley joined us. I found he did not encourage his family to
take down the sermon. "It is no disparagement," said he, "to the
discourse preached, to presume that there may be as good already
printed. Why, therefore, not read the printed sermon at home in the
evening, instead of that by which you ought to have been improving while
it was delivering? If it be true that _faith cometh by hearing_, an
inferior sermon, 'coming warm and instant from the heart,' assisted by
all the surrounding solemnities which make a sermon _heard_, so
different from one _read_, may strike more forcibly than an abler
discourse coolly perused at home. In writing, the mechanical act must
necessarily lessen the effect to the writer, and to the spectator it
diminishes the dignity of the scene, and seems like short-hand writer
taking down a trial.

"But that, my daughters may not plead this as an excuse for
inattention," continued he, "I make it a part of their evening duty to
repeat what they retain, separately, to me in my library. The
consciousness that this repetition will be required of them, stimulates
their diligence; and the exercise itself not only strengthens the
memory, but habituates to serious reflection."

At tea, Ph[oe]be, a charming, warm-hearted creature, but who now and
then, carried away by the impulse of the moment, forgets habits and
prohibitions, said, "I think, papa, Dr. Barlow was rather dull to-day.
There was nothing new in the sermon." "My dear," replied her father, "we
do not go to church to hear news. Christianity is no novelty; and though
it is true that we go to be instructed, yet we require to be reminded
full as much as to be taught. General truths are what we all
acknowledge, and all forget. We acknowledge them, because a general
assent of the understanding costs but little; and we forget them,
because the remembrance would force upon the conscience a great deal of
practical labor. To believe, and remember, and act upon, common,
undisputed, general truths, is the most important part of religion.
This, though in fact very difficult, is overlooked, on account of its
being supposed very easy. To keep up in the heart a lively impression of
a few plain momentous truths, is of more use than the ablest discussion
of a hundred controverted points.

"Now tell me, Ph[oe]be, do you really think that you have remembered and
practiced all the instructions you have received from Dr. Barlow's
sermons last year? If you have, though you will have a better right to
be critical, you will be less disposed to be so. If you have not, do not
complain that the sermon is not new till you have made all possible use
of the old ones; which if you had done, you would have acquired so much
humility, that you would meekly listen even to what you already know.
But however the discourse may have been superfluous to such deep divines
as Miss Ph[oe]be Stanley, it will be very useful to me, and to other
hearers who are not so wise."

Poor Ph[oe]be blushed up to her ears; tears rushed into her eyes. She
was so overcome with shame that, regardless of the company, she flew
into her father's arms, and softly whispered that if he would forgive
her foolish vanity, she would never again be above being taught. The
fond, but not blind father, withdrew with her. Lucilla followed, with
looks of anxious love.

During their short absence, Mrs. Stanley said, "Lucilla is so
practically aware of the truth of her father's observation, that she
often says she finds as much advantage as pleasure in teaching the
children at her school. This elementary instruction obliges her
continually to recur to first principles, and to keep constantly
uppermost in her mind those great truths contained in the articles of
our belief, the commandments, and the prayer taught by our Redeemer.
This perpetual simplifying of religion she assures me, keeps her more
humble, fixes her attention on fundamental truths, and makes her more
indifferent to controverted points."

In a few minutes Mr. Stanley and his daughters returned cheerful and
happy: Lucilla smiling like the angel of peace and love.

"If I were not afraid," said Lady Belfield, "of falling under the same
censure with my friend Ph[oe]be," smiling on the sweet girl, "I should
venture to say that I thought the sermon rather too severe."

"Do not be afraid, madam," replied Mr. Stanley; "though I disapprove
that cheap and cruel criticism which makes a man _an offender for a
word_, yet discussion does not necessarily involve censoriousness; so
far from it, it is fair to discuss whatever seems to be doubtful, and I
shall be glad to hear your ladyship's objections."

"Well then," replied she, in the most modest tone and accent, "with all
my reverence for Dr. Barlow, I thought him a little unreasonable in
seeming to expect universal goodness from creatures whom he yet insisted
were fallen creatures."

"Perhaps, madam," said Mr. Stanley, "you mistook his meaning, for he
appeared to me perfectly consistent, not only with himself, but with his
invariable rule and guide, the Scriptures. Sanctification--will you
allow me to use so serious a word?--however imperfect, must be
universal. It is not the improvement of any one faculty, or quality, or
temper, which divines mean, when they say we are renewed in part, so
much as that the change is not perfect, the holiness is not complete in
_any_ part or power, or faculty, though progressive in all. He who
earnestly desires a universal victory over sin, knows which of his evil
dispositions or affections it is that is yet unsubdued. This rebellious
enemy he vigilantly sets himself to watch against, to struggle with,
and, through divine grace, to conquer. The test of his sincerity does
not so much consist in avoiding many faults to which he has no
temptation, as in conquering that one to which his natural bent and bias
forcibly impel him."

Lady Belfield said, "But is it not impossible to bring every part of our
nature under this absolute dominion? Suppose a man is very passionate,
and yet very charitable; would you look upon that person to be in a
dangerous state?"

"It is not my province, madam, to decide," replied Mr. Stanley. "'God,'
as Bishop Sanderson says, 'reserves this _royalty_ to himself of being
the searcher of hearts.' I can not judge how far he resists anger, nor
what are his secret struggles against it. God, who expects not
perfection, expects sincerity. Though complete, unmixed goodness is not
to be attained in this imperfect state, yet the earnest desire after it
is the only sure criterion of the sincerity we profess. If the man you
allude to does not watch, and pray, and strive against the passion of
anger, which is his natural infirmity, I should doubt whether any of his
affections were really renewed; and I should fear that his charity was
rather a mere habitual feeling, though a most amiable one, than a
Christian grace. He indulges in charity, because it is a constitutional
bias, and costs him nothing. He indulges in passion, because it is a
natural bias also; and to set about a victory over it would cost him a
great deal. This should put him on a strict self-examination; when he
would probably find that, while he gives the uncontrolled reins to any
one wrong inclination, his religion, even when he does right things, is
questionable. True religion is seated in the heart; that is the centre
from which all the lines of right practice must diverge. It is the great
duty and chief business of a Christian to labor to make all his
affections, with all their motives, tendencies, and operations,
subservient to the word and will of God. His irregular passions, which
are still apt to start out into disorder, will require vigilance to the
end. He must not think all is safe, because the more tractable ones are
not rebellious; but he may entertain a cheerful hope, when those which
were once rebellious are become tractable."

"I feel the importance of what you say," returned Lady Belfield; "but I
feel also my utter inability to set about it."

"My dear madam," said Mr. Stanley, "this is the best and most salutary
feeling you can have. That very consciousness of insufficiency will, I
trust, drive you to the fountain of all strength and power: it will
quicken your faith, and animate your prayer; faith, which is the
habitual principle of confidence in God; and prayer, which is the
exercise of that principle toward him who is the object of it."

"But Dr. Barlow," said Lady Belfield, "was so discouraging! He seemed to
intimate, as if the conflict of a Christian with sin must be as lasting
as his life; whereas, I had hoped that victory once obtained, was
obtained forever."

"The _strait gate_," replied Mr. Stanley, "is only the entrance of
religion; the _narrow way_ is a continued course. The Christian life, my
dear Lady Belfield, is not a point but a progress. It is precisely in
the race of Christianity as in the race of human glory. Julius Cæsar and
St. Paul describe their respective warfares in nearly the same terms.
_We should count nothing done, while any thing remains undone_,[2] says
the Warrior. _Not counting myself to have attained--forgetting the
things which are behind, and pressing forward to those which are
before_, says the Apostle. And it is worth remarking, that they both
made the disqualifying observation after attainments almost incredible.
As there was no being a hero by any idler way, so there is no being a
Christian by any easier road. The necessity of pursuit is the same in
both cases, though the objects pursued differ as widely as the vanities
of time from the riches of eternity.

[Footnote 2: Nil actum reputans dum quod superesset agendum. LUCAN.]

"Do not think, my dear madam," added Mr. Stanley, "that I am erecting
myself into a censor, much less into a model. The corruptions which I
lament, I participate. The deficiencies which I deplore, I feel. Not
only when I look abroad, am I persuaded of the general prevalence of
evil by what I see; but when I look into my own heart, my conviction is
confirmed by what I experience. I am conscious, not merely of frailties,
but of sins. I will not hypocritically accuse myself of gross offenses
which I have no temptation to commit, and from the commission of which,
motives inferior to religion would preserve me. But I am continually
humbled in detecting mixed motives in almost all I do. Such strugglings
of pride with my endeavors after humility! Such irresolution in my
firmest purposes! So much imperfection in my best actions! So much want
of simplicity in my purest designs! Such fresh shoots of selfishness
where I had hoped the plant itself had been eradicated! Such frequent
deadness in duty! Such coldness in my affections! Such infirmity of
will! Such proneness to earth in my highest aspirations after heaven!
All these you see would hardly make, in the eyes of those who want
Christian discernment, very gross sins; yet they prove demonstrably the
root of sin in the heart, and the infection of nature tainting my best
resolves."

"The true Christian," said I, when Mr. Stanley had done speaking,
"extracts humility from the very circumstance which raises pride in the
irreligious. The sight of any enormity in another makes the mere
moralist proud that he is exempt from it, while the religious man is
humbled from a view of the sinfulness of that nature he partakes, a
nature which admits of such excesses, and from which excesses he knows
that he himself is preserved by divine grace alone. I have often
observed that comparison is the aliment of pride in the worldly man, and
of self-abasement in the Christian."

Poor Lady Belfield looked comforted on finding that her friend Mr.
Stanley was not quite so perfect as she had feared. "Happy are those,"
exclaimed she, looking at Lucilla, "the innocence of whose lives
recommends them to the divine favor."

"Innocence," replied Mr. Stanley, "can never be pleaded as a ground of
acceptance, because the thing does not exist. Innocence excludes the
necessity of repentance, and where there is no sin, there can be no need
of a Saviour. Whatever therefore we may be in comparison with others,
innocence can afford no plea for our acceptance, without annulling the
great plan of our redemption."

"One thing puzzles me," said Lady Belfield. "The most worthless people I
converse with deny the doctrine of human corruption, a doctrine the
truth of which one should suppose their own feelings must confirm; while
those few excellent persons who almost seem to have escaped it, insist
the most peremptorily on its reality. But if it be really true, surely
the mercies of God are so great that he will overlook the frailties of
such weak and erring mortals. So gracious a Saviour will not exact such
rigorous obedience from creatures so infirm."

"Let not what I am going to say, my dear Lady Belfield," replied Mr.
Stanley, "offend you; the correctness of your conduct exempts you from
any particular application. But there are too many Christians who, while
they speak with reverence of Christ as the Saviour of sinners, do not
enough consider him as a deliverer from sin. They regard him rather as
having lowered the requisitions of the law, and exonerated his followers
from the necessity of that strictness of life which they view as a
burdensome part of religion. From this burden they flatter themselves it
was the chief object of the gospel to deliver them; and from this
supposed deliverance it is, that they chiefly consider it a merciful
dispensation. A cheap Christianity, of which we can acquit ourselves by
a general recognition, and a few stated observances; which requires no
sacrifices of the will, nor rectification of the life, is, I assure you,
the prevailing system; the religion of that numerous class who like to
save appearances, and to decline realities; who expect every thing
hereafter while they resolve to give up nothing here; but who keep
heaven in view as a snug reversion after they shall have squeezed out of
this world, to the very last dregs and droppings, all it has to give."

Lady Belfield with great modesty replied, "Indeed I am ashamed to have
said so much upon a topic on which I am unable and unused to debate. Sir
John only smiles, and looks resolved not to help me out. Believe me,
however, my dear sir, that what I have said proceeds not from
presumption, but from an earnest desire of being set right. I will only
venture to offer one more observation on the afternoon's sermon. Dr.
Barlow, to my great surprise, spoke of the death of Christ as exhibiting
_practical_ lessons. Now though I have always considered it in a general
way, as the cause of our salvation, yet its preceptive and moral
benefits, I must confess, do not appear to me at all obvious."

"I conceive," replied Mr. Stanley, "our deliverance from the punishment
incurred by sin, to be one great end and object of the death of our
Redeemer; but I am very far from considering this as the only benefit
attending it. I conceive it to be most abundant in instruction, and the
strongest possible incentive to practical goodness, and that in a great
variety of ways. The death of our Redeemer shows us the infinite value
of our souls, by showing the inestimable price paid for them, and thus
leads us to more diligence in securing their eternal felicity. It is
calculated to inspire us with an unfeigned hatred of sin, and more
especially to convince us of God's hatred to that, for the pardon of
which such a sacrifice was deemed necessary. Now if it actually produce
such an effect, it consequently stimulates us to repentance, and to an
increasing dread of violating those engagements which we have so often
made to lead a better life. Then the contemplation of this stupendous
circumstance will tend to fill our hearts with such a sense of gratitude
and obedience, as will be likely to preserve us from relapsing into
fresh offenses. Again, can any motive operate so powerfully on us toward
producing universal charity and forgiveness? Whatever promotes our love
to God will dispose us to an increased love for our fellow-creatures. We
can not converse with any man, we can not receive a kindness from any
man, nay, we can not receive an injury from any man, for whom the
Redeemer has not died. The remembrance of the sufferings which procured
pardon for the greatest offenses, has a natural tendency to lead us to
forgive small ones."

Lady Belfield said, "I had not indeed imagined there were any practical
uses in an event to which I had been, however, accustomed to look with
reverence as an atonement for sin."

"Of these practical effects," replied Mr. Stanley, "I will only further
observe, that all human considerations put together can not so
powerfully inspire us with an indifference to the vanities of life, and
the allurements of unhallowed pleasures. No human motive can be so
efficacious in sustaining the heart under trials, and reconciling it to
afflictions. For what trials and afflictions do not sink into nothing in
comparison with the sufferings attending that august event, from which
we derive this support? The contemplation of this sacrifice also
degrades wealth, debases power, annihilates ambition. We rise from this
contemplation with a mind prepared to bear with the infirmities, to
relieve the wants, to forgive the unkindnesses of men. We extract from
it a more humbling sense of ourselves, a more subdued spirit, a more
sober contempt of whatever the world calls great, than all the lectures
of ancient philosophy, or the teachers of modern morals ever inspired."

During this little debate, Sir John maintained the most invincible
silence. His countenance bore not the least mark of ill-humor or
impatience, but it was serious and thoughtful, except when his wife got
into any little difficulty; he then encouraged her by an affectionate
smile, but listened like a man who has not quite made up his mind, yet
thinks the subject too important to be dismissed without a fair and
candid hearing.

CHAPTER XXV.

While we were at breakfast the next morning, a sweet little gay girl
flew into the room almost breathless with joy, and running to her
mother, presented her with a beautiful nosegay.

"O, I see you were the industrious girl last week, Kate," said Mrs.
Stanley, embracing her, and admiring the flowers. Lady Belfield looked
inquisitively. "It is an invention of Lucilla's," said the mother, "that
the little one who performs best in the school-room, instead of having
any reward which may excite vanity or sensuality, shall be taught to
gratify a better feeling, by being allowed to present her mother with a
nosegay of the finest flowers, which it is reward enough to see worn at
dinner, to which she is always admitted when there is no company."

"Oh pray do not consider us as company; pray let Kate dine with us
to-day," said Lady Belfield. Mrs. Stanley bowed her assent and went on.
"But this is not all. The flowers they present, they also raise. I went
rather too far, when I said that no vanity was excited; they are vain
enough of their carnations, and each is eager to produce the largest. In
this competition, however, the vanity is not personal. Lucilla has some
skill in raising flowers: each girl has a subordinate post under her.
Their father often treats them with half a day's work, and then they all
treat me with tea and cakes in the honey-suckle arbor of their own
planting, which is called Lucilla's bower. It would be hard to say
whether parents or children most enjoy these happy holidays."

At dinner Mrs. Stanley appeared with her nosegay in a large knot of
ribbons, which was eyed with no small complacency by little Kate. I
observed that Lucilla, who used to manifest much pleasure in the
conversation after dinner, was beckoned out of the room by Ph[oe]be, as
soon as it was over. I felt uneasy at an absence to which I had not been
accustomed; but the cause was explained, when, at six o'clock, Kate, who
was the queen of the day, was sent to invite us to drink tea in
Lucilla's bower: we instantly obeyed the summons.

"I knew nothing of this," said the delighted mother, while we were all
admiring the elegant arrangements of this little fête. The purple
clematis, twisting its flexile branches with those of the pale woodbine,
formed a sweet and fragrant canopy to the arched bower, while the
flowery tendrils hung down on all sides. Large bunches of roses,
intermixed with the silver stars of the jessamine, were stuck into the
moss on the inside as a temporary decoration only. The finest plants had
been brought from the green-house for the occasion. It was a delicious
evening, and the little fairy festivity, together with the flitting
about of the airy spirits which had prepared it, was absolutely
enchanting. Sir John, always poetical, exclaimed in rapture,

          "Hesperian fables true,
    If true, here only."

I needed not this quotation to bring the garden of Eden to my mind, for
Lucilla presided. Ph[oe]be was all alive. The other little ones had
decorated Kate's flaxen hair with a wreath of woodbines. They sung two
or three baby stanzas, which they had composed among themselves, in
which Kate was complimented as queen of the fête. The youngest daughter
of Lady Aston, who was about Kate's age, and two little girls of Dr.
Barlow's, were of the children's party on the green. The elder sisters
of both families made part of the company within.

When we were all seated in our enchanting bower, and drinking our tea,
at which we had no other attendants than the little Hebes themselves, I
asked Kate how it happened that she seemed to be distinguished on this
occasion from her little sisters. "Oh, sir," said she, "it is because it
is my birth-day. I am eight years old to-day. I gave up all my gilt
books, with pictures, this day twelvemonth, and to-day I give up all my
little story books, and I am now going to read such books as men and
women read."

She then ran to her companions who ranged themselves round a turf seat
at a little distance before us, to which were transferred a profusion of
cakes and fruit from the bower. While they were devouring them, I turned
to Mr. Stanley and desired an explanation of Kate's speech.

"I make," said he, "the renouncing their baby books a kind of epocha,
and by thus distinctly marking the period, they never think of returning
back to them. We have in our domestic plan several of these artificial
divisions of life. These little celebrations are eras that we use as
marking-posts, from which we set out on some new course."

"But as to Kate's books?" said Lady Belfield.

"We have," replied Mr. Stanley, "too many elementary books. They are
read too much and too long. The youthful mind, which was formerly sick
from inanition, is now in danger from a plethora. Much, however, will
depend on capacity and disposition. A child of slower parts may be
indulged till nine years old with books which a lively genius will look
down upon at seven. A girl of talents _will_ read. To _her_ no
excitement is wanting. The natural appetite is a sufficient incentive.
The less brilliant child requires the allurement of lighter books. She
wants encouragement as much as the other requires restraint."

"But don't you think," said Lady Belfield, "that they are of great use
in attracting children to love reading?"

"Doubtless they are," said Mr. Stanley. "The misfortune is, that the
stimulants used to attract at first, must be not only continued but
heightened, to keep up the attraction. These books are novels in
miniature, and the excess of them will lead to the want of novels at
full length. The early use of savory dishes is not usually followed by
an appetite for plain food. To the taste thus pampered, history becomes
dry, grammar laborious, and religion dull.

"My wife, who was left to travel through the wide expanse of Universal
History, and the dreary deserts of Rapin and Mezerai, is, I will venture
to assert, more competently skilled in ancient, French, and English
history, than any of the girls who have been fed, or rather starved, on
extracts and abridgments. I mean not to recommend the two last named
authors for very young people. They are dry and tedious, and children in
our day have opportunities of acquiring the same knowledge with less
labor. We have brighter, I wish I could say safer, lights. Still fact,
and not wit, is the leading object of history.

"Mrs. Stanley says, that the very tediousness of her historians had a
good effect; they were a ballast to her levity, a discipline to her
mind, of which she has felt the benefit in her subsequent life.

"But to return to the mass of children's books. The too great profusion
of them protracts the imbecility of childhood. They arrest the
understanding, instead of advancing it. They give forwardness without
strength. They hinder the mind from making vigorous shoots, teach it to
stoop when it should soar, and to contract when it should expand. Yet I
allow that many of them are delightfully amusing, and to a certain
degree instructive. But they must not be used as the basis of
instruction, and but sparingly used at all as refreshment from labor."

"They inculcate morality and good actions surely," said Lady Belfield.

"It is true," replied Mr. Stanley, "but they often inculcate them on a
worldly principle, and rather teach the pride of virtue, and the profit
of virtue, than point out the motive of virtue, and the principle of
sin. They reprobate bad actions as evil and injurious to others, but not
as an offense against the Almighty. Whereas the Bible comes with a
plain, straightforward, simple, but powerful principle--'How shall I do
this great wickedness against GOD?' 'Against THEE, THEE only have I
sinned, and done this evil in THY sight.'

"Even children should be taught that when a man has committed the
greatest possible crime against his fellow creature, still the offense
against God is what will strike a true penitent with the most deep
remorse. All morality which is not drawn from this scriptural source is
weak, defective, and hollow. These entertaining authors seldom ground
their stories on any intimation that human nature is corrupt; that the
young reader is helpless, and wants assistance; that he is guilty, and
wants pardon."

"Surely, my dear Mr. Stanley," said Lady Belfield, "though I do not
object to the truth and reasonableness of any thing you have said, I can
not think that these things can possibly be made intelligible to
children."

"The framers of our catechism, madam, thought otherwise," replied Mr.
Stanley. "The catechism was written for children, and contains all the
seeds and principles of Christianity for men. It evidently requires much
explanation, much development; still it furnishes a wide and important
field for colloquial instruction, without which young persons can by no
means understand a composition so admirable, but so condensed. The
catechism speaks expressly of 'a death unto sin'--of 'a new birth unto
righteousness'--of 'being born in sin'--of being the 'children of
wrath'--of becoming the 'children of grace'--of 'forsaking sin by
repentance'--of 'believing the promises of God by faith.' Now while
children are studying these great truths in the catechism, they are
probably, at the same time, almost constantly reading some of those
entertaining stories which are grounded and built on a quite opposite
principle, and do not even imply the existence of any such fundamental
truths."

"Surely," interrupted Lady Belfield, "you would not have these serious
doctrines brought forward in story books?"

"By no means, madam," replied Mr. Stanley; "but I will venture to assert
that even story books should not be founded on a principle directly
_contradictory_ to them, nay, totally _subversive_ of them. The Arabian
Nights, and other oriental books of fable, though loose and faulty in
many respects, yet have always a reference to the religion of the
country. Nothing is introduced against the law of Mohammed; nothing
subversive of the opinions of a Mussulman. I do not quarrel with books
for having _no_ religion, but for having a _false_ religion. A book
which in nothing opposes the principle of the Bible, I would be far from
calling a bad book, though the Bible was never named in it."

Lady Belfield observed, "That she was sorry to say her children found
religious studies very dry and tiresome; though she took great pains,
and made them learn by heart a multitude of questions and answers, a
variety of catechisms and explanations, and the best abridgments of the
Bible."

"My dear Lady Belfield," replied Mr. Stanley, "you have fully accounted
for the dryness and dullness of which you complain. Give them the _Bible
itself_. I never yet knew a child who did not delight in the Bible
histories, and who would not desire to hear them again and again. From
the histories, Mrs. Stanley and I proceed with them to the parables; and
from them to the miracles, and a few of the most striking prophecies.
When they have acquired a good deal of this desultory knowledge, we
begin to weave the parts into a whole. The little girl who had the honor
of dining with you to-day, has begun this morning to read the Scriptures
with her mother systematically. We shall soon open to her something of
the _scheme_ of Christianity, and explain how those miracles and
prophecies confirm the truth of that religion in which she is to be more
fully instructed.

"Upon their historical knowledge, which they acquire by picking out the
most interesting stories, we endeavor to ground principles to enlighten
their minds, and precepts to influence their conduct. With the genuine
language of Scripture I have taken particular care they shall be well
acquainted, by digging for the ore in its native bed. While they have
been studying the stories, their minds have at the same time been imbued
with the impressive phraseology of Scripture. I make a great point of
this, having often seen this useful impression effectually prevented by
a multitude of subsidiary histories and explanations, which too much
supersede the use of the original text.

"Only observe," continued he, "what divine sentiments, what holy
precepts, what devout ejaculations, what strokes of self-abasement, what
flights of gratitude, what transports of praise, what touches of
penitential sorrow, are found comprised in some one short sentence woven
into almost every part of the historical Scriptures! Observe this, and
then confess what a pity it is that children should be commonly set to
read the history in a meagre abridgment, stripped of those gems with
which the original is so richly inlaid! These histories and expositions
become very useful afterward to young people who are thoroughly
conversant with the Bible itself."

Sir John observed that he had been struck with the remarkable
_disinterestedness_ of Mr. Stanley's daughters, and their indifference
to things about which most children were so eager. "Selfishness," said
Mr. Stanley, "is the hydra we are perpetually combating; but the monster
has so much vitality, that new heads spring up as fast as the old ones
are cut off. _To counteract selfishness, that inborn, inbred mischief, I
hold to be the great art of education._ Education, therefore, can not be
adequately carried on, except by those who are deeply convinced of the
doctrine of human corruption. This evil principle, as it shows itself
early, must be early lopped, or the rapid shoots it makes will, as your
favorite Eve observes,

    Soon mock our scant manuring.

"This counteraction," continued Mr. Stanley, "is not like an art or a
science, which is to be taken up at set times, and laid aside till the
allotted period of instruction returns; but as the evil shows itself at
all times, and in all shapes, the _whole force_ of instruction is to be
bent against it. Mrs. Stanley and I endeavor that not one reward we
bestow, not one gratification we afford, shall be calculated to promote
it. Gratifications children ought to have. The appetites and
inclinations should be reasonably indulged. We only are cautious not to
employ them as _the instrument of recompense_, which would look as if we
valued them highly, and thought them a fit remuneration for merit. I
would rather show a little indulgence to sensuality _as_ sensuality,
than make it the reward of goodness, which seems to be the common way.
While I indulged the appetite of a child, I would never hold out that
indulgence which I granted to the lowest, the animal part of his nature,
as a payment for the exertion of his mental or moral faculties."

"You have one great advantage," said Sir John, "and I thank God it is
the same in Cavendish-square, that you and Mrs. Stanley draw evenly
together. Nothing impedes domestic regulation so effectually as where
parents, from difference of sentiment, ill-humor, or bad judgment,
obstruct each other's plans, or where one parent makes the other
insignificant in the eyes of their children."

"Mr. Reynolds," replied Mr. Stanley, "a friend of mine in this
neighborhood, is in this very predicament. To the mother's weakness the
father's temperate discipline seems cruelty. She is perpetually blaming
him before the children for setting them to their books. Her attentions
are divided between their health, which is perfect, and their pleasure,
which is obstructed by her foolish zeal to promote it, far more than by
his prudent restrictions. Whatever the father helps them to at table,
the mother takes from them, lest it should make them sick. What he
forbids is always the very thing which is good for them. She is much
more afraid, however, of overloading their memories than their stomachs.
Reading, she says, will spoil the girls' eyes, stooping to write will
ruin their chests, and working will make them round-shouldered. If the
boys run, they will have fevers; if they jump, they will sprain their
ankles; if they play at cricket, a blow may kill them; if they swim,
they may be drowned; the shallowness of the stream is no argument of
safety.

"Poor Reynolds' life is one continued struggle between his sense of duty
to his children, and his complaisance to his wife. If he carries his
point, it is at the expense of his peace; if he relaxes, as he commonly
does, his children are the victims. He is at length brought to submit
his excellent judgment to her feeble mind, lest his opposition should
hurt her health; and he has the mortification of seeing his children
trained as if they had nothing but bodies.

"To the wretched education of Mrs. Reynolds herself, all this mischief
may be attributed; for she is not a bad, though an ignorant woman; and
having been harshly treated by her own parents, she fell into the vulgar
error of vulgar minds, that of supposing the opposite of wrong must
necessarily be right. As she found that being perpetually contradicted
had made herself miserable, she concluded that never being contradicted
at all would make her children happy. The event has answered as might
have been foreseen. Never was a more discontented, disagreeing,
troublesome family. The gratification of one want instantly creates a
new one. And it is only when they are quite worn out with having done
nothing, that they take refuge in their books, as less wearisome than
idleness."

Sir John, turning to Lady Belfield, said in a very tender tone, "My dear
Caroline, this story, in its principal feature, does not apply to us. We
concur completely, it is true, but I fear we concur by being both
wrong: we both err by excessive indulgence. As to the case in point,
while children are young, they may perhaps lean to the parent that
spoils them, but I have never yet seen an instance of young persons,
where the parents differed, who did not afterward discover a much
stronger affection for the one who had reasonably restrained them, than
for the other, whose blind indulgence had at once diminished her
importance and their own reverence."

I observed to Mr. Stanley, that as he had so noble a library, and wished
to inspire his children with the love of literature, I was surprised to
see their apartment so slenderly provided with books.

"This is the age of excess in every thing," replied he; "nothing is a
gratification of which the want has not been previously felt. The wishes
of children are all so anticipated, that they never experience the
pleasure excited by wanting and waiting. Of their initiatory books they
_must_ have a pretty copious supply. But as to books of entertainment or
instruction of a higher kind, I never allow them to possess one of their
own, till they have attentively read and improved by it; this gives them
a kind of title to it; and that desire of property, so natural to human
creatures, I think stimulates them in dispatching books which are in
themselves a little dry. Expectation with them, as with men, quickens
desire, while possession deadens it."

By this time the children had exhausted all the refreshments set before
them, and had retreated to a little further distance, where, without
disturbing us, they freely enjoyed their innocent gambols: playing,
singing, laughing, dancing, reciting verses, trying which could puzzle
the other in the names of plants, of which they pulled single leaves to
increase the difficulty, all succeeded each other. Lady Belfield looking
consciously at me, said, "These are the creatures whom I foolishly
suspected of being made miserable by restraint, and gloomy through want
of indulgence."

"After long experience," said Mr. Stanley, "I will venture to pronounce,
that not all the anxious cutting out of pleasure, not all the costly
indulgences which wealth can procure, not all the contrivances of
inventive man for his darling youthful offspring, can find out an
amusement so pure, so natural, so cheap, so rational, so healthful, I
had almost said so religious, as that unbought pleasure connected with a
garden."

Kate and Celia, who had for some time been peeping into the bower, in
order to catch an interval in the conversation, as soon as they found
our attention disengaged, stole in among us, each took the fond father
by a hand, and led him to the turf seat. Ph[oe]be presented him a book
which he opened, and out of it read with infinite humor, grace, and
gayety, THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. This, it seems, was a
pleasure to which they had been led to look forward for some time, but
which, in honor of Kate, had been purposely withheld till this memorable
day. His little auditors, who grouped themselves around him on the
grass, were nearly convulsed with laughter, nor were the tenants of the
bower much less delighted.

As we walked into the house, Mr. Stanley said, "Whenever I read to my
children a light and gay composition, which I often do, I generally take
care it shall be the work of some valuable author, to whose writings
this shall be a pleasant and tempting prelude. What child of spirit who
hears John Gilpin, will not long to be thought old and wise enough to
read the 'Task?' The remembrance of the infant rapture will give a
predilection for the poet. Desiring to keep their standard high, I
accustom them to none but good writers, in every sense of the word; by
this means they will be less likely to stoop to ordinary ones when they
shall hereafter come to choose for themselves."

Lady Belfield regretted to me that she had not brought some of her
children to the Grove. "To confess a disgraceful truth," said she, "I
was afraid they would have been moped to death; and to confess another
truth still more disgraceful to my own authority, my indulgence has been
so injudicious, and I have maintained so little control, that I durst
not bring some of them, for fear of putting the rest out of humor; I am
now in a school where I trust I may learn to acquire firmness, without
any diminution of fondness."

CHAPTER XXVI.

The next morning Mr. Stanley proposed that we should pay a visit to some
of his neighbors. He and Sir John Belfield rode on horseback, and I had
the honor of attending the ladies in the sociable. Lady Belfield, who
was now become desirous of improving her own too relaxed domestic system
by the experience of Mrs. Stanley, told her how much she admired the
cheerful obedience of her children. She said, "she did not so much
wonder to see them so good, but she owned she was surprised to see them
so happy."

"I know not," replied Mrs. Stanley, "whether the increased
insubordination of children is owing to the new school of philosophy and
politics, but it seems to me to make part of the system. When I go
sometimes to stay with a friend in town to do business, she is always
making apologies that she can not go out with me--'her daughters want
the coach.' If I ask leave to see the friends who call on me in such a
room--'her daughters have company there, or they want the room for their
music, or it is preparing for the children's ball in the evening.' If a
messenger is required--'her daughters want the footman.' There certainly
prevails a spirit of independence, a revolutionary spirit, a separation
from the parent state. IT IS THE CHILDREN'S WORLD."

"You remind me, madam," said I, "of an old courtier, who being asked by
Louis XV., which age he preferred, his own or the present, replied, 'I
passed my youth in respecting old age, and I find I must now pass my old
age in respecting children.'"

"In some other houses," said Mrs. Stanley, "where we visit, besides that
of poor Mr. Reynolds, the children seem to have all the accommodation;
and I have observed that the convenience and comfort of the father is
but a subordinate consideration. The respectful terms of address are
nearly banished from the vocabulary of children, and the somewhat too
orderly manner which once prevailed is superseded by an incivility, a
roughness, a want of attention, which is surely not better than the
harmless formality which it has driven out."

Just as she had said this, we stopped at Mr. Reynolds's gate; neither he
nor his lady were at home. Mr. Stanley, who wished to show us a fine
reach of the river from the drawing-room window, desired the servant to
show us into it. There we beheld a curious illustration of what we had
heard. In the ample bow-window lay a confused heap of the glittering
spoils of the most expensive toys. Before the rich silk chairs knelt two
of the children, in the act of demolishing their fine painted
playthings; "others apart sat on _the floor_ retired," and more
deliberately employed in picking to pieces their little gaudy works of
art. A pretty girl, who had a beautiful wax doll on her lap, almost as
big as herself, was pulling out its eyes, that she might see how they
were put in. Another, weary of this costly baby, was making a little
doll of rags. A turbulent-looking boy was tearing out the parchment from
a handsome new drum, that he might see, as he told us, where the noise
came from. These I forgave: they had meaning in their mischief.

Another, having kicked about a whole little gilt library, was sitting,
with the decorated pages torn asunder at his feet, reading a little
dirty penny book, which the kitchen-maid had bought of a hawker at the
door. The Persian carpet was strewed with the broken limbs of a painted
horse, almost as large as a poney, while the discontented little master
was riding astride on a long rough stick. A bigger boy, after having
broken the panels of a fine gilt coach, we saw afterwards in the
court-yard nailing together a few dirty bits of ragged elm boards, to
make himself a wheel-barrow.

"Not only the disciple of the fastidious Jean Jacques," exclaimed I,
"but the sound votary of truth and reason, must triumph at such an
instance of the satiety of riches, and the weariness of ignorance and
idleness. One such practical instance of the insufficiency of affluence
to _bestow_ the pleasures which industry must _buy_; one such actual
exemplification of the folly of supposing that injudicious profusion and
mistaken fondness can supply that pleasure which must be worked out
before it can be enjoyed, is worth a whole folio of argument or
exhortation. The ill-bred little flock paid no attention to us, and only
returned a rude 'n--o' or 'ye--s' to our questions."

"Caroline," said Sir John, "these painted ruins afford a good lesson for
us. We must desire our rich uncles and our generous god-mothers to make
an alteration in their presents, if they can not be prevailed upon to
withhold them."

"It is a sad mistake," said Mr. Stanley, "to suppose that youth wants to
be so incessantly amused. They want not pleasures to be chalked out for
them. Lay a few cheap and coarse materials in their way, and let their
own busy inventions be suffered to work. They have abundant pleasure in
the mere freshness and novelty of life, its unbroken health, its elastic
spirit, its versatile temper, and its ever new resources."

"So it appears, Stanley," said Sir John, "when I look at your little
group of girls, recluses as they are called. How many cheap, yet lively
pleasures do they enjoy! their successive occupations, their books,
their animating exercise, their charitable rounds, their ardent
friendships; the social table, at which the elder ones are companions,
not mutes; the ever-varying pleasures of their garden,

    "Increasing virtue, and approving heaven."

While we were sitting with Lady Aston, on whom we next called, Mr.
Stanley suddenly exclaimed, "The Misses Flam are coming up the gravel
walk." Lady Aston looked vexed, but correcting herself said, "Mr.
Stanley, we owe this visit to you, or rather to your friend," bowing to
me; "they saw your carriage stop here, or they would not have done so
dull a thing as to have called on me."

These new guests presented a new scene, very uncongenial to the timid
and tranquil spirit of the amiable hostess. There seemed to be a contest
between the sisters, who should be most eloquent, most loud, or most
inquisitive. They eagerly attacked me all at once, as supposing me to be
overflowing with intelligence from the metropolis, a place which they
not only believed to contain exclusively all that was worth seeing, but
all that was worth hearing. The rest of the world they considered as a
barren wilderness, of which the hungry inhabitants could only be kept
from starving, by such meagre aliment as the occasional reports of its
pleasures, fashions, and anecdotes, which might now and then be conveyed
by some stray traveler, might furnish.

"It is so strange to us," said Miss Bell, "and so monstrously dull and
vulgar, to be in the country at this time of the year, that we don't
know what to do with ourselves."

"As to the time of year, madam," said I, "if ever one would wish to be
in the country at all, surely this month is the point of perfection. The
only immoral thing with which I could ever charge our excellent
sovereign is, that he was born in June, and has thus furnished his
fashionable subjects with a loyal pretense for encountering 'the sin and
sea-coal of London,' to borrow Will Honeycomb's phrase, in the finest
month of the twelve. But where that is the real motive with one, it is
the pretense of a thousand."

"How can you be so shocking?" said she. "But papa is really grown so
cross and stingy, as to prevent our going to town at all these last two
or three years; and for so mean a reason that I am ashamed to tell you."
Out of politeness I did not press to know; I needed not, for she was
resolved I should not 'burst in ignorance.'

She went on: "Do you know he pretends that times are hard, and public
difficulties increasing; and he declares that whatever privations we
endure, government must be supported: so he says it is right to draw in
in the only way in which he can do it honestly; I am sure it is not
doing it creditably. Did you ever hear any thing so shabby?"

"Shabby, madam," replied I; "I honor a gentleman who has integrity
enough to do a right thing, and good sense enough not to be ashamed to
own it."

"Yes, but papa need not. The steward declares, if he would only raise
his tenants a very little, he would have more than enough; but papa is
inflexible. He says my brother must do as he pleases when he comes to
the estate, but that he himself promised when he came into possession,
that he would never raise the rents, and that he will never be worse
than his word." As I could not find in my heart to join in abusing a
gentleman for resolving never to be worse than his word, I was silent.

She then inquired with more seriousness, if there were any prospect of
peace. I was better pleased with this question, as it implied more
anxiety for the lives of her fellow-creatures, than I had given her
credit for. "I am anxiously looking into all the papers," continued she,
without giving me time to speak, "because as soon as there is peace,
papa has promised that we shall go to town again. If it was not for that
I should not care if there was war till doomsday, for what with marching
regiments, and militia, and volunteers, nothing can be pleasanter than
it makes the country, I mean as far as the country _can_ be pleasant."
They then ran over the names and respective merits of every opera
singer, every dancer, and every actor, with incredible volubility; and I
believe they were not a little shocked at my slender acquaintance with
the nomenclature, and the little interest I took in the criticisms they
built upon it.

Poor Lady Aston looked oppressed and fatigued, but inwardly rejoiced, as
she afterward owned to me, that her daughters were not within hearing. I
was of a different opinion, upon the Spartan principle, of making their
children sober, by the spectacle of the intoxicated Helots. Miss Bell's
eloquence seemed to make but little impression on Sir George; or rather
it produced an effect directly contrary to admiration. His good taste
seemed to revolt at her flippancy. Every time I see this young man he
rises in my esteem. His ingenuous temper and engaging modesty set off to
advantage a very fair understanding.

In our way home, we were accosted by Mr. Flam. After a rough but hearty
salutation, and a cordial invitation to come and dine with him, he
galloped off, being engaged on business. "This is an honest country
'squire of the old cut," said Mr. Stanley afterward; "he has a very good
estate which he has so much delight in managing, that he has no pleasure
in any thing else. He was prevailed on by his father to marry his
present wife for no other reason than because her estate joined to his,
and broke in a little on the _arrondissement_; but it was judged that
both being united, all might be brought within a ring fence. This was
thought a reason sufficiently powerful for the union of two immortal
beings, whose happiness here and hereafter might be impeded or promoted
by it! The felicity of the connection has been in exact proportion to
the purity of the motive."

I could not forbear interrupting Mr. Stanley, by observing that nothing
had surprised or hurt me more in the little observation I had made on
the subject of marriage than the frequent indifference of parents to the
moral, and especially to the religious character of the man who proposed
himself. "That family, fortune, and connections should have their full
share in the business, I readily admit," added I, "but that it should
ever form the chief, often the only ground of acceptance, has, I
confess, lowered mankind in my esteem more completely than almost any
other instance of ambition, avarice, or worldliness. That a very young
girl, who has not been carefully educated, should be captivated by
personal advantages, and even infatuated by splendor, is less surprising
than that parents, who having themselves experienced the insufficiency
of riches to happiness, that they should be eagerly impatient to part
from a beloved daughter, reared with fondness at least, if not with
wisdom, to a man of whose principles they have any doubt, and of whose
mind they have a mean opinion, is a thing I can not understand. And yet
what proposal almost is rejected on this ground?" Lucilla's eyes at
this moment shone with such expressive brightness that I exultingly said
to myself, "Lord Staunton! I defy thee!"

"The mischief of this lax principle is of wide extent," replied Mr.
Stanley. "When girls are continually hearing what an advantageous, what
a desirable marriage such a young friend has made, with a man so rich,
so splendid, so great, though they have been accustomed to hear this
very man condemned for his profligacy perhaps, at least they know him to
be destitute of piety; when they hear that these things are not
considered as any objection to the union, what opinion must these girls
form, not only of the maxims by which the world is governed, but of the
truth of that religion which those persons profess?

"But to return to Mr. Flam. He passed through the usual course of
education, but has profited so little by it, that though he has a
certain natural shrewdness in his understanding, I believe he has
scarcely read a book these twenty years, except Burn's 'Justice' and
'The Agricultural Reports.' Yet when he wants to make a figure, he now
and then lards his discourse with a scrap of thread-bare Latin which he
used to steal in his school-boy exercises. He values himself on his
integrity, and is not destitute of benevolence. These, he says, are the
sum and substance of religion; and though I combat this mistaken notion
as often as he puts it in my power, yet I must say that some who make
more profession would do well to be as careful in these points. He often
contrasts himself with his old friend Ned Tyrrel, and is proud of
showing how much better a man he is without religion than Ned is with
all his pretensions to it. It is by thus comparing ourselves with worse
men that we grow vain, and with more fortunate men that we become
discontented.

"All the concern he gives himself about his wife and daughters is, that
they shall not run him in debt; and, indeed, he is so liberal that he
does not drive them to the necessity. In every thing else, they follow
their own devices. They teased him, however, to let them spend two or
three winters in town, the mother hinting _that it would answer_. He was
prevailed on to try it as a speculation, but the experiment failed. He
now insists that they shall go no more, till the times mend, to any of
the advertising places, such as London, Brighton, or Bath; he says that
attending so many fairs and markets is very expensive, especially as the
girls don't go off. He will now see what can be done by private contract
at home, without the cost of journeys, with fresh keep and trimming and
docking into the bargain. They must now take their chance among country
dealers; and provided they will give him a son-in-law, whose estate is
free from incumbrances, who pays his debts, lives within his income,
does not rack his tenants, never drinks claret, hates the French, and
loves field sports, he will ask no more questions."

I could not but observe how preferable the father's conduct, with all
its faults, was to that of the rest of the family. "I had imagined,"
said I, "that this coarse character was quite out of print. Though it is
religiously bad, and of course morally defective, yet it is so
politically valuable that I should not be sorry to see a new edition of
these obsolete squires, somewhat corrected, and better lettered."

"All his good qualities," said Mr. Stanley, "for want of religion have a
flaw in them. His good nature is so little directed by judgment, that
while it serves the individual, it injures the public. As a brother
magistrate, I am obliged to act in almost constant opposition to him,
and his indiscretions do more mischief by being of a nature to increase
his popularity. He is fully persuaded that occasional intoxication is
the best reward for habitual industry; and insists that it is good old
English kindness to make the church ringers periodically tipsy at the
holidays, though their families starve for it the whole week. He and I
have a regular contest at the annual village fairs, because he insists
that my refusing to let them begin on a Sunday is abridging their few
rights, and robbing them of a day which they might add to their pleasure
without injury to their profit. He allows all the strolling players,
mountebanks, and jugglers to exhibit, because, he says, it is a charity.
His charity, however, is so short-sighted that he does not see that
while these vagabonds are supplying the wants of the day, their
improvident habits suffer them to look no further; that his own workmen
are spending their hard-earned money in these illegal diversions, while
the expense is the least mischief which their daughters incur."

Our next visit was to Mr. Carlton, whom I had found, in one or two
previous interviews, to be a man of excellent sense, and a perfect
gentleman. Sir John renewed with pleasure his acquaintance with the
husband, while Lady Belfield was charmed to be introduced to the wife,
with whose character she was so enamored, and whose gentle manners were
calculated to confirm the affection which her little history had
inspired.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Though Mr. Stanley had checked my impetuosity in my application to him,
and did not encourage my addresses with a promptitude suited to the
ardor of my affection: yet as the warmth of my attachment,
notwithstanding I made it a duty to restrain its outward expression,
could not escape either his penetration or that of his admirable wife,
they began a little to relax in the strictness with which they had
avoided speaking of their daughter. They never indeed introduced the
subject themselves, yet it some how or other never failed to find its
way into all conversation in which I was one of the interlocutors.

Sitting one day in Lucilla's bower with Mrs. Stanley, and speaking,
though in general terms, on the subject nearest my heart, with a
tenderness and admiration as sincere as it was fervent, I dwelt
particularly on some instances which I had recently heard from Edwards,
of her tender attention to the sick poor, and her zeal in often visiting
them, without regard to weather, or the accommodation of a carriage.

"I assure you," said Mrs. Stanley, "you over-rate her. Lucilla is no
prodigy dropped down from the clouds. Ten thousand other young women,
with natural good sense, and good temper, might, with the same
education, the same neglect of what is useless, and the same attention
to what is necessary, acquire the same habits and the same principles.
Her being no prodigy, however, perhaps makes her example, as far as it
goes, more important. She may be more useful, because she carries not
that discouraging superiority, which others might be deterred from
imitating, through hopelessness to reach. If she is not a miracle whom
others might despair to emulate, she is a Christian whom every girl of a
fair understanding and good temper may equal, and whom, I hope and
believe, many girls excel."

I asked Mrs. Stanley's permission to attend the young ladies in one of
their benevolent rounds. "When I have leisure to be one of the party,"
replied she, smiling, "you shall accompany us. I am afraid to trust your
warm feelings. Your good-nature would perhaps lead you to commend as a
merit, what in fact deserves no praise at all, the duly being so
obvious, and so indispensable. I have often heard it regretted that
ladies have no stated employment, no profession. It is a mistake.
_Charity is the calling of a lady; the care of the poor is her
profession._ Men have little time or taste for details. Women of fortune
have abundant leisure, which can in no way be so properly or so
pleasantly filled up, as in making themselves intimately acquainted with
the worth and the wants of all within their reach. With their wants,
because it is their bounden duty to administer to them; with their
worth, because without this knowledge, they can not administer prudently
and appropriately."

I expressed to Mrs. Stanley the delight with which I had heard of the
admirable regulations of her family, in the management of the poor, and
how much their power of doing good was said to be enlarged by the
judgment and discrimination with which it was done.

"We are far from thinking," replied she, "that our charity should be
limited to our own immediate neighborhood. We are of opinion, that it
should not be left undone anywhere, but that _there_ it should be done
indispensably. We consider our own parish as our more appropriate field
of action, where providence, by 'fixing the bounds of our habitation,'
seems to have made us peculiarly responsible for the comfort of those
whom he has doubtless placed around us for that purpose. It is thus that
the Almighty vindicates his justice, or rather calls on us to vindicate
it. It is thus he explains why he admits natural evil into the world, by
making the wants of one part of the community an exercise for the
compassion of the other. As in different circumstances, the faults of
one part of mankind are an exercise for the forbearance of the other.

"Surely," added Mrs. Stanley, "the reason is particularly obvious, why
the bounty of the affluent ought to be most liberally, though not
exclusively, extended to the spot whence they derive their revenues.
There seems indeed to be a double motive for it. The same act involves a
duty both to God and man. The largest bounty to the necessitous on our
estates, is rather justice than charity. 'Tis but a kind of pepper-corn
acknowledgment to the great Lord and proprietor of all, from whom we
hold them. And to assist their own laboring poor is a kind of natural
debt, which persons who possess great landed property owe to those from
the sweat of whose brow they derive their comforts, and even their
riches. 'Tis a commutation, in which, as the advantage is greatly on our
side, so is our duty to diminish the difference a paramount obligation."

I then repeated my request, that I might be allowed to take a practical
lesson in the next periodical visit to the cottages.

Mrs. Stanley replied, "As to my girls, the elder ones I trust are such
veterans in their trade, that your approbation can do them no harm, nor
do they stand in need of it as an incentive. But should the little ones
find that their charity procures them praise, they might perhaps be
charitable for the sake of praise, their benevolence might be set at
work by their vanity, and they might be led to do that, from the love of
applause, which can only please God when the principle is pure. _The
iniquity of our holy things_, my good friend, requires much Christian
vigilance. Next to not giving at all, the greatest fault is to give from
ostentation. The motive robs the act of the very name of virtue. While
the good work that is paid in praise, is stripped of the hope of higher
retribution."

On my assuring Mrs. Stanley that I thought such an introduction to their
systematic schemes of charity might inform my own mind and improve my
habits, she consented, and I have since been a frequent witness of their
admirable method; and have been studying plans, which involve the good
both of body and soul. Oh! if I am ever blest with a coadjutress, a
directress let me rather say, formed under such auspices, with what
delight shall I transplant the principles and practices of Stanley Grove
to the Priory! Nor indeed would I ever marry but with the animating hope
that not only myself, but all around me, would be the better and the
happier for the presiding genius I shall place there.

Sir John Belfield had joined us while we were on this topic. I had
observed that though he was earnest on the general principle of
benevolence, which he considered as a most imperious duty, or, as he
said in his warm way, as so lively a pleasure that he was almost ready
to suspect if it _were_ a duty; yet I was sorry to find that his
generous mind had not viewed this large subject under all its aspects.
He had not hitherto regarded it as a matter demanding any thing but
money; while time, inquiry, discrimination, system, he confessed, he had
not much taken into the account. He did a great deal of good, but had
not allowed himself time or thought for the best way of doing it.
Charity, as opposed to hard-heartedness and covetousness, he warmly
exercised; but when, with a willing liberality, he had cleared himself
from the suspicion of those detestable vices, he was indolent in the
proper distribution of money, and somewhat negligent of its just
application. Nor had he ever considered, as every man should do, because
every man's means are limited, how the greatest quantity of good could
be done with any given sum.

But the worst of all was, he had imbibed certain popular prejudices
respecting the more _religious_ charities; prejudices altogether
unworthy of his enlightened mind. He too much limited his ideas of
bounty to bodily wants. This distinction was not with him, as it is with
many, invented as an argument for saving his money, which he most
willingly bestowed for feeding and clothing the necessitous. But as to
the propriety of affording them religious instruction, he owned he had
not made up his mind. He had some doubts whether it were a duty. Whether
it were a benefit he had still stronger doubts; adding that he should
begin to consider the subject more attentively than he had yet done.

Mrs. Stanley in reply, said, "I am but a poor casuist, Sir John, and I
must refer you to Mr. Stanley for abler arguments than I can use. I will
venture, however, to say, that even on your own ground it appears to be
a pressing duty. If sin be the cause of so large a portion of the
miseries of human life, must not that be the noblest charity which
cures, or lessens, or prevents sin? And are not they the truest
benefactors even to the bodies of men, who by their religious exertions
to prevent the corruption of vice, prevent also in some measure that
poverty and disease which are the natural concomitants of vice? If in
endeavoring to make men better, by the infusion of a religious
principle, which shall check idleness, drinking, and extravagance, we
put them in the way to become healthier, and richer, and happier, it
will furnish a practical argument which I am sure will satisfy your
benevolent heart."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Mr. Tyrrel and his nephew called on us this evening, and interrupted a
pleasant and useful conversation on which we were just entering. "Do
you know, Stanley," said Mr. Tyrrel, "that you absolutely corrupted my
nephew, by what passed at your house the other day in favor of reading?
He has ever since been ransacking the shelves for idle books."

"I should be seriously concerned," replied Mr. Stanley, "if any thing I
had said should have drawn Mr. Edward off from more valuable studies, or
diverted him from the important pursuit of religious knowledge."

"Why, to do him justice, and you too," resumed Mr. Tyrrel, "he has since
that conversation begun assiduously to devote his mornings to serious
reading, and it is only an hour's leisure in the evening, which he used
to trifle away, that he gives to books of taste; but I had rather he
would let them all alone; the best of them will only fill his heart with
cold morality, and stuff his head with romance and fiction. I would not
have a religious man ever look into a book of your belles-lettres
nonsense; and if he be really religious, he will make a general bonfire
of the poets."

"That is rather too sweeping a sentence," said Mr. Stanley. "It would, I
grant you, have been a benefit to mankind, if the entire works of some
celebrated poets, and a considerable portion of the works of many not
quite so exceptionable, were to assist the conflagration of your pile."

"And if fuel failed," said Sir John Belfield, "we might not only rob
Belinda's altar of her

    Twelve tomes of French romances neatly gilt,

but feed the flame with countless marble-covered octavos from the modern
school. But having made this concession, allow me to observe, that
because there has been a voluptuous Petronius, a scoffing Lucian, and a
licentious Ovid, to say nothing of the numberless modern poets, or
rather individual poems, that are immoral and corrupt--shall we
therefore exclude all works of imagination from the library of a young
man? Surely? we should not indiscriminately banish the Muses, as
infallible corrupters of the youthful mind; I would rather consider a
blameless poet as the auxiliar of virtue. Whatever talent enables a
writer to possess an empire over the heart, and to lead the passions at
his command, puts it in his power to be of no small service to mankind.
It is no new remark that the abuse of any good thing is no argument
against its legitimate use. Intoxication affords no just reason against
the use of wine, nor prodigality against the possession of wealth. In
the instance in dispute, I should rather infer that a talent capable of
diffusing so much mischief was susceptible of no small benefit. That it
has been so often abused by its misapplication, is one of the highest
instances of the ingratitude of man for one of the highest gifts of
God."

"I can not think," said I, "that the Almighty conferred such a faculty
with a wish to have it extinguished. Works of imagination have in many
countries been a chief instrument in civilization. Poetry has not only
preceded science in the history of human progress, but it has in many
countries preceded the knowledge of the mechanical arts; and I have
somewhere read, that in Scotland they could write elegant Latin verse
before they could make a wheel-barrow. For my own part, in my late visit
to London, I thought the decline of poetry no favorable symptom."

"I rejoice to hear it _is_ declining," said Mr. Tyrrel. "I hope that
what is decaying, may in time be extinguished."

"Mr. Tyrrel would have been delighted with that with which I was
displeased," replied I. "I met with philosophers, who were like Plato in
nothing but his abhorrence of the Muses; with politicians, who resembled
Burleigh only in his enmity to Spenser; and with warriors, who, however
they might emulate Alexander in his conquests, would never have imitated
him in sparing the house of Pindarus."

"The _art_ of poetry," said Mr. Stanley, "is to touch the passions, and
its _duty_ to lead them on the side of virtue. To raise and to purify
the amusements of mankind; to multiply and to exalt pleasures, which
being purely intellectual, may help to exclude such as are gross, in
beings so addicted to sensuality, is surely not only to give pleasure,
but to render service. It is allowable to seize every avenue to the
heart of a being so prone to evil; to rescue him by every fair means,
not only from the degradation of vice, but from the dominion of
idleness. I do not now speak of gentlemen of the sacred function, to
which Mr. Edward Tyrrel aspires, but of those who, having no profession,
have no stated employment; and who, having more leisure, will be in
danger of exceeding the due bounds in the article of amusement. Let us
then endeavor to snatch our youth of fashion from the low pleasures of
the dissolute; to snatch them, not only from the destruction of the
gaming-table, but from the excesses of the dining-table, by inviting
them to an elegant delight that is safe, and especially by enlarging the
range of pure mental pleasure.

"In order to this, let us do all we can to cultivate their taste, and
innocently indulge their fancy. Let us contend with impure writers,
those deadliest enemies to the youthful mind, by opposing to them in the
chaster author, images more attractive, wit more acute, learning more
various; in all which excellences our first-rate poets certainly excel
their vicious competitors."

"Would you, Mr. Tyrrel," said Sir John, "throw into the enemy's camp all
the light arms which often successfully annoy where the heavy artillery
can not reach?"

"Let us," replied Mr. Stanley, "rescue from the hands of the profane and
the impure, the monopoly of wit which, they affect to possess, and which
they would possess, if no good men had written works of elegant
literature, and if all good men totally despised them."

"For my own part," said Mr. Tyrrel, "I believe that a good man, in my
sense of the word, will neither write works of imagination, nor read
them."

"At your age and mine, and better employed as we certainly may be," said
Mr. Stanley, "we want not such resources. I myself, though I retain the
relish, have little leisure for the indulgence, which yet I would allow,
though with great discrimination, to the young and the unoccupied. What
is to whet the genius of the champions of virtue, so as to enable them
successfully to combat the leaders of vice and infidelity, if we refuse
to let them be occasionally sharpened and polished by such studies? That
model of brilliant composition, Bishop Jeremy Taylor, was of this
opinion, when he said, 'by whatever instrument piety is advantaged, use
that, though thou grindest thy spears and arrows at the forges of the
Philistines.'

"I know," continued Mr. Stanley, "that a Christian need not borrow
weapons of attack or defense from the classic armory; but, to drop all
metaphor, if he is called upon to defend truth and virtue against men
whose minds are adorned with all that is elegant, strengthened with all
that is powerful, and enriched with all that is persuasive, from the
writers in question--is he likely to engage with due advantage if his
own mind be destitute of the embellishments with which theirs abound?
While wit and imagination are _their_ favorite instruments, shall we
consider the aid of either as useless, much less as sinful in their
opponents?"

"While young men _will_ be amused," said Sir John, "it is surely of
importance that they should be _safely_ amused. We should not therefore
wish to obliterate in authors such faculties as wit and fancy, nor to
extinguish a taste for them in readers."

"Show me any one instance of good that ever was effected by any one
poet," said Mr. Tyrrel, "and I will give up the point; while, on the
other hand, a thousand instances of mischief might be produced."

"The latter part of your assertion, sir," said I, "I fear is too true:
but to what evil has elevation of fancy led Milton, or Milton his
readers? Into what immoralities did it involve Spenser or Cowley? Has
Thomson added to the crimes or the calamities of mankind? Into what
immoralities did it plunge Gray, or Goldsmith? Has it tainted the purity
of Beattie in his Minstrel, or that of the living minstrel of the LAY?
What reader has Mason corrupted, or what reader has Cowper not
benefitted? Milton was an enthusiast both in religion and politics. Many
enthusiasts with whom he was connected, doubtless condemned the exercise
of his imagination in his immortal poem as a crime; but his genius was
too mighty to be restrained by opposition, and his imagination too vast
and powerful to be kept down by a party. Had he confined himself to his
prose writings, weighty and elaborate as some of them are, how little
service would he have done the world, and how little would he now be
read or quoted! In his life-time politics might blind his enemies, and
fanaticism his friends. But now, who, comparatively, reads the
Iconoclastes? who does not read Comus?"

"What then," said Mr. Tyrrel, "you would have our young men spend their
time in reading idle verses, and our girls, I suppose, in reading loose
romances?"

"It is to preserve both from evils which I deprecate," said Mr. Stanley,
"that I would consign the most engaging subjects to the best hands, and
raise the taste of our youth, by allowing a little of their leisure, and
of their leisure only, to such amusements; and that chiefly with a view
to disengage them from worse pursuits. It is not romance, but indolence;
it is not poetry, but sensuality, which are the prevailing evils of the
day--evils far more fatal in themselves, far more durable in their
effects, than the perusal of works of wit and genius. Imagination will
cool of itself. The effervescence of fancy will soon subside; but
absorbing dissipation, but paralyzing idleness, but degrading self-love,

    "Grows with their growth, and strengthens with their strength."

"A judicious reformer," said Sir John, "will accommodate his remedy to
an existing and not an imaginary evil. When the old romances, the grand
Cyruses, the Clelias, the Calprenedes, and the Cassandras, had turned
all the young heads in Europe; or when the fury of knight-errantry
demanded the powerful rein of Cervantes to check it--it was a duty to
attempt to lower the public delirium. When, in our own age and country,
Sterne wrote his corrupt, but too popular lesser work, he became the
mischievous founder of the school of sentiment. A hundred writers
communicated, a hundred thousand readers caught, the infection.
Sentimentality was the disease which then required to be expelled. The
reign of Sterne is past. Sensibility is discarded, and with it the
softness which it must be confessed belonged to it. Romance is vanished,
and with it the heroic, though somewhat unnatural, elevation which
accompanied it. We have little to regret in the loss of either; nor have
we much cause to rejoice in what we have gained by the exchange. A
pervading and substantial selfishness, the striking characteristic of
our day, is no great improvement on the wildness of the old romance, or
the vapid puling of the sentimental school."

"Surely," said I (L'Almanac des Gourmands at that instant darting across
my mind), "it is as honorable for a gentleman to excel in critical as in
culinary skill. It is as noble to cultivate the intellectual taste, as
that of the palate. It is at least as creditable to discuss the
comparative merits of Sophocles and Shakspeare, as the rival ingredients
of a soup or a sauce. I will even venture to affirm that it is as
dignified an amusement to run a tilt in favor of Virgil or Tasso against
their assailants, as to run a barouche against a score of rival
barouches; and though I own that, in Gulliver's land of the Houyhnhnms,
the keeping up the breed of horses might have been the nobler
patriotism, yet in Great Britain it is hitherto, at least, no
contemptible exertion of skill and industry 'to keep up the breed of
gentlemen.'"

CHAPTER XXIX.

I strolled out alone, intending to call at the Rectory, but was
prevented by meeting the worthy Dr. Barlow, who was coming to the Grove.
I could not lose so fair an opportunity of introducing a subject that
was seldom absent from my thoughts. I found it was a subject on which I
had no new discoveries to impart. He told me he had seen and rejoiced in
the election my heart had made. I was surprised at his penetration. He
smiled, and told me he "took no great credit for his sagacity in
perceiving what was obvious to spectators far more indifferent than
himself; that I resembled those animals who, by hiding their heads in
the earth, fancied nobody could see them."

I asked him a thousand questions about Lucilla, whose fine mind I knew
he had in some measure contributed to form. I inquired, with an
eagerness which he called jealousy, who were her admirers? "As many men
as have seen her," replied he; "I know no man who has so many rivals as
yourself. To relieve your apprehensions, however, I will tell you, that
though there have been several competitors for her favor, not one has
been accepted. There has, indeed, this summer been a very formidable
candidate, young Lord Staunton, who has a large estate in the county,
and whom she met on a visit." At these words I felt my fears revive. A
young and handsome peer seemed so redoubtable a rival, that for a moment
I only remembered she was a woman, and forgot that she was Lucilla.

"You may set your heart at rest," said Dr. Barlow, who saw my emotion;
"she heard he had seduced the innocent daughter of one of his tenants,
under the most specious pretense of honorable love. This, together with
the looseness of his religious principles, led her to give his lordship
a positive refusal, though he is neither destitute of talents, nor
personal accomplishments."

How ashamed was I of my jealousy! How I felt my admiration increase! Yet
I thought it was too great before to admit of augmentation. "Another
proposal," said Dr. Barlow, "was made to her father by a man every way
unexceptionable. But she desired him to be informed that it was her
earnest request that he would proceed no further, but spare her the pain
of refusing a gentleman for whose character she entertained a sincere
respect; but being persuaded she could never be able to feel more than
respect, she positively declined receiving his addresses, assuring him,
at the same time, that she sincerely desired to retain, as a friend, him
whom she felt herself obliged to refuse as a husband. She is as far from
the vanity of seeking to make conquest, as from the ungenerous insolence
of using ill those whom her merit has captivated, and her judgment can
not accept."

After admiring in the warmest terms the purity and generosity of her
heart, I pressed Dr. Barlow still further, as to the interior of her
mind. I questioned him as to her early habits, and particularly as to
her religious attainments, telling him that nothing was indifferent to
me which related to Lucilla.

"Miss Stanley," replied he, "is governed by a simple, practical end, in
all her religious pursuits. She reads her Bible, not from habit, that
she may acquit herself of a customary form; not to exercise her
ingenuity by allegorizing literal passages, or spiritualizing plain
ones, but that she may improve in knowledge and grow in grace. She
accustoms herself to meditation, in order to get her mind more deeply
imbued with a sense of eternal things. She practices self-examination,
that she may learn to watch against the first risings of bad
dispositions, and to detect every latent evil in her heart. She lives in
the regular habit of prayer, not only that she may implore pardon of
sin, but that she may obtain strength against it. She told me one day
when she was ill, that if she did not constantly examine the actual
state of her mind, she should pray at random, without any certainty what
particular sins she should pray against, or what were her particular
wants. She has read much Scripture and little controversy. There are
some doctrines that she does not pretend to define, which she yet
practically adopts. She can not perhaps give you a disquisition on the
mysteries of the Holy Spirit, but she can and does fervently implore his
guidance and instruction; she believes in his efficacy, and depends on
his support. She is sensible that those truths, which from their deep
importance are most obvious, have more of the vitality of religion, and
influence practice more, than those abstruse points which unhappily
split the religious world into so many parties.

"If I were to name what are her predominant virtues, I should say
sincerity and humility. Conscious of her own imperfections, she never
justifies her faults, and seldom extenuates them. She receives reproof
with meekness, and advice with gratitude. Her own conscience is always
so ready to condemn her, that she never wonders, nor takes offense, at
the censures of others."

"That softness of manner which you admire in her is not the varnish of
good breeding, nor is it merely the effect of good temper, though in
both she excels, but it is the result of humility. She appears humble,
not because a mild exterior is graceful, but because she has an inward
conviction of unworthiness which prevents an assuming manner. Yet her
humility has no cant; she never disburdens her conscience by a few
disparaging phrases, nor lays a trap for praise by indiscriminately
condemning herself. Her humility never impairs her cheerfulness; for the
sense of her wants directs her to seek, and her faith enables her to
find, the sure foundation of a better hope than any which can be derived
from a delusive confidence in her own goodness."

"One day," continued Dr. Barlow, "when I blamed her gently for her
backwardness in expressing her opinion on some serious point, she said,
'I always feel diffident in speaking on these subjects, not only lest I
should be _thought_ to assume, but lest I really _should_ assume a
degree of piety which may not belong to me. My great advantages make me
jealous of myself. My dear father has so carefully instructed me, and I
live so much in the habit of hearing his pious sentiments that I am
often afraid of appearing better than I am, and of pretending to feel in
my heart what perhaps I only approve in my judgment. When my beloved
mother was ill,' continued she, 'I often caught myself saying
mechanically, God's will be done! when I blush to own how little I felt
in my heart of that resignation of which my lips were so lavish.'"

I hung with inexpressible delight on every word Dr. Barlow uttered, and
expressed my fears that such a prize was too much above my deserts to
allow me to encourage very sanguine hopes. "You have my cordial wishes
for your success," said he, "though I shall lament the day when you
snatch so fair a flower from our fields, to transplant it into your
northern gardens."

We had now reached the park-gate, where Sir John and Lady Belfield
joined us. As it was very hot, Dr. Barlow proposed to conduct us a
nearer way. He carried us through a small nursery of fruit-trees, which
I had not before observed, though it was adjoining the ladies'
flower-garden, from which it was separated and concealed by a row of
tall trees. I expressed my surprise that the delicate Lucilla would
allow so coarse an inclosure to be so near her ornamented ground. "You
see she does all she can to shut it out," replied he. "I will tell you
how it happens, for I can not vindicate the taste of my fair friend,
without exposing a better quality in her. But if I betray her, you must
not betray me.

"It is a rule when any servant who has lived seven years at the Grove,
marries, provided they have conducted themselves well, and make a
prudent choice, for Mr. Stanley to give them a piece of ground on the
waste, to build a cottage; he also allows them to take stones from his
quarry, and lime from his kiln; to this he adds a bit of ground for a
garden. Mrs. Stanley presents some kitchen furniture, and gives a
wedding dinner; and the rector refuses his fee for performing the
ceremony."

"Caroline," said Sir John, "this is not the first time since we have
been at the Grove that I have been struck with observing how many
benefits naturally result to the poor, from the rich living on
their own estates. Their dependants have a thousand petty local
advantages, which cost almost nothing to the giver, which are yet
valuable to the receiver, and of which the absent never think."

"You have heard," said Dr. Barlow, "that Miss Stanley, from her
childhood, has been passionately fond of cultivating a garden. When she
was hardly fourteen, she began to reflect that the delight she took in
this employment was attended neither with pleasure nor profit to any one
but herself, and she became jealous of a gratification which was so
entirely selfish. She begged this piece of waste ground of her father,
and stocked it with a number of fine young fruit-trees of the common
sort, apples, pears, plums, and the smaller fruits. When there is a
wedding among the older servants, or when any good girl out of her
school marries, she presents their little empty garden with a dozen
young apple-trees, and a few trees of the other sorts, never forgetting
to embellish their little court with roses and honey-suckles. These last
she transplants from the shrubbery, not to fill up the _village garden_,
as it is called, with any thing that is of no positive use. She employs
a poor lame man in the village a day in a week to look after this
nursery, and by cutting and grafts a good stock is raised on a small
space. It is done at her own expense, Mr. Stanley making this a
condition when he gave her the ground; 'otherwise,' said he, 'trifling
as it is, it would be my charity and not hers, and she would get thanked
for a kindness which would cost her nothing.' The warm-hearted little
Ph[oe]be cooperates in this, and all her sister's labors of love.

"Some such union of charity with every personal indulgence, she
generally imposes on herself; and from this association she has acquired
another virtue, for she tells me, smiling, she is sometimes obliged to
content herself with practicing frugality instead of charity. When she
finds she can not afford both her own gratification, and the charitable
act which she wanted to associate with it, and is therefore compelled to
give up the charity, she compels herself to give up the indulgence also.
By this self-denial she gets a little money in hand for the next demand,
and thus is enabled to afford both next time."

As he finished speaking, we spied the lame gardener pruning and clearing
the trees. "Well, James," said the Doctor, "how does your nursery
thrive?" "Why, sir," said the poor man, "we are rather thin of stout
trees at present. You know we had three weddings at Christmas, which
took thirty-six of my best apple-trees at a blow, besides half a dozen
tall pear-trees, and as many plums. But we shall soon fetch it up, for
Miss Lucilla makes me plant two for every one that is removed, so that
we are always provided for a wedding, come when it will."

I now recollected that I had been pleased with observing so many young
orchards and flourishing cottage gardens in the village: little did I
suspect the fair hand which could thus in a few years diffuse an air of
smiling comfort around these humble habitations, and embellish poverty
itself. She makes, they told me, her periodical visits of inspection to
see that neatness and order do not degenerate.

Not to appear too eager, I asked the poor man some questions about his
health, which seemed infirm. "I am but weak, sir," said he, "for matter
of that, but I should have been dead long ago but for the Squire's
family. He gives me the run of his kitchen, and Miss Lucilla allows me
half-a-crown a week for one day's work and any odd hour I can spare; but
she don't let me earn it, for she is always watching for fear it should
be too hot, or too cold, or too wet for me; and she brings me my dose of
bark herself into this tool-house, that she may be sure I take it; for
she says, servants and poor people like to have medicines provided for
them, but don't care to take them. Then she watches that I don't throw
my coat on the wet grass, which she says, gives laboring men so much
rheumatism; and she made me this nice flannel waistcoat, sir, with her
own hands. At Christmas they give me a new suit from top to toe, so that
I want for nothing but a more thankful heart, for I never can be
grateful enough to God and my benefactors."

I asked some further questions, only to have the pleasure of hearing him
talk longer about Lucilla. "But, sir," said he, interrupting me, "I hear
bad news, very bad news. Pray, your honor, forgive me." "What do you
mean, James?" said I, seeing his eyes fill. "Why, sir, all the servants
at the Grove will have it that you are come to carry off Miss Lucilla,
God bless her whenever she goes. Your Mr. Edwards, sir, says you are one
of the best of gentlemen, but indeed, indeed, I don't know who can
deserve her. She will carry a blessing wherever she goes." The honest
fellow put up the sleeve of his coat to brush away his tears, nor was I
ashamed of those with which his honest affection filled my own eyes.
While we were talking, a poor little girl, who I knew, by her neat
uniform, belonged to Miss Stanley's school, passed us with a little
basket in her hand. James called to her, "Make haste, Rachel, you are
after your time."

"What, this is market-day, James, is it?" said Doctor Barlow, "and
Rachel is come for her nosegays." "Yes, sir," said James; "I forgot to
tell their honors, that every Saturday, as soon as her school is over,
the younger Misses give Rachel leave to come and fetch some flowers out
of their garden, which she carries to the town to sell; she commonly
gets a shilling, half of which they make her lay out to bring home a
little tea for her poor sick mother, and the other half she lays up to
buy shoes and stockings for herself and her crippled sister. Every
little is a help where there is nothing, sir."

Sir John said nothing, but looked at Lady Belfield, whose eyes glistened
while she softly said, "O, how little do the rich ever think what the
aggregate even of their own squandered shillings would do in the way of
charity, were they systematically applied to it!"

James now unlocked a little private door, which opened into the
pleasure-ground. There, at a distance, sitting in a circle on the
new-mown grass, under a tree, we beheld all the little Stanleys, with a
basket of flowers between them, out of which they were earnestly
employed in sorting and tying up nosegays. We stood some time admiring
their little busy faces and active fingers, without their perceiving us,
and got up to them just as they were putting their prettily-formed
bouquets into Rachel's basket, with which she marched off, with many
charges from the children to waste no time by the way, and to be sure to
leave the nosegay that had the myrtle in it at Mrs. Williams's.

"How many nosegays have you given to Rachel to-day, Louisa?" said Dr.
Barlow to the eldest of the four. "Only three apiece, sir," replied she.
"We think it a bad day when we can't make up our dozen. They are all our
own; we seldom touch mamma's flowers, and we never suffer James to take
ours, because Ph[oe]be says it might be tempting him. Little Jane
lamented that Lucilla had given them nothing to-day, except two or three
sprigs of her best flowering myrtle, which," added she, "we make Rachel
give into the bargain to a poor sick lady who loves flowers, and used to
have good ones of her own, but who has now no money to spare, and could
not afford to give more than the common price for a nosegay for her sick
room. So we always slip a nice flower or two out of the green-house into
her little bunch, and say nothing. When we walk that way we often leave
her some flowers ourselves, and would do it oftener if it did not hurt
poor Rachel's trade."

As we walked away from the sweet prattlers, Dr. Barlow said: "These
little creatures already emulate their sisters in associating some petty
kindness with their own pleasures. The act is trifling, but the habit is
good; as is every habit which helps to take us out of self, which
teaches us to transfer our attention from our own gratification to the
wants or the pleasures of another."

"I confess," said Lady Belfield, as we entered the house, "that it never
occurred to me that it was any part of charity to train my children to
the habit of sacrificing their time or their pleasure for the benefit of
others, though to do them justice, they are very feeling and very
liberal with their money."

"My dear Caroline," said Sir John, "it is our money, not theirs. It is,
I fear, a cheap liberality, and abridges not themselves of one
enjoyment. They well know we are so pleased to see them charitable that
we shall instantly repay them with interest whatever they give away, so
that we have hitherto afforded them no opportunity to show their actual
dispositions. Nay, I begin to fear that they may become charitable
through covetousness, if they find out that the more they give the more
they shall get. We must correct this artificial liberality as soon as we
get home."

CHAPTER XXX.

A few days after, Sir John Belfield and I agreed to take a ride to Mr.
Carlton's, where we breakfasted. Nothing could be more rational than the
whole turn of his mind, nor more agreeable and unreserved than his
conversation. His behavior to his amiable wife was affectionately
attentive, and Sir John, who is a most critical observer, remarked that
it was quite natural and unaffected. It appeared to be the result of
esteem inspired by her merit, and quickened by a sense of his own former
unworthiness, which made him feel as if he could never do enough to
efface the memory of past unkindness. He manifested evident symptoms of
a mind earnestly intent on the discovery and pursuit of moral and
religious truth; and from the natural ardor of his character, and the
sincerity of his remorse, his attainments seemed likely to be rapid and
considerable.

The sweet benignity of Mrs. Carlton's countenance was lighted up at our
entrance with a smile of satisfaction. We had been informed with what
pleasure she observed every accession of right-minded acquaintance which
her husband made. Though her natural modesty prevented her from
introducing any subject herself, yet when any thing useful was brought
forward by others, she promoted it by a look compounded of pleasure and
intelligence.

After a variety of topics had been dispatched, the conversation fell on
the prejudices which were commonly entertained by men of the world
against religion. "For my own part," said Mr. Carlton, "I must confess
that no man had ever more or stronger prejudices to combat than myself.
I mean not my own exculpation when I add, that the imprudence, the want
of judgment, and, above all, the incongruous mixtures and
inconsistencies in many characters who are reckoned religious, are ill
calculated to do away the unfavorable opinions of men of an opposite way
of thinking. As I presume that you, gentlemen, are not ignorant of the
errors of my early life--error indeed is an appellation far too mild--I
shall not scruple to own to you the source of those prejudices which
retarded my progress, even after I became ashamed of my deviations from
virtue. I had felt the turpitude of my bad habits long before I had
courage to renounce them; and I renounced them long before I had courage
to avow my abhorrence of them."

Sir John and I expressed ourselves extremely obliged by the candor of
his declaration, and assured him that his further communications would
not only gratify but benefit us.

"Educated as I had been," said Mr. Carlton, "in an almost entire
ignorance of religion, mine was rather a habitual indifference than a
systematic unbelief. My thoughtless course of life, though it led me to
hope that Christianity might not be true, yet had by no means been able
to convince me that it was false. As I had not been taught to search for
truth at the fountain, for I was unacquainted with the Bible, I had no
readier means for forming my judgment than by observing, though with a
careless and casual eye, what effect religion produced in those who
professed to be influenced by it. My observations augmented my
prejudices. What I saw of the professors increased my dislike of the
profession. All the charges brought by their enemies, for I had been
accustomed to weigh the validity of testimony, had not riveted my
dislike so much as the difference between their own avowed principles
and their obvious practice. Religious men should be the more cautious of
giving occasion for reproach, as they know the world is always on the
watch, and is more glad to have its prejudices confirmed than removed.

"I seize the moment of Mrs. Carlton's absence (who was just then called
out of the room, but returned almost immediately) to observe, that what
rooted my disgust was, the eagerness with which the mother of my
inestimable wife, who made a great parade of religion, pressed the
marriage of her only child with a man whose conduct she knew to be
irregular, and of whose principles she entertained a just, that is, an
unfavorable opinion. To see, I repeat, the religious mother of Mrs.
Carlton obviously governed in her zeal for promoting our union by
motives as worldly as those of my poor father, who pretended to no
religion at all, would have extremely lowered any respect which I might
have previously been induced to entertain for characters of that
description. Nor was this disgust diminished by my acquaintance with Mr.
Tyrrel. I had known him while a professed man of the world, and had at
that time, I fear, disliked his violent temper, his narrow mind, and his
coarse manners, more than his vices.

"I had heard of the power of religion to change the heart, and I
ridiculed the wild chimera. My contempt for this notion was confirmed by
the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel in his new character. I found it had produced
little change in him, except furnishing him with a new subject of
discussion. I saw that he had only laid down one set of opinions and
taken up another, with no addition whatever to his virtues, and with the
addition to his vices of spiritual pride and self-confidence; for with
hypocrisy I have no right to charge any man. I observed that Tyrrel and
one or two of his new friends rather courted attack than avoided it.
They considered discretion as the infirmity of a worldly mind, and every
attempt at kindness or conciliation as an abandonment of faith. They
eagerly ascribed to their piety the dislike which was often excited by
their peculiarities. I found them apt to dignify the disapprobation
which their singularity occasioned with the name of persecution. I have
seen them take comfort in the belief that it was their religion which
was disliked, when perhaps it was chiefly their oddities.

"At Tyrrel's I became acquainted with your friends Mr. and Mrs. Ranby. I
leave you to judge whether their characters, that of the lady
especially, was calculated to do away my prejudices. I had learned from
my favorite Roman poet a precept in composition, of never making a God
appear, except on occasions worthy of a God. I have since had reason to
think this rule as justly theological as it is classical. So thought not
the Ranbys.

"It will, indeed, readily be allowed by every reflecting mind, as God is
to be viewed in all his works, so his 'never-failing providence ordereth
all things both in heaven and on earth.' But surely there is something
very offensive in the indecent familiarity with which the name of God
and Providence is brought in on every trivial occasion, as was the
constant practice of Mr. and Mrs. Ranby. I was not even then so
illogical a reasoner as to allow a general and deny a particular
Providence. If the one were true, I inferred that the other could not be
false. But I felt that the religion of these people was of a slight
texture and a bad taste. I was disgusted with littleness in some
instances, and with inconsistency in others. Still their absurdity gave
me no right to suspect their sincerity.

"Whenever Mrs. Ranby had a petty inclination to gratify, she had always
recourse to what she called the _leadings of Providence_. In matters of
no more moment than whether she should drink tea with one neighbor
instead of another, she was _impelled_, or _directed_, or _overruled_. I
observed that she always took care to interpret these _leadings_ to her
own taste, and under their sanction she always did what her fancy led
her to do. She professed to follow this guidance on such minute
occasions, that I had almost said her piety seemed a little impious. To
the actual dispensations of Providence, especially when they came in a
trying or adverse shape, I did not observe more submission than I had
seen in persons who could not be suspected of religion. I must own to
you also, that as I am rather fastidious, I began to fancy that vulgar
language, quaint phrases, and false grammar, were necessarily connected
with religion. The sacrifice of taste and elegance, seemed
indispensable, and I was inclined to fear that if _they_ were right, it
would be impossible to get to heaven with good English."

"Though I grant there is some truth in your remarks, sir," said I, "you
must allow that when men are determined at all events to hunt down
religious characters, they are never at a loss to find plausible
objections to justify their dislike; and while they conceal, even from
themselves, the real motive of their aversion, the vigilance with which
they pry into the characters of men who are reckoned pious, is exercised
with the secret hope of finding faults enough to confirm their
prejudices."

"As a general truth, you are perfectly right," said Mr. Carlton; "but at
the period to which I allude, I had now got to that stage of my
progress, as to be rather searching for instances to invite than to
repel me in my inquiry."

"You will grant, however," said I, "that it is a common effect of
prejudice to transfer the fault of a religious man to religion itself.
Such a man happens to have an uncouth manner, an awkward gesture, an
unmodulated voice; his allusions may be coarse, his phraseology quaint,
his language slovenly. The solid virtues which may lie disguised under
these incumbrances go for nothing. The man is absurd, and therefore
Christianity is ridiculous. Its truth, however, though it may be
eclipsed, can not be extinguished. Like its divine Author, it is the
same yesterday, to-day, and forever."

"There was another repulsive circumstance," replied Mr. Carlton: "the
scanty charities both of Tyrrel and his new friends, so inferior to the
liberality of my father and of Mr. Flam, who never professed to be
governed by any higher motive than mere feeling, strengthened my
dislike. The calculations of mere reason taught me that the religious
man who does not greatly exceed the man of the world in his
liberalities, falls short of him; because the worldly man who gives
liberally, acts above his principle, while the Christian who does no
more, falls short of his. And though I by no means insist that
liberality is a certain indication of piety, yet I will venture to
assert that the want of the one is no doubtful symptom of the absence of
the other.

"I next resolved to watch carefully the conduct of another description
of Christians, who come under the class of the formal and the decent.
They were considered as more creditable, but I did not perceive them to
be more exemplary. They were more absorbed in the world, and more
governed by its opinions. I found them clamorous in defense of the
church in words, but neither adorning it by their lives, nor embracing
its doctrines in their hearts. Rigid in the observance of some of its
external rites, but little influenced by its liberal principles, and
charitable spirit. They venerated the establishment merely as a
political institution, but of her outward forms they conceived, as
comprehending the whole of her excellence. Of her spiritual beauty and
superiority, they seemed to have no conception. I observed in them less
warmth of affection, for those with whom they agreed in external
profession, than of rancor for those who differed from them, though but
a single shade, and in points of no importance. They were cordial
haters, and frigid lovers. Had they lived in the early ages, when the
church was split into parties by paltry disputes, they would have
thought the controversy about the time of keeping Easter of more
consequence than the event itself, which that festival celebrates."

"My dear sir," said I, as soon as he had done speaking, "you have
accounted very naturally for your prejudices. Your chief error seems to
have consisted in the selection of the persons you adopted as standards.
They all differed as much from the right as they differed from each
other; and the truth is, their vehement desire to differ from each
other, was a chief cause why they departed so much from the right. But
your instances were so unhappily chosen, that they prove nothing against
Christianity. The two opposite descriptions of persons who deterred you
from religion, and who passed muster in their respective corps, under
the generic term of religious, would, I believe, be scarcely
acknowledged as such by the soberly and the soundly pious."

"My own subsequent experience," resumed Mr. Carlton, "has confirmed the
justness of your remark. When I began, through the gradual change
wrought in my views and actions, by the silent, but powerful preaching
of Mrs. Carlton's example, to have less interest in believing that
Christianity was false, I then applied myself to search for reasons to
believe that it was true. But plain, abstract reasoning, though it might
catch hold on beings who are all pure intellect, and though it might
have given a right bias even to _my_ opinions, would probably never have
determined my conduct, unless I saw it clothed, as it were, with a body.
I wanted examples which should influence me to act, as well as proofs
which should incline me to believe; something which would teach me what
to do, as well as what to think. I wanted exemplifications as well as
precepts. I doubted of all merely speculative truth. I wanted, from
beholding the effect, to refer back to the principle. I wanted arguments
more palpable and less theoretic. Surely, said I to myself, if religion
be a principle, it must be an operative one, and I would rationally
infer that Christianity were true, if the tone of Christian practice
were high.

"I began to look clandestinely into Henrietta's Bible. There I indeed
found that the spirit of religion was invested with just such a body as
I had wished to see; that it exhibited actions as well as sentiments,
characters, as well as doctrines; the life portrayed evidently governed
by the principle inculcated; the conduct and the doctrine in just
correspondence. But if the Bible be true, thought I, may we not
reasonably expect that the principles which once produced the exalted
practice which that Bible records, will produce similar effects now?

"I put, rashly perhaps, the truth of Christianity on this issue, and
sought society of a higher stamp. Fortunately the increasing external
decorum of my conduct began to make my reception less difficult among
good men than it had been. Hitherto, and that for the sake of my wife,
my visits had rather been endured than encouraged; nor was I myself
forward to seek the society which shunned me. Even with those superior
characters with whom I did occasionally associate, I had not come near
enough to form an exact estimate.

"DISINTERESTEDNESS and CONSISTENCY had become with me a sort of
touchstone, by which to try the characters I was investigating. My
experiment was favorable. I had for some time observed my wife's
conduct, with a mixture of admiration as to the act, and incredulity as
to the motive. I had seen her foregoing her own indulgences, that she
might augment those of a husband whom she had so little reason to love.
Here were the two qualities I required, with a renunciation of self
without parade or profession. Still this was a solitary instance. When
on a nearer survey, I beheld Dr. Barlow exhibiting by his exemplary
conduct during the week, the best commentary on his Sunday's sermon:
when I saw him refuse a living of nearly twice the value of that he
possessed, because the change would diminish his usefulness, I was
_staggered_.

"When I saw Mr. and Mrs. Stanley spending their time and fortune as
entirely in acts of beneficence, as if they had built their eternal
hope on charity alone, and yet utterly renouncing any such confidence,
and trusting entirely to another foundation;--when I saw Lucilla, a girl
of eighteen, refuse a young nobleman of a clear estate, and neither
disagreeable in his person or manner, on the single avowed ground of his
loose principles; when the noble rejection of the daughter was supported
by the parents, whose principles no arguments drawn from rank or fortune
could subvert or shake--I was _convinced_.

"These, and some other instances of the same nature, were exactly the
test I had been seeking. Here was _disinterestedness_ upon full proof.
Here was _consistency_ between practice and profession. By such
examples, and by cordially adopting those principles which produced
them, together with a daily increasing sense of my past enormities, I
hope to become in time less unworthy of the wife to whom I owe my peace
on earth, and my hope in heaven."

The tears which had been collecting in Mrs. Carlton's eyes for some
time, now silently stole down her cheeks. Sir John and myself were
deeply affected with the frank and honest narrative to which we had been
listening. It raised in us an esteem and affection for the narrator
which has since been continually augmenting. I do not think the worse of
his state, for the difficulties which impeded it, nor that his
advancement will be less sure, because it has been gradual. His fear of
delusion has been a salutary guard. The apparent slowness of his
progress has arisen from his dread of self-deception, and the diligence
of his search is an indication of his sincerity.

"But did you not find," said I, "that the piety of these more correct
Christians drew upon them nearly as much censure and suspicion as the
indiscretion of the enthusiasts? and that the formal class who were
nearly as far removed from effective piety, as from wild fanaticism,
ran away with all the credit of religion?'"

"With those," replied Mr. Carlton, "who are on the watch to discredit
Christianity, no consistency can stand their determined opposition; but
the fair and candid inquirer will not reject the truth, when it forces
the truth on the mind with a clear and convincing evidence."

Though I had been joining in the general subject, yet my thoughts had
wandered from it to Lucilla ever since her noble rejection of Lord
Staunton had been named by Mr. Carlton as one of the causes which had
strengthened his unsteady faith. And while he and Sir John were talking
over their youthful connections, I resumed with Mrs. Carlton, who sat
next me, the interesting topic.

"Lord Staunton," said she, "is a relation, and not a very distant one,
of ours. He used to take more delight in Mr. Carlton's society when it
was less improving than he does now, that it is become really valuable;
yet he often visits us. Miss Stanley now and then indulges me with her
company for a day or two. In these visits Lord Staunton happened to meet
her two or three times. He was enchanted with her person and manners,
and exerted every art and faculty of pleasing, which it must be owned he
possesses. Though we should both have rejoiced in an alliance with the
excellent family at the Grove, through this sweet girl, I thought it my
duty not to conceal from her the irregularity of my cousin's conduct in
one particular instance, as well as the general looseness of his
religious principles. The caution was the more necessary, as he had so
much prudence and good breeding, as to behave with general propriety
when under our roof; and he allowed me to speak to him more freely than
any other person. When I talked seriously, he sometimes laughed, always
opposed, but was never angry.

"One day he arrived quite unexpectedly when Miss Stanley was with me. He
found us in my dressing-room reading together a _Dissertation on the
power of religion to change the heart_. Dreading some levity, I strove
to hide the book, but he took it out of my hand, and glancing his eye on
the title, he said, laughing, 'This is a foolish subject enough; a _good
heart_ does not want changing, and with a _bad_ one none of _us three_
have any thing to do.' Lucilla spoke not a syllable. All the light
things he uttered, and which he meant for wit, so far from raising a
smile, increased her gravity. She listened, but with some uneasiness, to
a desultory conversation between us, in which I attempted to assert the
power of the Almighty to rectify the mind, and alter the character. Lord
Staunton treated my assertion as a wild chimera, and said, 'He was sure
I had more understanding than to adopt such a methodistical notion;'
professing at the same time a vague admiration of virtue and goodness,
which, he said, bowing to Miss Stanley, were _natural_ where they
existed at all; that a good heart did not want mending, and a bad one
could not be mended, with other similar expressions, all implying
contempt of my position, and exclusive compliment to her.

"After dinner, Lucilla stole away from a conversation, which was not
very interesting to her, and carried her book to the summer-house,
knowing that Lord Staunton liked to sit long at table. But his lordship
missing her for whom the visit was meant, soon broke up the party, and
hearing which way she took, pursued her to the summer-house. After a
profusion of compliments, expressive of his high admiration, he declared
his passion in very strong and explicit terms, and requested her
permission to make proposals to her father, to which he conceived she
could have no possible objection.

"She thanked him with great politeness for his favorable opinion, but
frankly told him, that though extremely sensible of the honor he
intended her, thanks were all she had to offer in return; she earnestly
desired the business might go no further, and that he would spare
himself the trouble of an application to her father, who always kindly
allowed her to decide for herself in a concern of so much importance.

"Disappointed, shocked, and irritated at a rejection so wholly
unexpected, he insisted on knowing the cause. Was it his person? Was it
his fortune? Was it his understanding to which she objected? She
honestly assured him it was neither. His rank and fortune were above her
expectations. To his natural advantages there could be no reasonable
objection. He still vehemently insisted on her assigning the true cause.
She was then driven to the necessity of confessing that she feared his
principles were not those of a man with whom she could venture to trust
her own.

"He bore this reproof with more patience than she had expected. As she
had made no exception to his person and understanding, both of which he
rated very highly, he could better bear with the charge brought against
his principles, on which he did not set so great a value. She had indeed
wounded his pride, but not in the part where it was most vulnerable. 'If
that be all,' said he gayly, 'the objection is at an end; your charming
society will reform me, your influence will raise my principles, and
your example will change my character.'

"'What, my lord,' said she, her courage increasing with her indignation,
'this from _you_? From you, who declared only this morning, that the
work of changing the heart was too great for the Almighty himself? You
do not now scruple to declare that it is in _my_ power. That work which
is too hard for Omnipotence, your flattery would make me believe a weak
girl can accomplish. No, my lord, I will never add to the number of
those rash women who have risked their eternal happiness on this vain
hope. It would be too late to repent of my folly, after my presumption
had incurred its just punishment.'

"So saying, she left the summer-house with a polite dignity, which, as
he afterward told me, increased his passion, while it inflamed his pride
almost to madness. Finding she refused to appear, he quitted the house,
but not his design. His applications have since been repeated, but
though he has met with the firmest repulses, both from the parents and
the daughter, he can not be prevailed upon to relinquish his hope. It is
so far a misfortune to us, as Lucilla now never comes near us, except he
is known not to be in the country. Had the objection been to his person,
or fortune, he says, as it would have been substantial, it might have
been insuperable; but where the only ground of difference is mere matter
of opinion, he is sure that time and perseverance will conquer such a
chimerical objection."

I returned to the Grove, not only cured of every jealous feeling, but
transported with such a decisive proof of the dignity and purity of Miss
Stanley's mind.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Miss Sparkes, a neighboring lady, whom the reputation of being a wit and
an amazon, had kept single at the age of five-and-forty, though her
person was not disagreeable, and her fortune considerable, called in one
morning while we were at breakfast. She is remarkable for her pretension
to odd and opposite qualities. She is something of a scholar, and a
huntress, a politician, and a farrier. She outrides Mr. Flam, and
outargues Mr. Tyrrel; excels in driving four in hand, and in canvassing
at an election. She is always anxious about the party, but never about
the candidate, in whom she requires no other merit but his being in the
opposition, which she accepts as a pledge for all other merit. In her
adoption of any talent, or her exercise of any quality, it is always
sufficient recommendation to her that it is not feminine.

From the window we saw her descend from her lofty phæton, and when she
came,

    The cap, the whip, the masculine attire,

the loud voice, the intrepid look, the independent air, the whole
deportment indicated a disposition rather to confer protection than to
accept it.

She made an apology for her intrusion, by saying that her visit was
rather to the stable than the breakfast-room. One of her horses was a
little lame, and she wanted to consult Mr. Stanley's groom, who, it
seems, was her oracle in that science, in which she herself is a
professed adept.

During her short visit, she labored so sedulously not to diminish by her
conversation the character she was so desirous to establish, that her
efforts defeated the end they aimed to secure. She was witty with all
her might, and her sarcastic turn, for wit it was not, made little
amends for her want of simplicity. I perceived that she was fond of the
bold, the marvelous, and the incredible. She ventured to tell a story or
two, so little within the verge of ordinary probability, that she risked
her credit for veracity without, perhaps, really violating truth. The
credit acquired by such relations seldom pays the relator for the hazard
run by the communication.

As we fell into conversation, I observed the peculiarities of her
character. She never sees any difficulties in any question. Whatever the
topic is started, while the rest of the company are hesitating as to the
propriety of their determination, she alone is never at a loss. Her
answer always follows the proposition, without a moment's interval for
examination herself, or for allowing any other person a chance of
delivering an opinion.

Mr. Stanley, who always sets an example of strict punctuality to his
family, had to-day come in to perform his daily devotions somewhat later
than usual. I could perceive that he had been a little moved. His
countenance wanted something of its placid serenity, though it seemed to
be seriousness untinctured with anger. He confessed while we were at
breakfast, that he had been spending above an hour in bringing one of
his younger children to a sense of a fault she had committed. "She has
not," said he, "told an absolute falsehood, but in what she said there
was prevarication, there was pride, there was passion. Her perverseness
has at length given way. Tears of resentment are changed into tears of
contrition. But she is not to appear in the drawing-room to-day. She is
to be deprived of the honor of carrying food to the poor in the evening.
Nor is she to furnish her contribution of nosegays to Rachel's basket.
This is a mode of punishment we prefer to that of curtailing any
personal indulgences; the importance we should assign to the privation
would be setting too much value on the enjoyment."

"You should be careful, Mr. Stanley," said Miss Sparkes, "not to break
the child's spirit. Too tight a rein will check her generous ardor, and
curb her genius. I would not subdue the independence of her mind, and
make a tame dull animal of a creature whose very faults give indications
of a soaring nature." Even Lady Belfield, to whose soft and tender heart
the very sound of punishment, or even privation, carried a sort of
terror, asked Mr. Stanley "if he did not think he had taken-up a
trifling offense too seriously, and punished it too severely."

"The thing is a trifle in itself," replied he, "but infant prevarication
unnoticed, and unchecked, is the prolific seed of subterfuge, of
expediency, of deceit, of falsehood, of hypocrisy."

"But the dear little creature," said Lady Belfield, "is not addicted to
equivocation. I have always admired her correctness in her pleasant
prattle."

"It is for that very reason," replied Mr. Stanley, "that I am so careful
to check the first indication of the contrary tendency. As the fault is
a solitary one, I trust the punishment will be so too. For which reason
I have marked it in a way to which her memory will easily recur. Mr.
Brandon, an amiable friend of mine, but of an indolent temper, through a
negligence in watching over an early propensity to deceit, suffered his
only son to run on from one stage of falsehood to another, till he
settled down in a most consummate hypocrite. His plausible manners
enabled him to keep his more turbulent vices out of sight. Impatient
when a youth of that contradiction to which he had never been accustomed
when a boy, he became notoriously profligate. His dissimulation was at
length too thin to conceal from his mistaken father his more palpable
vices. His artifices finally involved him in a duel, and his premature
death broke the heart of my poor friend.

"This sad example led me in my own family to watch this evil in the bud.
Divines often say that unbelief lies at the root of all sin. This seems
strikingly true in our conniving at the faults of our children. If we
really believed the denunciations of Scripture, could we for the sake of
a momentary gratification, not so much to our child as to ourselves
(which is the case in all blamable indulgence), overlook that fault
which may be the germ of unspeakable miseries! In my view of things,
deceit is no slight offense; I feel myself answerable in no small degree
for the eternal happiness of these beloved creatures whom Providence has
especially committed to my trust."

"But it is such a severe trial," said Lady Belfield, "to a fond parent
to inflict voluntary pain!"

"Shall we feel for their pain and not for their danger?" replied Mr.
Stanley. "I wonder how parents who love their children as I love mine,
can put in competition a temporary indulgence, which may foster one evil
temper, or fasten one bad habit, with the eternal welfare of that
child's soul. A soul of such inconceivable worth, whether we consider
its nature, its duration, or the price which was paid for its
redemption! What parent, I say, can by his own rash negligence, or false
indulgence, risk the happiness of such a soul, not for a few days or
years, but for a period compared with which the whole duration of time
is but a point? A soul of such infinite faculties, which has a capacity
for improving in holiness and happiness, through all the countless ages
of eternity?"

Observing Sir John listen with some emotion, Mr. Stanley went on: "What
remorse, my dear friend, can equal the pangs of him who has reason to
believe that his child has not only lost this eternity of glory, but
incurred an eternity of misery, through the carelessness of that parent
who assigned his very fondness as a reason for his neglect? Think of the
state of such a father, when he figures to himself the thousands and ten
thousands of glorified spirits that stand before the throne, and his
darling excluded--excluded perhaps by his own ill-judging fondness. Oh,
my friends, disguise it as we may, and deceive ourselves as we will,
want of faith is as much at the bottom of this sin as of all others.
Notwithstanding an indefinite, indistinct notion which men call faith,
they do not actually _believe_ in this eternity; they believe it in a
general way, but they do not believe in it practically, personally,
influentially."

While Mr. Stanley was speaking with an energy which evinced how much his
own heart was affected, Miss Sparkes, by the impatience of her looks,
evidently manifested that she wished to interrupt him. Good breeding,
however, kept her silent till he had done speaking: she then said, "that
though she allowed that absolute falsehood, and falsehood used for
mischievous purposes, was really criminal, yet there was a danger on the
other hand of laying too severe restrictions on freedom of speech. That
there might be such a thing as tacit hypocrisy. That people might be
guilty of as much deceit by suppressing their sentiments if just, as by
expressing such as were not quite correct. That a repulsive treatment
was calculated to extinguish the fire of invention. She thought, also,
that there were occasions where a harmless falsehood might not only be
pardonable, but laudable. But then she allowed, that a falsehood to be
allowed, must be inoffensive."

Mr. Stanley said, "that an inoffensive falsehood was a perfect anomaly.
But allowing it possible that an individual instance of deceit might be
passed over, which, however, he never could allow, yet one successful
falsehood, on the plea of doing good, would necessarily make way for
another, till the limits which divide right and wrong would be
completely broken down, and every distinction between truth and
falsehood be utterly confounded. If such latitude were allowed, even to
obtain some good purpose, it would gradually debauch all human
intercourse. The smallest deviation would naturally induce a pernicious
habit, endanger the security of society, and violate an express law of
God."

"There is no tendency," said Sir John Belfield, "more to be guarded
against among young persons of warm hearts and lively imaginations. The
feeling will think falsehood good if it is meant to _do_ good, and the
fanciful will think it justifiable if it is ingenious."

Ph[oe]be, in presenting her father with a dish of coffee, said in a half
whisper, "Surely, papa, there can be no harm in speaking falsely on a
subject where I am ignorant of the truth."

"There are occasions, my dear Ph[oe]be," replied her father, "in which
ignorance itself is a fault. Inconsiderateness is always one. It is your
duty to deliberate before you speak. It is your duty not to deceive by
your negligence in getting at the truth; or by publishing false
information as truth, though you have reason to suspect it may be false.
You well know who it is that associates him that _loveth_ a lie, with
him that _maketh_ it."

"But sir," said Miss Sparkes, "if by a falsehood I could preserve a
life, or save my country, falsehood would then be meritorious, and I
should glory in deceiving."

"Persons, madam," said Mr. Stanley, "who, in debate, have a favorite
point to carry, are apt to suppose extreme cases, which _can_ and _do_
very rarely if ever occur. This they do in order to compel the
acquiescence of an opponent to what ought never to be allowed. It is a
proud and fruitless speculation. The infinite power of God can never
stand in need of the aid of a weak mortal to help him out in his
difficulties. If he sees fit to preserve the life, or to save the
country, he is not driven to such shifts. Omnipotence can extricate
himself, and accomplish his own purposes, without endangering an
immortal soul."

Miss Sparkes took her leave soon after, in order, as she said, to go to
the stable and take the groom's opinion. Mr. Stanley insisted that her
carriage should be brought round to the door, to which we all attended
her. He inquired which was the lame horse. Instead of answering, she
went directly up to the animal, and after patting him with some
technical jockey phrases, she fearlessly took up his hind leg, carefully
examined the foot, and while she continued standing in what appeared to
the ladies a perilous, and to me a disgusting situation, she ran over
all the terms of the veterinary art with the groom, and when Miss
Stanley expressed some fear of her danger, and some dislike of her
coarseness, she burst into a loud laugh, and slapping her on the
shoulder, asked her if it was not better to understand the properties
and diseases of so noble an animal, than to waste her time in studying
confectionery with old Goody Comfit, or in teaching the catechism to
little ragged beggar-brats?

As soon as she was gone, the lively Ph[oe]be, who, her father says, has
narrowly escaped being a wit herself, cried out: "Well, papa, I must say
that I think Miss Sparkes, with all her faults, is rather an agreeable
woman." "I grant that she is amusing," returned he, "but I do not allow
her to be quite agreeable. Between these, Ph[oe]be, there is a wide
distinction. To a correct mind, no one can be agreeable who is
incorrect. Propriety is so indispensable to agreeableness, that when a
lady allows herself to make any, even the smallest, sacrifice of
veracity, religion, modesty, candor, or the decorum of her sex, she may
be shining, she may be showy, she may be amusing, but she can not,
properly speaking, be agreeable. Miss Sparkes, I very reluctantly
confess, does sometimes make these sacrifices, in a degree to make her
friends look about them, though not in a degree to alarm her own
principles. She would not tell a direct falsehood for the world; she
does not indeed invent, but she embellishes, she enlarges, she
exaggerates, she discolors. In her moral grammar there is no positive or
comparative degree. Pink with her is scarlet. The noise of a popgun is
a cannon. A shower is a tempest. A person of small fortune is a beggar.
One in easy circumstances is a Cr[oe]sus. A girl, if not perfectly well
made, is deformity personified; if tolerable, a Grecian Venus. Her
favorites are angels. Her enemies, demons.

"She would be thought very religious, and I hope that she will one day
become so; yet she sometimes treats serious things with no small levity,
and though she would not originally say a very bad word, yet she makes
no scruple of repeating, with great glee, profane stories told by
others. Besides, she possesses the dangerous art of exciting an improper
idea, without using an improper word. Gross indecency would shock her,
but she often verges so far toward indelicacy as to make Mrs. Stanley
uneasy. Then she is too much of a genius to be tied down by any
consideration of prudence. If a good thing occurs, out it comes, without
regard to time or circumstance. She would tell the same story to a
bishop as to her chambermaid. If she says a right thing, which she often
does, it is seldom in the right place. She makes her way in society,
without attaching many friends. Her bon-mots are admired and repeated;
yet I never met with a man of sense, though he may join in flattering
her, who did not declare, as soon as she was out of the room, that he
would not for the world that she should be his wife or daughter. It is
irksome to her to converse with her own sex, while she little suspects
that ours is not properly grateful for the preference with which she
honors us.

"She is," continued Mr. Stanley, "charitable with her purse, but not
with her tongue; she relieves her poor neighbors, and indemnifies
herself by slandering her rich ones. She has, however, many good
qualities, is generous, feeling, and humane, and I would on no account
speak so freely of a lady whom I receive at my house were it not that,
if I were, quite silent, after Ph[oe]be's expressed admiration, she
might conclude that I saw nothing to condemn in Miss Sparkes, and might
be copying her faults under the notion that being entertaining made
amends for every thing."

CHAPTER XXXII.

One morning, Sir John coming in from his ride, gayly called out to me,
as I was reading, "Oh Charles, such a piece of news! The Miss Flams are
converted. They have put on tuckers. They were at church twice on
Sunday. Blair's Sermons are sent for, and _you_ are the reformer." This
ludicrous address reminded Mr. Stanley that Mr. Flam had told him we
were all in disgrace for not having called on the ladies, and it was
proposed to repair this neglect.

"Now take notice," said Sir John, "if you do not see a new character
assumed. Thinking Charles to be a fine man of the town, the modish
racket, which indeed is their natural state, was played off, but it did
not answer. As they probably, by this time, suspect your character to be
somewhat between the Strephon and the Hermit, we shall now, in return,
see something between the wood-nymph and the nun, and I shall not wonder
if the extravagantly modish Miss Bell

    "Is now Pastora by a fountain's side."

Though I would not attribute the change to the cause assigned by Sir
John, yet I confess we found, when we made our visit, no small
revolution in Miss Bell Flam. The part of the Arcadian nymph, the
reading lady, the lover of retirement, the sentimental admirer of
domestic life, the censurer of thoughtless dissipation, was each acted
in succession, but so skillfully touched that the shades of each melted
in the other without any of those violent transitions which a less
experienced actress would have exhibited: Sir John slyly, yet with
affected gravity, assisting her to sustain this newly adapted character,
which, however, he was sure would last no longer than the visit.

When we returned home, we met the Miss Stanleys in the garden and joined
them. "Don't you admire," said Sir John, "the versatility of Miss Bell's
genius? You, Charles, are not the first man on whom an assumed fondness
for rural delights has been practiced. A friend of mine was drawn in to
marry, rather suddenly, a thorough-paced town-bred lady, by her repeated
declarations of her passionate fondness for the country, and the rapture
she expressed when rural scenery was the subject. All she knew of the
country was, that she had now and then been on a party of pleasure at
Richmond, in the fine summer months; a great dinner at the Star and
Garter, gay company, a bright day, lovely scenery, a dance on the green,
a partner to her taste, French horns on the water, altogether
constituted a feeling of pleasure from which she had really persuaded
herself that she was fond of the country. But when all these
concomitants were withdrawn, when she had lost the gay partner, the
dance, the horns, the flattery, and the frolic, and nothing was left but
her books, her own dull mansion, her domestic employments, and the sober
society of her husband, the pastoral vision vanished. She discovered, or
rather _he_ discovered, but too late, that the country had not only no
charms for her, but that it was a scene of constant ennui and vapid
dullness. She languished for the pleasures she had quitted, and he for
the comforts he had lost. Opposite inclinations led to opposite
pursuits; difference of taste however, needed not to have led to a
total disunion, had there been on the part of the lady such a degree of
attachment as might have induced a spirit of accommodation, or such a
fund of principle as might have taught her the necessity of making those
sacrifices which affection, had it existed, would have rendered
pleasant, or duty would have made light, had she been early taught
self-government."

Lucilla, smiling, said, "she hoped Sir John had a little over-charged
the picture." He defended himself by declaring, "he drew from the life,
and that from his long observations he could present us with a whole
gallery of such portraits." He left me to continue my walk with the two
Miss Stanleys.

The more I conversed with Lucilla, the more I saw that good breeding in
her was only the outward expression of humility, and not an art employed
for the purpose of enabling her to do without it. We continued to
converse on the subject of Miss Flam's fondness for the gay world. This
introduced a natural expression of my admiration of Miss Stanley's
choice of pleasures and pursuits so different from those of most other
women of her age.

With the most graceful modesty she said, "Nothing humbles me more than
compliments; for when I compare what I hear with what I feel, I find the
picture of myself drawn by a flattering friend so utterly unlike the
original in my own heart, that I am more sunk by my own consciousness of
the want of resemblance, than elated that another has not discovered it.
It makes me feel like an imposter. If I contradict this favorable
opinion, I am afraid of being accused of affectation; and if I silently
swallow it, I am contributing to the deceit of passing for what I am
not." This ingenious mode of disclaiming flattery only raised her in my
esteem, and the more, as I told her such humble renunciation of praise
could only proceed from that inward principle of genuine piety and
devout feeling which made so amiable a part of her character.

"How little," said she, "is the human heart known except to him who made
it! While a fellow creature may admire our apparent devotion, he who
appears to be its object, witnesses the wandering of the heart, which
seems to be lifted up to him. He sees it roving to the ends of the
earth, busied about any thing rather than himself, running after trifles
which would not only dishonor Christian, but would disgrace a child. As
to my very virtues, if I dare apply such a word to myself, they
sometimes lose their character by not keeping their proper place. They
become sins by infringing on higher duties. If I mean to perform an act
of devotion, some crude plan of charity forces itself on my mind, and
what with trying to drive out one, and to establish the other, I rise
dissatisfied and unimproved, and resting my sole hope, not on the duty I
have been performing, but on the mercy I have been offending."

I assured her with all the simplicity of truth, and all the sincerity of
affection, that this confession only served to raise my opinion of the
piety she disclaimed; that such deep consciousness of imperfection, so
quick a discernment of the slightest deviation, and such constant
vigilance to prevent it, were the truest indications of an humble
spirit; and that those who thus carefully guarded themselves against
small errors, were in little danger of being betrayed into great ones.

She replied, smiling, that "she should not be so angry with vanity, if
it would be contented to keep its proper place among its vices; but her
quarrel with it was, that it would mix itself among our virtues, and
rob us of their reward."

"Vanity, indeed," replied I, "differs from the other vices in this;
_they_ commonly are only opposite to the one contrary virtue, while this
vice has a kind of ubiquity, is on the watch to intrude everywhere, and
weakens all the virtues which it can not destroy. I believe vanity was
the harpy of the ancient poets, which, they tell us, tainted whatever it
touched."

"Self-deception is so easy," replied Miss Stanley, "that I am even
afraid of highly extolling any good quality, lest I should sit down
satisfied with having borne any testimony in its favor, and so rest
contented with the praise instead of the practise. Commending a right
thing is a cheap substitute for doing it, with which we are too apt to
satisfy ourselves."

"There is no mark," I replied, "which more clearly distinguishes that
humility which has the love of God for its principle, from its
counterfeit--a false and superficial politeness--than that while this
last flatters, in order to extort in return more praise than its due,
humility, like the divine principle from which it springs, seeketh not
even its own."

In answer to some further remark of mine, with an air of infinite
modesty, she said, "I have been betrayed, sir, into saying too much. It
will, I trust, however, have the good effect of preventing you from
thinking better of me than I deserve. In general, I hold it indiscreet
to speak of the state of one's mind. I have been taught this piece of
prudence by my own indiscretion. I once lamented to a lady the fault of
which we have now been speaking, and observed how difficult it was to
keep the heart right. She so little understood the nature of this inward
corruption, that she told in confidence to two or three friends, that
they were all much mistaken in Miss Stanley, for though her character
stood so fair with all the world, she had secretly confessed to her that
she was a great sinner."

I could not forbear repeating though she had chid me for it before, how
much I had been struck with several instances of her indifference to the
work, and her superiority to its pleasures. "Do you know," continued
she, smiling, "that you are more my enemy than the lady of whom I have
been speaking? She only defamed my principles, but you are corrupting
them. The world, I believe, is not so much a place as a nature. It is
possible to be religious in a court, and worldly in a monastery. I find
that the thoughts may be engaged too anxiously about so petty a concern
as a little family arrangement; that the mind may be drawn off from
better pursuits, and engrossed by things too trivial to name, as much as
by objects more apparently wrong. The country is certainly favorable to
religion, but it would be hard on the millions who are doomed to live in
towns if it were exclusively favorable. Nor must we lay more stress on
the accidental circumstance than it deserves. Nay, I almost doubt if it
is not too pleasant to be quite safe. An enjoyment which assumes a sober
shape may deceive us by making us believe we are practicing a duty when
we are only gratifying a taste."

"But do you not think," said I, "that there may be merit in the taste
itself? May not a succession of acts, forming a habit, and that habit a
good one, induce so sound a way of thinking that it may become difficult
to distinguish the duty from the taste, and to separate the principle
from the choice? This I really believe to be the case in minds finely
wrought and vigilantly watched."

I observed that however delightful the country might be a great part of
the year, yet there were a few winter months when I feared it might be
dull, though not in the degree Sir John's Richmond lady found it.

With a smile of compassion at my want of taste, she said, "she perceived
I was no gardener. To me," added she, "the winter has charms of its own.
If I were not afraid of the light habit of introducing Providence on an
occasion not sufficiently important, I would say that he seems to reward
those who love the country well enough to live in it the whole year, by
making the greater part of the winter the busy season for gardening
operations. If I happen to be in town a few days only, every sun that
shines, every shower that falls, every breeze that blows, seems wasted,
because I do not see their effects upon my plants."

"But surely," said I, "the winter at least suspends your enjoyment.
There is little pleasure in contemplating vegetation in its torpid
state, in surveying

    The naked shoots, barren as lances,

as Cowper describes the winter-shrubbery."

"The pleasure is in the preparation," replied she. "When all appears
dead and torpid to you idle spectators, all is secretly at work; nature
is busy in preparing her treasures under ground, and art has a hand in
the process. When the blossoms of summer are delighting you mere
amateurs, then it is that we professional people," added she, laughing,
"are really idle. The silent operations of the winter now produce
themselves--the canvas of nature is covered--the great Artist has laid
on his colors--then we petty agents lay down our implements, and enjoy
our leisure in contemplating _his_ work."

I had never known her so communicative; but my pleased attention,
instead of drawing her on, led her to check herself. Ph[oe]be, who had
been busily employed in trimming a flaunting yellow Azalia, now turned
to me and said: "Why it is only the Christmas-month that our labors are
suspended, and then we have so much pleasure that we want no business;
such in-door festivities and diversions that that dull month is with us
the gayest in the year." So saying, she called Lucilla to assist her in
tying up the branch of an orange-tree which the wind had broken.

I was going to offer my services when Mrs. Stanley joined us, before I
could obtain an answer to my question about these Christmas diversions.
A stranger, who had seen me pursuing Mrs. Stanley in her walks, might
have supposed not the daughter, but the mother, was the object of my
attachment. But with Mrs. Stanley I could always talk of Lucilla, with
Lucilla I durst not often talk of herself.

The fond mother and I stood looking with delight on the fair gardeners.
When I had admired their alacrity in these innocent pursuits, their
fondness for retirement, and their cheerful delight in its pleasures,
Mrs. Stanley replied: "Yes, Lucilla is half a nun. She likes the rule,
but not the vow. Poor thing! her conscience is so tender that she
oftener requires encouragement than restraint. While she was making this
plantation, she felt herself so absorbed by it that she came to me one
day and said that her gardening work so fascinated her that she found
whole hours passed unperceived, and she began to be uneasy by observing
that all cares and all duties were suspended while she was disposing
beds of carnations, or knots of anemones. Even when she tore herself
away, and returned to her employments, her flowers still pursued her,
and the improvement of her mind gave way to the cultivation of her
geraniums.

"'I am afraid,' said the poor girl, 'that I must really give it up.' I
would not hear of this. I would not suffer her to deny herself so pure a
pleasure. She then suggested the expedient of limiting her time, and
hanging up her watch in the conservatory to keep her within her
prescribed bounds. She is so observant of this restriction, that when
her allotted time is expired, she forces herself to leave off even in
the midst of the most interesting operation. By this limitation a treble
end is answered. Her time is saved, self-denial is exercised, and the
interest which would languish by protracting the work is kept in fresh
vigor."

I told Mrs. Stanley that I had observed her watch hanging in a
citron-tree the day I came, but little thought it had a moral meaning.
She said it had never been left there since I had been in the house, for
fear of causing interrogatories. Here Mrs. Stanley left me to my
meditations.

It is wisely ordered that all mortal enjoyments should have some alloy.
I never tasted a pleasure since I had been at the Grove, I never
witnessed a grace, I never heard related an excellence of Lucilla,
without a sigh that my beloved parents did not share my happiness. "How
would they," said I, "delight in her delicacy, rejoice in her piety,
love her benevolence, her humility, her usefulness! O how do children
feel who wound the peace of _living_ parents by an unworthy choice, when
not a little of my comfort springs from the certainty that the departed
would rejoice in mine! Even from their blessed abode, my grateful heart
seems to hear them say, 'This is the creature we would have chosen for
thee! This is the creature with whom we shall rejoice with thee through
all eternity!'"

Yet such was my inconsistency, that charmed as I was that so young and
lovely a woman could be so cheaply pleased, and delighted with that
simplicity of taste which made her resemble my favorite heroine of
Milton in her amusements, as well as in her domestic pursuits; yet I
longed to know what these Christmas diversions, so slightly hinted at,
could be, diversions which could reconcile these girls to their absence
not only from their green-house, but from London. I could hardly fear
indeed to find at Stanley Grove what the newspapers pertly call _Private
Theatricals_. Still I suspected it might be some gay dissipation not
quite suited to their general character, nor congenial to their usual
amusements. My mother's favorite rule of _consistency_ strongly forced
itself on my mind, though I tried to repel the suggestion as unjust and
ungenerous.

Of what meannesses will not love be guilty: it drove me to have recourse
to my friend Mrs. Comfit to dissipate my doubts. From her I learned that
that cold and comfortless season was mitigated at Stanley Grove by
several feasts for the poor of different classes and ages. "Then, sir,"
continued she, "if you could see the blazing fires, and the abundant
provisions! The roasting, and the boiling, and the baking! The house is
all alive! On those days the drawers and shelves of Miss Lucilla's
store-room are completely emptied. 'Tis the most delightful bustle, sir,
to see our young ladies tying on the good women's warm cloaks, fitting
their caps and aprons, and sending home blankets to the infirm who can
not come themselves. The very little ones kneeling down on the ground to
try on the poor girls' shoes--even little Miss Celia, and she is so
tender--to fit them exactly and not hurt them! Last feast-day, not
finding a pair small enough for a poor little girl, she privately
slipped off her own and put on the child. It was some time before it was
discovered that she herself was without shoes. We are all alive, sir.
Parlor, and hall, and kitchen, all is in motion! Books, and business,
and walks, and gardening, all are forgot for these few happy days."

How I hated myself for my suspicion! And how I loved the charming
creatures who could find in these humble but exhilarating duties an
equivalent for the pleasures of the metropolis! "Surely," said I to
myself, "my mother would call _this_ consistency, when the amusements of
a religious family smack of the same flavor with its business and its
duties." My heart was more than easy; it was dilated, while I
congratulated myself in the thought that there _were_ young ladies to be
found who could spend a winter not only unrepiningly but cheerfully and
delightedly in the country.

I am aware that were I to repeat my conversations with Lucilla, I should
subject myself to ridicule by recording such cold and spiritless
discourse on my own part. But I had not yet declared my attachment. I
made it a point of duty not to violate my engagement with Mr. Stanley. I
was not addressing declarations, but studying the character of her on
whom the happiness of my life was to depend. I had resolved not to show
my attachment by any overt act. I confined the expression of my
affection to that _series of small, quiet attentions_, which an accurate
judge of the human heart has pronounced to be the surest avenue to a
delicate mind. I had, in the mean time, the inexpressible felicity to
observe a constant union of feeling, as well as a general consonance of
opinion between us. Every sentiment seemed a reciprocation of sympathy,
and every look, of intelligence. This unstudied correspondence enchanted
me the more as I had always considered that a conformity of tastes was
nearly as necessary to conjugal happiness as a conformity of principles.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

One morning I took a ride alone to breakfast at Lady Aston's; Mr.
Stanley having expressed a particular desire that I should cultivate the
acquaintance of her son. "Sir George is not quite twenty," said he,
"and your being a few years older, will make him consider your
friendship as an honor to him; I am sure it will be an advantage."

In her own little family circle, I had the pleasure of seeing Lady Aston
appear to more advantage than I had yet done. Her understanding is good,
and her affections are strong. She had received a too favorable
impression of my character from Mr. Stanley, and treated me with as much
openness as if I had been his son.

The gentle girls, animated by the spirit of their brother, seemed to
derive both happiness and importance from his presence: while the
amiable young baronet himself won my affection by his engaging manners,
and my esteem by his good sense and his considerable acquirements in
every thing which becomes a gentleman.

This visit exemplified a remark I had sometimes made, that shy
characters, who from natural timidity are reserved in general society,
open themselves with peculiar warmth and frankness to a few select
friends, or to an individual of whom they think kindly. A distant manner
is not always, as is suspected, the result of a cold heart, or a dull
head; nor is gayety necessarily connected with feeling. High animal
spirits, though they often evaporate in mere talk, yet by their warmth
and quickness of motion obtain the credit of strong sensibility: a
sensibility, however, of which the heart is not always the fountain.
While in the timid, that silence which is construed into pride,
indifference, or want of capacity, is often the effect of keen feelings.
Friendship is the genial climate in which such hearts disclose
themselves; they flourish in the shade, and kindness alone makes them
expand. A keen discerner will often detect, in such characters,
qualities which are not always connected with

                      the rattling tongue
    Of saucy and audacious eloquence.

When people who have seen little of each other are thrown together,
nothing brings on free communication so quickly or so pleasantly, as
their being both intimate with a third person, for whom all parties
entertain one common sentiment. Mr. Stanley seemed always a point of
union between his neighbors and me.

After various topics had been discussed, Lady Aston remarked, that she
could now trace the goodness of Providence in having so ordered events,
as to make those things which she had so much dreaded at the time, work
out advantages which could not have been otherwise obtained for her.

"I had a singular aversion," added she, "to the thoughts of removing to
this pl

Coelebs In Search of a Wife