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Also written by Jane Collier
Our address is to the candid reader; to the morose critic we know that all address is vain; to such as are willing to understand, we will endeavour to be perspicuous; and to those who are desirous of being pleased, we shall greatly miss of our aim, if we give no entertainment. Nay, we will venture to affirm, that every reader by his own disposition, in a great measure, contributes to his own entertainment.
For if a man reads with the desire of gaining information, such an enquiring mind will certainly find matter on which to build some knowledge; if to be pleased and amused be his design, his own good-humour humour will not suffer him to lose his labour; and if to carp and find fault should be his choice, his inclination will not fail of producing proofs enough of his having found an object of his splenetic delight: it not being more certain that an impatient lover, expecting his mistress to the minute of an appointment, will mistake every moving object, nay even every bush, for his approaching fair one, than that an earnest seeker after faults will take in as such every object in his view, in order to gratify his greedy expectations. 'Tis speaking of such kind of readers only that the poet says—
And both for the same reason, namely, the warmth with which men embrace the discovery of every new fault. It were well if they stopp'd here, and every minute failing also was not taken in to make up the weight. Such men, instead of endeavouring to keep pace with the imagination of writers of genius, strive rather to cramp and bind them in such chains as must render them insipid.
Those inimitably beautiful chorus's to Shakespear's Harry the fifth, where he desires his audience to play with their fancies, and to suffer him to bear them on the lofty wings of his own sublime imagination, over the expanded ocean to different countries and distant climates, we should have thought might have warm'd the morosest cynic into a taste of pleasure, and have baffled the ill-humour of the severest critic. And yet we once remember in a conversation, to have heard a gentleman treat these very chorus's, as if he had been examining an evidence in a court of justice; and then gravely (we will not say dully) pronouncing sentence, that they were contrary to all form and order, and only the wild reveries of an unbridled imagination. On such Critics justly may one say with Terence;
And between such authors as Shakespear, (if any more there are) and such critics as our before-mention'd gentleman, who would blame any one for acting, as Terence in the same prologue is said to act by some other Authors of confirm'd credit;
When a judicious writer sets before his readers entertainment for their imaginations, and desires them to indulge both him and themselves by playing with their fancies, should any man be so perversely sour as to sit in strict judgment; or if on the other hand, where the judgment ought to be employed, should he give a loose to his own wild imaginations, all time and place must be confused, and every image must be distorted into absurdity.
With the two principal ends in view, to entertain and to instruct (not to mention another principal view, which hath undoubtedly produced more volumes than either of the former, but, however seriously important to the writer, is too ludicrous to find more than this cursory notice here) various have been the methods taken for those purposes. Ariosto, Spenser, and even Milton, ran into allegory, as there is nothing to which a great and lively imagination is so prone. It is a flight by which the human wit attempts at one and the same time to investigate two objects, and consequently is fitted only to the most exalted genius's. It should therefore be very sparingly practised, lest, whilst the writer plays with his own fancies, and diverts himself by cutting the air with his wide-spread wings, he should soar out of the view of his readers, leaving them in confusion and perplexity to explore his viewless track.
Those who would attempt the same uncommon flights must, we are very sensible, have the same uncommon genius's; otherwise they would make as ridiculous a figure as those poets mentioned by Horace, who to prove their title to natural genius, went unshaved and slovenly into the public walks, because Democritus had said that a nature was better than art. But with some small portion of real genius, and a warm imagination, an author surely may be permitted a little to expand his wings, and to wander in the aerial fields of fancy, provided the well-known fable of Icarus bears this prudent advice to his ear, that he soar not to such dangerous heights, from whence unplumed he may fall to the ground disgraced, if not disabled from ever rising any more. There is scarcely to be found in any author such an inexhaustible treasure, such an immense fund of knowledge, as in Montaigne; but like a heap of pearls for want of being strung, half their beauties are lost in confusion. His intrinsic worth, by not being stamp'd with some outward image, is not always current with the memory; and to digest such rich matter as is scatter'd about in every chapter, requires a very searching and attentive mind. Yet it is hardly to be doubted but the free manner of writing which he assumed, was most fitted to his own genius, and by chusing any other he might have lost part of the force and energy of his images, which could not have been compensated by regularity and method.
Essay-writing is perhaps of all others the easiest for the author, and requires little more than what is called a fluency of words, and a vivacity of expression, to avoid dullness: but without such a real foundation of matter, as is to be found in the above-mentioned author, and in some few others of our own nation, whose names are too obvious to need repeating, an essay-writer is very apt, like Dogberry in Shakespear's Much ado about nothing, to think that if he had the tediousness of a king, he would bestow it all upon his readers. 'Tis on this account in all likelihood, that stories and novels have been so much more sought after than meer essays. Yet stories and novels have flowed in such abundance for these last ten years, that we would wish, if possible, to strike a little out of a road already so much beaten. There are two obvious reasons for such a deviation. One is the real excellence of some of those writings, both as to humour, character, moral, and every other proper requisite, which (without an affected humility) we by no means promise fully to equal, much less to surpass; and the other reason is, that we may not be thrown aside as increasing the number of that set of trifling performances, whose names we presume are most of them already devoted to oblivion. For although a decent modesty of not boasting ourselves equal to the best, may not be misbecoming; yet the same modesty would restrain us from imposing on the public what we thought below their consideration.
"b When an author (writes a gentleman of no less erudition than judgment), poorly anticipates your pardon for a bad performance, by declaring that it was the fruits of a few idle hours; written meerly for private amusement; never revised; publish'd against consent, at the importunity of friends, copies (God knows how) having by stealth gotten abroad; with other stale jargon of equal falshood and inanity; may we not ask such prefacers if what they allege be true, what has the world to do with with them and their crudities?" And may we not farther ask, what can induce a reader to turn one leaf beyond such contemptible prefaces?
In an epic poem, the proem generally informs you of the poet's intention in his work. He tells you either what he designs to do, or what he intreats some superior power to do for him.
says Virgil.
begins the immortal Homer; whose example is follow'd by our own Milton, in his Paradise Lost,
Of man's first disobedience, &c.—Sometimes the poet not only tells you what is the subject of his song, but he also informs you what is not, as in the beginning of the Paradise Regain'd,
I who ere while, &c.—The same method is observed by Spenser in his † Fairy Queen, and even by Virgil, if the c disputed verses in the beginning of the Æneid may be allowed to be his. But in plain prose, we beg to inform our readers, that our intention in the following pages, is not to amuse them with a number of surprising incidents and adventures, but rather to paint the inward mind.
Plutarch, in the beginning of his life of Alexander the Great, says, that "neither do the most glorious exploits always furnish us with the clearest discoveries of virtue or vice in men; sometimes a matter of less moment, an expression, or a jest, informs us better of their manners and inclinations than the most famous sieges, the greatest encampments, or the bloodiest battles whatsoever. Therefore, as those who draw by the life, are more exact in the lines and features of the face, from which we may often collect the disposition of the person, than in the other parts of the body: so I shall endeavour, by penetrating into, and describing the secret recesses and images of the soul, to express the lives of men, and leave their more shining actions and atchievements to be treated of by others."
If the heroine of a romance was to travel through countries, where the castles of giants rise to her view; through gloomy forests, amongst the dens of savage beasts, where at one time she is in danger of being torn and devour'd, at another, retarded in her flight by puzzling mazes, and falls at last into the hands of a cruel giant; the reader's fears will be alarm'd for her safety; his pleasure will arise on seeing her escape from the teeth of a lion, or the paws of a fierce tiger: if he hath conceived any regard for the virtuous sufferer, he will be delighted when she avoids being taken captive, or is rescued by the valour of some faithful knight; and with what joy will he accompany her steps when she finds the right road, and gets safely out of the enchanted dreary forest! —But the puzzling mazes into which we shall throw our heroine, are the perverse interpretations made upon her words; the lions, tigers, and giants, from which we endeavour to rescue her, are the spiteful and malicious tongues of her enemies. In short, the design of the following work is to strip, as much as possible, d Duessa or Falshood, of all her shifts and evasions; to hunt her like a fox through all her doublings and windings; to shew, that, let her imitate Truth ever so much, yet is she but a phantom; and, in a word, to expose her deformity, in hopes to persuade mankind to shun so odious a companion. Nor can this be effected, unless we could awaken the judgment to exert itself, so as to reject all the alluring bribes which the passions, assisted by the imagination, can offer. Unless we could prove that to moderate, and not to inflame the passions, is the only method of attaining happiness; and that it is the interest of man at once to use and to be thankful for his reason, and not absurdly by disuse to weaken its force, and at the same time vainly to boast of its strength.
Thoroughly to unfold the labyrinths of the human mind, is an arduous task; and notwithstanding the many skilful and penetrating strokes which are to be found in the best authors, there seem yet to remain some intricate and unopen'd recesses in the heart of man. In order to dive into those recesses, and lay them open to the reader in a striking and intelligible manner, 'tis necessary to assume a certain freedom in writing, not strictly perhaps within the limits prescribed by rules. Yet we desire only to be free, and not licentious. We wish to give our imagination leave to play; but within such bounds as not to grow mad. And if we step into allegory, it shall not be out of sight of our reader. The liberty we desire, is to bring one or more persons before an allegorical assembly, in order for them truly to relate their actions and sentiments throughout their past lives. If it should sometimes be found that our imaginary allegorical phantoms talk exactly the language of this world, let it be remember'd that human nature is the picture we intend to paint. If it should be objected, that our mortal persons confess to their audience, what one mortal is not apt to confess to another, let us plead in our defence, that our audience are meerly allegorical. In short, as the machinery of heathen poetry is at present deny'd, the defect can no otherwise be supply'd to the writer of imagination, but by the good-humour of the reader.
As we shall constitute an audience to hear the stories of those who shall be brought before them, instead of the common divisions of books and chapters, we beg to be indulged in borrowing from the stage the name of scenes. In which we will not promise that every interruption shall always strictly or visibly require a change of scene, but may be sometimes made only in order to give the same respite as is given to the reader, by the common contrivance of chapters, as aforesaid. But besides the avoiding a worn-out practice, and the plea of variety, which we make for this our method (whose novelty perhaps may give offence rather than pleasure to some sort of critics) we cannot help flattering ourselves, that we shall be the better enabled by these means to give life and action to our history.
Altho' we have borrow'd from the stage the name of scenes, and generally its dialogue, yet have we kept the privilege of being our own chorus, in order not only to point out the behaviour of our actors, which for want of a real stage representation could sometimes not otherwise be understood; but to express or relate some things which are not proper to be spoken by our principal characters; or, according to the author of Tom Jones, to tell what we cannot prevail on any of our actors to tell our readers for us.
It must be allow'd that characters should be animated to gain our attention, and some degree of sympathy is necessary to raise a desire of our farther acquaintance with them. The motives to actions, and the inward turns of mind, seem in our opinion more necessary to be known than the actions themselves; and much rather would we chuse that our reader should clearly understand what our principal actors think, than what they do. To answer both these purposes, the method of making the principal character the speaker seems the best calculated; and the nearer things are brought to dramatic representation, the more are you acquainted with the personages, and interested in the event of the story. But whether this method be really the best or worst, let future critics decide, if they think it worth their notice. We can only declare, that we found it our easiest manner of conveying our thoughts and executing our purpose; and if our reader should be neither inform'd nor amused, we shall be very sorry for his loss of time as well as our own.
The reason of our affixing mottos to our various scenes, is in order to give a sanction to our own sentiments by those of the most approved authors.
Fully to exclude that pernicious interpretation on characteristic writings, namely, the fixing them down into personal libels, we beg to declare, that so far are we from using feign'd names to signify real persons, that we make use of the real names of England, London, &c. to signify the world; and our characters are intended to mean human nature in general.
But in all things whether we shall make only a due use of the liberties we have ask'd, is left entirely to the judicious reader to decide.
In the regions far above the reach or sight of mortality dwells sacred Truth. In eternal opposition to Truth, is blind and perplexing Error.
On the wings of Fancy, gentle readers, bear yourselves into the mid air, where by imagination you may form a large stupendous castle. Within is a magnificent and spacious hall; in which behold a large assembly, composed of all such tempers and dispositions as bear an inveterate hatred to Truth and Simplicity, and which are possess'd also with a strong desire of supporting Affectation and Fallacy:
To this assembly, when cloathed in mortal forms, we beg leave to give the general name of THE Cry: for although their whole hearts are fill'd with discord and dissension; yet whenever they meet with a common foe, they are generally unanimous.
The cry are indeed composed of all those characters in human nature, who, tho' differing from each other, join in one common clamour against Truth and her adherents. By bringing all such characters together, we would wish to dive into the bottom of their hearts, to shew what must be their sentiments, what the tendency of such sentiments, and how carefully they ought to be avoided.
To this assembly is brought (whether by magic, by enchantment, or what other means, let particular fancy dictate) a young lady call'd Portia, who relates the history of her own life and connexions: yet not by a long recital without lett or hinderance; for such an audience as those before whom she speaks, are not likely to suffer such sentiments as our Portia will venture to avow, to pass undisputed.
The cry being form'd of a set of characters, whose principal view must be the exalting each themselves, and mortifying all others to the dust, our poor Portia would have too hard a task, unaided and friendless, to indure the insulting taunts and biting reproaches of such a multitude. We must again therefore, gentle reader, implore your assistance, and beg you to employ your fertile fancy in presenting to your view, placed on a seat high exalted from the croud, a radiant form, all mild, all gentle, yet possessing such a graceful majesty as is able at any time by a single word to awe the tumultuous Cry into silence.
To this fair phantom of the imagination, arrayed in the same form of mortality as once before she deign'd to wear, when she accompany'd her favourite red-cross knight, and now condescends to give attention to our Portia's story, we beg to give the name of Una; borrow'd, we confess, from our master Spenser, for this very good reason, that we could not possibly find any other name half so adequate to express our meaning.
As strongly different as light from darkness (or indeed as truth from error) is Una from the Cry. And to which party our Portia, or any other person brought before the same assembly, may be thought nearest allied, let their words and actions shew.
The passions as well as the sciences may be said to have their technical terms; and there are certain words, which, when they fall from the tongue, as plainly indicate the pride or envy of the heart, as doth a man's desiring you to heave that glass across the table, inform you that he hath been walking the foremast deck. The characters which compose our Cry in this sense, if natural, must be known; yet not so as to indulge private spleen, or to gratify malice: for which reason, whenever there shall be occasion for making any distinction amongst them, we shall make use of names already known, such as Clodio, Harpacia, Timandra, or any other fictitious name that may chance to suit the speaker, which we chuse much rather than to say Mr.— Mrs.—or Miss—in order to avoid giving the least handle for the aspersing any living character: for scandal and invective are our utter abhorrence. We would therefore advise those readers (if any such there are) who think every thing dull which cannot be interpreted into one of those meanings, to let these scenes alone; for here they will find no food fit to please such a depraved palate.
That mortal errors are represented by allegorical persons, is still farther to drive off the possibility of malicious applications. That divine Truth is envelop'd in a mortal form, is to exculpate ourselves from the daring attempt of pretending to pronounce, what would be the decision of the Spirit of Truth.
As we ourselves are mortal, we pretend not to infallibility. We readily allow ourselves liable to be mistaken; yet we still claim this candour at the hand of our readers, that they condemn not any sentiment which is stamp'd by the approbation of our Una, till they have thoroughly consider'd and given it a fair examination. For, be it remember'd, that we have not publish'd any such sentiment without having first ourselves carefully examined it on all sides: we expect not therefore from any judges, but such as our own CRY, a hasty censure, because our opinions may happen to appear new as to some particular points, which our readers may never before have thoroughly examined.
Our assembly being now form'd, not by ourselves, but by the good-will and spritely imagination of our readers, we have nothing to do but to draw up the curtain (our prologue being ended) and to discover our chief personage on the stage. And should any other happen to arrive, or should any of those present chuse to depart from the said stage, our reader shall not fail of due and proper notice of all such entries and exits.
Milton.
About seven years ago, I became acquainted with a family, which from that time hath caused all my pains and all my pleasures. This family then consisted of an old gentleman named Nicanor, a son and daughter who were twins and lived with him, and an elder son, who, altho' he spent most of his time with them, lived in a separate house from his father and family.
I was introduced amongst them by a young lady named Melantha, and the account she gave me of their situation and circumstances was, that Nicanor the father had been a widower many years, that he had once a large fortune, but was now (by what means she knew not) so reduced that he lived on the bounty of his eldest son, who was the only one of his three children, that had preserved his fortune to be of use to his family. She highly extoll'd the generosity as well as the prudence of this eldest son, whose name was Oliver; adding, that he was a young gentleman of great learning and wisdom, and she doubted not but I should be very much pleased with his conversation. As to the youngest son named Ferdinand, and his Sister Cordelia, she allow'd them to be inoffensive and good-humour'd; but they were generally so reserved (she said) that she knew not well what to make of them: but for Nicanor himself, altho' he was the father of the family, yet had he sometimes more cheerfulness and entertainment in his conversation than the youngest amongst them.
Her account of Nicanor I found to be in some measure true, at least on my first acquaintance with him: for when no outward accidents had chagrin'd his temper, or when the conversation turn'd not on subjects which stirr'd some rising passion; his great knowledge of the world both by reading and travels made him an exceeding entertaining and agreeable companion.
How just the character was which Melantha had given of the wise, the prudent, the generous Oliver, the course of my narrative will evince: but as to the twin sister of Ferdinand, whose name is Cordelia, a sympathy I had never felt before seized me, ere I had been long enough in the room to say I had conversed with her. She became my friend almost at first sight. For where there is a real strong sympathy in two minds, something will break out on a very small acquaintance, which must create a reciprocal affection.
The Cry were now rising to a general clamour on Portia's last words, when she declared that the sentiment was taken out of Telemachus; and their respect for so approv'd an author as the archbishop of Cambray, for the present withheld their tongues; whilst Portia thus proceeded.
The truth of the foregoing observation I never much doubted; but strongly did I feel its force on my first acquaintance with Cordelia . Her gentleness of disposition, her modest manner of expressing the most noble sentiments, her warmth of heart, and open simplicity of behaviour, kindled at once in my breast such a friendly affection for her, that I could readily have open'd to her every secret thought of my heart; and, if necessity had required it, could willingly have trusted her with the disposal of my life and fortune.
Altho' the Cry chose not openly to contradict a sentiment stampt by the seal of so great a man as the archbishop of Cambray ; yet when Portia acting in consequence of believing the truth of such a sentiment had adopted it by her practice, they could no longer refrain from breaking forth into astonishment at her folly, as they call'd it, that she could without examination or tryal admit into so close a connexion as that of friendship, a person with whom she had not above an hour's acquaintance. Then did they strive with emulation who should repeat most wise maxims, importing the necessity of suspicion in the choice of our friends—such as—mistrust is the mother of security, with many more to the same effect. And for all such maxims they express'd the highest regard and veneration. But notwithstanding the esteem which they profess'd for suspicion, yet did they think proper to veil it under the name of caution.
The veil was too thin to deceive Portia, and as soon as she could be heard, thus she answer'd.
Altho' I honour true maxims of morality as much as any one; yet have I always despised those prudential laws, which should rather be call'd the rules of cunning, too much to take them for my guides. And I believe that infamous saying, "That it is the part of wisdom to live always with a friend, as if he (was one day to become an enemy," was, (as an ingenious author says on another occasion) the devil's favourite maxim when he was last on earth: for bring it into day-light and strip off its borrow'd mask of wisdom, and the plain English is neither more nor less than this: that you are justified in attaining all the advantages of friendship you can get from others, and are at the same time commanded not to be a real friend to any human creature. Such maxims serve well the purpose of men incapable of the least degree of reciprocal affection, and who by craft and deceit inveigle the open-hearted into acts of friendship, and then consider them as meer dupes to their superior wisdom. By which name they dignify their own cunning, and cover over the corruption of their hearts. Such persons are sure to follow our Saviour's advice, in having the wisdom of the serpent, but drop the more essential part, the innocence of the dove. When characters of this kind force themselves on my thoughts, I want to banish the word friendship from common use, that I may never more be a witness of its being thus prostituted: but when I turn my thoughts on my Cordelia, I would recall the banish'd word, and cherish every pleasing image that can attend a reciprocal affection.
The Cry, notwithstanding Portia's answer, still persisted in it, that the observance of cautious and prudent maxims, was the only security against becoming a dupe; when Portia thus proceeded.
The terror mankind imbibe of being made dupes, is the bane of society, the destruction of all friendship, and oftentimes the cause of those very misfortunes, which they would most wish to avoid. Even in the compass of my small acquaintance, many are the instances I have observed of the greatest misfortunes arising from this evil root. I knew one young lady, whose kind parents had provided for her a husband, whom they very judiciously approved. But so far did they carry their indulgence to their daughter Julia (for that was her name) that they would not suffer a formal proposal to be made to her, knowing the averseness of young girls to such kind of formalities, and the pleasure they take in a personal particular address. They therefore invited their intended son-in-law to their country seat, in order to give him an opportunity of gaining by degrees their daughter's love. The young gentleman had an agreeable address, and Julia was galloping on in the road of being most violently in love with him. As she knew not whether her father or mother would give a sanction to her choice, and as she rather imagined according to general observation that they would not, (for she was an only child, the heiress to a large fortune, and her lover a young gentleman, whose real merit was his only wealth) there was an air of intrigue in her love which greatly pleased her, and her passion daily increased so violently, that had she met with any opposition, she would undoubtedly have taken the advantage of the first dark night to have flown out of the window, from her cruel parents to her admiring lover. But Julia unluckily one day overheard her fond father and mother exulting in the success of their stratagem, and pleasing themselves with the prospect of their Julia's future happiness, with a young man whom they had chosen for his real merit to be their son-in-law; and from the moment she had discover'd, that the object of her passion was first the object of her parents choice, and that he was invited by her father for the very purpose which had fallen out, all her fancy'd love immediately fled, and she was obstinately bent against being thus duped into her own happiness. She lived unmarried till her parents died, and then became the prey of a common Irish fortune-hunter, who duped her out of all her money, ran away into his own country with a girl who lived with her as a servant; and the last I heard of her is, that she lives a wretched neglected wife, with no other support but what arises from the generous friendship of her first lover, whom she refused for fear of being duped by her parents, and who makes the best of husbands to a woman of three times Julia's fortune that married him for love. Nor less deplorable is the fate of another girl that I knew, who ran into the irrevocable chains of matrimony, with a man disagreeable both in person and manners, whose temper was morose, and whose disposition was cruel and tyrannical: yet into the power of this man did she put herself for life, only because her elder sister advised her against the match; and she therefore fancy'd that her sister had a mind to dupe her out of such a valuable husband. But instances of the miserable consequences which attend this false fear, and which must have fallen under every one's observation, who hath got this key to the human mind, would be endless in the repetition. It is this which makes those domestic politicians, who are filling their brains with continual suspicions and stratagems about nothing; who are a curse to every family in which they are to be found; who are the most mischievous, and I believe in their own hearts the most miserable of all beings. They can enjoy no pleasure for fear their friends and acquaintance should have lain some traps to deceive and gull them. The timorous hare doth not exceed them in fear, altho' she doth in wisdom; for the number of her foes justifies her terrors: but these voluntary seekers of objects of fear, may generally find their only enemy at home; and like Swift's fat man in the croud, if they could remove themselves from the number of those imaginary enemies which they complain of, they would find the whole croud dwindled into nothing. But I shall always esteem it as a greater effect of true wisdom, to suffer myself to be duped by a great variety of my acquaintance, than to fix myself down as a constant dupe to my own unnecessary anxieties. Nothing indeed to me could be so terrible, as to spend my life continually haunted with ghosts, form'd by my own capricious imagination: for whatever enemies I find without, I will always endeavour not to cherish one in my own bosom.
No such fears, no such suspicions could prevent my having an unreserved, an unbounded confidence in the friendship of Cordelia . Whatever pleasures I meet with in life, how do I rejoice in communicating them to her friendly bosom! Sorrows in her absence never come with all their poignancy, as their sharpness must be abated by the reflexion she escapes them: for that use of a friend, the only one that seems to be commonly learnt, namely the power of making somebody else as miserable as ourselves, I have never yet experienced. May my pleasures ever be enlarged by communication, and my griefs lessened by a consciousness, that my friends, by being ignorant of them, avoid all their pains. To conceal what might be displeasing to her, is the only reserve my heart ever felt towards Cordelia; and when my whole soul is open, and my words with an unreserved and joyous confidence, fearlesly express the very inmost thoughts of my heart, how do I pity those who assuming the name of friends, surround themselves with maxims, importing the wisdom of doubt and suspicion, till they impose on themselves that very hard task of labouring through life, without ever knowing a human creature to whom they can make the proper use of language, and freely speak the dictates of their hearts! This is voluntarily moving in continual chains, for fear of they know not what, they know not whom: this is miser-like to give up every convenience, every joy in life, from a cowardly fear of inconveniences that may never come; and if they should come, to bear them once is not half the pain as is the living in continual dread of them. Truly does Lillo, in his Fatal Curiosity, make Eustace say,
For to be ten times deceiv'd (painful as it is) doth not to me carry half the horror with it, as the forming a fix'd opinion, that in my passage through this Life I am doom'd to an impossibility of conversing with any sort of creatures, but beasts of prey, tigers, wolves, and foxes, who are ever laying in wait to destroy me. To consider myself as in a continual state of war, and to employ all my time in forming stratagems to escape the wiles of my supposed adversaries, suits so little with my disposition, that should I be so unfortunate as to live long enough to find, that not one amongst the human race will confer on me that greatest of all favours, the suffering me to esteem and love them, I must quit mankind, and lead the life of a hermit: for to be always studying what words I may utter, or what I must stifle, in short, according to the vulgar proverb, to be afraid to say my very soul is my own, for fear somebody should lay a plot to rob me of it, is too painful a task for me ever to undertake; and I had rather stand the worst consequence which can attend the freely energizing the affections of my heart, than bear such an intolerable burthen.
The Cry, during the time that Portia had been declaring her sentiments of friendship, had undergone a various change of countenance. Sometimes their looks indicated an insipid inattention, and then would they gape and stare as if they were asking each other the meaning of all the nonsense, as they pleased to term it, which Portia had been talking. At other times, when their favourite sentiments were contradicted, their eyes lower'd with angry frowns; but on Portia's declaring that she would stand the consequence of any deception, rather than bear the chains of suspicion, their angry frowns were gone, invidious sneers play'd about their mouths, and they began to whisper to each other, that "the creature would be a dupe all the days of her life; but that their good-nature should not carry them so far as to endeavour to undeceive a person so conceited of her own opinion, as in their judgments they pronounced our Portia."
For it is the common language of the Cry, to pity themselves for the excess of their own good-nature, which they generally declare to be the cause of every misfortune that attends them.
The countenance of Una was a perfect contrast to that of the whole Cry; a languid softness damp'd the lustre of her eyes, at the image of the miseries which the suspicious feel; but they shone with all their brightness at Portia's description of the joyous confidence she placed in her Cordelia.
The pleasure Una receives, whenever she hath an opportunity of approving, now visibly appear'd in the dimpled smiles that play'd about her mouth; and as Una delights in approving, so did Portia no less delight in her approbation; and thus encouraged, proceeded in laying open her heart, by the declaration of her sentiments, and by a relation of her past life.
The whisper of the Cry, that Portia would be a dupe, was not design'd by them to be so low as to be conceal'd from her ears; and the scorn which was visible in their countenances, shew'd that they desired not to conceal their opinion: thus therefore she address'd them.
'Tis not the love of friendship, but an earnest desire after flattery, which lays the human mind open to deception. This love of flattery is so gross in its desires, that it will (as Shakespear says) leave a coelestial bed to pray on garbage. There is an innocence of mind that delights in friendship, which, far from perverting, makes the judgment exert itself, and is therefore very little liable to be deceiv'd: but when fulsome flattery is once become the sweetest of all food to the mental palate, whoever brings such an agreeable repast, will be received with open arms, and a league of fancied friendship will immediately be sign'd. 'Tis such a perversion of the judgment, such a desire of applause, without the trouble of deserving it, that forms those connexions, which hath often made all friendship appear as a crafty contest for imposition, hath brought the very name into disgrace, and render'd the supposition of a true and disinterested friendship, to be only the chimæra of a warm imagination. But whilst you, O ye Cry, enjoy a fancy'd ridicule on my sentiments, and please yourselves with the thought that I shall be duped by whoever hath a mind to impose on me, 'tis you yourselves who will be the easiest imposed on by any language best suited to gratify your vanity, and to increase your coveted good opinion of yourselves.
The Cry now left their sneering; for there was a sort of detection in Portia's words, which, as they could not answer, excited their anger, and they all at once loudly declared, that Portia had accused them and all mankind of being fond of flattery. For the affirmation that all mankind in general are condemn'd, when any particular vice or affectation is blamed, is one of the favourite outcries of this assembly. Nor did they stop at their accusation of Portia's having reflected on all mankind for their fondness to flattery; but they added, that she had at the same time boasted, that no flattery whatever could be pleasing to herself; as if she alone was exempt from every human frailty.
Portia, conscious that she had thrown out no such accusation against mankind, but had only blamed the indulgence of a love of flattery, where it might happen to be found; and certain also, that she had not given the least hint of being exempt from any of the frailties of her species, made them no sort of answer.
And the Cry, glad that their false assertions, and malicious representations, were not forced into an examination, held their peace, and suffer'd Portia thus to proceed.
Homer's Odyssey.
I think I have mention'd all Nicanor's family, but his younger son Ferdinand, the twin brother of Cordelia— Oh for a muse of fire to ascend the brightest heaven of invention, that I might in terms adequate to the noble subject depict his character, speak his virtues, and sing his praises!
The Cry now in language suitable to accost a spectre, clamor'd forth,—Avaunt, avaunt; we spy
Portia. I once knew a man, to my sorrow be it remember'd, whose vices the tongues of men or of dæmons could not paint. He possess'd not so much as the shadow of one virtue; his heart was the lowest sink of corruption; and from his lips flow'd nothing but malignant venom.
The Cry now changed their averted countenances, hung on Portia's words with attention, and seem'd impatient for the remaining part of the character of the faulty monster she had begun to describe. When instead of proceeding, she cast an intelligent smile on Una; who perceiving her meaning, bad her go on with her account of Ferdinand; and the Cry, inwardly stung with being thus detected in their love of detraction, and hatred to just praise; awed also by the permission granted by Una for Portia to continue her description of Ferdinand, shrunk into themselves, nor for the present express'd their inward rage, otherwise than by sparks of fury darting from their eyes.
Portia. Thoroughly to make your hearers sensible of the true character of any person, with whom you would bring them acquainted, it is necessary to declare their actions; and by these alone will this assembly hereafter be enabled to judge, whether I exceed the truth, when I say that Ferdinand, on as short an acquaintance as with his sister, appear'd to me to possess an uncommon strength of capacity, and a superlative goodness of heart, which shone forth in every word he utter'd: for, when in the freedom and good-humour of his heart, he diffuses cheerful mirth around him, it would not be improper to say, that he is in possession of the whole force of true and lively humour. He hath the command of every species of wit, humour, or pleasantry, that can be named or invented; yet doth he not so worship it, because it is his own, as ever to exult in his visible superiority over all his companions. His learning, his knowledge of human nature, his deep reflexions on every thing that claims the name of science, renders him no less an acceptable companion amongst his grave acquaintance. His affability, his polite behaviour, his agreeable address—
Here Portia was interrupted by a general laugh from the Cry, nor could she guess the occasion of it, till one of them as soon as she could find her breath, in an ironical tone of voice cry'd out. "You are not warm'd at all, Portia, by your description of Ferdinand."
Yes I am, replied Portia, and it would be a false shame in me to endeavour to deny, that my heart is truly warm'd with such a character. My acquaintance with Ferdinand hath ever been my pleasure, and it was my glory to have that esteem for him which he so justly deserved.
The Cry were all baffled and disappointed by Portia's answer; for they hoped that they had discover'd a secret which she would have wish'd to have conceal'd.
I confess, continued Portia, my love for Ferdinand, yet never was I conscious of being in love with him, according to the common acceptation of that much-abused word. For at any time, had his interest or pleasure demanded such a sacrifice, rather than have been his burthen or vexation, I could have submitted never to have beheld him again, nor should he ever have been teazed and tired with my repinings or complaints. It would, I confess, be the highest joy of my life, to know myself instrumental to his happiness; but was that deny'd me, all I could do would be to take care that by my behaviour I became not the cause his misery. Was the man I love even to marry another woman, so far should I be from endeavouring to injure that woman, that I could not be inspired with the least degree of hatred towards the real object of his choice, and perhaps the cause of his happiness.
The Cry could hold no longer, but from every mouth burst forth—Was ever heard such romantic stuff? such affectation! such refinement! with many other abusive words of the same import; concluding at last in full chorus, that Portia had positively declared, that she should be better pleased to have her lover marry any other woman than herself.
Portia. It is not in the power of the most labour'd eloquence, fairly to extort such a conclusion from my words, as that I should be better, or even as well pleased, with Ferdinand's making choice of another woman. I said only, and still declare, that his wife could not be the object of my hatred, nor could I rejoice in any misfortunes that might attend the man for whom I have an affection. Such wresting false conclusions from plain and simple expressions is your refuge, O ye foolish Cry, from beholding truth. Was the man I love to chuse another woman, I might indeed be grieved for the disappointment of my love, but I could not be angry that he had exerted his undoubted right of chusing for himself. And however we may deceive ourselves by prostituting that poor injured word love; yet is it really pride piqued, and not love disappointed, that causes that resentment and rage which often produces the most tragical events. Is any woman enraged with her lover because he dies? her disappointment in that case produces a grief unmix'd with anger: for, whilst she is spared the mortifying reflexion that another is prefer'd before her, let her love be ever so violent, there will be no rage, no fury is join'd with her affliction. Whereever, therefore, those boisterous passions exert themselves, we must look for some other cause besides mere love, or we shall be highly deceived in our judgments. Fury and love, I will venture to affirm, never inhabited the same breast towards the same object; and whenever we fancy they meet, let us but examine them a little nearer, and we shall easily distinguish pride piqued from disappointed love.
The supposition, that it was possible for any woman to be so mean-spirited, as not at least to wish to tear out her rival's eyes, was too hard for the digestion of the Cry: but on Portia's having confess'd herself that mean-spirited creature, they laugh'd and sneer'd to express their contempt; and said, that undoubtedly Ferdinand, if he was a man of any spirit, would be mightily pleased to hear his mistress so tamely giving him up; he would think himself under great obligations to Portia, for her fantastic generosity; he would thank her highly for her disinterested love, in desiring him to marry another woman!
Portia. Why, O ye Cry, do you by leaving out my words, and putting in your own, entirely change my meaning? I said not any thing like what you have represented. I say, I wish my lover happy, and would therefore suppress any thoughts in my own bosom, rather than teaze and make him uneasy. As to his thanks indeed I never thought of any such thing; 'tis his happiness, and not his thanks, that I desire. And you are much deceived, if you imagine that a lover's not thinking himself obliged to me would give me the least uneasiness. The word obligation is very seldom in my thoughts, and consequently very seldom is it utter'd by my tongue; for I am satisfyed, that whoever hath the word obligation continually in his mouth, hath the love of tyranny steadily fixt in his heart. Whatever acts of kindness such a man may appear to do, his chief design is but to buy so much flattery and a servitude, which if the person he chuses to confer his favours on, or in his own words to oblige, doth not (as being no flatterer) return according to his expectations; altho' the whole strength of his body and mind should wait ready to be exerted at command; yet will his obliging friend turn into an inveterate enemy, and he will soon perceive the sweet apparent kindness suddenly changed into the bitterest of gall. His grateful honest heart, for want of having paid the expected loan of adulation, must endure the heavy load of being
Portia could not have thrown amongst the Cry any bone so hard as a thought of hers, wherein the two words obligation and gratitude were to be found. Yet was it a subject which set them a quarrelling amongst themselves, too much to suffer them to attempt giving any answer to Portia. One would have gratitude to mean one thing; another would put it in a quite different shape; a third would make it something between the other two, and so of all the rest. Their eager arguments and jarring discords would have had no end, unless they had hit on a point in which they could all join against Portia; and this was no other than affirming, that her last words contain'd a panegyric on ingratitude, from whence they pronounced her to be the most ungrateful creature in the world; then resuming the subject of love, they put a question to her, which they thought it impossible for her to answer, namely, whether she could retain any affection or regard for a deceitful villain? for such they said must be the man she loved, if he was to marry another woman.
Portia made not a ready answer to their question; because she really at first understood not their meaning, which threw the Cry into such a transport of joy, as thinking they had entirely silenced their enemy, that with a sort of shout they repeated their question by the mouth of a female orator in the following terms. —How is it possible for a woman to have any affection for a man, who after having made love to her, should then be so base as to marry another woman?
This must be the case, said another female voice from a different part of the Cry; for 'tis out of nature to make so absurd a supposition, as that any woman of either modesty or spirit, could be in love with a man before he had used every art of persuasion to insinuate himself into her affections, and before he had absolutely made love to her.
Portia. I don't know what is meant by making love, unless it implies feigning it. And I am certain a man could no more persuade me to bestow on him my affections, unless he could prove himself the object of love, than he could persuade me so much out of my senses, as to acknowledge him to be a giant, whilst my eyes are every minute convinced that he is of the common size of mortals. If you mean by the necessity of being persuaded to love, that you can have no regard for a lover, till he hath repeated over a certain number of flattering speeches; I differ so far from you in opinion, that nothing could render a man so detestable in my eyes, as thus to treat me like an idiot. The woman who insists on such persuasion, is not aware of the consequence. She knows not perhaps that 'tis the flattery itself which gains her heart; and every man or monkey, who can learn and repeat his lesson by rote, has it in his power, whenever he pleases, to make himself the object of what she calls her affections.
The Cry, who were in hopes by their question to have ensnared Portia into confusion and perplexity, and to have put her to shame before Una (whom they pretended to admire, and would fain have persuaded to prefer them to Portia were so vex'd at her answer, and so enraged at the least hint, that by the insisting on this kind of courtship they were most easily to be gained, that they were at a loss for adequate terms in which to vent their anger. They twisted and wrested Portia's words into a thousand different meanings, which she never so much as thought of; they repeated their whole catalogue of abusive terms, which they always keep ready to fly to, when any the least ray of truth strikes on their eyes, and concluded with a general declaration, that they believed such romantic stuff as fill'd the head of Portia, was never before thought of by any human creature.
Portia then ask'd the Cry, what idea they had fix'd to the word romantic; but instead of answering her question, they each fell to jogging their next neighbour, and softly whisper'd,—Do you answer her—No, you answer her, says another; and so on to the third, fourth, &c. throughout the whole assembly.
Portia then declared, that if they would not answer her question, she was very ready to tell them in what sense she thought a woman might properly be call'd romantic; for (continued she) I hate to suffer any word which implies ridicule to pass indefinite, and to be left at large to be apply'd at pleasure.
The application of the word romantic, as we now generally use it, took its rise from the great love young girls formerly had to reading those voluminous romances, in which the heroine is represented as thinking it the highest breach of modesty to give the least hint of having one favourable sentiment for her lover, till he hath passed many years of probation, and given innumerable proofs of being capable of adoring his mistress even to madness. The poor deluded readers of such romances, who thought it a fine thing to imitate these exalted heroines, and expected of their lovers such service and adoration, were very properly ridiculed by the name of romantic, and 'tis no more than an act of kindness to laugh them out of such absurdities: but whether I have said any thing which can justify the application of that word to my sentiments, let Una be the judge.
The Cry too well knew what would be the opinion of Una, to stand to her decision; they admitted not therefore of the appeal, but boldly asserted that they were too certain of their own opinions, to stand by the judgment of any other.
Una gave her approbation to Portia by a look, which she very well understood; and silence being made amongst the Cry, she thus proceeded in her discourse.
Hor.
Women by thus insisting on it, that they will be persuaded to love, lead their whole lives in expectation, which makes them continually liable to the vexation of a disappointment. Little miss is taught by her mamma, that she must never speak before she is spoken to. On this she sits bridling up her head, looking from one to the other, in hopes of being call'd to and address'd by the name of pretty miss, and of being ask'd some questions, for which her nursery maid perhaps hath furnish'd her with a smart answer: but if this should not happen, and no one should take any notice of her, she is ready to cry at the neglect: but should there be another miss in the room caress'd and taken notice of, whilst she is thus over-look'd, it will be impossible for her to contain her tears; and blubbering is the word.
When the white frock is laid aside, the bigger miss seats herself in public at a ball, expecting every moment to be chosen by some man for a partner for that evening. If she is baulk'd, what galling disappointment doth she feel within! Her heart is ready to burst with envy, at all those who are so happy as to be taken out; and she hath, I confess, sometimes a hard task to support the insolent questions of her friends, who will not fail to ask her "why she is not one amongst the dancers? whether she loves dancing, or whether she is not well?" She is put to the utmost shifts for answers to these questions; sometimes she says she does not chuse dancing to-night, 'tis so excessive hot. — If she is not quite out of hope, she will say her partner is not yet come; but her general excuse is, "that her head achs, and she is not very well." Should she happen luckily to be relieved from this most deplorable distress, by the entrance of a man of fashion, who should ask her to dance, her sickness is fled; she is in as high spirits as any amongst them. Should her partner also chance to be the man most generally liked in the room, the outward tosses of her person sufficiently indicate the inward triumph of her mind. But a few of these triumphs are but a very small recompence for the rancour she so often feels (unless she is at the head of beauty's train) at having her expectations baulk'd: and if miss would come to the ball with a simple mind without highly raising her expectations, if she would confess that she should like to dance, if she was ask'd, and was not ashamed of being overlook'd, the stings of neglect would lose their poignancy, and by finding out that grand secret of keeping her mind independent, she would sometimes be greatly pleased at a ball, but never greatly mortified: she might not, 'tis true, if she indulged not the spirit of insult, ever experience the lying all night awake in rapturous reflexions on an evening's triumph, but many a night would she spare herself the torment arising from gnawing discontent, and bedewing her pillow with tears of rage and vexation for her disappointment.
The same expectation of being chosen out as a partner for life, continues from miss of fifteen, to miss of—and if no such partner offers, full as many excuses are found out to cover over the dreadful appearance of being neglected as miss made use of at the ball. The girl who is baulk'd of a partner for one evening, vents her vexation, and renews her hopes against another; but the woman who is continually expecting great offers of marriage, which may never happen, knows not when to give up here xpectations. This is, I believe, a very good account for the peevishness of old maids; and the old maid who is not peevish, plainly proves that she hath led no such life, nor been accustom'd to frequent disappointments.
The Cry had a great mind to have thrown out some trite joke at old maids; but as they could not make themselves believe, that Portia was likely to be in that number, it was so small a gratification of their spleen, it was not worth indulging; and thus Portia proceeded.
But supposing none of these baulks and disappointments to happen, and miss in due time should receive the expected address. According to your notion, O ye Cry, of making love, or prevailing with a young woman to yield her affections to persuasion, I will draw you a picture, or tell you a story (call it which you please) of a young gentleman paying his court to a young lady in the way you mention.
Behold my young lady the morning of that day in which she is to receive her lover in the afternoon, I mean the man who hath already enter'd on some few of those speeches he is condemn'd to make, before he obtains any mark of her favour. The first part of the day is spent in the consideration of the manner, in which she may best adorn herself to please her worshipper. This is perform'd with both cost and care, and Betty is alternately praised or chid, abused for being awkward, or commended for being handy, just as her own looks, or the remembrance of her lover's last behaviour, depresses or elates her vanity. Every ribbon, every flower is chosen, and placed where it is thought most becoming; yet she goes not into high dress, but appears rather careless, for fear she should be suspected by her lover of having a design to appear agreeable in his eyes. When she is dress'd, behold her still sitting at her glass, repeating poems or speeches out of plays, such as follow,
Or perhaps these,
Not that she hath any intention or inclination to speak those lines to any creature living, or really in the least feels that she knows any man, whom she cannot very well live and breathe without: but her imagination is anticipating the part Philander is to perform, and she is repeating the language which she hopes to hear him utter.
This young lady had taken a great fancy to shell-work, and was indulging that fancy by forming a little grotto at the end of the garden. She had always just finish'd something new whenever Philander paid his visits, and willing to entertain him with the sight of this agreeable grotto, thither she leads him.
And now behold the goddess seated on her throne, the work of her own fair hands, fill'd with the imagination of her own charms, receiving the adulation of her worshipper. Philander profusely pours forth his angels and his goddesses; makes himself the humblest of her slaves; petitions at the shrine of her altar for some distant hint of her favour, which by small degrees she grants him, 'till his task is done, 'till his number of flattering speeches are run out; and when the weather-glass of the lady's vanity is swell'd to the top, then is she persuaded into what she calls a rational affection. For she could not be mean enough to like a man before he had made use of such persuasion: but now is she perfectly satisfied to be most violently in love with him, and from that day forward, admits it reasonable to set no bounds to her fondness.
From the time that Portia began to describe the goddess on her throne, with her adoring lover at her feet, a sympathizing pleasure overspread the countenances of the female part of the Cry: but when she dropp'd the description and was proceeding with her own observations, their brows were again knit into their usual discontent, and Portia thus went on.
Strange absurdity! Strange language this of angel and of goddess! An adulation, which translated into plain English, means no more than an address of the following kind. "Madam, I like you (no matter whether from fortune, person, or any other motive) and it will conduce much to my pleasure and convenience, if you will become my wife: that is, if you will bind yourself before God and man to obey my commands as long as I shall live. And should you after marriage be forgetful of your duty, you will then have given me a legal power of exacting as rigid a performance of it as I please." But, as the adulating language is not thus translated 'till the ceremony of marriage is past, and is 'till then perfectly unintelligible; 'tis no wonder that the poor woman, who hath been thus egregiously imposed on, (or rather who hath so egregiously imposed on herself) should find it so difficult a language to learn; and very naturally will all her fancy'd love, which had no better a foundation than momentary flattery, when that ceases, fall to the ground. What a curse, under such circumstances, must attend a domestic life! The company of strangers, who are more likely to please her ears with some of her darling sounds, must be to such a wife her best relief from the dull company of her husband. Dull only will be the company of her husband, while he is indifferent to her; but she will not long stop here: for vanity disappointed, will always find an enemy on whom to bestow the utmost hatred and dislike; and the woman who hath been thus entangled in her own snares, will generally find that enemy in the person of her husband. As from him, when her lover, arose all her pleasure; so from him now flows all her disappointment. She will grow sour, and morose; every thing in her husband's house will become hateful to her sight. No indulgence on his side, (should he be willing to be an indulgent husband) can compensate the loss of adoration. She will not confess, even to herself, her own inferiority, enough to understand the language of indulgence, nor will she deign to accept it. The heart that is puffed up, and swelling with vanity, can never be fitted to receive real kindness, nor knows to beat with pleasure from gratitude, for gentle treatment. But I think a more ridiculous instance of female vanity cannot well be discovered, than that of a woman boasting that she scorns to love, without being persuaded, (that is, flattered out of her affections;) when by these means she robs herself of her greatest privilege, that of distinction and choice. She boasts of demanding to be used with insolence and contempt: she lays snares to entrap herself, and makes herself liable (as she insists on deceit) to fall to the share of the most worthless of mankind.
The female part of the Cry were so dull and melancholy, on Portia's mentioning a domestic life, that altho' they had many flying notions wandering in their brains, which they thought amounted to a proof of the absurdity of her sentiments, yet had they not spirit enough to contradict her: and as there were no men in that assembly, who durst avow the truth of Portia's translation of the adulating language, for fear of losing a mistress, or offending a wise, she met with neither approbation nor opposition, and without interruption thus proceeded.
Flattery in courtship is the highest insolence; for whilst it pretends to bestow on you more than you deserve, it is watching an opportunity to take from you what you really have. The bestower of it is laughing to think what a ridiculous figure you will make, when like the fox in the fable, he hath, by sounding your praises, robb'd you of your treasure; and you are indeed in a worse situation than the deluded crow, who only lost her piece of cheese; for you are fix'd for life the slave of your deluder.
The Cry now a little roused themselves from their lethargy, and affirm'd, that Portia from her discourse had intimated, that it was in no man's power to recommend himself to her favour; that her liking, if she could have any, (which indeed they scarcely allow'd, for they pronouced her totally incapable of that love, to which they join'd the epithets of generous and noble) must depend on caprice, and not on the merit of her lover; that she was above being courted, and in short, that she was the proudest of all her kind.
If the reader should chance to remember, that Spenser, in his allegory of the house of pride, makes all those who are enlisted in that numerous train, the most ready to complain of the pride of their leader; it may not appear strange, that the Cry should on all occasions be no less prompt to accuse others of a vice, to which they themselves are most prone.
The Cry's last charge against Portia was too complicated for her to give an answer to every particular; but how true it was that no man could recommend himself to Portia by his merit, her following discourse will shew.
Hor.
The common flattering language of courtship, I will be bold to affirm, is not calculated (even if flowing from the mouth of Ferdinand) to gain my esteem: nor could my imagination form a more serious affliction, than finding myself so much the object of his contempt, as to be treated by him in that manner. [Here Portia deeply sigh'd.] I have already confess'd the sincerest love for Ferdinand; to discover him therefore to be unworthy my regard, is the only point which could touch my soul with sorrow: for as my love for him had no other foundation than thinking he deserved it better than the rest of mankind; the knowing him guilty of any action that would rob me of that thought, must rob me of my love.
Never, O ye Cry, by the methods you would delight in, could Ferdinand have persuaded me to love him: but often hath he raised himself in my esteem, when I believe I have not been in his thoughts, and when he hath been addressing his conversation to some other part of the company; and in this sense (and no other) often might he be said strongly to make love to me.
I remember one evening, a gentleman told a story of a young woman formerly his acquaintance, and equal in station to himself, who was fallen into unavoidable distress by the loss of her parents; she had three little sisters, whom it was her earnest desire to support, but wanting the means, she ask'd this her friend what measures would be most proper for her to take; and he closed his story with saying, that he advised her immediately to go to service. The gentleman related this his advice to her with so much indifference, as plainly prov'd he was untouch'd with the poor girl's distress; nor fail'd to throw forth some of those common reflexions made upon the unhappy, whether deserving or undeserving of such censure; namely, "that pride and laziness make people a burthen to their friends, and that 'tis every one's duty to submit to their station, &c." But Ferdinand so humanely deplored the unhappy circumstances of a young creature born and bred in affluence, and now reduced to the necessity of undergoing the taunts and insults of her former companions; he with so deep a penetration and clear distinction ran through the several specious methods of veiling the want of generosity, and a stubborn hardness of heart, under pretended prudence and friendly advice; at the same time speaking his sense of the poor girl's distress, in language which must flow from so feeling a heart; that for an hour together he made love to me, without his knowing any thing of the matter; and from seeing him thus capable of being touch'd with afflictions, in which he was no personal sufferer, I could not but think how happy must that woman be, who is beloved by a heart susceptible of such true kindness!
Another evening Ferdinand, by his behaviour, convinced me that his humanity and compassion for the distress'd, was in his practice, as well as in his discourse; and he made love to me for two or three hours, more by his manner of treating a lady who was fallen into great indigence, although her extraction was from an honourable stock, and her living relations enjoy'd themselves in plenty. Fortune at that time denied to Ferdinand the least means of exerting the natural munificence of his disposition; but it chanced to be in his power to do this unfortunate lady, by his assiduity and recommendation, a signal piece of service; and when I have said it was in his power, to say he used that power would be unnecessary. The lady was pretty far advanced in years, and in her youthful days had lived what is call'd at the top of life. Whether from a good understanding, and a happiness of disposition, this lady was always chearful under her misfortunes; whether the treatment she met with from Ferdinand and Cordelia had raised her spirits, or whether she had discernment enough to see, that so kind a heart as was in the breast of Ferdinand wanted not to be moved by lamentations, tears, and complainings, (for something less than a widow and four small children could move his compassion) I know not; but I never spent a more agreeable evening in my life. By the lady's behaviour I should never have guess'd, had it not afterwards been told me by Cordelia, that she was a woman reduced to the lowest distress of circumstances; and by Ferdinand's treatment of her, it appear'd much more likely that she had visited him with the power and the design of conferring some great favour on him, than that she was a petitioner for his assistance. That the behaviour of Ferdinand, and not a set of frothy words, should gain my affection, was so very agreeable to my disposition, that every new instance of his being deservedly the object of my esteem, fill'd me with inexpressible pleasure.
Another way which Ferdinand had of making love to me, altho' I dare say very undesignedly, was by being ready at all times to give me information concerning any thing, in which I had a curiosity to be inform'd.
Oh! now our love of knowledge is going to be display'd, whisper'd the Cry, at the same time nodding their heads at each other.
Portia. I dare ask Ferdinand for information, which odd as it may appear to say so, is no such easy thing to do by most of one's acquaintance; and with truth can I declare, that I have long remain'd ignorant of many things, from the fear of asking any questions. Not out of any dread of shewing my own ignorance, but from the impossibility I generally find of getting a direct answer. I will tell you a short story to illustrate my meaning. Having once an intention to go from London to Twickenham by water, I ask'd a gentleman if he knew what time the tide would serve the next day for that purpose. When instead of giving me the information I wanted, the gentleman began a long discourse upon tides. He talk'd of their nature, their use; of the influence of the moon; quoted all the books that had ever mention'd the word tide, and displayed his knowledge of all the various systems concerning so surprizing a phænomenon, till he lost himself in the multiplicity of his own words, confounded my attention, and left me full as ignorant as before he had utter'd one syllable. However, I found he had answer'd his own purpose, altho' he was not the nearer answering mine; for I easily perceived that his intention was, to present himself with the agreeable image of his being a teacher, whilst my information or instruction was a point he never once consider'd. As soon as he had finish'd his long harangue, I told him that I doubted not, but all he had been saying was very true, for I supposed he had often consider'd the subject, which I had not: but I begg'd to know if he could tell what time the tide would serve, for me to go the next day to Twickenham. On which after taking still some time for deliberation, wrapp'd up in a great many words, he gave me to understand, that he could not at that time answer my question. For he was not able to bring himself to utter those few plain words, "Indeed, madam, I cannot tell."
Ferdinand hath a candour in his mind, which gives him a capacity of perceiving when ignorance is not willful, and a generosity and communicativeness of disposition, which makes him delight in the informing his companions. There appears to me a wide difference between the desire of being a teacher or dictator, and the love of communicating knowledge. The man who attempts to teach from the former motive, endeavours purposely to render his ideas, if he hath any, perplex'd and obscure: whilst the man who is actuated by the latter, will take any pains to become clear and intelligible to his hearer. I believe it is certainly true, that when a man is confused in his language, and can give no distinct ideas, he either understands not the subject he talks of, or doth not desire that you should do so. And often perhaps from the same motives as may be found in Alexander the great's letter to Aristotle, wherein he expresses his displeasure at that philosopher for publickly communicating his knowledge, "for then (says he) others will be as wise as ourselves." But when I declare it as my opinion, that whatever a man really knows, that he will be able to teach or express; all hesitation and defects in the organs of speech itself must be consider'd as thouroughly out of this question.
Una intirely agreed with Portia on this head; but wonder'd, she said, as it was so very clear, that she should say so much about it.
Portia. There is Nothing, which is in conversation a more common topic of dispute; and if you, O Una, will give me your attention, (for I see the Cry are in some grand debate among themselves) I will relate what happen'd to myself, concerning this very subject. —I was talking one day with a very learned and ingenious man on this point; and was mentioning my opinion, as you have just now heard. He would not admit the truth of the observation, but insisted on it, that people might have very clear ideas, which it was impossible for them to express: and altho' I readily gave up all faults in elocution, and fix'd it down to a cool and deliberate expression in writing, yet even this he would not admit, and strenuously stood by his first assertion. About half a year afterwards, I found he had entirely changed his opinion, and in the same company in which he had contradicted me, applying his discourse to Ferdinand, he said that in reading Aristotle he found it affirm'd, "that whatsoever a man understands he can teach." I own, I could not help smiling on Cordelia; and Ferdinand said to his friend, "Don't you remember, Sir, this is the very subject which Portia was talking to you about some time ago, and you then disputed those sentiments in her, which you now admit in Aristotle?" But Ferdinand might full as well have been silent; for the gentleman (a little angry, perhaps, at the discovery of his want of candour) only renew'd his assertion, that Aristotle was in the right. "For whatever a man thoroughly understands, that he will certainly be able to teach."
Rochfoucault.
The Cry had not heard one word that Portia had been talking with Una, nor did they trouble themselves at present about teaching or understanding. For from the time Portia had said, that Ferdinand possess'd a generosity of disposition, which made him delight in informing his companions; they had been in a deep consultation on the word generosity, as apply'd by Portia . In order to prove her absurd in her expressions, they turn'd and twisted it every way, and confused and entangled themselves in their own various conceptions. They were unwilling to allow that it was ever used, except to express a profuse distribution of money; but unless they could attain some other images, besides those which relate to property, Portia's liberal way of expressing herself must for ever remain above their comprehension. However, after a long debate, they began to find that their taking exception to Portia's expression in this case, would appear even too frivolous to deserve an answer; and they therefore agreed to wait for a fairer opportunity of abusing her, and for the present permitted her uninterrupted to proceed with her story.
Portia. Whilst Ferdinand was shewing me every day, that he was in possession of those amiable qualities, which alone had the power of gaining my affections, I am not ashamed to confess, that I endeavour'd as much as possible to recommend myself to him, and that my chief wish was to appear agreeable in his eyes.
The word recommend set the whole Cry in a uproar. —"Recommend one's self to a man!" scream'd out every female voice; which expression was reechoed and tossed about, till it was interpreted to be indecent, and they delighted themselves with discovering that Portia had fully confess'd, that she every day pleaded the cause of her love to Ferdinand, and had therefore given up the modest dignity of her sex. Full conviction of this, they pretended, had possess'd their minds; and this threw them into such raptures, that words were not sufficient to express their joy: but all in full chorus began to sing,
Many other things they said and sung, importing their contempt of Portia, and their high admiration of themselves, which all entirely lost their desired effect; for without being the least disconcerted, Portia thus attempted to proceed.
Portia. My love to Ferdinand, altho' very great and sincere, never inclined me to be jealous.
Now the Cry lost even the affectation of patience, and declared that Portia used them like idiots, to pretend thus to impose on their understanding; but she would find herself much mistaken; for their knowledge of human nature was a little too deep for such stuff to pass upon them. Then they repeated all the sayings they had ever heard, signifying that there can be no love without jealousy; every woman confessing herself the most jealous creature in the world. Yet there was not one, who whilst she profess'd the most raging jealousy on the supposition that her lover, as she said, should dare to look on another woman, after she had condescended to grant him any mark of her favour; that did not also declare, that she should so heartily despise and contemn such a man, that she should be under no anxiety whether she lost him or no.
Portia. When I said, that I was not inclined to be jealous, I meant not that the fear of losing Ferdinand could give me no anxiety. The freedom I enjoy'd in his conversation (which was indeed the chief pleasure of my life) I knew would most probably be lost, if he married any other woman: but I should think I gave a man a very little proof of my affection, let my own happiness depend ever so much on living and conversing with him, if for that reason I should endeavour to rob him of his liberty, and force him on a choice, in which his own future happiness could not be the consequence. Conjugal felicity cannot be found, where the liking is not reciprocal; but when 'tis wanting on the man's side, the two poor wretches condemn'd to spend their lives together must be miserable indeed! To see that Ferdinand liked another woman better than myself, I should not call jealousy, but certainty. Or even supposing that I only doubted, and was not certain of what would really grieve me to perceive; yet could not this inflame my jealousy or anger, call it which you please. For that raging jealousy which we falsely assert to arise from love, hath not one spark of real love in its whole composition. The very language, O ye Cry, which ye just now used,—Shall a man dare when I condescend, &c. is proper to declare that your pride is piqued, and that from thence arises all the jealous tumults in your breast. Yet I confess there may be another motive to raging jealousy. But this should be the rage of a man, not of a woman; and hath not a grain more of true love in it than the former.
The Cry now open'd on a new scent, and instead of supposing Portia the fond creature, which they lately pretended to despise, they accused her of asserting that her love was all platonic, and of pretending to a purity, which exempted her from the common frailties of human nature. Then with significant shrugs and tosses of the head. — For my part—and for my part—I don't pretend to such perfection—I confess myself a daughter of Eve—I have no notion of such a seraphic passion—were the only sounds to be heard amongst them. And altho' a little before, they would not for all the world have acknowledged but that the race of mankind should be extinct, rather than they would own the least liking for any man, that had not persuaded them to love; yet now were they ready, for the sake of contradicting Portia, to confess themselves all over one blaze of desire.
Portia. I am so far from pretending to what is generally call'd platonic love, that I know not of any one invention, from the beginning of the world to this day, that is more brimful of nonsense. Plato, I doubt not, may thank his commentators, for extracting such absurdities from his doctrines. I know how dangerous this notion of platonism hath been to womankind, and most sincerely wish that every young woman would avoid its alluring snares. A pretence of this kind hath, I fear, been but too often instrumental in betraying a young and tender mind, which from its innocence also is the more likely to be entrap'd by such a specious bait.
I endeavour not to conceal, that I believe there is a great mixture of desire in the passion which is call'd love: or rather, without any far-fetch'd strain on words, it may properly be call'd the companion of love. I would not therefore have them so confounded, as that poor Love should be condemn'd for every fault of his rash companion: nor indeed would I have him falsly asserted to be present, when Desire is wandering about by herself, or takes with her a more favourite associate, namely, Pride. I would wish, if possible, to exonerate poor Love from the blame of those mad and barbarous actions, which proceed from a mixture of Desire and Pride . Instigated by these, Christina queen of Sweden was said to order the death of a man, whom she profess'd to doat on, because his heart being engaged to another, made him incapable of returning her passion; yet of that barbarous action hath Love often been falsly accused. Wherever Rage, Revenge, and Cruelty appear, I will venture boldly to assert that Love is not to be found in such company.
As soon as Portia, in the warmth of her heart to vindicate Love from the many aspersions it had been loaded with, had utter'd those last words, she began to fear that she had too boldly asserted her own sentiments. She was suddenly silent, and cast a look of modest diffidence on Una, as if she wish'd to be informed of her opinion.
The Cry were ready, full-mouth'd, to open, but Una's voice awed them into silence; by telling Portia that she very much approved her distinctions between Pride, Desire, and Love, and Portia thus encouraged, readily proceeded.
Portia. Notwithstanding all the eloquence, O ye Cry, that you have expended in the justification of jealousy, I will declare that I never was jealous of Ferdinand. I always consider'd him as at full liberty to exert his power of choice; and was I conscious of artificially endeavouring to restrain him in that freedom, I should fall under that most heavy of all punishments, the being self-condemn'd. But when a man, whom I have reason to esteem, hath once declared me the object of his choice, my unbounded confidence in his sincerity and honour, would soar far above the suspecting him of either levity or deceit.
An imaginary affection, founded on a love of flattery, properly exerts itself when it is accompanied by suspicion, and a long train of ungovernable passions. A conversation between a jealous woman, and a justifying lover, (to say no worse of it) bears in my opinion all the marks of a language, properly adapted to express hatred and contempt.
I once overheard an altercation of this kind, which to the best of my memory I will repeat, and will then appeal for judgment, whether the lady's passion ought to be honour'd with the name of true love. At the time when Islington gardens were much frequented for the sake of the waters, I went for one whole month very early in the mornings, and happen'd one day to see a young lady fix'd as I may say, for she seem'd immoveable, on a seat at the end of the garden; nor had she any signs of life, but the breath which she spent in deep-fetch'd sighs, and which seem'd to come from a bosom oppress'd with some heavy affliction. She seem'd so fully employ'd by her own thoughts, that I came very near her without her having perceived me, on which I turn'd aside into another walk, separated from her by a hedge, that I might not be guilty of an impertinent intrusion on her solitude; I was no sooner on the other side of the hedge, than through the brakes I saw a young gentleman walking hastily up to the melancholy lady, and they enter'd into discourse before I had time to withdraw myself. When I had overheard the beginning of their conversation, I imagined it much better, for their sakes, to remain in the same place where I was, than by coming in sight to let them know that they had in part been overheard. This, in their own words, was their dialogue.
Gent. Well, Madam, you see I am punctual to my appointment, but I expect no ill-humour; no reproaches; no upbraidings, where I have so little deserved them.
[Great signs of love on either side, by such expressions!]
Lady. [In a soft voice] Let not my love for you, cruel man, be the cause of your using me thus inhumanly.
Gent. How, my dear creature, have I used you inhumanly?
Lady. [in a voice something higher] Not used me inhumanly! Did I not see you with my own eyes, barbarous man, caressing the forward hussey?
Gent. Nay, why should you dwell on such a trifling circumstance, when 'tis near a week too since it happen'd?
Lady. [something louder still] If it was a thousand years, I should never forget the cruel insult. —Only because my back was turn'd, you could not refrain from kissing the first girl you met.
Gent. Fye, my dear Lucy, how can you mention such a foolish piece of gallantry? You know that the girl desired me to help her over the stile, and, 'tis true, I gave her a civil salute: she was a very pretty girl—
Lady. [with her voice raised almost to its highest pitch] Oh! you villain! a civil salute! I saw you give her half a dozen kisses: and does the remembrance too of the girl's charms dwell so strongly on your imagination, that you cannot even talk to me without being wanton in her praises?
Gent. [a little nettled at being call'd villain] Why, madam, will you give way to your passions in such a manner? I have said nothing but the truth. The girl was pretty. I kiss'd her, and should not have longer detain'd her, had you not exposed yourself by turning about, and flying into a rage with me for nothing. I own after such a behaviour in you, it pleased me to give you the farther vexation of seeing my pretended fondness for the country girl.
The lady's tears now gush'd in such abundance, that she could only with sobs utter the words, "Barbarous cruel man, thus to insult me with your fondness for another!" The gentleman, who I believe fear'd she would go into a fit, protested that he said pretended fondness only, and vow'd and swore that he was fond of no creature but herself. The lady recovering a little breath, thus went on. "Aye, your pretended fondness I believe is all bestow'd upon poor me, whilst your real fondness is for every pretty girl that you cast your eyes on."
Gent. [something peevishly] I have never thought of the girl since: I have no fondness for her; I have told you so fifty times: but if you won't believe me, you must take your own way.
Lady. [still sobbing] I find how indifferent you are, whether I believe you or no. I doubt not but my suspicions were all true of Mrs. B—, and Miss C—, and Molly D—, and Betty G—. [And then she reckon'd up about ten persons besides, whom she had suspected him with before, and thus went on.] I am resolved not to bear this tormenting life any longer, and I will leave you at liberty to go to all your favourites as soon as ever you please.
Gent. [still peevishly] I beg, madam, that you would for your own peace leave off these idle suspicions.
Lady. Call them not idle suspicions, base man; for from the stories you have told me of yourself, I can prove you to be one of the most deceitful of creatures.
This ungenerous retorting his own openness of temper on him, enraged the gentleman beyond all patience, and there ensued between them a downright quarrel; in which they both exhausted their whole stock of bitter reproaches against each other. 'Till at last the gentleman turning on his heel, was going hastily to leave her. But she caught hold of his coat, and scream'd out in the loudest voice; "Aye, do, stab me; kill me, barbarous man; and all because I love you to distraction." He begg'd her not to speak so loud in such a public place, and expose herself in this manner. She reply'd, that she cared not how much she was exposed, or what became of her, unless he would promise not to leave her. To this at last he consented: and after some farther discourse, he own'd himself convinced, that all her jealousies arose from excessive love; and they walk'd off arm in arm, as fondly as if nothing had happen'd.
The falling out of such lovers, may indeed be call'd the renewal of such love, and is I believe the only love that can be renew'd or heighten'd by quarrelling. I have heard something not very unlike this between two animals, scampering over the ridge of a house at midnight.
The Cry were now all so very delicate, that on Portia's last comparison, they stretch'd out one hand, turn'd their heads the contrary way, and croak'd out, O foy, foy, foy!
Portia, who knew the indelicacy not to be in herself, but in the before-mentioned lovers, thus went on.
Portia. When such a mixture of ungentle passions, as were contending in the breast of the Islington lady, claim to themselves the name of love, it requires not the eloquence of an orator to prove it a misnomer. In Christopher Layer's trial, there was a long pleading about a letter in his name, either about an e, or an o, I have forgot which; and a learned counsellor wanted to quash the indictment, by proving a misnomer from the alteration, addition, or omission of a single letter. Could this plea be admitted, where there was only one letter wrong in two words, how much stronger would it appear where an e is the only letter in the whole word, which belongs to its true interpretation! For Hatred, and not Love, must be the parent of such a scene as I overheard, and have just now related. And by what juggle, or legerdemain trick it can be brought about, that where disappointed pride raises up hatred enough to excite such language, poor Love should be deem'd the criminal, is astonishing to me, and is also the highest degree of injustice. I wish some able advocate would rescue innocent Love from such barbarous treatment, and according to the common saying, would fairly set the saddle upon the right horse.
The general word passion, is, I allow, a good one, to express the sensations of most people who talk of being in love; for such love produces hatred, rage, jealousy, and fondness, each in their several turns, in the space of twenty-four hours. We do not often say of an avaritious man, that he hath got a passion: or, if we mention the word, it is definitely, by calling it the passion of avarice; and so of all the other passions which actuate the human mind. But to love, we vulgarly give the name, A Passion, and by using it thus in general, we tacitly confess that we know not what particular passion it is; or rather we imply that it is a mixture of them all together. Rochefoucault, or La Bruyere, I have forgot which, very truly observes, that of all the various persons who imagine themselves in love, there are very few who have attain'd the knowledge of what it means. A true esteem, built on a just foundation, must keep paltry suspicion at too great a distance ever to approach it: and I am certain that the love which is centered intirely in its own gratification, without any regard or concern for the separate good or happiness of its object, deserves no other appellation than that of the most narrow selfishness. If I might venture to give a definition (or rather a description) of what I mean by love, it is this.
A sympathetic liking, excited by fancy; directed by judgment; and to which is join'd also a most sincere desire of the good and happiness of its object.
Una, with a smile, stamp'd this definition with her own seal, which the Cry, by various inventions, vainly endeavour'd first to hinder, and then to make frustrate. Sometimes they tried to melt it off by the flames of their raging passions; and when baffled in that attempt, they tried to prevent its being legible, by covering it over by the chilling ice of their own frozen hearts. So many cunning shifts did they fly to, in order thoroughly to deface it, that they made it unintelligible to those who are afflicted with any degree of weakness of sight; but to the piercing eye of reason, it is still perfectly clear and intelligible. This also is well known to the Cry, and they undesignedly bear testimony to the truth of the definition, by their eager desire of destroying it. The motive is easily discover'd: for never having experienced one grain of true love in their own bosoms, they modestly desire mankind to stand by them, in asserting that there is in nature no such disinterested affection.
Milton.
Added to the various ways I have already mention'd, one very pleasing manner in which Ferdinand made love to me, was by the innocence and chastity of his behaviour.
The horse-laugh, which burst from the Cry, on Portia's last expression, was so loud, and continued so long, that she almost despair'd of ever again resuming her discourse. At last with a broad grin on all their countenances, as if ready to burst out again on the next words she should utter, they jogg'd each other into silence.
Portia. I wore no disguise, and my affection for Ferdinand must be too visible for him to be ignorant of it; yet had I been his sister, he could not have conversed with me with more innocent freedom; and a woman in such a situation, cannot, I think, receive from a man a higher obligation, than such a generosity of behaviour.
The Cry were not in the least baulk'd, for they found an occasion loudly to renew their laugh. Portia was perfectly at a loss to discover the cause of their mirth; but as soon as they could recover breath enough for utterance, she soon found what had so much diverted them. The words innocence and chastity were tost about amongst them, as the most absurd epithets that ever were apply'd, as Portia used them; and miss Notable coming forward with an air of great humour and ridicule, said, that an old maiden aunt of hers, who never had more claim to beauty in her youth, than she now possess'd at threescore, used often to talk of the innocence and chastity of all the men with whom she had ever conversed, and fancied herself under the same sort of obligation as Portia had mentioned to mankind, for her present state of virginity. I would venture a good wager, said miss Notable, that Potiphar's wife was about as handsome as my maiden aunt; for indeed, that is the only circumstance which in my opinion can make that old story probable. And it is the fate I believe of all ugly women, continued she, to meet with nothing but chaste and innocent men. Miss Notable was highly applauded for her wit; and now was the rude laugh renewed with the loudest acclamations of insult.
It may not be amiss in this place to inform the reader, that notwithstanding the pertness of miss Notable in her story, and the malicious application of it by the Cry, that nothing could be less applicable than it was to the person against whom it was pointed. As Portia hath hitherto been, and will still continue to be relator of her own life and actions, no intimation will drop from her tongue of a truth which we must here beg leave to make known, namely, that she possessed as much beauty as ever fell to the share of any human creature; and the reason we are not more particular in the description of her person is, that we think it not half so material as to bring our reader fully acquainted with her mind.
Notwithstanding the loud laugh of applause, which follow'd the attempted satire of miss Notable's story; yet the Cry very well knew how little it could touch our Portia: and the men who were mix'd in the assembly, had they not felt the same dread as with-held them once before; the fear of offending a wife or mistress would soon have taken the part of insulted beauty, although in the person of Portia. This dread with-held them from speaking; but casting their eyes on Portia, they shew'd her by their looks, that they were not insensible to her personal charms.
The rough and unmannerly behaviour of the Cry, for a moment confounded Portia, enough to bring into her face a blush, which according to Milton,
Yet with a conscious innocence of mind, under the sanction of Una's protection, thus she continued to express her real sentiments.
Portia. I wanted not to be told that Ferdinand had no dislike to me, nor is it I think any great vanity for a young woman under twenty, who is not deformity itself, to think, that the man she likes may, at least for some time, be pleased with her, as one woman. He might indeed easily prove to her his strong liking to her person; but this surely would be no proof of his love: whereas should he converse with her with innocence (notwithstanding the laugh that expression just now caused) it ought to be look'd on as the highest proof of his affection.
That grand master of human nature (I need not say I mean Shakespear) very judiciously in his Midsummer night's dream, makes Demetrius say to a young lady who follows him into a lonely wood; that he wonders-she will trust herself (being both young and handsome) in such a solitary place with one who loved her not. Most of the dabblers in human nature, would have made his want of love for her an argument of her security, and would have supposed the danger to have arisen from being alone with a man who really loved her. Which translated into plain English, is neither more nor less, than affirming that a man would not desire to injure the woman he doth not love, but would not care how much he injured the woman for whom he had a sincere affection. This is making a man declare with the old ballad,
The Cry once or twice seem'd going to speak, and to contradict Portia; but they found that there was something so very uncommon in her manner of considering this subject, and they were sometimes at such a loss to catch her meaning, that for fear of saying yes, when they should say no, they suffer'd her to go on without interruption.
Portia. If I should even be mistaken in thinking, that the behaviour of Ferdinand towards me was a proof of his affection, yet would I willingly continue still to think so. For 'tis a thought which I would not lose for any other that could be given me in exchange. Such a proof of love is more pleasing to me, than all the profusion of enamour'd language, which passionate rapture can bestow. 'Tis not words, but deeds, that to me prove a man's thoughts.
Here notwithstanding the real chastity of Portia's language, which indeed arose from the pure images in her honest mind, the Cry could not keep out some ideas which strongly renew'd the laugh. Then follow'd a general malicious sneer, and they talk'd apart to each other (but designedly loud enough to be heard) in sort of hints and implications (most dangerous weapons in the hands of folly or malice) all which implications amounted to the discovery, that Portia by her own confession was entirely in the power of Ferdinand; and that she would easily be prevail'd with to sacrifice her virtue, whenever he should please to make the tryal. It was, they said, a consciousness of her own weakness, that made her dwell so much on the praises of his innocence; and truly might she call herself under high obligations to him on that account.
Portia. As to being conscious, that I could not have withstood any sollicitations from Ferdinand, I boldly deny it. Yet never had I so much confidence in my own strength, as to wish for such a tryal. I look on it as no trifling effort of female strength, to withstand the artful and ardent sollicitations of a man that is thoroughly master of our hearts. Should we in the conflict come off victorious, it hardly pays us for the pain we suffer from the experiment: [Here Portia suppress'd another rising sigh, the occasion for which, as well as the former, we must beg to keep secret till our sagacious readers find it out] and I still persist in it, that such a behaviour in any man I love, would rob me of that most pleasing thought; namely, the obligation I have to him for not making such a tryal.
A new discovery now presented itself to the Cry; and they imagined that Portia had greatly contradicted her former sentiments, at least had included herself in her own censure, when she said, that those people who have the word obligation continually in their mouths, have the love of tyranny strongly engrafted in their hearts; and they fell on Portia with ironical taunts, for her great love of using the word obligation.
Una, with her usual candour, plainly discover'd by this seeming contradiction the generosity of Portia's heart, which induced her strenuously to disclaim the word obligation, when 'twas in her power to confer the favour, and willingly to use it, when she thought herself the person obliged.
But such a favourable construction on any one's words or actions, never enter'd into the head or heart of the Cry; whose favourite employment is to hunt for some absurdity or contradiction in the words and sentiments of all those who will not enlist themselves amongst their numerous train.
A Tuscan Proverb.
Your behaviour just now, O ye Cry, puts me in mind of those people whom I call discoverers in conversation; and whose chief view is indeed the discovery of some absurdity, which they hunt for with as much eagerness, as sportsmen hunt for their chace; and hollow with as much joy, when they fancy they have started their desired game. But there is this wide difference between a sportsman and a discoverer; that the game of the former being the object of his sight, cannot well deceive him; whereas the latter is perpetually following false alarms, and is continually imagining that he hath found, when like Macbeth's dagger,
for his very characteristic is a resolution to censure. And so far doth a true discoverer resemble what we call a gold-finder, that filth is his pursuit, he sculks from day-light, and works always in the dark; by forced implications he changes the most inoffensive meanings into some dark design, and then exults in the strength of his own penetration.
The Cry from inattention, very little understood what Portia had been saying of discoverers: but they agreed unanimously to accuse her of having absurdly abused all discoveries, and of wishing to put a total stop to all useful enquiries.
Portia. You yourselves, O ye Cry, whilst your view is to condemn what I have said of a discoverer, heedlesly have confirm'd my opinion by changing my terms, and using the word enquiries instead of discoveries. The character of a candid enquirer is very commendable; for in his search whatever he finds he immediately acknowledges; he gives his judgment liberty to exert itself, and restrains his imagination from soaring beyond its strength, and from declaring that he hath found what is not. Whereas what I call a discoverer, sets out in his search with an inclination to some particular point; he leads his judgment in chains, gives a loose to his imagination, and is sure to prove (at least to his own satisfaction) that the new and desired discovery is made.
A discoverer is continually talking false logic; he multiplies words till he himself (as well as his hearers) hath lost all traces of the true and natural deductions of reasoning. Perhaps it may not be impossible to prove, that a man's talking false logic, as well as being guilty of wrong actions, arises originally from his heart; that is, from his inclinations being byass'd on the side of error, from cherishing some favourite image or system, to which all others must bow down and worship, or must suffer being rack'd and tortured till they submit to such an adoration; in short, from being a resolute discoverer instead of a fair enquirer.
[Portia meeting with no interruption thus continued.]
—What led me into this way of thinking was, by observing from my youth that men of such parts, that their capacity could not be doubted, and of such learning, that their knowledge of the proper manner of reasoning must be unquestionable, would at times talk as false logic as could possibly have been uttered by the most silly or ignorant part of mankind. Nay, what confirmed me more strongly in the truth of this opinion was, that I have often heard the same man, who would one day talk as logically as Aristotle himself; and yet the very next on some other subject set logic on its head; change the premisses into the conclusion, and the conclusion into the premisses, and bewilder himself in his own words, till he became at last almost untelligible. To what can this be imputed, but to some hidden passion or inclination in the mind; which is working the common effect of all unrestrained passions, inveloping and darkening the understanding?
Children who have not yet corrupted their minds, with a strong desire of proving one thing more than another, often talk the truest logic. Those few images which they have imbibed, are more clear and intelligible than those of grown-up people, who are surrounded with strong inclinations and whose imagination hath, perhaps been pamper'd and indulged. Yet this desire of obscuring truth, will begin to peep forth and shew itself even in children, when the doll or the plumb cake happens to be the subject of contention; and each will use as many perplexing words, to engage mamma to determine the right of property to be invested in the little speaker, as any the most eloquent lawyer in Westminster-hall.
The reason Portia had been so long uninterrupted, was not owing to the acquiescence of the Cry to any of her sentiments; but from the time she had mentioned the word logic, they had stretched their eyes wide open, and fix'd them on her, with an amazed stare as if they had beheld a monster. Then opened all at once full-mouthed against women's understanding logic; not in a manner as if they even desired to prove it either useless or hurtful, (for they deal not in proofs) but in attempted ridicule; they abused female logicians, and cast forth sly reproaches against every woman that knew any thing of the matter. First, all the feminine part of the Cry utterly disclaim'd all knowledge of it themselves; and whatever they thus disclaim, they not only insinuate is of no value, but labour also to shew that the possession of it is attended with shame. Then they unanimously pronounced that logic was a man's business; and they were certain that a woman would never be married who pretended to such high learning; for men were not such fools as to burthen themselves with logical wives. A fine wife indeed would any woman make, who should chop logic all day with her husband! Then after a loud laugh they raised their voices to the highest pitch, and talk'd all together till their breath fail'd them, in endeavouring to prove that logical women would stun their husbands, and never suffer them to be at rest for their eternal babbling.
Portia, who had no notion that logic meant any thing, but an art of reducing the forms of speech into such a method, as from thence clearly to distinguish truth from falshood, could not but smile at the present alarm amongst the Cry; and out of a whimsical curiosity which was just then raised in her mind, she asked them what they really understood to be the meaning of the word logic?
This question Portia address'd to the female part of the assembly; and the men stood silent, willing to hear what the women would say on the subject. A sudden question hath the same effect on the Cry, as an attempt to touch it hath on an hedgehog. For the fretful animal rolls itself up, hides its head, and throws forth all its bristles in order to pierce the bold hand that dares approach it. The Cry, on Portia's question, were all suddenly struck on a heap into sullen silence. Modesty or diffidence in themselves, was far from causing their silence; for they had long soar'd above such groveling motives; but the space of time before they spoke, was employed in meditating the manner in which they should express their indignation. To ask them what they understood by any thing, they always construed into a suspicion of their ignorance; and this being the highest of all offences, never fail'd of raising their anger. Strange anger this! considering how vehemently they had just before disclaimed all such knowledge. But after having vented part of their wrath, by dealing out such words as wits, women of sense, pretenders to learning, &c. they strove with emulation, who first should prove herself capable of answering Portia's question. But it was, after the manner so humourously express'd by Hudibrass,
For one said that logic was an outlandish language; another, blushing for the ignorance of her friend, said that it was learning a parcel of hard names in order to conjure by; a third, eager to display her knowledge of what she had pretended heartily to despise, declared that it was something which men learnt at the universities, in order to hinder themselves from being understood. In short, logic by one or other amongst them, was found out to be every thing that it was not. Each hit on some new invention to assert, and every one was best pleased with her own invention.
As soon as every one had vented a separate opinion, in order to take off the reproach, as they thought, of not being able to answer any question which Portia could propose, they all once more in a body declared, that for a woman to pretend to understand logic, or any other kind of learning, which was properly a man's business, it must and would subject her to deserved contempt, and she would be despised and neglected by all mankind.
Portia. The fear of being neglected, or disesteem'd for any knowledge I could attain