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 THE 
 
 WORKS ^ 
 
 OF & **' 
 
 MRS. CHAPONE: 
 
 /J 
 NOW FIRST COLLECTED. 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 I. LETTERS ON THE IM- 
 PROVEMENT OF th?: 
 MIND. 
 •II. MISCELLANIES. 
 
 III. CORRESPONDENCE WITH 
 MR. RICHARDSON. 
 
 IV. LETTERS TO MISS CAR- 
 TER. 
 
 V. FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF HER LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 DRAWN UP 
 
 BY HER OWN FAMILY. 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 VOL. III. 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY EVERT DUYCKINCK, 
 
 NO. 68 WATER-STREET. 
 
 J. k J. Harper, Printers. 
 
 1818. 
 
& 
 
 ?fc& 
 
 yh 
 
 ■ 
 
LETTERS 
 
 ON THE 
 
 IMPROVEMENT OF THE MIND, 
 
WORKS OF MRS. CHAPONE. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 ON THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF RELIGION, 
 
 My dearest Niece, 
 
 Though you are so happy as to have parents, 
 who are both capable and desirous of giving 
 you all proper instruction, yet 1, who love you 
 so tenderly, cannot help fondly wishing to con- 
 tribute something, if possible, to your improve- 
 ment and welfare : and, as I am so far separat- 
 ed from you, that it is only by pen and ink I 
 can offer you my sentiments, I will hope that 
 your attention may be engaged, by seeing on 
 paper, from the hand of one of your warmest 
 friends, truths of the highest importance, which 
 though you may not find new, can never be too 
 deeply engraven on your mind. Some of them, 
 perhaps, may make no great impression at pre- 
 sent, and yet may so far gain a place in your 
 memory, as readily to return to your thoughts 
 when occasion recalls them. And, if you pay 
 me the compliment of preserving my letters, 
 you may possibly reperuse them at some future 
 period, when concurring circumstances may 
 give them additional weight ; and thus they 
 may prove more effectual than the same tilings 
 spoken in conversation. But, however this 
 may prove, I cannot resist the desire of try-: 
 ing to be in some degree usefitl to you, on 
 your setting out in a life of trial and difficulty ; 
 b i; g 
 
6 WORKS OF 
 
 your success in which must determine your 
 fate for ever. 
 
 Hitherto you have " thought as a child, and 
 understood as a child ;" but it is time " to put 
 away childish things." You are now in your 
 fifteenth year, and must soon act for yourself ; 
 therefore it is high time to store your mind 
 with those principles, which must direct your 
 conduct and fix your character. If you desire 
 to live in peace and honour, in favour with God 
 and man, and to die in the glorious hope of ri- 
 sing from the grave to a life of endless happi- 
 ness ; if these things appear worthy your am- 
 bition, you must set out in earnest in the pur- 
 suit of them. Virtue and happiness are not 
 attained by chance, nor by a cold and languid 
 approbation ; they must be sought with ar- 
 dour, attended to with diligence, and every 
 assistance must be eagerly embraced that may 
 enable you to obtain them. Consider, that 
 good and evil are now before you ; that, if 
 you do not heartily choose and love the one, 
 you must undoubtedly be the wretched victim 
 of the other. Your trial is now begun ; you 
 must either become one of the glorious chil- 
 dren of God, who are to rejoice in his love for 
 ever, or a child of destruction — miserable in 
 this life, and punished with eternal death here- 
 after. Surely, you will be impressed by so 
 awful a situation ! you will earnestly pray to 
 be directed into that road of life, which leads 
 to excellence and happiness ; and, you will be 
 thankful to every kind hand that is held out, 
 to set you forward in your journey. 
 
MRS. CHAtOJSE. 7 
 
 The first step must be to awaken your mind 
 to a sense of the importance of the task before 
 you ; »vhich is no less than to bring your frail 
 nature to that degree of christian perfection, 
 which is to qualify it for immortality, and, with- 
 out which, it is necessarily incapable of happi- 
 ness ; for, it is a truth never to be forgotten, 
 that God has annexed happiness to virtue, and 
 misery to vice, by the unchangeable nature of 
 things ; and that a wicked being (while he con- 
 tinues such) is in a natural incapacity of enjoy- 
 ing happiness, even with the concurrence of 
 all those outward circumstances, which in a 
 virtuous mind would produce it. 
 
 As there are degrees of virtue and vice, so are 
 there of reward and punishment, both here and 
 hereafter : but, let not my dearest niece aim 
 only at escaping the dreadful doom of the 
 wicked ; let your desires take a nobler flight, 
 and aspire after those transcendent honours, 
 and that brighter crown of glory, which await 
 those who have excelled in virtue ; and, let the 
 animating thought, that every secret effort to 
 gain his favour is noted by your all-seeing 
 judge, who will, with infinite goodness, propor- 
 tion your reward to your labours, excite every 
 faculty of your soul to please and serve him. 
 To this end, you must inform your under- 
 standing what you ought to believe, and to do. 
 You must correct and purify your heart ; cherish 
 and improve all its good affections ; and conti- 
 nually mortify and subdue those that are evil. 
 You must form and govern your temper and 
 manners, according to the laws of benevolence 
 and justice ; and qualify yourself, by all means 
 In your power, for an useful ana agreeable 
 
$ WORKS OF 
 
 member of society. All this you see is no light 
 business, nor can it be performed without a 
 sincere and earnest application of the 1 mind, as 
 to its great and constant object. When once 
 you consider life, and the duties of life, in this 
 manner, you will listen eagerly to the voice of 
 instruction and admonition, and seize every 
 opportunity of improvement ; every useful 
 hint will be laid up in your heart, and your chief 
 delight will be in those persons, and those 
 books, from which you can learn true wis~ 
 dom. 
 
 The only sure foundation of human virtue is 
 religion, and the foundation and first principle 
 of religion is the belief of the one only God, and 
 a just sense of his attributes. This you will 
 think you have learned long since, and possess 
 in common with almost every human creature 
 m this enlightened age and nation ; but, believe 
 me, it is less common than you imagine, to be- 
 lieve in the true God ; that is, to form such a 
 notion of the Deity as is agreeable to truth, 
 and consistent with those infinite perfections, 
 which all profess to ascribe to him. To form 
 worthy notions of the supreme Being, as far as 
 we are capable, is essential to true religion and 
 morality ; for as it is our duty to imitate those 
 qualities of the divinity, which are imitable by 
 us, so is it necessary we should know what 
 they are, and fatal to mistake them. Can those 
 who think of God with servile dread and ter- 
 ror, as of a gloomy tyrant, armed with almigh- 
 ty power to torment and destroy them, be said 
 to believe in the true God ? in that God who. 
 the scriptures say, is love ? The kindest and 
 best of Beings, who made all creatures in boun* 
 
MRS. CnAPONE. 9 
 
 tiful goodness, that he might communicate to 
 them some portion of his own unalterable hap- 
 piness ! who condescends to style himself our 
 Father! and, who pitieth us, as a father pitieth 
 his own children ! Can those who expect to 
 please God by cruelty to themselves, or to 
 their fellow creatures ; by horrid punishments 
 of their own bodies for the sin of their souls ; 
 or, by more horrid persecution of others 
 for difference of opinion, be called true be- 
 lievers ? Have they not set up another God 
 in their own minds, who rather resembles the 
 worst of beings than the best ? Nor do those act 
 on surer principles who think to gain the favour 
 of God by senseless enthusiasm and frantic 
 raptures, more like the wild excesses of trie 
 most depraved human love, than that reasona- 
 ble adoration, that holy reverential love, which 
 is due to the pure and holy Father of the uni- 
 verse. Those likewise, who murmur against 
 his providence, and repine under the restraint 
 of his commands, cannot firmly believe him 
 infinitely wise and good. If we are not dispos- 
 ed to trust him for future events, to banish 
 fruitless anxiety, and to believe that all things 
 "work together for good to those that love him, 
 surely we do not really believe in the God of 
 mercy and truth. If we wish to avoid all re- 
 membrance of him, all communion with him, 
 as much as we dare, surely Ave do not believe 
 him to be the source of joy and comfort, the 
 dispenser of all good. 
 
 How lamentable it is, that so few hearts 
 should feel the pleasures of real piety ! that 
 prayer and thanksgiving should be performed, 
 as they too often are, not with joy, and love, 
 and gratitude ; but with cold indifference, mel- 
 
10 WORKS OP 
 
 ancholy dejection, or secret horror ! It is true, 
 we are all such frail and sinful creatures, that 
 we justly fear to have offended our gracious 
 Father ; hut, let us remember the condition of 
 his forgiveness : If you have sinned, " sin no 
 more." He is ready to receive you when ever 
 you sincerely turn to him ; and he is ready to 
 assist you, when you do but desire to obey 
 him. Let your devotion, then, be the language 
 of filial love and gratitude ; confide to this kind- 
 est of fathers every want and every wish of 
 your heart ; but submit them all to his will, and 
 freely offer him the disposal of yourself, and of 
 all your affairs. Thank him for his benefits, 
 and. even for his punishments ; convinced that 
 these also are benefits, and mercifully designed 
 for your good. Implore his direction in all 
 difficulties ; his assistance in all trials ; his com- 
 fort and support in sickness or affliction ; his 
 restraining grace in the time of prosperity and 
 joy. Do not persist in desiring what his provi- 
 dence denies you ; but be assured it is not good 
 for you. Refuse not any thing he allots you, 
 but embrace it as the best and properest for you. 
 Can you do less to your heavenly Father than 
 what your duty to an earthly one requires ? If 
 you were to ask permission of your father, to 
 do, or to have, any thing you desire, and he 
 should refuse it to you, would you obstinately 
 persist in setting your heart upon it, notwith- 
 standing his prohibition ? would you not rather 
 say, My father is wiser than I am ; he loves me, 
 and would not deny my request, if it was fit to 
 be granted ; I will therefore banish the thought, 
 and cheerfully acquiesce in his will ? How much 
 rather should this be said of our heavenly Fa- 
 ther, whose wisdom cannot be mistaken, and 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 1| 
 
 whose bountiful kindness is infinite ! Love him, 
 therefore, in the same manner you love your 
 earthly parents, but in a much higher degree, 
 in the highest your nature is capable of. For- 
 get not to dedicate yourself to his service every 
 cay ; to implore his forgiveness of your faults, 
 and his protection from evil, every night: and 
 this not merely in formal words, unaccompan- 
 ied by any act of the mind, but " in spirit and 
 in truth ;'' in grateful love, and humble adora- 
 tion. Nor let these stated periods of worship 
 be your only communication with him ; accus- 
 tom yourself to think often of him, in ail your 
 waking hours ; to contemplate his wisdom and 
 power, in the works of his hands ; to acknow- 
 ledge his goodness in every, object of use or of 
 pleasure ; to delight in giving him praise in your 
 iinmost heart, in the midst of every innocent 
 gratification ; in the liveliest hour of social en- 
 joyment. You cannot conceive, if you have 
 not experienced, how much such silent acts of 
 gratitude and love will enhance every pleasure ; 
 nor what sweet serenity and cheerfulness such 
 reflections will diffuse over your mind. On the 
 other hand, when you are suffering pain or sor- 
 row, when you are confined to an unpleasant 
 situation, or engaged in'a painful duty, how will 
 it support and animate you, to refer yourself to 
 your almighty Father ! to be assured that he 
 knows your state and your intentions ; that no 
 effort of virtue is lost in his sight, nor the least 
 of your actions or sufferings disregarded or for- 
 gotten ! that his hand is ever over you, to ward 
 off every real evil, which is not the effect of 
 3 r our own ill conduct, and to relieve every sitf- 
 
12 WORKS OF 
 
 fering that is not useful to your future well-be- 
 ing! 
 
 You see, my dear, that true devotion is not a 
 melancholy sentiment, that depresses the spi- 
 rits, and excludes the ideas of pleasure, which 
 youth is so fond of: on the contrary, there is 
 nothing so friendly to joy, so productive of true 
 pleasure, so peculiarly suited to the warmth and 
 innocence of a youthful heart. Do not there- 
 fore think it too soon to turn your mind to God ; 
 but offer him the first-fruits of your understand- 
 ing and affections : and be assured, that the 
 more you increase in love to him, and delight 
 in his laws, the more you will increase in hap- 
 piness, in excellence, and honour : that, in pro- 
 portion as you improve in true piety, you will 
 become dear and amiable to your fellow crea- 
 tures ; contented and peaceful in yourself ; and 
 qualified to enjoy the best blessings of this life, 
 as well as to inherit the glorious promise of im- 
 mortality. 
 
 Thus far 1 have spoken of the first principles 
 of all religion: namely, belief in God, worthy 
 notions of his attributes, and suitable affections 
 towards him; which will naturally excite a sin- 
 cere desire of obedience. But, before you can 
 obey his will, you must know what that will 
 is ; you must inquire in what manner he has 
 declared it, and where you may find those 
 laws, which must be the rule of your actions. 
 
 The great laws of morality are indeed writ- 
 ten in our hearts, and may be discovered by 
 reason ; but our reason is of slow growth ; very 
 unequally dispensed to different persons ; liable 
 to error, and confined within very narrow limits 
 in all. If, therefore, God has vouchsafed to 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 1& 
 
 grant a particular revelation of his will ; if he 
 has been so unspeakably gracious, as to send 
 his son into the world to reclaim mankind from 
 error and wickedness ; to die for our sins ; and 
 to teach us the way to eternal life ; surely it be- 
 comes us to receive his precepts with the deep- 
 est reverence ; to love and prize them above all 
 things ; and to study them constantly, with an 
 earnest desire to conform our thoughts, our 
 words, and actions to them. 
 
 As you advance in years and understanding, 
 I hope you will be able to examine for your- 
 self the evidences of the christian religion, and 
 be convinced, on rational grounds, of its divine 
 authority. At present, such inquiries would 
 demand more study, and greater powers of rea- 
 soning, than your age admits of. It is your part, 
 therefore, till you are capable of understanding 
 the proofs, to believe your parents and teachers, 
 that the holy scriptures are writings inspired 
 by God, containing a true history of facts, in 
 which we are deeply concerned ; a true recital 
 of the laws given by God to Moses, and of the 
 precepts of our b'essed Lord and Saviour, deli- 
 vered from his own mouth to his disciples, and 
 repeated and enlarged upon in the edifying 
 epistles of his Apostles ; who were men chosen 
 from among those, who had the advantage of 
 conversing with our Lord, to bear witness of 
 his miracles and resurrection ; and who, after 
 his ascension, were assisted and inspired by the 
 Holy Ghost. This sacred volume must be the 
 rule of your life. In it you will find all truths 
 necessary to be believed ; and plain and easy 
 directions for the practice of every duty. Your 
 Bible then must be your chief study and de- 
 c c 
 
14 WORKS OF 
 
 light : but, as it contains many various kinds of 
 writing ; some parts obscure and difficult of in- 
 terpretation, others j)lain and intelligible to the 
 meanest capacity ; I would chiefly recommend 
 to your frequent perusal such parts of the sa- 
 cred writings as are most adapted to your un- 
 derstanding, and most necessary for your in- 
 struction. Our Saviour's precepts were spoken 
 to the common people amongst the Jews, and 
 were therefore given in a manner easy to be 
 understood, and equally striking and instruc- 
 tive to the learned and unlearned : for the most 
 ignorant may comprehend them, whilst the 
 wisest must be charmed and awed by the beau- 
 tiful and majestic simplicity with which they 
 are expressed. Of the same kind are the Ten 
 Commandments, delivered by God to Moses ; 
 which, as they were designed for universal 
 laws, are worded in the most concise and sim- 
 ple manner, yet with a majesty which com- 
 mands our utmost reverence. 
 
 I think you will receive great pleasure, as 
 well as improvement, from the historical 
 books of the Old Testament ; provided you 
 read them as an history, in a regular course, 
 and keep the thread of it in your mind, as you 
 go on. I know of none, true or fictitious, that ^ 
 is equally wonderful, interesting, and affect- 
 ing; or that is told in so short and simple a 
 manner as this, which is, of all histories, the 
 most authentic. 
 
 In my next letter, I will give you some brief 
 directions, concerning the method and course 
 I wish you to pursue, in reading the holy scrip- 
 tures. May you be enabled to make the best 
 use of this most precious gift of God ; this su- 
 
MRS. CHAPOSg. 15 
 
 rred treasury of knowledge ! May you read 
 the Bible, not as a task, nor as the dull employ- 
 ment of that day only in which you are forbid- 
 den more lively entertainments ; but with a 
 sincere and ardent desire of instruction ; with 
 that love and delight in God's word, which the 
 holy Psalmist so pathetically felt, and described, 
 and which is the natural consequence of loving 
 God and virtue ! Though I speak this of the 
 Bible in general, I would not be understood to 
 mean, that every part of the volume is equally 
 interesting. I have already said, that it con- 
 sists of various matter, and various kinds of 
 books, which must be read with different views 
 and sentiments. The having some general no- 
 tion of what you are to expect from each book 
 may possibly help you to understand them, and 
 heighten your relish of them. I shall treat 
 you as if you were perfectly new to the whole ; 
 for so I wish you to consider yourself; because 
 the time and manner in which children usually 
 read the Bible, are very ill calculated to make 
 them really acquainted with it ; and too many 
 people who have read it thus, without under- 
 standing it in their youth, satisfy themselves 
 that they know enough of it, ana never after- 
 wards study it with attention, when they come 
 to a maturer age. 
 
 Adieu, my beloved Niece ! If the feelings of 
 your heart, whilst you read my letters, corres- 
 pond with those of mine whilst I Avrite them, I 
 shall not be without the advantage of your par- 
 tial affection, to give weight to my advice ; for be- 
 lieve me, my own dear girl, my heart and eyes 
 overflow with tenderness, while I tell you, with 
 
16 WORKS OF 
 
 how warm and earnest prayers for your happi- 
 ness here, and hereafter, I subscribe myself, 
 Your faithful friend, 
 
 And most affectionate Aunt. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 ©N THE STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 
 
 I now proceed to give my dear niece some 
 short sketches of the matter contained in the 
 different books of the Bible, and of the course 
 in which they ought to be read. 
 
 The first book, Genesis, contains the most 
 grand, and, to us, the most interesting events, 
 that ever happened in the universe : the crea- 
 tion of the world, and of man : the deplorable 
 fall of man, from his first state of excellence 
 and bliss, to the distressed condition in which 
 we see all his descendants continue : the sen- 
 tence of death pronounced on Adam, and on 
 all his race ; with the reviving promise of that 
 deliverance, which has since been wrought for 
 us by our blessed Saviour : the account of the 
 early state of the world : of the universal de- 
 luge : the division of mankind into different na- 
 tions and languages : the story of Abraham, the 
 founder of the Jewish people ; whose unsha- 
 ken faith and obedience, under the severest 
 trial human nature could sustain, obtained 
 such favour in the sight of God, that he vouch- 
 safed to style him his friend, and promised 
 to make of his posterity a great nation ; and that 
 in his seed, that is in one of his descendants, all 
 the kingdoms of the earth should be blessed ; 
 
MRS. CHAPO.NE. 17 
 
 this, you will easily see, refers to the Messiah; 
 who was to be the blessing and deliverance of 
 all nations. It is amazing that the Jews, pos- 
 sessing this prophecy among many others, 
 should have been so blinded by prejudice, as 
 to have expected, from this great personage, 
 only a temporal deliverance of their own nation 
 from the subjection to which they were reduced 
 under the Romans : it is equally amazing, that 
 some christians should, even now, confine the 
 blessed effects of his appearance upon earth, to 
 this or that particular sect or profession, when 
 he is so clearly and emphatically described as 
 the Saviour of the Avhole world. The story of 
 Abraham's proceeding to sacrifice his only son 
 at the command of God, is affecting in thehigh- 
 est degree, and sets forth a pattern of unlimited 
 resignation, that every one ought to imitate, in 
 those trials of obedience under temptation, or 
 of acquiescence under afflicting dispensations, 
 which fall to their lot : of this we may be assu- 
 red, that our trials will be always proportioned 
 to the powers afforded us : if we have not 
 Abraham's strength of mind, neither shall we 
 be called upon to lift the bloody knife against 
 the bosom of an only child; but, if the almighty 
 arm should be lifted up against him, we must 
 be ready to resign him, and all we hold dear, 
 to the divine will. This action of Abraham 
 has been censured by some, who do not attend 
 to the distinction between obedience to a spe- 
 cial command, and the detestably cruel sacrifi- 
 ces of the Heathens, who sometimes voluntarily, 
 and without any divine injunctions, offered up 
 their own children, under the notion of appeas- 
 ing the anger of their gods. An absolute com-. 
 c c 2, 
 
13 WORKS OF 
 
 mand from God himself, as in the case of Abra- 
 ham, entirely alters the moral nature of the 
 action ; since he, and he only, has a perfect 
 right over the lives of his creatures, and may 
 appoint whom he will, either angel or man, 
 to be his instrument of destruction. That it 
 was really the voice of God, which pro- 
 nounced the command, and not a delusion, 
 might be made certain to Abraham's mind, 
 by means we do not comprehend, but which 
 we know to be within the power of him who 
 made our souls as well as bodies, and who can 
 control and direct every faculty of the hu- 
 man mind : and we may be assured, that 
 if he was pleased to reveal himself so mirac- 
 ulously, he would not leave a possibility of 
 doubting whether it was a real or an imagi- 
 nary revelation : thus the sacrifice of Abraham 
 appears to be clear of all superstition, and re- 
 mains the noblest instance of religious faith 
 and submission that was ever given by a mere 
 man : we cannot wonder that the blessings 
 bestowed on him for it should have been ex- 
 tended to his posterity. This book proceeds 
 with the history of Isaac, which becomes very 
 interesting to us, from the touching scene I 
 have mentioned ; and still more so, if we con- 
 sider him as the type of our Saviour : it re- 
 counts his marriage with Rebecca ; the birth 
 and history of his two sons, Jacob, the father 
 of the twelve tribes, and Esau, the father of 
 the Edomites or ldumeans ; the exquisitely af- 
 fecting story of Joseph and his brethren ; and 
 of his transplanting the Israelites into Egypt, 
 who there multiplied to a great nation. 
 
 In Exodus, you read of a series of wonders, 
 wrought by the Almighty, to rescue the op- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. IS* 
 
 pressed Israelites from the cruel tyranny of the 
 Egyptians, who, having first received them as 
 guests, by degrees reduced them to a state of 
 slavery. By the most peculiar mercies and 
 exertions in their favour, God prepared his 
 chosen people to receive, with reverent and 
 obedient hearts, the solemn restitution of those 
 primitive laws, which probably he had reveal- 
 ed to Adam and his immediate descendants, 
 or which, at least, he had made known by the 
 dictates of conscience, but which, time, and 
 the degeneracy of mankind had much obscured. 
 This important revelation was made to them 
 in the Wilderness of Sinah : there, assembled 
 before the burning mountain, surrounded " with 
 blackness, and darkness, and tempest," they 
 heard the awful voice of God pronounce the 
 eternal law, impressing it on their hearts with 
 circumstances of terror, but without those en- 
 couragements and those excellent promises, 
 Which were afterwards offered to mankind by 
 Jesus Christ. Thus were the great laws of 
 morality restored to the Jews, and through 
 them transmitted to other nations ; and by that 
 means a great restraint was opposed to the 
 torrent of vice and impiety, which began to 
 prevail over the world. 
 
 To those moral precepts, which are of per- 
 petual and universal obligation, were superad- 
 ded, by the ministration of Moses, many pe- 
 culiar institutions, wisely adapted to different 
 ends — either, to fix the memory of those past 
 deliverances which were figurative of a future 
 and far greater salvation ; to place inviolable 
 barriers between the Jews and the idolatrous 
 nations, by whom they were surrounded ; or,. 
 
2© WORKS 01* 
 
 to be the civil law, by which the community 
 was to be governed. 
 
 To conduct this series of events, and to es- 
 tablish these laws with his people, God raised 
 up that great prophet Moses, whose faith and 
 piety enabled him to undertake and execute 
 the most arduous enterprises, and to pursue, 
 with unabated zeal, the welfare of his country- 
 men ; even in the hour of death, this generous 
 ardour still prevailed : his last moments were 
 employed in fervent prayers for their prosperi- 
 ty, and, in rapturous gratitude, for the glimpse 
 vouchsafed him of a Saviour, far greater than 
 himself, whom God would one day raise up to 
 his people. 
 
 Thus did Moses, by the excellency of his 
 faith, obtain a glorious pre-eminence among 
 the saints and prophets in heaven ; while, on 
 earth, he will be ever revered, as the first of 
 those benefactors to mankind, whose labours 
 for the public good have endeared their memo- 
 ry to all ages. 
 
 The next book is Leviticus, which con- 
 tains little besides the laws for the peculiar 
 ritual observance of the Jews, and therefore 
 aitords no great instruction to us now ; you 
 may pass it over entirely : and, for the same 
 reason, you may omit the first eigbt chapters 
 of Numbers. The rest of Numbers is chiefly 
 a continuation of the history, with some ritual 
 laws. 
 
 In Deuteronomy, Moses makes a recapitu- 
 lation of the foregoing history, with zealous 
 exhortations to the people faithfully to wor- 
 ship and obey that God, who had worked such 
 amazing wonders for them : he promises them 
 the noblest temporal blessiags, if they prova 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 21 
 
 obedient, 'and adds the most awful and striking 
 denunciations against them, if they rebel, or 
 forsake the true God. I have before observed, 
 that the sanctions of the Mosaic law were 
 temporal rewards and punishments, those of 
 the New Testament are eternal: these last, 
 as they are so infinitely more forcible than 
 the first, were reserved for the last, best gift 
 to mankind ; and were revealed by the 
 Messiah, in the fullest and clearest manner. 
 Moses, in this book, directs the method in 
 which the Israelites were to deal with the sev- 
 en nations, whom they were appointed to pun- 
 ish for their profligacy and idolatry ; and whose 
 land they were to possess, when they had dri- 
 ven out the old inhabitants. He gives them 
 excellent laws, civil as well as religious, which 
 were ever after the standing municipal laws of 
 that people. This book concludes with Mo- 
 ses' song and death. 
 
 The book of Joshua contains the conquests 
 of the Israelites over the seven nations, and 
 their establishment in the promised land. — 
 Their treatment of these conquered nations 
 must appear to you very cruel and unjust, if 
 you consider it as their own act, unauthorized 
 by a positive command : but they had the most 
 absolute injunctions, not to spare these corrupt 
 people " to make no covenant with them, nor 
 show mercy to them, but utterly to destroy 
 them." And the reason is given " lest they 
 should turn away the Israelites from following 
 the Lord, that they might serve other gods."* 
 The children of Israel are to be considered as 
 instruments in the hand of the Lord, to punish 
 
 * Deut. Chap. ii. 
 
££ WORtfS OF 
 
 those, whose idolatry and wickedness had de- 
 servedly brought destruction on them : this ex- 1 
 ample, therefore, cannot be pleaded in behalf 
 of cruelty, or bring any imputation on the 
 character of the Jews. With regard to other 
 Cities, which did not belong to these seven na- 
 tions, they were directed to deal with them, 
 according to the common law of arms at that 
 time. If the city submitted, it became tribu- 
 tary, and the people were spared ;'if it resisted, 
 the men were to be slain, but the women and 
 children saved.* Yet, though the crime of cru- 
 elty cannot be justly laid to their charge on this 
 occasion, you will observe, in the course of 
 their history, many things recorded of them, 
 very different from what you would expect 
 from the chosen people of God, if you suppo- 
 sed them selected on account of their own 
 merit : their national character was by no 
 means amiable ; and, we are repeatedly told, 
 that they were not chosen for their superior 
 righteousness ; " for they were a stiffnecked 
 people, and provoked the Lord with their re- 
 bellions from the day they left Egypt." — 
 " You have been rebellious against the Lord," 
 says Moses, " from the day that I knew you."f 
 And he vehemently exhorts them, not to flat- 
 ter themselves that their success was, in any 
 degree, owing to their own merits. They were 
 appointed to be the scourge of other nations, 
 whose crimes rendered them fit objects of di- 
 vine chastisement. For the sake of righteous 
 Abraham, their founder, and perhaps for many 
 other wise reasons, undiscovered to us, they 
 
 *Peut. chap. 22. t Deut. chap, ix-ver. 24.? 
 
MRS. CHAP03TE. 2S 
 
 were selected from a world overrun with idola- 
 try, to preserve upon earth the pure worship 
 of the one only God, and to be honoured witn. 
 the, birth of the Messiah amongst them. For 
 this end, they were precluded, by divine com- 
 mand, from mixing with any other people, 
 and defended by a great number of pecu- 
 liar rites and observances, from falling into 
 the corrupt worship practised by their neigh- 
 bours, 
 
 The book of Judges, in which you will find 
 the affecting stories of Sampson and of Jeph- 
 tha, carries on the history from the death of 
 Joshua, about two hundred and fifty years ; 
 but the facts are not told in the times in which 
 they happened, which makes some confusion, 
 and it will be necessary to consult the margi- 
 nal dates and notes, as well as the index, in or- 
 der to get any clear idea of the succession of 
 events, during that period. 
 
 The history then proceeds regularly through 
 the two books of Samuel, and those of Kings : 
 nothing can be more interesting and entertain- 
 ing than the reigns of Saul, David, and Solo- 
 mon : but, after the death of Solomon, when 
 ten tribes revolted from his son Rehoboas*, and 
 became a separate kingdom, you will find some 
 difficulty in understanding distinctly the his- 
 •lories of the two kingdoms of Israel and Judah, 
 which are blended together, and, by the like- 
 ness of the names, and other particulars, will 
 he apt to confound your mind without great 
 attention to the different threads thus carried 
 on together : the index here will be of great 
 use to you. The second book of Kings con- 
 cludes with the Babylonish captivity, live 
 
3^ WORKS OF 
 
 hundred and eighty-eight years before Christ, 
 till which time, the kingdom of Judah had 
 descended uninterruptedly in the line of Da- 
 vid. 
 
 The first book of Chronicles begins with 
 a genealogy from Adam, through all the tribes 
 of Israel and Judah ; and the remainder is the 
 same history, which is contained in the books 
 of Kings, with little or no variation, till the sep- 
 aration of the ten tribes : from that period, it 
 Sroceeds with the history of the kingdom of 
 udah alone, and gives therefore a more regu- 
 lar and clear account of the affairs of Judah 
 than the book of Kings. You may pass over 
 the first book of Chronicles, and the nine first 
 chapters of the second book ; but by all means 
 read the remaining chapters, as they will give 
 you more clear and distinct ideas of the history 
 of Judah than that you read in the second book: 
 of Kings. The second of Chronicles ends like 
 the second of Kings, with the Babylonish 
 captivity. 
 
 You must pursue the history in the book of 
 Ezra, which gives an account of the return 
 of some of the Jews, on the edict of Cyrus, 
 and of the rebuilding the Lord's temple. 
 
 Nehemiah carries on the history, for about 
 twelve years, when he himself was governor 
 of Jerusalem, with authority to rebuild the 
 walls, &c. 
 
 The story of Esther is prior in time to 
 that of Ezra and Nehemiah ; as you will see 
 by the marginal dates ; however, as it happen- 
 ed during the seventy years captivity, and is a 
 kind of episode, it may be read m its own 
 place. 
 
ItfRS. CHAPONE. 2j 
 
 This is the last of the canonical books that is 
 properly historical ; and I would therefore ad- 
 vise, that you pass over what follows, till you 
 have continued the history through the apo- 
 cryphal books. 
 
 The history of Job is probably very ancient, 
 though that is a point upon which learned men 
 have differed : it is dated, however, 1520 years 
 before Christ: I believe it is uncertain by whom 
 it was written : many parts of it are obscure, 
 but it is well worth studying, for the extreme 
 beauty of the poetry, and for the noble and 
 sublime devotion it contains. The subject of 
 the dispute, between Job and his pretended 
 friends, seems to be, whether the Providence, 
 of God distributes the rewards and punishments 
 of this life, in exact proportion to the merit or 
 demerit of each individual. His antagonists 
 suppose that it does ; and therefore infer from 
 Job's uncommon calamities, that, notwithstand- 
 ing his apparent righteousness, he was in reality 
 a grievous sinner : they aggravate h?5 supposed 
 guilt, by the imputation of hypocrisy, and call 
 upon him to confess it, and to acknowledge 
 the justice of his punishment. Job asserts his 
 own innocence and virtue in the most pathetic 
 manner, yet does not presume to accuse the 
 supreme Being of injustice. Elihu attempts to 
 arbitrate the matter, by alleging the impossi- 
 bility that so frail and ignorant a creature as 
 man should comprehend the ways of the Al- 
 mighty, and, therefore, condemns the unj ust and 
 cruel inference the three friends had drawn 
 from the sufferings of Job. lie also blames 
 Job for the presumption of acquitting himself 
 of all iniquiu , since the best of men are not 
 d d 
 
26 WORKS OF 
 
 pure in the sight of God, but all have some- 
 thing to repent of ; and he advises him to make 
 this use of his afflictions. At last, by a bold iig- 
 ure of poetry, the supreme Being himself is in- 
 troduced, speaking from the whirlwind, and 
 silencing them all by the most sublime display 
 of his own power, magnificence, and wisdom, 
 and of the comparative littleness and ignorance 
 of man. This indeed is the only conclusion 
 of the argument, which could be drawn, at a 
 time when life and immortality were not yet 
 brought to light. A future retribution is the 
 only satisfactory solution of the difficulty aris- 
 ing from the sufferings of good people in this 
 life. 
 
 Next follow The Psalms, with which you 
 cannot be too conversant. If you have any 
 taste, either for poetry or devotion, they will 
 be yOur delight, and will afford you a continual 
 feast. The Bible translation is far better than 
 that used in the Common-prayer Book ; and 
 will often give you the sense, when the other is 
 obscure. In this, as well as in all other parts 
 ofJthe scripture, you must be careful always to 
 consult the margin, which gives you the cor- 
 rections made since the last translation, and is 
 generally preferable to the words of the text. 
 I would wish you to select some of the Psalms 
 that please you best, and get them by heart ; 
 or, at least, make yourself mistress of the senti- 
 ments contained in them : Dr. Delany's Life 
 of David will show you the occasions on which 
 several of them were composed, which add 
 much to their beauty and propriety, and by 
 com paring them with the events of David's 
 life, you will greatly enhance your pleasure in 
 
I 
 
 MRS. CHAPONE. 27 
 
 them. Never did the spirit of true piety breathe 
 more strongly than in these divine songs ; 
 which, being added to a rich vein of poetry, 
 makes them more captivating to my heart and 
 imagination than any thing I ever read. You 
 will consider how great disadvantages any po- 
 em must sustain from being rendered literally 
 into prose, and then imagine how beautiful 
 these must be in the original. May you be en- 
 abled, by reading them frequently, to transfuse 
 into your own breast that holy flame which in- 
 spired the writer! To delight in the Lord, and 
 in his laws, like the Psalmist — to rejoice in him 
 always, and to think " one day in his courts 
 better than a thousand !" But, may you escape 
 the heart-piercing sorrow of such repentance 
 as that of David, by avoiding sin, which hum- 
 bled this unhappy king to the dust ; and which 
 cost him such bitter anguish, as it is impossible 
 to read of without being moved. Not all the 
 pleasures of the most prosperous sinner could 
 counterbalance the hundredth part of those 
 sensations, described in his penitential Psalms ; 
 and which must be the portion of every man, 
 who has fallen from a religious state into such 
 crimes, when once he recovers a sense of reli- 
 gion and virtue, and is brought to a real hatred 
 of sin : however available such repentance may 
 be to the safety and happiness of the soul af- 
 ter death, it is a state of such exquisite suffer- 
 ing here, that one cannot be enough surprised 
 at the folly of those, who indulge in sin, with 
 the hope of living to make their peace with 
 God by repentance. Happy are they Avho pre- 
 serve their innocence unsullied by any great; 
 yr wilful crimes, and who have only the com- 
 
£8 WORKS ©F 
 
 mon failings of humanity to repent of: these 
 are sufficiently mortifying to a heart deeply 
 smitten with the love of virtue and with the de- 
 sire of perfection. There are many very strik- 
 ing prophecies of the Messiah, in these divine 
 songs ; particularly in Psalm xxii. Such may 
 be found scattered up and down almost 
 throughout the Old Testament. To bear tes- 
 timony to him is the great and ultimate end 
 for which the spirit of prophecy was bestowed 
 on the sacred writers : but this will appear 
 more plainly to you, when you enter on the 
 study of prophecy, which you are now much 
 too young to undertake. 
 
 The Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are rich 
 stores of wisdom ; from which I wish you to 
 adopt such maxims as may be of infinite use, 
 both to your temporal and eternal interest. 
 But, detached sentences are a kind of reading 
 not proper to be continued long at a time ; a 
 few of them, well chosen and digested, will do 
 you much more service than to read half a 
 dozen chapters together ; in this respect they 
 are directly opposite to the historical books, 
 which, if not read in continuation, can hardly 
 be understood, or retained to any purpose. 
 
 The Song of Solomon is a fine poem ; but 
 its mystical reference to religion lies too deep 
 for a common understanding : if you read it 
 therefore, it will be rather as matter of curiosi- 
 ty than of edification. 
 
 Next follow the Prophecies, which though 
 highly deserving the greatest attention and stu- 
 dy, I think you had better omit for some years, 
 and then read them with a good exposition ; as 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 29 
 
 they are much too difficult for you to under- 
 stand without assistance. Dr. Newton on the 
 Prophecies will help you much, whenever you 
 undertake this study; which you should by all 
 means do, when your understanding is ripe 
 enough ; because one of the main proofs of our 
 religion rests on the testimony of the prophe- 
 cies ; and they are very frequently quoted, and 
 referred to, in the New Testament: besides, 
 the sublimity of the language and sentiments, 
 through all the disadvantages of antiquity and 
 translation, must, in very many passages, strike 
 every person of taste ; and the excellent moral 
 and religious precepts found in them must be 
 useful to all. 
 
 Though I have spoken of these books, in the 
 order in which they stand, I repeat that they 
 are not to be read in that order ; but that the 
 thread of the history is to be pursued, from Ne- 
 hemiah, to the first book of the Maccabees, 
 in the Apocrypha ; taking care to observe the 
 Chronology regularly, by referring to the in- 
 dex, which supplies the deficiencies of this his- 
 tory, from Josephus^s Antiquities of the J 
 The first of Maccabees carries on the story, 
 till within 19!) years of our Lord's Circumci- 
 sion : the second book is the same narrative, 
 written by a different hand, and does not bring 
 the history so forward as the first ; so that, e 
 may be entirely omitted, unless you have the 
 curiosity lo read some particulars of the heroic 
 constancy of the Jews, under the tortures in- 
 flicted by their heathen conquerors, with a few 
 other things not mentioned in the first book. 
 
 You must then connect the history by ih • 
 help of the Index, which will give you brief 
 d d H 
 
WORKS OF 
 
 heads of the changes that happened in the state 
 of the Jews, from this time, till the birth of 
 the Messiah. 
 
 The other books of the Apocrypha, though 
 not admitted as of sacred authority, have many 
 things well worth your attention ; particularly 
 the admirable book called Ecclesiastjcus, 
 and tho Book of Wisdom. But, in the course 
 of reading which I advise, these must be omit- 
 ted till after you have gone through the Gos- 
 pels and Acts, that you may not lose the his- 
 torical thread. I must reserve, however, what 
 1 have to say to you, concerning the New 
 Testament, to another letter. 
 
 Adieu, my dear ! 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 ON THE STUDY OF THE BOLT SCRIPTURES. COS' 
 
 TINUED. 
 
 My Dearest Niece, 
 We come now to that part of scripture, 
 which is the most important of all, and vvhieh 
 you must make your constant study, not only 
 till you are thoroughly acquainted with it, but 
 all your life long; because, how often soever 
 repeated, it is impossible to read the life and 
 death of our blessed Saviour, without renew- 
 ing and increasing in our hearts that love and 
 reverence, and gratitude towards him, which is 
 so justly due for all he did, and suffered, for 
 us \ Every word that fell from his lips is more 
 precious than all the treasures of the earth j 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 51 
 
 for his u are the words of eternal life !" They 
 must therefore be laid up in your heart, and 
 constantly referred to, on all occasions, as the 
 rule and direction of all your actions ; particu- 
 larly those very comprehensive moral precepts 
 he has graciously left with us, which can never 
 fail to direct us aright, if fairly and honestly 
 applied : such as " whatsoever ye ivould that 
 men should do unto you, even so do unto them." 
 There is no occasion, great or small, on which 
 you may not safely apply this rule, for the di- 
 rection of your conduct : and, whilst your 
 heart honestly adheres to it, you can never be 
 guilty of any sort of injustice or unkindness. 
 The two great commandments, which contain 
 the summary of our duty to God and man, 
 are no less easily retained, and made a standard 
 by which to judge our own hearts. " To love 
 the Lord our God, with all our heaiis, with all 
 our minds, with all our strength ; and our neigh- 
 bour (or fellow creature) as ourselves." " Love 
 worketh no ill to his neighbour," therefore, if 
 you have true benevolence, you will never do 
 any thing injurious to individuals, or to society. 
 Now, all crimes whatever, are (in their remoter 
 consequences, at least, if not immediately, 
 and apparently) injurious to the society in 
 which we live. It is impossible to love God, 
 without desiring to please him, and, as far as 
 we are able, to resemble him ; therefore, the 
 love of God must lead to every virtue in the 
 highest degree ; and, we may be sure, we do 
 not truly love him, if we content ourselves 
 with avoiding flagrant sins, and do not strive, 
 in good earnest, to reach the greatest degree 
 
32 WORKS or 
 
 of perfection we are capable of. Thus do 
 those few words direct us to the highest Chris- 
 tian virtue. Indeed, the whole tenor of the 
 gospel is to offer us every help, direction, and 
 motive, that can enable us to attain that degree 
 of perfection, on which depends our eternal 
 good. 
 
 What an example is set before us in our 
 blessed Master ! How is his whole life, from 
 earliest youth, dedicated to the pursuit of true 
 wisdom, and to the practice of the most exalt- 
 ed virtue ! When you see him, at hvelve years of 
 age in the temple, amongst the doctors, hearing 
 them, and asking them questions, on the sub- 
 ject of religion, and astonishing them all with 
 his understanding and answers ; you will say, 
 perhaps," Well might the Son of God, even at 
 those years, be far wiser than the aged ; but 
 can a mortal child emulate such heavenly wis- 
 dom ? Can such a pattern be proposed to my 
 imitation ?" Yes, my dear ; remember that he 
 has bequeathed to you his heavenly wisdom, as 
 far as concerns your own goodt. He has left 
 you such declarations of his will, and of the 
 consequences of your actions, as you are, even 
 now, fully able to understand, if you will but 
 attend to them. If then you will imitate his 
 zeal for knowledge, if you will delight in gain- 
 ing information and improvement; you may 
 even now become u wi.se unto salvation ." Un- 
 moved by the praise he acquired amongst 
 these learned men, you see him meekly return 
 to the subjection of a child, under those who 
 appeared to be his parents, though he was in 
 reality their Lord : you see him return to live 
 with them, to work for them, and to be the joy 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 3S 
 
 and solace of their lives ; till the time came, 
 when he was to enter on that scene of public 
 action, for which his heavenly Father had sent 
 him from his own right hand to take upon him 
 he form of a poor carpenter's son. What a 
 esson of humility is this, and of obedience to 
 parents ! When, having received the glorious 
 testimony from heaven, of his being the be- 
 loved Son of the most High, he enters on his 
 public ministry, what an example does he give 
 us, of the most extensive and constant benevo- 
 lence ! how are all his hours spent in doing good 
 to the souls and bodies of men ! not the mean- 
 est sinner is below his notice : to reclaim and 
 save them, he condescends to converse famil- 
 iarly with the most corrupt, as well as the most 
 abject. All his miracles are wrought to benefit 
 mankind ; not one to punish and aiflict them. 
 Instead of using the almighty power, which 
 accompanied him, to the purpose of exalting 
 himself and treading down nis enemies, he 
 makes no other use of it than to heal and to 
 save. 
 
 When you come to read of his sufferings and 
 death, the ignominy and reproach, the sorrow 
 of mind, and torment of body which he sub- 
 mitted to ; when you consider that it was all for 
 our sakes ; " that by his stripes we are healed," 
 and by his death we are raised from destruction 
 to everlasting life ; what can I say that can add 
 any thing to the sensations you must then feel ? 
 No power of language can make the scene 
 more touching than it appears in the plain and 
 simple narrations of the evangelists. The heart 
 lhat is unmoved by it can be scarcely human : 
 hut, my dear, the emotions of tenderness and 
 
34 WORKS OF 
 
 compunction, which almost every one feels in 
 reading this account, will be of no avail unless 
 applied to the true end, unless it inspires you 
 with a sincere and warm affection towards 
 your blessed Lord ; with a firm resolution to 
 obey his commands ; to be his faithful disci- 
 ple ; and ever to renounce and abhor those sins, 
 which brought mankind under divine condem- 
 nation, and from which Ave have been redeem- 
 ed, at so dear a rate. Remember that the title of 
 Christian, or follower of Christ, implies a more 
 than ordinary degree of holiness and goodness. 
 As our motives to virtue are stronger than those 
 which are afforded to the rest of mankind, our 
 guilt will be proportionably greater if we de- 
 part from it. 
 
 Our Saviour appears to have had three great 
 purposes, in descending from his glory, and 
 dwelling amongst men. The first, to teach 
 them true virtue, both by his example and 
 precepts : the second, to give them the most 
 forcible motives to the practice of it, by 
 " bringing life and immortality to light :" by 
 showing them the certainty of a resurrection 
 and judgment, and the absolute necessity of 
 obedience to God's laws. The third, to sacri- 
 fice himself for us, to obtain by his death the 
 remission of our sins upon our repentance and 
 reformation, and the power of bestowing on 
 his sincere followers the inestimable gift of 
 immortal happiness. 
 
 What a tremendous scene of the last day 
 does the gospel place before our eyes ! of that 
 day when you, and every one of us, shall awake 
 from the grave, and behold the Son of God, on 
 bis glorious tribunal, attended by millions of 
 
MRS. CHAPGNE. 3j 
 
 celestial beings, of whose superior excellence 
 we can now form no adequate idea : When in 
 presence of all mankind, of those holy angels, 
 and of the great judge himself, you must give 
 an account of your past life, and hear your final 
 doom, from which there can be no appeal, and 
 which must determine your fate, to all etefriity. 
 Then think, if for a moment you can bear the 
 thought, what will be the desolation, shame 
 and anguish of those wretched souls, who shall 
 hear these dreadful words; " Depart fromme, 
 ye cursed, into everlasting Jire, prepared/or the 
 devil and his angels." Oh ! my beloved child ! 
 1 cannot support even the idea of your becoming 
 one of those undone, lost creatures ! I trust in 
 God's mercy, that you will make a better use of 
 that knowledge of his will, which he has 
 vouchsafed you, and of those amiable dispo- 
 sitions he has given you. Let us therefore turn 
 from this horrid, this insupportable view, and 
 rather endeavour to imagine, as far as is possi- 
 ble, what will be the sensations of your soul, 
 if you shall hear our heavenly judge address 
 you in these transporting words : " Come, thou 
 blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepai - 
 ed for you, from the foundation of the world." 
 Think what it must be, to become an object of 
 tiie esteem and applause, not only of all man- 
 kind assembled together, but of all the host of 
 heaven, of our blessed Lord himself; nay, of 
 his and our almighty Father: to find your frail 
 flesh changed in a moment into a glorious ce- 
 lestial body, endowed with perfect beauty, 
 health, and agility ; to find your soul cleansed 
 from all its faults and infirmities; exalted to 
 the purest and noblest affections; overflowing 
 
36 WORKS OF 
 
 with divine love and rapturous gratitude! to 
 have your understanding enlightened and refin- 
 ed, your heart enlarged and purified, and every 
 power, and disposition of mind and body, 
 adapted to the highest relish of virtue and hap- 
 piness ! Thus accomplished, to be admitted 
 into the society of amiable and happy beings, 
 all united in the most perfect peace and friend- 
 ship, all breathing nothing but love to God, and 
 to each other ; with them to dwell in scenes 
 more delightful than the richest imagination 
 can paint; free from every pain and care, and 
 from all possibility of change or satiety : but, 
 above all, to enjoy the more immediate pres- 
 ence of God himself; to be able to comprehend 
 and admire his adorable perfections in a high 
 degree, though still far short of their infinity ; 
 to be conscious of his love and favour, and to 
 rejoice in the light of his countenance ! but 
 here all imagination fails : we can form no idea 
 of that bliss which may be communicated to us 
 by such a near approach to the source of all 
 beauty and all good : we must content ourselves 
 with believing that it is what mortal eye hath not 
 seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into 
 the heart of man to conceive. The crown of all 
 our joys will be to know that we are secure of 
 possessing them for ever. What a transporting 
 idea ! 
 
 My dearest child ! can you reflect on all 
 these things, and not feel the most earnest 
 longings after immortality ? Do not all other 
 views and desires seem mean and trifling, when 
 compared with this ? And does not your in- 
 most heart, resolve that this shall be the chief 
 and constant object of its wishes and pursuit, 
 
MRS. CHAFOXX. 37 
 
 through the whole course of your life ? If you 
 are not insensible to that desire of happiness, 
 which seems woven into our nature, you cannot 
 surely be unmoved by the prospect of such a 
 transcendent degree of it ; and that, continued 
 to all eternity — perhaps continually increasing. 
 You cannot but dread the forfeiture of such an 
 inheritance as the most insupportable evil ? 
 Remember then — remember the conditions on 
 which alone it can be obtained. God will not 
 give to vice, to carelessness, or sloth, the prize 
 he has proposed to virtue. You have every 
 help that can animate your endeavours : you 
 have written laws to direct you ; the example 
 of Christ and his disciples to encourage you ; 
 the most awakening motives to engage you ; 
 and, you have besides, the comfortable prom- 
 ise of constant assistance from the Holy Spirit, 
 if you diligently and sincerely pray for it. O, 
 my dear child ! let not all this mercy be lost 
 upon you ; but give your attention to this your 
 only important concern, and accept, with 
 profound gratitude, the inestimable advantages 
 that are thus affectionately offered you. 
 
 Though the four gospels are each of them a 
 narration of the life, sayings, and death of 
 Christ; yet, as they are not exactly alike, but 
 some circumstances and sayings, omitted in 
 one, are recorded in another, you must make 
 yourself perfectly mistress of them all. 
 
 The Acts of the holy apostles, endowed 
 with the Holy Ghost, and authorized by their 
 divine Master, come next in order to be read. 
 Nothing can be more interesting and edifying, 
 than the history of their actions ; of the piety, 
 zeal, and courage, with which they preached 
 f. e 
 
88 works or 
 
 the glad tidings of salvation ; and of the various 
 exertions of the wonderful powers conferred 
 on them by the Holy Spirit, for the confirma- 
 tion of their mission. 
 
 The character of St. Paul, and his miracu- 
 lous conversion, demand "your particular at- 
 tention : most of the Apostles were men of 
 low birth and education ; but St. Paul was a 
 Roman citizen ; that is, he possessed the pri- 
 vileges annexed to the freedom of the city of 
 Rome, which was considered as an high dis- 
 tinction In those countries, that had been con- 
 quered by the Romans. He was educated 
 amongst the most learned sect of the Jews, 
 and by one of their principal doctors. He 
 was a man of extraordinary eloquence, as ap- 
 pears not only in his writings, but in several 
 speeches in his own defence, pronounced before 
 governors and courts of justice, when he was 
 called to account for the doctrines he taught. 
 He seems to have been of an uncommonly 
 warm temper, and zealous in whatever religion 
 he professed : this zeal, before his conversion, 
 showing itself in the most unjustifiable actions, 
 by furiously persecuting the innocent Chris- 
 tians : but, though his actions were bad, we may 
 be sure his intentions were good ; otherwise 
 we should not have seen a miracle employed 
 to convince him of his mistake, and to bring him 
 into the right way. This example may assure us 
 of the mercy of God towards mistaken consci- 
 ences, and ought to inspire us with the most 
 enlarged charity and good will towards those, 
 whose erroneous principles mislead their con- 
 duct : instead of resentment and hatred against 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 33 
 
 their persons, we ought only to feel an active 
 wish of assisting them to find the truth, since 
 we know not whether, if convinced, they might 
 not prove, like St. Paul, chosen vessels to pro- 
 mote the honour of , God, and of true religion, 
 It is not my intention now to enter with you 
 into any of the arguments for the truth of 
 Christianity, otherwise it would be impossible 
 wholly to pass over that which arises from this 
 remarkable conversion, and which has been 
 so admirably illustrated by a noble writer,* 
 whose tract on this subject is In every body's 
 hand. 
 
 Next follow the Epistles, which make a 
 very important part of the New Testament ; 
 and you cannot be too much employed in 
 reading them. They contain the most excel- 
 lent precepts and admonitions, and are of par- 
 ticular use in explaining more at large several 
 doctrines of Christianity, which we could not 
 so fully comprehend without them . There are 
 indeed in the Epistles of St. Paul many pas- 
 sages hard to be understood : such, in particular, 
 are the first eleven chapters to the Romans : 
 the greater part of his Epistles to the Corin- 
 thians and Galatians : and several chapters of 
 that to the Hebrews. Instead of perplexing 
 yourself with these more obscure passages of 
 scripture, 1 would wish you to employ your 
 attention chiefly on those that are plain ; and 
 to judge of the doctrines taught in the other 
 parts, by comparing them with what you rind 
 m these- It is through the neglect of this 
 
 s LordLyttelton. 
 
40 TV ORES OF 
 
 rule, that many have been led to draw the 
 most absurd doctrines from the holy scriptures. 
 Let me particularly recommend to your care- 
 ful perusal the 12th, 13th, 14th, and 1 5th chap- 
 ters of the Epistle to the Romans. In the 
 14th chapter, St. Paul has in view the differ- 
 ence between the Jewish and Gentile (or Hea- 
 then) converts at that time ; the former were 
 disposed to look with horror on the latter, for 
 their impiety in not paying the same regard 
 to the distinctions of days and meats, that they 
 did ; and the latter, on the contrary, were incli- 
 ned to look with contempt on the former, for 
 their weakness and superstition. Excellent is 
 the advice which the Apostle gives to both 
 parties : he exhorts the Jewish converts not to 
 judge, and the Gentiles not to despise ; remem- 
 bering that the kingdom of heaven is not meat 
 and drink, but righteousness, and peace, and 
 joy in the Holy Ghost: Endeavour to conform 
 yourself to this advice ; to acquire a temper of 
 universal candour and benevolence : and learn 
 neither to despise nor condemn any persons 
 on account of their particular modes of faith 
 and worship ; remembering always, that good- 
 ness is confined to no party ; that there are wise 
 and worthy men among all the sects of Chris- 
 tians ; and that, to his own master, every one 
 must stand or fall. 
 
 I will enter no farther into the several points 
 discussed by St. Paul in his various epistles ; 
 most of them too intricate for your under- 
 standing; at present, and many of them beyond 
 my abilities to state clearly. I will only again 
 recommend to you, to read those passages fre- 
 quently, which, with so much fervour and en- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 41 
 
 £rgy, excite you to the practice of the most 
 exalted piety and benevolence. If the effusions 
 of a heart, warmed with the tenderest affection 
 for the whole human race ; if precept, warning, 
 encouragement, example, urged by an elo- 
 quence, which such affection only could in- 
 spire, are capable of influencing your mind ; 
 you cannot fail to find, in such parts of his 
 epistles as are adapted to your understanding, 
 the strongest persuasives to every virtue that 
 can adorn and improve your nature. 
 
 The Epistle of St. James is entirely practi- 
 cal, and exceedingly fine ; you cannot study it 
 too much. It seems particularly designed to 
 guard Christians against misunderstanding some 
 things in St. Paul's writings, which have been 
 fatally perverted to the encouragement of a 
 dependance on faith alone, without good works. 
 But, the more rational commentators will tell 
 you, that by the works of the law, which the 
 apostle asserts to be incapable of justifying us, 
 he means, not the works of moral righteous- 
 ness, but the ceremonial works of the Mosaic 
 law ; on which the Jews laid the greatest stress, 
 as necessary to salvation. But, St. James tells 
 us y that " if any man among us seem to be re- 
 ligious, and bridleth not his tongue, but de- 
 ceiveth his own heart, that man's religion is 
 vain," And that, " pure religion, and undefiled 
 before God and the father, is this, to visit the 
 fatherless and widow in their affliction, and to 
 keep himself unspotted from the world." 
 Faith in Christ, if it produce not these effects, 
 he declares is dead, or of no power. 
 
 The epistles of St. Peter are also full of the 
 best instructions and admonitions, concerning 
 E e 2 
 
42 works or 
 
 the relative duties of life, amongst which are set 
 forth the duties of women in general, and of 
 wives in particular. Some part of his second 
 Epistle is prophetical ; warning the church of 
 false teachers, and false doctrines, which should 
 undermine morality, and disgrace the cause of 
 Christianity. 
 
 The first of St. John is written in a highly 
 figurative style, which makes it in some parts 
 hard to be understood : but the spirit of divine 
 love, which it so fervently expresses, renders it 
 highly edifying and delightful. That love of 
 God and of man, which this beloved apostle 
 so pathetically recommends, is in truth the 
 essence of religion, as our Saviour himself in- 
 forms us. 
 
 The book of Revelations contains a pro- 
 phetical account of most of the great events 
 relating to the Christian church, which were 
 to happen from the time of the writer, St. 
 John, to the end of the world. Many learned 
 men have taken a great deal of pains to explain 
 it ; and they have done this in many instances 
 very successfully : but, I think, it is yet too 
 soon for you to study this part of scripture : 
 some years hence perhaps there may be no ob- 
 jection to your attempting it, and taking into 
 your hands the best expositions to assist you 
 in reading such of the most difficult parts of 
 the New Testament, as you cannot noAv be 
 supposed to understand. May fyeaven direct 
 you in studying this sacred volunle, and render 
 it the means of making you wifce unto salva- 
 tion ! May you love and reverence, as it de- 
 serves, this blessed and invaluable book, which 
 contains the best rule of life, the clearest de- 
 claration of the will and laws of the Deity, 
 
MRS. CHArONJE. 4S 
 
 the reviving assurance of favour to true peni- 
 tents, and the unspeakably joyful tidings of eter- 
 nal life and happiness to all the truly virtuous, 
 through Jesus Christ, the Saviour and Deliver- 
 er of the world. Adieu. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 ON THE REGULATION OF THE HEAFT AND AFFEC- 
 TIONS. 
 
 You will have read the New Testament to 
 very little purpose, my dearest Niece, if you 
 do not perceive the great end and intention of 
 all its precepts to be the improvement and reg- 
 ulation of the heart : not the outward actions 
 alone, butthe inward affections, which give birth 
 to them, are the subjects of those precepts ; as 
 appears in our Saviour's explanation* of the 
 commandments delivered to Moses; and in a 
 thousand other passages of the gospels, which 
 it is needless to recite. There are no vir- 
 tues more insisted on, as necessary to our fu- 
 ture happiness, than humility, and sincerity, or 
 uprightness of heart ; yet, none more difficult 
 and rare. Pride and vanity, the vices opposite 
 to humility, are the sources of almost all the 
 worst faults, both of men and women. The 
 latter are particularly accused, and not without 
 reason, of vanity, the vice of little minds, 
 chiefly conversant with trifling subjects. Pride 
 and vanity have been supposed to differ so es- 
 sentially, as hardly ever to be found in the 
 
 Mattfa. v. 
 
44 works or 
 
 same person. " Too proud to be vain," is no 
 uncommon expression, by which, I suppose, is 
 meant, too proud to be over anxious for the 
 admiration of others : but this seems to be 
 iounded on mistake. Pride is, I think, an high, 
 opinion of one's self, and an affected contempt 
 ot others : 1 say affected, for that it is not a real 
 contempt is evident from this, that the lowest 
 object of it is important enough to torture the 
 proud man's heart, only by refusing him the 
 homage and admiration he requires. Thus 
 Haman could relish none of the advantages on 
 which he valued himself, whilst thatMordecai 
 whom he pretended to despise, sat still in the 
 king s gate, and would not bow to him as he 
 passed. But, as the proud man's contempt of 
 others is only assumed with a view to awe them 
 into reverence by his pretended superiority, so 
 it does not preclude an extreme inward anxier 
 ty about their opinions, and a slavish depen- 
 dence on them for all his gratifications : pride, 
 though a distinct passion, is seldom unaccom- 
 panied by vanity, which is an extravagant de- 
 sire ot admiration. Indeed, I never saw an 
 insolent person, in whom a discerning eje might 
 not discover a very large share of vanity, and 
 of envy, its usual companion. One may 
 nevertheless see many vain persons who are 
 not proud : though they desire to be admired, 
 they do not always admire themselves ; but as 
 timid minds are apt to despair of those things 
 they earnestly wish for, so you will often see the 
 woman who is most anxious to be thought 
 hav.dsome, most inclined to be dissatisfied with 
 her looks, and to think all the assistance of art 
 loo little to attain the end desired. To this 
 cause, I believe, we may generally attribute ail 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 4J>- 
 
 fectation ; which seems to imply a mean opin- 
 ion of one's own real form, or character, while 
 we strive against nature to alter ourselves by 
 ridiculous contortions of body, or by feigned 
 sentiments and unnatural manners. There is 
 no art so mean, which this mean passion will 
 not descend to for its gratification ; no creature 
 so insignificant, whose incense it will not gladly 
 receive. Far from despising others, the vain 
 man will court them with the most assiduous 
 adulation ; in hopes, by feeding their vanity, to 
 induce them to supply the craving wants of his 
 own. He will put on the guise of benevolence,, 
 tenderness, and friendship, where he feels not 
 the least degree of kindness, in order to pre- 
 vail on good nature and gratitude, to like and 
 to commend him : but if, in any particular case, 
 he fancies, that airs of insolence and contempt 
 may succeed better, he makes no scruple to 
 assume them ; though so awkwardly, that he 
 still appears to depend on the breath of the 
 person, lie would be thought to despise. Weak 
 and timid natures seldom venture to try this 
 last method ; and, when they do, it is without 
 the assurance necessary to carry it on with suc- 
 cess ; but, a bold and confident mind will oftener 
 endeavour to command and extort admiration 
 than to court it. As women are more fearful 
 than men, perhaps this may be one reason why 
 they are more vain than proud ; whilst the 
 other sex are oftener proud than vain. It is, 
 I suppose, from some opinion of a certain 
 greatness of mind accompanying the onp vice 
 rather than the other, that many will readily 
 confess their pride, nay and even be proud of 
 their pride, whilst every creature is ashamed of 
 
46 WORKS OF 
 
 being convicted of vanity. You see, however, 
 that the end of both is the same, though pursu- 
 ed by different means ; or, if it differs, it is in the. 
 importance of the subject. Whilst men are 
 proud of power, of wealth, dignity, learning, 
 or abilities, young women are usually ambitious 
 of nothing more than to be admired for their 
 persons, their dress, or their most trivial accom- 
 plishments. The homage of men is their 
 grand object ; but, they only desire them to 
 be in love with their persons, careless how des- 
 picable their minds appear, even to these their 
 pretended adorers. I have known a woman so 
 vain as to boast of the most disgraceful ad- 
 dresses ; being contented to be thought mean- 
 ly of, in points the most interesting to her 
 honour, for the sake of having it known, that 
 her person was attractive enough to make a 
 man transgress the bounds of respect due to 
 her character, which was not a vicious one, if 
 you except this intemperate vanity. But, this 
 passion too often leads to the most ruinous ac- 
 tions, always corrupts the heart, and, when in- 
 dulged, renders it, perhaps, as displeasingin the 
 sight of the Almighty, as those faults which 
 find least mercy from the world ; yet alas ! it 
 is a passion so prevailing, I had almost said 
 universal, in our sex,thatit requires all the efforts 
 of reason, and all the assistance of grace, total- 
 ly to subdue it. Religion is indeed the only 
 effectual remedy for this evil. If our hearts 
 are not dedicated to God, they will in some 
 way or other be dedicated to the world, both in 
 youth and age. If our actions are not con- 
 stantly referred to him, if his approbation and 
 favour are not our principal object, wc shall 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 47 
 
 certainly take up with the applause of men, and 
 make that the ruling motive of our conduct 
 How melancholy is it to see this phantom so 
 eagerly followed through life ! whilst all that is 
 truly valuable to us is looked upon with indif- 
 ference ; or, at best, made subordinate to this 
 darling pursuit ! 
 
 Equally vain and absurd is every scheme of 
 life that is not subservient to, and does not ter- 
 minate in that great end of our being ; the at- 
 tainment of real excellence, and of the favour 
 of God. Whenever this becomes sincerely 
 our object, then will pride and vanity, envy, 
 ambition, covetousness, and every evil passion, 
 lose their power over us; and we shall, in the 
 language of scripture, " Walk humbly with 
 our God." We shall then cease to repine un- 
 der our natural or accidental disadvantages, 
 and feel dissatisfied only with our moral de- 
 fects ; we shall love and respect all our fellow- 
 creatures, as the children of the same dear pa- 
 rent, and particularly those, who seek to do 
 his will : all our delight will be " in the saints 
 that are in the earth, and in such as excel in 
 virtue." We shall wish to cultivate good- will, 
 and to promote innocent enjoyment wherever 
 we are : we shall strive to please, not from 
 vanity, but from benevolence. Instead of con- 
 templating our own fancied perfections, or 
 even real superiority, with self-complacence, 
 religion will teach us to " look into ourselves 
 and fear :" the best of us, God knows, have 
 enough to fear, if we honestly search into all 
 tbe dark reeesses of the heart, and bring out 
 every thought and intention fairly to the light, 
 
48 WORKS OF 
 
 to be tried by the precepts of our pure and holy 
 religion. 
 
 It is with the rules of the gospel we must 
 compare ourselves, and not with the world 
 around us ; for we know that " the many are 
 wicked ;" and that we must not be " conform- 
 ed to the world." 
 
 How necessary it is, frequently thus to en- 
 ter into ourselves, and search out our spirit, 
 will appear, if we consider, how much the hu- 
 man heart is prone to insincerity, and how of- 
 ten, from being first led by vanity into attempts 
 to impose upon others, we come at last to im- 
 pose on ourselves. 
 
 There is nothing more common than to see 
 people fall into the most ridiculous mistakes, 
 with regard to their own characters ; but I can 
 by no means allow such mistakes to be una- 
 voidable, and therefore innocent : they arose 
 from voluntary insincerity, and are continued 
 for want of that strict honesty towards our- 
 selves and others, which the scripture calls 
 " singleness of heart ;" and which m modern 
 language is termed simplicity; the most en- 
 chanting of all qualities, esteemed and beloved 
 in proportion to its rareness. 
 
 He, who " requires truth in the inward parts," 
 will not excuse our self-deception ; for lie has 
 commanded us to examine ourselves diligent- 
 ly, and has given us such rules as can never 
 mislead us, if we desire the truth, and are wil- 
 ling to see our faults, in order to correct them. 
 But this is the point in which we are defective ; 
 we are desirous to gain our own approbation, 
 as well as that of others, at a cheaper rate than 
 that of being really what we ought to be ; and 
 

 MRS. CHAPONE. 49 
 
 we take pains to persuade ourselves that we 
 are that which we indolently admire and ap- 
 prove. 
 
 There is nothing in which this self-deception 
 is more notorious than in what regards senti- 
 ment and feeling. Let a vain young woman he 
 told that tenderness and softness is the peculiar 
 charm of the sex, that even their weakness is 
 lovely, and their fears becoming : and you will 
 presently observe her grow so tender as to be 
 ready to weep for a fly ; so fearful, that she 
 starts at a feather ; and, so weak-hearted, that 
 the smallest accident quite overpowers her. 
 Her fondness and affection become fulsome and 
 ridiculous ; her compassion grows contempti- 
 ble weakness; and her apprehensiveness the 
 most abject cowardice : for, when once she 
 quits the direction of nature, she knows not 
 where to stop, and continually exposes herself 
 by the most absurd extremes. 
 
 Nothing so effectually defeats its own ends 
 as this kind of affectation : for though warm 
 affections and tender feelings are beyond mea- 
 sure amiable and charming, when perfectly na- 
 tural, and kept under the due control of rea- 
 son and principle, yet nothing is so trul} dis- 
 gusting as the affectation of them, or even the 
 unbridled indulgence of such as are real. 
 
 Remember, my dear, that our feelings were 
 not given us for our ornament, but to spur us 
 on to right actions. Compassion, for instance, 
 was not impressed upon the human heart, only 
 to adorn the fair face with tears, and to give 
 an agreeable languor to the eyes ; it was de- 
 signed to excite our utmost endeavours to re- 
 lieve the sufferer. Yet, how often have I heard 
 
 Ff 
 
"fO WORKS OF 
 
 that sol fish weakness, which flies from the sight 
 of distress, dignified with the name of tender- 
 ness ! "My friend is, I hear, in the deepest afflic- 
 tion and misery ; I have not seen her, for in- 
 deed I cannot bear such scenes, they affect me 
 too much ; those who have less sensibility are 
 fitter for this world ; but, for my part, I own, 
 1 am not able to support such things. I shall 
 not attempt to visit her, till 1 hear she has re- 
 covered her spirits." This have 1 heard said, 
 with an air of complacence ; and the poor self- 
 ish creature has persuaded herself that she 
 had finer feelings than those generous friends, 
 who were sitting patiently m the house of 
 mourning, watching, in silence, the proper mo- 
 ment to pour in the balm of comfort ; who 
 suppressed their own sensations, and only at- 
 tended to those of the afflicted person ; and 
 whose tears flowed in secret, whilst their 
 eyes and voice were taught to enliven the 
 sinking heart with the appearance of cheer- 
 fulness. 
 
 That sort of tenderness which makes us 
 useless may indeed be pitied and excused, if 
 owing to natural imbecility ; but, if it pretends 
 to loveliness and excellence, it becomes truly 
 contemptible. 
 
 The same decree of active courage is not 
 to be expected in woman as in man ; and, not 
 belonging to her nature, it is not agreeable in 
 her : but, passive courage, patience, and forti- 
 tude under sufferings, presence of mind, and 
 calm resignation in danger, are surely desira- 
 ble in every rational creature; especially in 
 one professing to believe in an over-ruling 
 providence, in which we may at all times qui- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 51 
 
 etly confide, and which we may safely trust 
 with every event that does not depend upon 
 our own will. Whenever you find yourself 
 deficient in these virtues, let it be a subject of 
 shame, and humiliation, not of vanity and self- 
 complacence : do not fancy yourself more ami- 
 able for that which really makes you despica- 
 ble ; but, content yourself with the faults and 
 weaknesses that belong to you, without put- 
 ting on more by way of ornament. With re- 
 gard to tenderness, remember that compassion 
 is best shewn by an ardour to relieve, and af- 
 fection by assiduity to promote the good and 
 happiness of the persons you love : that tears 
 are unamiable, instead of being ornamental, 
 when voluntarily indulged ; and can never be 
 attractive but when they flow irresistibly, and 
 avoid observation as much as possible : the 
 same may be said of every other mark of pas- 
 sion. It attracts our sympathy, if involuntary 
 and not designed for our notice. It offends, if 
 we see that it is purposely indulged and obtru- 
 ded on our observation. 
 
 Another point, on which the heart is apt to 
 deceive itself, is generosity: we cannot bear 
 to suspect ourselves of base and ungenerous 
 feelings, therefore we let them work without 
 attending to them, or we endeavour to find out 
 some better motive for those actions, which 
 really flow from envy and malignity. Before 
 you flatter yourself that you are a generous 
 benevolent person, take care to examine, whe- 
 ther you are really glad of every advantage 
 and excellence, which your friends and com- 
 panions possess, though they are such as you 
 
&J WORKS OF 
 
 are yourself deficient in. If your sister 
 or friend makes a greater proficiency than 
 yourself in any accomplishment, which you 
 are in pursuit of, do you never wish to stop 
 her progress, instead of trying to hasten 
 your own ? 
 
 The boundaries between virtuous emulation 
 and vicious envy are very nice, and may be ea- 
 sily mistaken. The first will awaken your at- 
 tention to your own defects and excite your 
 endeavours to improve ; the last will make 
 you repine at the improvements of others, and 
 wish to rob them of the praise they have de- 
 served. Do you sincerely rejoice when your 
 sister is enjoying pleasure or commenda- 
 tion, though you are at the same time in disa- 
 greeable or mortifying circumstances ? Do you 
 delight to see her approved and beloved, even 
 by those who do not pay you equal attention ? 
 Are you afflicted and humbled, when she is 
 found to be in fault, though you yourself are 
 remarkably clear from the same offence? If 
 your heart assures you of the affirmative to 
 these questions, then may you think yourself a 
 kind sister, and a generous friend : for, you 
 must observe, my dear, that scarcely any crea- 
 ture is so depraved as not to be capable of kind 
 affections in some circumstances. We are all 
 naturally benevolent, when no selfish interest 
 interferes, and where no advantage is to be given 
 up : we can all pity distress, when it lies com- 
 plaining at our feet, and confesses our superi- 
 ority and happier situation ; but I have seen 
 the sufferer himself become the object of en- 
 vy and ill-will, as soon as his fortitude and 
 greatness of mind have begun to attract 
 
MRS. CHAPONL. 53 
 
 admiration, and to make the envious person feel 
 the superiority of virtue above good fortune. 
 
 To take sincere pleasure in the blessings and 
 excellences of others is a much surer mark of 
 benevolence than to pity their calamities : and, 
 you must always acknowledge yourself ungen- 
 erous and selfish, whenever you are less ready 
 to " rejoice with them that do rejoice," than 
 to " weep with them that weep." If ever 
 your commendations of others are forced from 
 you, by the fear of betraying your envy ; or ft* 
 ev you feel a secret desire to mention some- 
 thing that may abate the admiration given them, 
 do not try to conceal the base disposition from 
 yourself, since that is not the way to cure. it. 
 
 Human nature isever liable to corruption, and 
 has in it the seeds of every vice, as well as of 
 every virtue ; and the first will be continually 
 shooting forth and growing up, if not carefully 
 watched and rooted out as fast as they appear. 
 It is the business of religion to purify and ex- 
 alt us, from a state of imperfection and infirm- 
 ity, to that which is necessary and essential to 
 happiness. Envy would make us miserable 
 in heaven itself, could it be admitted there ; for 
 we must there see beings far more excellent, 
 ai:d consequently more happy than ourselves ; 
 and, till we can rejoice m seeing virtue re- 
 warded in proportion to its degree, we can 
 never hope to be among the number of th*- 
 blessed. 
 
 Watch, then, my dear child, and observe evexl 
 evil propensity ol your heart, that you may in 
 tii rect it, with the assistance of that grace, 
 
 which alone can conquer the evils of our nature, 
 
 r fa 
 
54 WORKS OF 
 
 and which you must constantly and earnestly 
 implore. 
 
 1 must add, that even those vices which you 
 would most blush to own, and which most ef- 
 fectually defile and villify the female heart, may 
 by degrees be introduced into yours ; to the 
 ruin of that virtue, without which, misery and 
 shame must be your portion ; unless the aven- 
 ues of the heart are guarded by a sincere ab- 
 horrence of every thing that approaches to- 
 wards evil. Would you be of the number of 
 those blessed, " who are pure in heart," you 
 must hate and avoid every thing, both in books 
 and in conversation, that conveys impure ideas, 
 however neatly clothed in decent language, 
 or recommended to your taste by pretended re- 
 finements and tender sentiments ; by elegance 
 of style, or force of wit and genius. 
 
 I must not now begin to give you my thoughts 
 on the regulation of the affections, as that is a 
 subject of too much consequence to be soon 
 dismissed. I shall dedicate to it my next let- 
 ter : in the mean time, believe me, 
 
 Your ever affectionate. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 ON THE REGULATION OF THE HEART AND AFFEC- 
 TIONS. CONTINUED. 
 
 The attachments of the heart, on which al- 
 most all the happiness or misery of life de- 
 pends, are most interesting objects of our con- 
 sideration. I shall give my dear niece the ob- 
 
MRS. CHAPON.E. 65' 
 
 serrations which experience has enabled me to 
 draw from real life, and not from what others 
 have said or written, however great their au- 
 i hority. 
 
 The first attachment of young hearts is friend- 
 ship — the noblest and happiest of affections, 
 when real and built on a solid foundation ; but 
 oftener pernicious than useful to very young 
 people, because the connexion itself is ill un- 
 derstood, and the subjects of it frequently ill 
 chosen. Their first error is that of supposing 
 equality of age, and exact similarity of disposi- 
 tion, indispensably requisite in friends ; where- 
 as, these are circumstances which in great 
 measure disqualify them for assisting each 
 other in moral improvements, or supplying 
 each other's defects ; they expose them to the 
 same dangers, and incline them to encourage 
 rather than correct each other's failings. 
 
 The grand cement of this kind of friendship 
 is telling secrets, which they call confidence; 
 and I verily believe that the desire of having 
 secrets to tell, has often helped to draw silly 
 ^irls into very unhappy adventures. If they 
 have no lover or amour to talk of, the too fre- 
 quent subject of their confidence is betraying 
 the secrets of their families ; or conjuring up 
 fancied hardships to complain of against their 
 parents or relations: this odious cabal they 
 call friendship, and fancy themselves dignified 
 by the profession ; but nothing is more different 
 from the reality, as is seen by observing how 
 generally those early friendships drop off, as 
 the parties advance in years and understanding 
 
 Do not you, my dear, be too ready to pre 
 fe«8 a friendship with any of your young com 
 
&& WORKS OF 
 
 panions. Love them, and be always ready to 
 serve and oblige them, and to promote all their 
 innocent gratifications: but be very careful 
 how you enter into confidences Avith girls of 
 your own age. Rather choose some person 
 of riper years and judgment, whose good- 
 nature and worthy principles may assure you 
 of her readiness to do you service, and of 
 her candour and condescension towards you. 
 I do not expect that youth should delight to 
 associate with age, or should lay open its feel- 
 ings and inclinations to such as nave almost 
 Jtorgot what they were, or how to make proper 
 allowance for them ; but if you are fortunate 
 enough to meet with a young woman eight or 
 ten years older than yourself, of good sense 
 and good principles, to whom you can make 
 yourself agreeable, it may be one of the happi- 
 est circumstances of your life. She will be 
 able to advise and to improve ) r ou ; and, your 
 desire of this assistance will recommend you 
 to her taste, as much as her superior abilities 
 will recommend her to you. Such a connex- 
 ion will afford you more pleasure, as well as 
 more profit, than you can expect from a girl 
 like yourself, equally unprovided with know- 
 ledge, prudence, or any of those qualifications, 
 which are necessary to make society delightful. 
 With a friend, such as I have described, of 
 iwenty-three or tw r enty-four years of age, you 
 can hardly pass an hour without finding your- 
 self brought forwarder in some useful know- 
 ledge ; without learning something of the 
 world, or of your own nature, some rule of 
 behaviour, or some necessary caution in the 
 conduct of life : for, even in the gayest conver- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 57 
 
 sations, such useful hints may often be gathered 
 from those, whose knowledge and experience 
 are much beyond our own. Whenever you 
 find yourself in real want of advice, or seek 
 the relief of unburdening your heart, such a 
 friend will be able to judge of the feelings you 
 describe, or of the circumstances you are in : 
 perhaps from her own experience ; or at least, 
 from the knowledge she will have gained of 
 human nature ; she will be able to point out 
 your dangers, and to guide you in the right 
 
 }mth ; or, if she finds herself incapable, she will 
 lave the prudence to direct you to some abler 
 adviser. The age I have mentioned will not 
 prevent her joining in your pleasures, nor will 
 it make her a dull or grave companion ; on the 
 contrary, she will have more materials for 
 entertaining conversation, and her liveliness 
 will show itself more agreeably than in one of 
 your own age. Yours therefore will be the 
 advantage in such a connexion ; yet, do not 
 despair of being admitted into it, if you have 
 an amiable and docile disposition. Ingenuous 
 youth has many charms for a benevolent 
 mind ; and, as nothing is more endearing than 
 the exercise of benevolence, the hope of beinjj 
 useful and beneficial to you will make her fond 
 of your company. 
 
 I have known some of the sweetest and 
 most delightful connexions between persons of 
 different ages, in which the elder has received 
 the highest gratification from the affection and 
 docility of the younger ; whilst the latter has 
 gained the noblest advantages from the conver- 
 sation and counsels of her wiser friend. Norhas 
 the attachment been without use as well as pleas^ 
 
58 WORKS OF 
 
 ure to the elder party. She has found that 
 there is no better way of improving one's own 
 attainments than by imparting them to another ; 
 and the desire of doing this in the most accep- 
 table way has added a sweetness and gentleness 
 to her manner, and taught her the arts of in- 
 sinuating instruction, and of winning the heart, 
 whilst she convinces the understanding. 
 
 I hope, my dear, you in your turn will be 
 this useful and engaging friend to your younger 
 companions, particularly to your sister and 
 brothers, who ought ever, unless they should 
 prove unworthy, to be your nearest and dear- 
 est friends, whose interest and welfare you 
 are bound to desire as much as your own. If 
 3 r ou are wanting here, do not fancy yourself 
 qualified for friendship with others, but be 
 assured, your heart is too narrow and selfish 
 for so generous an affection. 
 
 Remember that the end of true friendship is 
 the good of its object, and the cultivation of 
 virtue, in two hearts emulous of each other, 
 and desirous to perpetuate their society be- 
 yond the grave. Nothing can be more con- 
 trary to this end than that mutual intercourse 
 of flattery, which some call friendship. A real 
 friend will venture to displease me, rather than 
 indulge my faulty inclinations, or increase my 
 natural frailties ; she will endeavour to make 
 me acquainted with myself, and will put me 
 upon guarding the weak parts of my character. 
 
 Friendship, in the highest sense of the word, 
 can only subsist between persons of strict in- 
 1 egrity, and true generosity. Before you fancy 
 yourself possessed of such a treasure, you 
 should examine the value of your own heartj 
 
SIRS. CHAPOISE. 59 
 
 and see how well it is qualified for so sacred a 
 Connexion : and then, a harder task remains, 
 to find out whether the object of your affection 
 is also endued with the same virtuous disposi- 
 tion. Youth and inexperience are ill able to 
 penetrate into characters : the least appearance 
 of good attracts their admiration, and they im- 
 mediately suppose they have found the object 
 they pursued. 
 
 ft is a melancholy consideration that the 
 judgment can only be formed by experience, 
 which generally comes too late for our own 
 use, and is seldom accepted for that of others. 
 1 fear it is in vain for me to tell you what dan- 
 gerous mistakes I made in the early choice of 
 friends ; how incapable I then was of finding 
 out such as were fit for me, and how little I 
 was acquainted with the true nature of friend- 
 ship, when I thought myself most fervently 
 engaged in it ! I am sensible all this will hardly 
 persuade you to choose by the eyes of others, 
 or even to suspect that your own may be de- 
 ceived. Yet, ii you should give any weight to 
 my observations, it may not be quite useless to 
 mention to you some of the essential requisites 
 in a friend ; and to exhort you never to choose 
 one in whom they are wanting. 
 
 The first of these is a deep and sincere re- 
 gard for religion. It' your friend draws her 
 principles from the same source with yourself, 
 if the gospel precepts are the rule of her life, 
 as well as of yours, you will always know 
 what to expect from her, and have one com- 
 mon standard of right and wrong to refer to, 
 by which to regulate all material uoints of con- 
 duct. The woman who thinks ligntly of sacred 
 
60 WORKS OF 
 
 things, or who is ever heard to speak of them 
 with levity or indifference, cannot reasonably be 
 expected to pay a more serious regard to the 
 laws of friendship, or to be uniformly punctual 
 in the performance of any of the duties of 
 society : take no such person to your bosom, 
 however recommended by good humour, wit, 
 or any other qualification ; nor let gaiety or 
 thoughtlessness be deemed an excuse for of- 
 fending in this important point: a person,, 
 habituated to the love and reverence of religion 
 and virtue, no more, wants the guard of serious 
 consideration to restrain her from speaking 
 disrespectfully of them than to prevent her 
 speaking ill of her dearest friend. In the live- 
 liest hour of mirth, the innocent heart can dic- 
 tate nothing but what is innocent : it will im- 
 mediately take alarm at the apprehension of 
 doing wrong, and stop at once in the full ca- 
 reer of youthful sprightliness, if reminded of 
 the neglect or transgression of any duty. — 
 Watch for these symptoms of innocence and 
 goodness, and admit no one to your entire affec- 
 tion, who would ever persuade you to make light 
 of any sort of offence, or who can treat, with 
 levity or contempt, any person or thing that 
 bears a relation to religion. 
 
 A due regard to reputation is the next indis- 
 pensable qualification. " Have regard to thy 
 name," saith the wise son of Sirach, " for that 
 will continue with tnee above a thousand great 
 treasures of gold." The young person who is 
 careless of blame, and indifferent to the esteem 
 of the wise and prudent part of the world, is 
 not only a most dangerous companion, but 
 gives a certain proof of the want of rectitude 
 
SIRS. CHAPON£. 6fc 
 
 fii her own mind. Discretion is the guardian 
 of all the virtues ; and, when she forsakes 
 them, they cannot long resist the attacks of an 
 enemy. There is a profligacy of spirit in de- 
 fying the rules of decorum, and despising cen- 
 sure, which seldom ends otherwise than in ex- 
 treme corruption and utter ruin. Modesty 
 and prudence are qualities that early display 
 themselves and are easily discerned: AVhere 
 these do not appear, you should avoid, not on- 
 ly friendship, but every step towards intimacy, 
 lest your own character should suffer with that 
 of your companion ; but, where they shine 
 forth in any eminent degree, you may safely g* 
 cultivate an acquaintance, in the reasonable 
 hope of finding the solid fruits of virtue be- 
 neath such sweet and promising' blossoms: 
 should you be disappointed, you will at least 
 have run no risque in the search after them, and 
 may cherish as a creditable acquaintance the 
 person so adorned, though she may not de- 
 serve a place in»your inmost heart. 
 
 The understanding must next be examined : 
 and this is a point which requires so much un- 
 derstanding to judge of in another, that I must 
 earnestly recommend to you, not to rely en- 
 tirely on your own, but to take the opinion of 
 your older friends. I do not wish you to seek 
 for bright and uncommon talents, though these 
 are sources of inexhaustible delight and im- 
 provement, when found in company with solid 
 judgment and sound principles. Good sense 
 ^by which I mean a capacity for reasoning 
 justly and discerning truly) applied to the us«>s 
 of life, and exercised in distinguishing charac- 
 ters and directing conduct, is alone necesswy 
 
62 WORKS OF 
 
 to am intimate connexion ; but, without thiA 
 the best intentions, though certain of reward 
 hereafter, may fail of producing their effects in 
 this life; nor can they singly constitute the 
 character of an useful and valuable friend. 
 On the other hand, the most dazzling genius, 
 or the most engaging wit and humour* can but 
 ill answer the purposes of friendship, without 
 plain common sense and a faculty of just rea- 
 soning. 
 
 What can one do with those who will not be 
 answered with reason ; and who, when you 
 are endeavouring to convince or persuade them 
 by serious argument, will parry the blow with 
 a witty repartee or a stroke of poignant raille- 
 ry ? I know not whether such a reply is less 
 provoking than that of an obstinate fool, who 
 answers your strongest reasons with "What 
 you say maybe very true, but this is my way of 
 thinking." A small acquaintance with the 
 world will show you instances of the most ab- 
 surd and foolish conduct, in persons of brilliant 
 parts and entertaining faculties. But, how tri- 
 fling is the talent of diverting an idle hour, com- 
 pared with true wisdom and prudence, which 
 are perpetually wanted to direct us safely and 
 happily through life, and to make us useful and 
 valuable to others ! 
 
 Fancy, I know, will have her share, in friend- 
 ship as well as in love ; you must please, as 
 well as serve me, before I can love you as the 
 friend of my heart. But the faculties that please 
 for an evening may not please for life, The 
 humourous man soon runs through his stock 
 of odd stories, mimickry and jest; and the 
 wit. by constantly repeated flashes, confounds 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 63 
 
 and tires one's intellect, instead of enlivening it 
 with agreeable surprise : but, good sense can 
 neither tire nor wear out ; it improves by ex- 
 ercise, and increases in value, the more it is 
 known : the pleasure it gives in conversation is 
 Jasting and satisfactory, because it is accompa- 
 nied with improvement ; its worth is propor- 
 tioned to the occasion that calls for it, and rises 
 highest on the most interesting topics ; the 
 heart, as well as the understanding, finds its 
 account, in it ; and our noblest interests are pro- 
 moted by the entertainment we receive from 
 such a companion. 
 
 A good temper is the next qualification, the 
 value of which, in a friend, you will want no 
 arguments to prove, when you are truly convin- 
 ced of the necessity of it in yourself, which I 
 shall endeavour to show you in a following let- 
 ter. But, as this is a quality in which you may 
 be deceived, without a long and intimate ac- 
 quaintance, you must not be hasty in forming 
 connexions, before you have had sufficient op- 
 portunity for making observations on this head. 
 A young person, when pleased and enlivened by 
 the presence of her youthful companions, sel- 
 dom shows ill temper ; which must be extreme 
 indeed, if it is not at least controllable in such 
 situations. But, you must watch her behaviour 
 to her own family, and the degree of estimation 
 she stands in with them. Observe her manner 
 to servants and inferiors, to children, and even 
 to animals. See in what manner she bears dis- 
 appointments, contradiction, and restraint ; 
 and what degree of vexation she expresses on 
 any accident of loss or trouble. If in such lit-? 
 tie trials she shows a meek, resigned, and 
 
64 works or 
 
 cheerful temper, she will probably preserve it 
 on greater occasions ; but if she is impatient 
 and discontented under these, how will she 
 support the far greater evils which may await 
 her m her progress through life ? If you should 
 have an opportunity of seeing her in sickness, 
 observe whether her complaints are of a mild 
 and gentle kind, forced from her by pain, and 
 restrained as much as possible; or whether 
 they are expressions of a turbulent, rebellious 
 mind, that hardly submits to the divine hand. 
 See whether she is tractable, considerate, kind, 
 and grateful to those about her ; or whether 
 she takes the opportunity, which their compas- 
 sion gives her, to tyrannize over, and torment 
 them. Women are in general very liable to ill 
 health, which must necessarily make them in 
 some measure troublesome and disagreeable to 
 those they live with. They should therefore 
 take the more pains to lighten the burden as 
 much as possible, by patience and good hu- 
 mour ; and be careful not to let their infirmities 
 break in, on the health, freedom, or enjoyments 
 of others, more than is needful and just. Some 
 ladies seem to think it very improper for any 
 person within their reach, to enjoy a moments 
 comfort while they are in pain ; and make no 
 scruple of sacrificing to their own least conve- 
 nience, whenever they are indisposed, the prop- 
 er rest, meals, or refreshments of their servants, 
 and even sometimes of their husbands and chil- 
 dren. But, their selfishness defeats its own 
 purpose, as it weakens that affection and tender 
 pity, which excites the most assiduous services, 
 and affords the most healing balm to the heart 
 of the sufferer. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 65 
 
 I have already expressed my wishes that your 
 chosen friend may be some years older than 
 yourself; but this is an advantage not always 
 to be obtained. Whatever be her age, religion, 
 discretion, good sense, and good temper, must on 
 no account be dispensed with ; and, till you 
 can find one so qualified, you had better make 
 no closer connexion than that of a mutual in- 
 tercourse of civilities and good offices. But, if 
 it is always your aim to mix with the best com- 
 pany, and to be worthy of such society, you 
 will probably meet with some one among them 
 deserving your affection, to whom you may 
 be equally agreeable. 
 
 When I speak of the best company, I do not 
 mean in the common acceptation of me word — 
 persons of high rank and fortune ; but rather 
 the most worthy and sensible. It is, however, 
 very important to a young woman to be intro- 
 duced into life on a respectable footing, and to 
 converse with those, whose manners and style of 
 life may polish her behaviour, refine her senti- 
 ments, and give her consequence in the eye of 
 the >tforld. Your equals in rank are most prop- 
 er for intimacy, but, to be sometimes amongst 
 your superiors is every way desirable and ad- 
 vantageous, unless it should inspire you with 
 pride, or with the foolish desire of emulating 
 their grandeur and expense. 
 
 Above all things avoid intimacy with those 
 of low birth and education ; nor think it a mark 
 of humility to delight in such society ; for it 
 much oftcncr proceeds from the meanest kind 
 of pride, that of being the head of the compa- 
 ny, and seeing your companions subservient to 
 you. The servile flattery and submission, 
 g g 2 
 
66 "WORKS OP 
 
 which usually recommend such people, and 
 make amends for their ignorance and want of 
 conversation, will infallibly corrupt your heart, 
 and make all company insipid from whom you 
 cannot expect the same homage. Your man- 
 ners and faculties, instead of improving, must 
 be continually lowered to suit you to your com- 
 panions ; and, believe me, you will find it no 
 easy matter to raise them again to a level with 
 those of polite and well-informed people. 
 
 The greatest kindness and civility to inferiors 
 is perfectly consistent with proper caution on 
 this head. Treat them always with affability, 
 and talk to them of their own affairs, with an 
 affectionate interest ; but never make them fa- 
 miliar, or^dmit them as associates in your di- 
 versions : but, above all, never trust them with 
 your secrets, which is putting yourself entirely 
 m their power, and subjecting yourself to the 
 most shameful slavery. The only reason for 
 making choice of such confidants must be the 
 certainty that they will not venture to blame 
 or contradict inclinations, which you are con- 
 scious no true friend would encourage. But 
 this is a meanness into which I trust you are 
 in no danger of falling. I rather hope you will 
 have the laudable ambition of spending your 
 time chiefly with those whose superior talents, 
 education, and politeness, may continually im- 
 prove you, and whose society will do you hon- 
 our. However, let no advantage of this kind 
 weigh against the want of principle. I have 
 long ago resolved with David, that, as far as lies 
 in my power, " I will not know a wicked per- 
 son." Nothing can compensate for the conta- 
 gion of bad example, and for the danger of 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 67 
 
 wearing off by use that abhorrence of evil 
 actions and sentiments which every innocent 
 mind sets out with, but which an indiscriminate 
 acquaintance in the world soon abates, and at 
 length destroys. 
 
 If you are good, and seek friendship only 
 amongst the good, I trust you will be happy 
 enough to find it. The wise son of Sirach pro- 
 nounces that you will ! *" A faithful friend," 
 saith he, " is the medicine of life ; and he that 
 feareth the Lord shall find him. Whoso fear- 
 eth the Lord shall direct his friendship aright ; 
 for as he is, so shall his neighbour be also." In 
 the same admirable book, you will find direc- 
 tions how to choose and to preserve a friend. 
 Indeed there is hardly a circumstance in life, 
 concerning which you may not there meet with 
 the best advice imaginable. Caution in making 
 friendships is particularly recommended. f'Be 
 in peace with many, nevertheless have but one 
 counsellor of a thousand. If thou wouldst get 
 a friend, prove him first, and be not hasty to 
 credit him ; for some man is a friend for his own 
 occasion; and will not abide in the day of trou- 
 ble. And there is a friend, who being turned to 
 enmity and strife, will discover thy reproach." 
 Again, " Some friend is a companion at the 
 table, and will not continue in the day Oi thy 
 affliction; but in thy prosperity he will be as 
 thyself, and will be bold over thy servants : if 
 thou be brought low, he will be against thee, 
 and will hide himself from thy face." Chap. ix. 
 10. " Forsake not an old friend ; for the new 
 is not comparable to him. A new friend is as 
 
 * Ecclus. v. i Ecclus, vk 
 
68 WORKS OF 
 
 new wine ; when it is old thou shalt drink it 
 with pleasure." 
 
 When you have discreetly chosen, the next 
 point is how to preserve your friend. Numbers 
 complain of the fickleness and ingratitude of 
 those on whom they bestowed their affection ; 
 but few examine, whether what they complain 
 of is not owing to themselves. Affection is not 
 like a portion of freehold land, which when once 
 settled upon you is a possession for ever, with- 
 out further trouble on your part. If you grow 
 less deserving, or less attentive to please, you 
 must expect to see the effects of your remiss- 
 ness, in the gradual decline of your friend's es- 
 teem and attachment. Resentment and re- 
 proaches will not recall what you have lost : but, 
 on the contrary, will hasten the dissolution of 
 every remaining tie. The besl remedy is to 
 renew your care and assiduity to deserve and 
 cultivate affection, without seeming to have 
 perceived its abatement. Jealousy and distrust 
 are the bane of friendship, whose essence is es- 
 teem and affiance. But if jealousy is expressed 
 by unkind upbraidings, or, what is worse, by 
 cold, haughty looks, and insolent contempt, it 
 can hardly fail, if often repeated, to realize the 
 misfortune, which at first perhaps was imagin- 
 ary. Nothing can be more an antidote to af- 
 fection than such behaviour, or than the cause 
 of it, which, in reality, is nothing but pride ; 
 though the jealous person would fain attribute 
 it to uncommon tenderness and delicacy : But 
 tenderness is never so exprest; it is indeed 
 deeply sensible of unkindness, but it cannot be 
 unkind; it may subsist with anger, but not with 
 contempt ; it may be weakened, or even killed, 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 69 
 
 by ingratitude; but it cannot be changed into 
 hatred. Remember always, that if you would 
 be loved, you must be amiable. Habit may in- 
 deed, for a time, supply the deficiency of mer- 
 it : what we have long loved, we do not easily 
 cease to love ; but habit will at length be con- 
 quered by freqi tent disgusts. *" Whoso castet h 
 a stone at the birds, frayeth them away ; and 
 he that upbraideth his friend, breaketh friend- 
 ship. Though thou drewest a sword at thy 
 friend, yet despair not, for there may be a re- 
 turning to favour. If thou hast opened thy 
 mouth against thy friend, fear not, for there 
 may be a reconciliation ; except from upbraid- 
 ing, or pride, or disclosing of secrets, or a treach- 
 erous wound, for, for these things every friend 
 will depart." 
 
 I have hitherto spoken of a friend in the sin- 
 gular number, rather in compliance with the 
 notions of most writers, who have treated of 
 friendship, and who generally suppose it can 
 have but one object, than from my OAvn ideas. 
 The highest kind of friendship is indeed confin- 
 ed to one, I mean, the conjugal, which, in its 
 perfection, is so entire and absolute an union, 
 of interest, will, and affection, as no other con- 
 nexion can stand in competition with. But, 
 there are various degrees of friendship, which 
 can admit of several objects, esteemed, and de-r 
 lighted in, for different qualities ; and whose 
 separate rights are perfectly compatible. Per- 
 haps it is not possible to love two persons ex- 
 actly in the same degree ; yet the difference 
 may be so small, that none of the parties cau 
 
 * £cclus. xxii. 20, 
 
70 WORKS OF 
 
 be certain on which side the scale preponde-- » 
 rates. 
 
 It is a norrowness of mind to wish to confine 
 your friend's affection solely to yourself; since 
 you are conscious that, however perfect your 
 attachment may be, you cannot possibly supply 
 to her all the blessings she may derive from se- 
 veral friends, who may each love her as well as 
 you do, and may each contribute largely to her 
 happiness. If she depends on you alone for all 
 the comforts and .advantages of friendship, your 
 absence or death may leave her desolate and 
 forlorn. If therefore you prefer her good 
 to your own selfish gratification, you should ra- 
 ther strive to multiply her friends, and be rea- 
 dy to embrace in your affections all who love 
 her, and deserve her love : this generosity will 
 bring its own reward, by multiplying the sources 
 of your pleasures and supports : and your first 
 friend will love you the more for such an en- 
 dearing proof of the extent of your affection, 
 which can stretch to receive all who are dear to 
 her. But if, on the contrary, every mark of es- 
 teem shown to another excites uneasiness or 
 resentment in you, the person you love must 
 soon feel her connexion with you a burden and 
 restraint. She can own no obligation to so sel- 
 fish an attachment ; nor can her tenderness be 
 increased by that which lessens her esteem. If 
 she is really fickle and ungrateful, she is net 
 worth your reproaches : if not, she must be 
 reasonably offended by such injurious imputa- 
 tions. 
 
 You do not want to be told, that the strictest 
 fidelity is required in friendship : and though 
 possibly instances might lje brought, in which 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 71 
 
 even the secret of a friend must be sacrificed 
 to the calls of justice and duty, yet these are 
 rare and doubtful cases, alid we may venture to 
 
 f»ronounce that *" Whoso discovereth secrets, 
 oseth his credit, and shall never find a friend to 
 his mind." " Love thy friend, and be faithful 
 unto him : but, if thou bewrayest his secrets, 
 follow no more after him. For, as a man that 
 hath destroyed his enemy, so hast thou des- 
 troyed the love of thy friend. As one that let- 
 teth a bird go out of his hand, so hast thou let 
 thy neighbour go. Follow no more after him, 
 for he is too far off; he is as a roe escaped out 
 of the snare. As for a wound, it may be bound 
 up ; and after revilings there may be reconcile- 
 ment : but he that bewray eth secrets, is without 
 hope." 
 
 But in order to reconcile this inviolable fidel- 
 ity with the duty you owe to yourself or others, 
 you must carefully guard against being made 
 the repository of such secrets as are not fit to 
 be kept. If your friend should engage in any 
 unlawful pursuit ; if, for instance, she should in- 
 tend to carry on an affair of love, unknown to 
 her parents, you must first use your utmost en- 
 deavours to dissuade her from it ; and, if she 
 persists, positively and solemnly declare against 
 neing a confidant in such a case. Suffer her 
 not to speak to you on the subject, and warn 
 her to forbear acquainting you with any step 
 she may propose to take towards a marriage 
 unsanctified by parental approbation. Tell 
 her, you would think it your duty to apprize 
 her parents of the danger, into which she was 
 
 h Ecclus. x$vii. 16. 
 
*£ WORKS OF 
 
 throwing herself. However unkindly she may 
 take this at the time, she will certainly esteem 
 and love vou the more for it, whenever she re- 
 covers a sense of her duty, or experiences the 
 sad effects of swerving from it. 
 
 There is another case, which I should nOv 
 choose to suppose possible, in addressing my- 
 self to so young a person, was it not tnat too 
 many instances of it have of late been exposed 
 to public animadversion : I^mean the case ot a 
 married woman, who encourages or tolerates 
 the addresses of a lover. May no such person 
 he ever called a friend of yours! but, if ever 
 one whom, when innocent, you had oved, 
 should fall into so fatal an error, I can only say 
 that, after proper remonstrances, you must 
 immediately withdraw from all intimacy and 
 confidence with her. Nor let the absurd pre- 
 tence of innocent intentions, in such circum- 
 stances, prevail with you to lend your coun- 
 tenance, a moment, to disgraceful conduct.— 
 There cannot be innocence, m any degree ot 
 indulgence to unlawful passion. The sacred 
 obligations to marriage are very ill understood 
 bv the wife, who can think herself innocent, 
 while she parlies with a lover, or with love ; 
 and who does not shut her heart and ears 
 against the most distant approaches of either. 
 A virtuous wife, though she should be so un- 
 happy as not to be secured by having her 
 strongest affections fixed on her husband, will 
 never admit an idea of any other man, m the 
 lio-ht of a lover: but, if such an idea should 
 unawares intrude into her mind, she would in- 
 stantly stifle it, before it grew strong enough to 
 give her much uneasiness. Not to the, most 
 
MRS. CHAPONE- 75 
 
 intimate friend, hardly to her own soul, would 
 she venture to confess a weakness, she would 
 so sincerely abhor. Whenever therefore such 
 infidelity of heart is made a subject of confi- 
 dence, depend upon it the corruption has 
 spread far, and has been faultily indulged. 
 Lnter not into her counsels : show her the 
 danger she is in, and then, withdraw yourself 
 from it, whilst you are yet unsullied by con- 
 tagion. 
 
 It has been supposed a duty of friendship 
 to lay open every thought and every feeling of 
 the heart to our friend. But I have just men- 
 tioned a case, in which this is not only unne- 
 cessary, but wrong, A disgraceful inclination, 
 which Ave resolve to conquer, should be con- 
 cealed from every body ; and is more easily 
 subdued when denied the indulgence of talking 
 of its object : and, I think, there may be other 
 instances, in which it would be most prudent to 
 keep our thoughts concealed even from our 
 dot; rest friend. Some things I would commu- 
 nicate to one friend, and not to another, whom 
 perhaps I loved better, because I might know 
 that my first friend was not so well qualified 
 as the other to counsel me on that particular 
 subject : a natural bias on her mind, some 
 prevailing opinion, or some connexion with 
 persons concerned, might make heran impro- 
 per confidant with regard to one particular, 
 though qualified to be so on all other occasions. 
 
 The confidence of friendship is indeed one of 
 its sweetest pleasures and greatest advantages. 
 The human heart often stands in need of some 
 kind and faithful partner of its cares, in whom 
 ft »it:iy repose all its weaknesses, and with 
 ji h 
 
74 WORKS OF 
 
 whom it is sure of finding the tenderest sym- 
 pathy. Far be it from me to shut up the heart 
 with cold distrust, and rigid caution, or to 
 adopt the odious maxim, that " we should live 
 with a friend as if he were one day to become 
 an enemy." But we must not wholly abandon 
 prudence in any sort of connexion ; since when 
 every guard is laid aside, our unbounded open- 
 ness may injure others as well as ourselves. 
 Secrets entrusted to us must be sacredly kept 
 even from our nearest friend ; for we have no 
 right to dispose of the secrets of others. 
 
 If there is danger in making an improper 
 choice of friends, my dear child, how much 
 more fatal would it be to mistake in a stronger 
 kind of attachment, in that which leads to an 
 irrevocable engagement for life ! yet so much 
 more is the understanding blinded, when once 
 the fancy is captivated, that, it seems a despe- 
 rate undertaking, to convince a girl in love that 
 she has mistaken the character of the man she 
 prefers. 
 
 If the passions would wait for the decision 
 of judgment, and, if a young woman could 
 have the same opportunities of examining into 
 the real character of her lover, as into that of 
 a female candidate for her friendship, the same 
 rules might direct you in the choice of both ; 
 for, marriage being "the highest state of friend- 
 ship, the qualities requisite in a friend are still 
 more important in a husband. But young wo- 
 men know so little of the Avbrld, especially of 
 the other sex, and such pains are usually taken 
 to deceive them, that they are every way un- 
 qualified to choose for themselves, upon their 
 Own judgment. Many a heartach shall I fee! 
 
MRS. CHAPONL'. 75 
 
 for you, vay sweet girl, if I live a few years 
 longer ! Since, not only all your happiness in 
 this world, but your advancement in religion 
 and virtue, or your apostacy from every good 
 principle you have been taught, will probably 
 depend on the companion you fix to for life. 
 Happy will it be for you, if you are wise and 
 modest enough to withdraw from temptation, 
 and preserve your heart free and open to re- 
 ceive the just recommendation of your parents : 
 farther than a recommendation, I dare say, 
 they will never go, in an affair, which, though 
 it should he begun by them, ought never to be 
 proceeded in, Avithout ) r our free concurrence. 
 
 Whatever romantic notions you may hear, " 
 or read of, depend upon it, those matches are 
 the happiest which are made on rational 
 grounds, on suitableness of character, degree, 
 and fortune, on mutual esteem, and the pros- 
 
 Eect of a real and permanent friendship. Far 
 e it from me, to advise you to marry where 
 you do not love ; a mercenary marriage is a 
 detestable prostitution : But, on the other hand, 
 an union formed upon mere personal liking, 
 without the requisite foundation of esteem, 
 without the sanction of parental approbation, 
 and consequently without the blessing of God, 
 can be productive of nothing but misery and 
 shame. The passion, to which every consid- 
 eration of duty and prudence is sacrificed, in- 
 stead of supplying the loss of all other advan- 
 tages, will soon itself be chanced into mutual 
 distrust, repentance, reproaches, and finally 
 perhaps into hatred. The.' distresses it brings 
 will be void of every consolation : vou will 
 have disgusted the friends who should be your- 
 
78 WORKS OF 
 
 support ; debased yourself in the eyes of the 
 world ; and, what is* much worse, in your own 
 eyes ; and even in those of your husband : 
 above all, you will have offended that God, 
 who alone can shield you from calamity. 
 
 From an act like this, I trust, your duty and 
 gratitude to your kind parents, the first of du- 
 ties next to that we owe to God, and insepara- 
 bly connected with it, will effectually preserve 
 you. But most young people think* they have 
 fulfilled their duty, if they refrain from actual- 
 ly marrying against prohibition. They suffer 
 their affections, and even perhaps their word of 
 honour to be engaged, without consulting their 
 parents : yet satisfy themselves with resolving 
 not to marry without their consent : not con- 
 sidering, that, besides the wretched, useless, 
 uncomfortable state they plunge themselves into, 
 When they contract a hopeless engagement, 
 they must likewise involve a parent in the mis- 
 erable dilemma of either giving a forced con- 
 sent against his judgment, or of seeing his be- 
 loved child pine away her prime of life in fruit- 
 less anxiety, seeing her accuse him of tyranny, 
 because he restrains her from certain ruin, 
 seeing her affections alienated from her family, 
 and all her thoughts engrossed by one object, 
 to the destruction of her health and spirits, and 
 of all her improvements and occupation?. 
 What a cruel alternative for parents, whose 
 happiness is bound up with that of their child! 
 The time to consult them is before you have 
 given a lover the least encouragement; nor 
 ought you to listen a moment to the man, who 
 would wish you to keep his addresses secret ; 
 
MRS. C'HAPOMJ. 11 
 
 Since lie thereby shows himself conscious that 
 they are not fit to be encouraged. 
 
 But perhaps I have said enough on this sub- 
 ject at present ; though, if ever advice on such 
 a topic can be of use, it must be before passion 
 has got possession of the heart and silenced 
 both reason and principle. Fix therefore in 
 your mind, as deeply as possible, those rules 
 of duty and prudence, which now seem rea- 
 sonable to you, that they may be at hand in 
 the hour of trial, and save you from the mise- 
 ries, in which strong affections, unguided by 
 discretion, involve so many of our sex. 
 
 If you love virtue sincerely, you will be in- 
 capable of loving an openly vicious character. 
 But, alas ! your innoct nt. heart may be easily 
 ensnared by an artful one ; and from this dan- 
 ger nothing can secure you but the experience 
 of those, whose guidance God has entrusted 
 you : may you be wise enough to make use of 
 it ! So will you have the fairest chance of at- 
 taining the IJest blessings this world can afford, 
 in a faithful and virtuous union with a worthy 
 man, who may direct your stepsJn safety and 
 honour through this life, and partake with you 
 the rewards of virtue in that which is to come. 
 But, if this happy lot should be denied you, do 
 not be afraid of a single life. A worthy woman 
 is never destitute of valuable friends, who in a 
 great measure supply to her the want of near- 
 er connexions, felie can never be slighted or 
 disesteemed, while her good temper and benev- 
 olence render her a blessing to her companions. 
 Ray, she must be honoured by all persons of 
 sense and virtue, for preferring the single slate 
 to an union unworthy of her. The calamities 
 h h 2 
 
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 of an unhappy marriage are so much greater 
 than can beta! a single person, that, the unmar- 
 ried woman may find abundant argument to be 
 contented with her condition, when pointed 
 out to her by Providence. Whether married 
 or single, if your first care is to please God, you 
 will undoubtedly be a blessed creature ; " for 
 that which he delights in must be happy." How 
 earnestly I wish you this happiness, you can 
 never know, unless you could read the heart of 
 Your truly affectionate. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 ON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER. 
 
 The next great point of importance to your 
 future happiness, my dear, is what your parents 
 have, doubtless, been continually attentive to 
 from your infancy, as it is impossible to under- 
 take it too early ; I mean the due Regulation of 
 your Temper. Though you are in a great 
 measure indebted to their forming hands for 
 whatever is good in it, you are sensible, no 
 doubt, as every human creature is, of propen- 
 sities to some infirmity of temper, which it 
 must now be your own care to correct and to 
 subdue ; otherwise the pains that have hitherty 
 been taken with you may all become fruitless: 
 and when you are your own mistress, you may 
 relapse into those faults, which were originator 
 in your nature, and which will require to be dil- 
 igently watched and kept under, through the 
 whole course of jour life* 
 
3IRS. CHAP0NE. 79 
 
 If you consider, that the constant tenor of 
 the gospel precepts is to promote love, peace, 
 and good-will amongst men, you will not doubt 
 that the cultivation of an amiable disposition 
 is a great part of your religious duty ; since 
 nothing leads more directly to the breach of 
 charity, and to the injury and molestation of 
 our fellow creatures, than the indulgence of an 
 ill temper. Do not therefore think lightly of 
 the offences you may commit, for want of a 
 due command over it, or suppose yourself res- 
 ponsible for them to your fellow creatures on- 
 ly ; but, be assured, you must give a strict ac- 
 count of them all to the Supreme Governor of 
 the world, who has made this a great part of 
 your appointed trial upon earth. 
 
 A woman, bred up in a religious manner, 
 placed above the reach of want, and out of the 
 way of sordid or scandalous vices, can have 
 but few temptations to the flagrant breach of 
 the divine laws. It particularly concerns her 
 therefore to understand them in their full im- 
 port, and to consider, how far she trespasses 
 against them, by such actions as appear trivial, 
 when compared with murder, adultery, and 
 theft, but which become of very great impor- 
 tance, by being frequently repeated, and oc- 
 curring in the daily transactions of life. 
 
 The principal virtues or vices of a woman 
 must be of a private and domestic kind. With- 
 in the circle of her own family and dependants 
 lies her sphere of action ; the scene of almost 
 all those tasks and trials, which must deter- 
 mine her character, and her fate, here and 
 hereafter. Reflect, for a moment, how much 
 the happiness of her husband, children, and 
 
GO WORKS OP 
 
 servants, must depend on her temper, and you 
 will see that the greatest good or evil, which 
 she ever may have in her power to do, may 
 arise from her correcting or indulging its infir- 
 mities. 
 
 Though I wish the principle of duty towards 
 God to be your ruling motive in the exercise of 
 every virtue, yet, as human nature stands in 
 need of all possible helps, let us not forget how 
 essential it is to present happiness, and to the 
 enjoyment of this life, to cultivate such a tem- 
 per as is likewise indispensably requisite to the 
 attainment of higher felicity in the life to come. 
 The greatest outward blessings cannot afford 
 enjoyment to a mind ruffled and uneasy within 
 itself. A fit of ill humour will spoil the finest 
 entertainment, and is as real a torment as the 
 most painful disease. Another unavoidable con- 
 sequence of illtemper is the dislike and aversion 
 of all who are witnesses to it, and perhaps, the 
 deep and lasting resentment of those, who suf- 
 fer from its effects. We all, from social or 
 self-love, earnestly desire the esteem and affec- 
 tion of our fellow creatures ; and indeed our 
 condition makes them so necessary to us, that 
 the wretch, who has forfeited them, must feel 
 desolate and undone, deprived of all the best 
 enjoyments and comforts the world can afford, 
 and given up to his inward misery, unpitied 
 and scorned. But this never can be the fate of 
 a good natured person : whatever faults be 
 may have, they will generally be treated with 
 lenity; he will find an advocate in every hu-. 
 man heart ; his errors will be lamented rather 
 than abhorred ; and his virtues will be viewed 
 in the fairest point of light: His good humour* 
 
3HKS. CHAPQKE. 8f 
 
 without the help of great talents or acquire- 
 ments, will make his company preferable to 
 that of the most brilliant genius, in whom this 
 quality is wanted : in short, it is almost impos- 
 sible that you can be sincerely beloved by any 
 body, without this engaging property, what- 
 ever other excellences you may possess ; but, 
 with it, you will scarcely fail of finding 
 some friends and favourers, even though you 
 should be destitute of almost every other ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 Perhaps you will say, " all this is very true, 
 but our tempers are not in our own power ; we 
 are made with different dispositions, and, if 
 mine is not amiable, it is rather my unhappiness 
 than my fault." This, my dear, is commonly 
 said bythose who will not take the trouble to 
 correct themselves. Yet, be assured, it is a de- 
 lusion, and will not avail in our justification be- 
 fore him, " who knoweth whereof we are 
 made," and of what we are capable. It is true, 
 we are not all equally happy in our dispositions ; 
 but human virtue consists in cherishing and 
 cultivating every good inclination, andin check- 
 ing and subduing every propensity to evil. If 
 you had been born with a bad temper it might 
 liave been made a good one, at least with re- 
 gard to its outward effects, by education, rea- 
 son, and principle : and, though you are so hap- 
 py as to nave a good one while young, do not 
 suppose it will always continue so, if you neg- 
 lect to maintain a proper command over it. 
 Power, sickness, disappointments, or worldly 
 iares, may corrupt and embitter the finest dis. 
 
82 WORKS OF 
 
 position, if they are not counteracted by reason 
 and religion. 
 
 It is observed, that every temper is inclined, 
 in some degree, either to passion, peevishness, 
 or obstinacy. Many are so unfortunate as to 
 be inclined to each of the three in turn : it is ne- 
 cessary therefore to watch the bent of our na- 
 ture, and to apply the remedies proper for the 
 infirmity to which we are most liable. With. 
 regard to the first, it is so injurious to society, 
 and so odious in itself, especially in the female 
 character, that one would think shame alone 
 would be sufficient to preserve a young woman 
 from giving way to it ; for it is as unbecoming 
 her character to be betrayed into ill behaviour 
 by passion, as by intoxication, and she ought to 
 be ashamed of the one, as much as of the 
 other. Gentleness, meekness, and patience, are 
 her peculiar distinctions, and an enraged wo- 
 man is one of the most disgusting sights in na- 
 ture. 
 
 It is plain, from experience, that the most 
 passionate people can command themselves, 
 when they have a motive sufficiently strong ; 
 such as the presence of those they fear, or to 
 whom they particularly desire to recommend 
 themselves : it is therefore no excuse to persons, 
 whom you have injured by unkind reproaches, 
 and unjust aspersions, to tell them you was in 
 a passion : the alloAving yourself to speak to 
 them in passion is a proof of an insolent disres- 
 pect, which the meanest of your feHow crea- 
 tures would have a right to resent. When once 
 you find yourself heated so far as to desire to 
 ,say what you know would be provoking and 
 Wounding to another, you should immediately 
 
MKS. CllAI'ONE. 89 
 
 resolve either to be silent, or to quit the room-, 
 than to give utterance to any thing dictated by 
 so bad an inclination. Be assured, you are then 
 unfit to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason 
 from others. It is therefore your part to retire 
 from such an occasion of sin ; and wait till you 
 are cool, before you presume to judge of what 
 has passed. By accustoming yourself thus to 
 conquer and disappoint your anger, you will, 
 by degrees, find it grow weak and manageable, 
 so as to leave your reason at liberty : You will 
 be able to restrain your tongue from evil, and 
 your looks and gestures from all expressions of 
 \ iolence and ill-will. Pride, which produces so 
 many evils in the human mind, is the great 
 source of passion. Whoever cultivates in him- 
 self a proper humility, a due sense of his own 
 faults and insufficiencies, and a due respect for 
 others, will find but small temptation to violent 
 or unreasonable anger. 
 
 In the case of real injuries, which justify and 
 rail for resentment, there is a noble and generous 
 kind of anger, a proper and necessary part of 
 our nature, which has nothing in it sinful or de- 
 grading. I would not wish you insensible to 
 this ; for the person, who feels not an injury, 
 must be incapable of being properly affected by 
 benefits. With those who treat you ill without 
 provocation, you ought to maintain your own 
 dignity. But, in order to do this, whilst yon 
 show a sense of their improper behaviour, you 
 must preserve calmness, and even good-breed- 
 ing ; and thereby convince them of the impo- 
 tence as well as injustice of their malice. \ ou 
 must also weigh every circumstance with can- 
 dour and chanty, and consider whether your 
 
$4 WORKS OV 
 
 showing the resentment deserved may not pre- 
 ttuce ill consequences to innocent persons, as is 
 almost always the case in family quarrels ; and 
 whether it may not occasion the breach of some 
 duty, or necessary connexion, to which you 
 ought to sacrifice even your just resentments. 
 Above all things, take care that a particular of- 
 fence to you does not make you unjust to the 
 general character of the offending person. Gen- 
 erous anger does not preclude esteem for who- 
 ever is really estimable, nor does it destroy 
 good-will to the person of its object : it even 
 inspires the desire of overcoming him by bene- 
 fits, and wishes to inflict no other punishment 
 than the regret of having injured one, who de- 
 served his kindness : it is always placable, and 
 ready to be reconciled, as soon as the offender 
 is convinced of his error ; nor can any subse- 
 quent injury provoke it to recur to past disol)Ii- 
 gations, which had been once forgiven. But it: 
 is perhaps unnecessary to give rules for this 
 case ; the consciousness of injured innocence 
 naturally produces dignity, and usually prevents 
 excess of anger. Our passion is most unruly, 
 when we are conscious of blame, and when we 
 apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to 
 contempt. Where we know we have been 
 wrong, the least injustice in the degree of blame 
 imputed to us, excites our bitterest resentment; 
 but, where we know ourselves faultless, the 
 sharpest accusation excites pity or contempt, 
 rather than rage. Whenever, therefore, you 
 feel yourself very angry, suspect yourself to be 
 in the wrong, and resolve to stand the decision 
 of your own conscience before you cast upon 
 another the punishment, which is perhaps dt*s 
 
"MRS. CHAPONE. 85 
 
 to 3'ourself. This self-examination will at least 
 give you time to cool, and, if you are just, will 
 dispose you to balance your own wrong with 
 that of your antagonist, and to settle the ac- 
 count with him on equal terms. 
 
 Peevishness, though not so violent and fatal 
 in its immediate effects, is still more unamiable 
 than passion, and, if possible, more destructive 
 of happiness, in as much as it operates more 
 continually. Though the fretful man injures 
 us less, he disgusts us more than the passionate 
 one ; because lie betrays a low and little mind, 
 intent on trifles, and engrossed by a paltry self- 
 love, which knows not how to bear the very 
 apprehension of any inconvenience. It is self- 
 love then, which we must combat, when we 
 find ourselves assaulted by this infirmity ; and, 
 by voluntarily enduring inconveniences, we shall 
 habituate ourselves to bear them with ease, and 
 
 food-humour, when occasioned by others. — 
 Vrhaps this is the best kind of religious mor- 
 tification, as the chief end of denying ourselves 
 any innocent indulgences must be to acquire a 
 habit of command over our passions and incli- 
 nations, particularly such as are likely to lead 
 us into evil. Another method of conquering 
 this enemy is to abstract our minds from that 
 attention to trifling circumstances, which usu- 
 ally creates this uneasiness. Those who are 
 engaged in high and important pursuits are 
 very little affected by small inconveniences. 
 The man whose head is full of studious thought, 
 or whose heart is full of care, will eat his dinner 
 without knowing whether it was well or ill 
 dressed, or whether it was served punctually at 
 thu hour or not : and though absence from the 
 i i 
 
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 common things of life is far from desirable, espe* 
 cially in a woman, yet too minute and anxious 
 an attention to them seldom fails to produce a 
 teazing, mean, and fretful disposition. I would 
 therefore wish your mind to have always some 
 objects in pursuit worthy of it, that it may not 
 be engrossed by such as are in themselves 
 scarce worthy a moment's anxiety. It is 
 chiefly in the decline of life, when amusements 
 fail, and when the more importunate passions 
 subside, that this infirmity is observed to grow 
 upon us ; and perhaps it will seldom fail to do 
 so, unless carefully watched and counteracted 
 by reason. We must then endeavour to sub- 
 stitute some pursuits in the place of those, 
 which can only engage us in the beginning of 
 our course. The pursuit of glory and happi- 
 ness in another life, by every means of improv- 
 ing and exalting our own mindsj- becomes more 
 and more interesting to us, the nearer we draw 
 to the end of all sublunary enjoyments. Read- 
 ing, reflection, rational conversation, and, above 
 all, conversing with God, by prayer and medi- 
 tation, may preserve us from taking that anx- 
 ious interest in the little comforts and conveni- 
 ences of our remaining days, which usually 
 gives birth to so much fretfulness in old people. 
 But though the aged and infirm are most liable 
 to this evil ; and they alone are to be pitied for 
 it ; yet we sometimes see the young, the heal- 
 thy, and those who enjoy most outward bless- 
 ings, inexcusably guilty of it. The smallest dis- 
 appointment in pleasure, or difficulty in the 
 most trifling employment, will put wilful young 
 people out of temper, and their very amuse- 
 ments frequently become sources of vexation 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 87 
 
 and peevishness. How often have I seen a girl, 
 preparing for a ball, or for some other public 
 appearance, unable to satisfy her own vanity, 
 fret over every ornament she put on, quarrel 
 with her maid, with her clothes, her hair ; and 
 growing still more unlovely as she grew more 
 cross, be ready to fight with her looking-glass 
 for not making her as handsome as she wished 
 to be. She did not consider that the traces of 
 this ill-humour on her countenance would be a 
 greater disadvantage to her appearance than 
 any defect in her dress, or even than the plain- 
 est features enlivened by joy and good humour. 
 There is a degree of resignation necessary even 
 to the enjoyment of pleasure ; we must be ready 
 and willing to give up some part of what we 
 could wish for, before we can enjoy that which 
 is indulged to us. I have no doubt that she, 
 who frets all the while she is dressing for an as- 
 sembly, will suffer still greater uneasiness when 
 she is there. The same craving restless vanity 
 will there endure a thousand mortifications, 
 which, in the midst of seeming pleasure, wilt 
 secretly corrode her heart; whilst the meek 
 and humble generally find more gratification 
 than they expected, and return home pleased 
 and enlivened from every scene of amusement, 
 though they could have staid away from it with 
 perfect ease and contentment. 
 
 Sullenness, or obstinacy, is perhaps a worse 
 fault of temper than either of the former; and, 
 if indulged, may end in the most fatal extremes 
 of stubborn melancholy, malice and revenge. 
 The resentment which, instead of being ex- 
 pressed, is nursed in secret, and continually ag- 
 gravated by the imagination, will, in time, be- 
 
S8 ^ WORKS OF 
 
 come the ruling passion ; and then, how horri- 
 ble must be his case, whose kind and pleasurable 
 affections are all swallowed up by the torment- 
 ing as well as detestable sentiments of hatred 
 and revenge ! **' Admonish thy friend, perad- 
 venture he hath not done it : or, if he hath, that 
 he do it no more. Admonish thy friend, per- 
 adventure he hath not said it : or, if he hath, 
 that he speak it not again." Brood not over a 
 resentment, which perhaps was at first ill 
 grounded, and which is undoubtedly heighten- 
 ed by an heated imagination. But, when you 
 have first subdued jour own temper, so as to 
 be able to speak calmly, reasonably, and kindly, 
 then expostulate with the person you suppose 
 to be in fault: hear what slie has to say; and 
 either reconcile yourself to her, or quiet your 
 mind under the injury, by the principle of 
 Christian charity. But if it should appear that 
 you yourself have been most to blame, or if 
 you have been in an error, acknowledge it 
 fairly and handsomely ; if you feel any reluc- 
 tance to do so, be certain that it arises from 
 pride, to conquer which is an absolute duty. 
 " A soft answer turneth away wrath," and a 
 generous confession oftentimes more than 
 atones for the fault which requires it. Truth 
 and justice demand that we should acknow- 
 ledge conviction, as soon as we feel it, and not 
 maintain an erroneous opinion, or justify a 
 wrong conduct, merely from the false shame of 
 Confessing our past ignorance. A false shame it 
 undoubtedly is, and as impolitic as unjust, since 
 your error is already seen by those tvlio ejndeav- 
 
 * Erclus. lis. 13. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 89 
 
 our to set you right ; but your conviction, and the 
 candour and generosity of owning it freely, may 
 still be an honour to you, and would greatly 
 recommend you to the person with whom you 
 disputed. With a disposition strongly inclined 
 to sullenness or obstinacy, this must be a very 
 painful exertion ; and to make a perfect con- 
 quest over yourself at once may perhaps appear 
 impracticable, whilst the zeal of self-justification, 
 and the abhorrence of blame, are strong upon 
 you. But if you are so unhappy as to yield 
 to your infirmity, at one time, do not let this 
 discourage you from renewing your efforts. 
 Your mind will gain strength from the contest, 
 and your internal enemy will by degrees be 
 forced to give ground, fee not afraid to revive 
 the subject, as soon as you find yourself able 
 to subdue your temper ; and then frankly lay 
 open the conflict you sustained at the time : by 
 this you will make all the amends in your pow- 
 er for your fault, and will certainly change the 
 disgust you had given into pity at least, if not 
 admiration. Nothing is more endearing than 
 such a confession ; and you will find such a sat- 
 isfaction in your own consciousness, and in the. 
 renewed tenderness and esteem you will gain 
 from the person concerned, that your task for 
 the future will be made more easy* and your 
 reluctance to be convinced will, on every occa- 
 sion, grow less and less. 
 
 The love of truth, and a real desire of im- 
 provement, ought to be the only motives of 
 argumentation: and, where these are sincere, 
 no difficulty can be made of embracing the 
 truth, as soon as it is perceivea. But, in fart, 
 people oftener dispute from vanity and pride, 
 i i % 
 
90 WORKS OF 
 
 which make it a grievous mortification to allow 
 that we are the wiser for what we have heard 
 from another. To receive advice, reproof, 
 and instruction, properly, is the surest sign of 
 a sincere and humble heart ; and shows a great- 
 ness of mind, which commands our respect 
 and reverence, while it appears so willingly to 
 yield to us the superiority. 
 
 Observe, notwithstanding, that I do not wish 
 you to hear of your faults without pain : Such 
 an indifference would afford small hopes of 
 amendment. Shame and remorse are the 
 first steps to true repentance ; yet we should 
 he willing to bear this pain, and thankful to the 
 kind hand that inflicts it for our;good. Nor must 
 we, by sullen silence under it, leave our kind 
 physician in doubt, whether the operation has 
 taken effect or not, or whether it has not added 
 another malady, instead of curing the first. 
 You must consider that those who tell you of 
 your faults, if they do it from motives of kind- 
 ness and not of malice, exert their friendship 
 in a painful office, which must have cost them 
 as great an effort as it can be to you to acknow- 
 ledge the service ; and, if you refuse this en- 
 couragement, you cannot expect that any orie, 
 who is not absolutely obliged to it by duty, will a 
 second time undertake such an ill-requited trou- 
 ble. What a loss would this be to yourself! how 
 difficult would be our progress to that degree 
 of perfection, which is necessary to our hap- 
 piness, was it not for the assistance we receive 
 from each other ! this certainly is one of the 
 means of grace held out to us by our merciful 
 judge, and, if we reject it, we are answerable 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. fit 
 
 for all the miscarriages we may fall into for 
 want of it. 
 
 I know not, whether that strange caprice, 
 that inequality of taste and behaviour, so com- 
 monly attributed to our sex, may be properly 
 called a fault of temper ; as it seems not to be 
 connected with, or arising from our animal 
 frame, but to be rather the fruit of our own 
 self-indulgence, degenerating by degrees into 
 such a wantonness of will as knoAvs not how 
 to please itself. When, instead of regulating 
 our actions by reason and principle, we suffer 
 ourselves to be guided by every slight and mo- 
 mentary impulse of inclination, we shall, 
 doubtless, appear so variable, and inconstant, 
 that nobody can guess, by our behaviour to-day, 
 what may be expected, from us to-morrow ; 
 nor can we ourselves tell whether what we de- 
 lighted in, a week ago, will now afford us the 
 least degree of pleasure. It is in vain for oth- 
 ers to attempt to please us ; we cannot please 
 ourselves, though all we could wish for waits 
 our choice : and thus does a capricious woman 
 become " sick of herself, through very selfish- 
 ness :" And, when this is the case, it is easy to 
 judge how sick others must be of her, and how 
 contemptible and disgusting she must appear. 
 This wretched state is the usual consequence of 
 power and flattery. May my dear child never 
 meet with the temptation of that excessive and 
 ill-judged indulgence from a husband, which 
 sh-3 has happily escaped from her parents, and 
 which seldom fails to reduce a woman to the 
 miserable condition of a humoured child, al- 
 ways unhappy from having nobody's will to 
 study but its own. The insolence of such dt»~ 
 
$£ WORKS OF 
 
 mands for yourself, and such disregard to the 
 choice and inclinations of others, can seldom 
 fail to make you as many enemies as there are per- 
 sons obliged to bear with your humours; whilst 
 a compliant, reasonable, and contented disposi- 
 tion, would render you happy in yourself, and 
 beloved by all your companion?? particularly 
 by those, who lived constantly with you ; and, 
 of what consequence this is to your happiness, 
 a moment's reflection will convince you. Fam- 
 ily friendships are the friendships made for us, 
 if I may so speak, by God himself. With the 
 kindest intentions, he has knit the bands of 
 family love, by indispensable duties; and 
 w r retched are they who have burst them asun- 
 der by violence and ill-will, or worn them out. 
 by constant little disobligations, and by the 
 want of that attention to please, which the 
 presence of a stranger always inspires, but 
 which is so often shamefully neglected towards 
 those, whom it is most our duty and interest to 
 please. May you, my dear, be wise enough to 
 see that every faculty of entertainment, every 
 engaging qualification, which you possess, is 
 exerted to the best advantage for those, whose 
 love is of most importance to you ; for those 
 who live under the same roof, and with whom 
 you are connected for life, either by the ties 
 of blood, or by the still more sacred obligations 
 of a voluntary engagement. 
 
 To make you the delight and darling of your 
 family, something more is required than barely 
 to be exempt from ill-temper and troublesome 
 humours. The sincere and genuine smiles of 
 complacency and love must adorn jour coun- 
 tenance. That ready compliance, that alert- 
 
KRS. GHAPOFE. . 93 
 
 Mess to assist and oblige whieh demonstrates 
 true affection, must animate your behaviour, 
 and endear your most common actions. Po- 
 liteness must accompany your greatest familiar- 
 ities, and restrain you from every thing that is 
 really offensive, or which can give a moment's 
 unnecessary pain. Conversation, which is so 
 apt to grow dull and insipid in families, nay, 
 in some to be almost wholly laid aside, must 
 be cultivated with the frankness and openness 
 of friendship, and by the mutual communi- 
 cation of whatever may conduce to the im- 
 provement or innocent entertainment of each 
 other. 
 
 Reading, whether apart or in common, will 
 furnish useful and pleasing subjects ; and the 
 sprightliness of youth will naturally inspire 
 harmless mirth and native humour, if encoura- 
 ged by a mutual desire of diverting each other, 
 and making the hours pass agreeably in your 3 
 own house : every amusement that offers will 
 be heightened by the participation of these dear 
 companions, and by talking over every incident 
 together, and every object of pleasure. If 
 you have any acquired talent of entertainment, 
 such as music, painting, or the like, your own 
 famity are those, before whom you should most 
 wish to excel, and for whom you should al- 
 ways be ready to exert yourself: not suffering 
 the accomplishments which you have gained, 
 perhaps by their means, and at their expense* 
 to lie dormant, till the arrival of a stranger 
 gives you spirit in the performance. Where 
 this last is the case, you may be sure vanity is 
 the only motive of the exertion : A stranger 
 will praise you more : J>ut how little sensibility 
 
94 WORKS OF 
 
 has that heart, which is not more gratified by 
 the silent pleasure painted on the countenance 
 of a partial parent, or of an affectionate broth- 
 er, than by the empty compliments of a visitor, 
 who is perhaps inwardly more disposed to 
 criticise and ridicule than to admire you ? 
 
 I have been longer in this letter than I in- 
 tended, yet it is with difficulty I can quit the 
 subject, because I think it is seldom sufficient- 
 ly insisted on, either in books or in sermons ; 
 and because there are many persons weak 
 ^enough to believe themselves in a safe and in- 
 nocent course of life, whilst they are daily har- 
 assing every body about them by their vexa- 
 tious humours. But you will, I hope, constant- 
 ly bear in mind, that you can never treat a fel- 
 low creature unkindly, without offending the 
 kind Creator and Father of all ; and that you 
 can no way render yourself so acceptable to 
 him as by studying to promote the happiness 
 of others, in every instance, small as well as 
 great. The favour of God, and the love of your 
 companions, will surely be deemed rewards 
 sufficient to animate your most fervent endeav- 
 ours; yet this is not all: the disposition of 
 mind, which I would recommend, is its own 
 reward, and is in itself essential Jo happiness. 
 Cultivate it therefore, my dear child, with your 
 utmost diligence ; and watch the symptoms of 
 ill-temper, as they rise, with a firm resolution 
 to conquer them, before they are even perceiv- 
 ed by any other person. In every such inward 
 conflict, call upon your Maker, to assist the 
 feeble nature he ham given you ; and sacrifice 
 to Him every feeling that would tempt you tq 
 disobedience : So will you at length attain that 
 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 95 
 
 irue Christian meekness, which is blessed in 
 the sight of God and man ; " which has the 
 promise of this life as well as of that which is 
 to come." Then will you pity, in others, those 
 infirmities, which you have conquered in your- 
 self; and will think yourself as much bound 
 to assist, by your patience and gentleness, 
 those who are so unhappy as to be under the 
 dominion of evil passions, as you are to impart 
 a share of your riches to the poor and miser-' 
 able. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest* 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 ECONOMY. 
 
 My dear Niece, 
 Economy is so important a part of a wo- 
 man's character, so necessary to her own happi- 
 ness, and so essential to her performing properly 
 the duties of a wife and of a mother, that it 
 ought to have the precedence of all other ac- 
 complishments, ana take its rank next to the 
 first duties of life. It is, moreover, an art as 
 well as a virtue ; and, many well-meaning per- 
 sons, from ignorance, or from inconsideration, 
 are strangely deficient in it. Indeed it is too 
 often wholly neglected in a young woman's 
 education ; and, she is sent from her father's 
 house to govern a family, without the least de- 
 gree of that knowledge, which should qualify 
 her for it : this is the source of much inconve- 
 
$$ WORKS OP 
 
 nience ; for though experience and attention 
 may supply, by degrees, the want of instruc- 
 tion, yet this requires time ; the family, in the 
 mean time, may get into habits, which are ve- 
 ry difficult to alter; and, what is worse, the 
 husband's opinion of his wife's incapacity may 
 be fixed too strongly to suffer him ever to think 
 justly of her gradual improvements. I would 
 therefore earnestly advise you to make use of 
 every opportunity you can find, for the laying 
 in some store of knowledge on this subject, be- 
 fore you are called upon to the practice; by 
 observing what passes before you ; by consult- 
 ing prudent and experienced mistresses of fa- 
 milies ; and by entering in a book a memoran- 
 dum of every new piece of intelligence you ac- 
 quire : you may afterwards compare these with 
 more mature observations, and you can make 
 additions and corrections as you see occasion. 
 I hope it will not be long before your mother 
 entrusts you with some part, at least, of the 
 management of your father's house. Whilst 
 you are under her eye, your ignorance cannot 
 ao much harm, though the relief to her at first 
 m.iy not be near so considerable as the benefit 
 to yourself. 
 
 Economy consists of so many branches, some 
 of which descend to such minuteness, that it is 
 impossible for me in writing to give you parti- 
 cular directions. The rude outlines may per- 
 haps be described, and I shall be happy if I 
 can furnish you with any hint that may hereaf- 
 ter be usefully applied. 
 
 The first and greatest point is to lay out your 
 general plan of living in a just proportion to 
 your fortune and rauk : if these two will not 
 
MRS. CHAPOtfE. 97 
 
 coincide, the last must certainly give way ; for, 
 if you have right principles, you cannot fail of 
 being wretched under the sense of the injustice 
 as well as danger of spending beyond your in- 
 come, and your distress will be continually in- 
 creasing. I\o mortifications, which you can suf- 
 fer from retrenching in your appearance, can bo 
 comparable to this unhappiness. If you would 
 enjoy the real comforts of affluence, you should 
 lay your plan considerably within your income ; 
 not for the pleasure of amassing wealth ; though, 
 where there is a growing family, it is an absolute, 
 duty to lay by something every year ; but to 
 provide for contingencies, and to have the pow- 
 er of indulging your choice in the disposal of 
 the overplus, either in innocent pleasures, or to 
 increase your funds for charity and generosity, 
 which are in fact the truelundsof pleasure. 
 In some circumstances, indeed, this would not 
 bf prudent; there are professions, in which a 
 man's success greatly depends on his making 
 some figure, where the bare suspicion of pover- 
 ty would bring on the reality. If, by marriage, 
 you should be placed in such a situation, it will 
 be your duty to exert all your skill in the man- 
 agement of your income : yet, even in this case, 
 I would not strain to the utmost for appear- 
 ance, but would choose my models among the 
 most prudent and moderate of my own class ; 
 and be contented with slower advancement, 
 for the sake of security and peace of mind. 
 
 A contrary conduct is the ruin of many ; and, 
 in general, the wives of men in such professions 
 might live in a more retired and frugal manner 
 than they do, without any ill consequence, if 
 they did not make the scheme of advancing tbe 
 
 K-k 
 
98 WORKS OP 
 
 success of their husbands an excuse to them- 
 selves for the indulgence of their own vanity 
 and ambition. 
 
 Perhaps it may be said, that the settling the 
 general scheme of expenses is seldom the wife's 
 province, and that many men do not choose 
 even to acquaint her with the real state of their 
 affairs. Where this is the case, a woman can 
 be answerable for no more than is entrusted to 
 her. But, J think it a very ill sign, for one or 
 both of the parties, where there is such a want 
 of openness, in what equally concerns them. As 
 1 trust you will deserve the confidence of your 
 husband, so I hope you will be allowed free 
 consultation with him on your mutual inter- 
 ests ; and, 1 believe, there are few men, who 
 would not hearken to reason on their own af- 
 fairs, when they saw a wife ready and desirous 
 to give up her share of vanities and indulgences, 
 and only earnest to promote the common good 
 of the family. 
 
 In order to settle your plan, it will be neces- 
 sary to make a pretty exact calculation: and if, 
 from this time, you accustom yourself to cal- 
 culations in all the little expenses entrusted to 
 you, you will grow expert and ready at them, 
 and be able to guess very nearly, where certain- 
 ty cannot be attained. Many articles of ex- 
 pense are regular and fixed ; these may be val- 
 ued exactly ; and, by consulting with experi- 
 enced persons, you may calculate nearly the 
 amount of others : any material article of con- 
 sumption, in a family of any given number and 
 circumstances, may be estimated pretty nearly. 
 Your own expenses of clothes and pocket-mo- 
 ney should be settled and circumscribed, that 
 you may be sure not to exceed the justpropor- 
 
BTRS. CHAPONE. 99 
 
 lion. I think it an admirable method to appro 
 nriate such a portion of your income, as you 
 Judge proper to bestow in charity, to be sacred- 
 ly kept for that purpose, and no longer consi- 
 dered as your own. By which means, you 
 will avoid the temptation of giving less than 
 you ought, through selfishness, or more than 
 
 }'ou ought, through good-nature or weakiH ss. 
 f your circumstances allow of it, you might 
 set apart another fund for acts of liberality or 
 friendship, which do not come under the head 
 of charity. The having such funds ready at 
 hand makes it easy and pleasant to give ; and, 
 when acts of bounty are performed without ef- 
 fect, the}* are generally done more kindly and 
 effectually. If you are obliged in conscience to 
 lay up for a family, the same method of an ap- 
 propriated fund for saving will be of excellent 
 use, as it will prevent that continual and often in- 
 effectual anxiety, which a general desire of 
 saving, without having fixed the limits, is sure 
 to create. 
 
 Regularity of payments and accounts is es- 
 sential to Economy : your house-keeping should 
 be settled at least once a week, and all the bills 
 paid : all other tradesmen should be paid at 
 farthest onoe a year. Indeed I think it more 
 advantageous to pay oftener : but, if you make 
 them trust you longer, they must either charge 
 proportionably higher, or be losers by your 
 custom. Numbers of them fail, every year, 
 from the cruel cause of being obliged to give 
 their customers so much longer credit than the 
 dealers, from whom they take their goods, will 
 allow them. If people offortune considered this, 
 jliey would not defer their payments, from 
 
100 WORKS OF 
 
 mere negligence, as they often do, to the ruin 
 of whole families. 
 
 You must endeavour to acquire skill in pur- 
 chasing: in order to this, you should begin 
 now to attend to the prices of things, and take 
 every proper opportunity of learning the real 
 value of every thing, as well as the marks 
 whereby you are to distinguish the good from 
 the bad. 
 
 In your table, as in your dress, and in all other 
 things, 1 wish you to aim atpropridy and neatness, 
 or, if your state demands it, elegance, rather 
 than superfluous figure. To go beyond your 
 sphere, either in dress, or in the appearance of 
 your table, indicates a greater fault in your cha- 
 racter than to be too much within it. It is im- 
 possible to enter into the minutice of the table: 
 good sense and observation on the best models 
 must form your taste, and a due regard to what 
 you can afford must restrain it. 
 
 Ladies, who are fond of needlework, gene- 
 rally choose to consider that as a principal 
 part of good housewifery : and, though I can- 
 not look upon it as of equal importance with 
 the due regulation of a family, yet, in a mid- 
 dling rank, and with a moderate fortune, it is a 
 necessary part of a woman's duty, and a con- 
 siderable article in expense is saved by it. Ma- 
 ny young ladies make almost every thing they 
 wear ; by which means they can make a gen- 
 teel figure at a small expense. This, in your 
 station, is the most profitable and desirable kind 
 of work ; and, as much of it as you can do, con- 
 sistently with a due attention to your health, 
 to the improvement of your mind, and to the 
 discharge of other duties*, I should think highly 
 
MRS. CHAPOtfE. 101 
 
 commendable. But, as I do not wish you to 
 impose on the world by your appearance, I 
 should be contented to see you worse dressed, 
 rather than see your whole time employed in 
 preparations for it, or any of those hours given 
 to it, which are needful to make your body 
 strong and active by exercise, or your mind 
 rational by reading. Absolute idleness is inex- 
 cusable in a woman, because the needle is al- 
 ways at hand for those intervals, in which she 
 cannot be otherwise employed. If you are in- 
 dustrious, and if you keep good hours, you will 
 find time for all your proper -employments. 
 Early rising and a good disposition of time, is 
 essential to economy. The necessary orders, 
 and examination into household affairs, should, 
 be despatched, as soon in the day, and as pri- 
 vately as possible, that they may not interrupt 
 your husband or guests, or break in upon 
 conversation, or reading, in the remainder of 
 the day. If you defer any thing that is neces- 
 sary, you may be tempted by company, or by 
 unforeseen avocations, to forget, or to neglect it : 
 hurry and irregularity will ensue, with expen- 
 sive expedients to supply the defect. 
 
 There is in many people, and particularly in 
 youth, a strange aversion to regularity, a desire 
 to delay what ought to be done immediately, 
 in order to do something else, which might 
 as well be done afterwards. Be assured, it is 
 of more consequence to you than you can con- 
 ceive, to get the better of this idle procrastina- 
 ting spirit, and to acquire habits of constancy 
 and steadiness, even in the most trifling mat- 
 ters ; without them there can be no regularity, 
 or consistency of action or character ; no de- 
 k k 2 
 
10$ *v6Rksof 
 
 oendence on your best intentions, which a 
 sudden humour may tempt you to lay aside 
 for a time, and which a thousand unforeseen 
 accidents will afterwards render it more and 
 more difficult to execute : no one can say what 
 important consequences may follow a trivial 
 neglect of this kind. For example, I have 
 known one of these procraslinators disoblige, 
 and gradually lose very valuable friends, by 
 delaying to write to them so long, that, having 
 no good excuse to offer, she could not get 
 courage enough to write at all, and dropped 
 their correspondence entirely. 
 
 The neatness and order of your house and 
 furniture is a part of Economy which will 
 greatly affect your appearance and character, 
 and to which you must yourself give attention 
 since it is not possible even for the rich and great 
 to rely wholly on the care of servants, in such 
 points, without their being often neglected. 
 The more magnificently a house is furnished, 
 the more one is disgusted with that air of con- 
 fusion, which often prevails where attention is 
 wanting in the owner. But, on the other hand, 
 there is a kind of neatness, which gives a lady 
 the air of a housemaid, and makes her exces- 
 sively troublesome to every body, and partic- 
 ularly to her husband : in this, as in all other 
 branches of Economy, I wish you to avoid all 
 parade and bustle. Those ladies who pique 
 themselves on the particular excellence of neat- 
 ness, are very apt to forget that the decent 
 order of the house should be designed to pro- 
 mote the convenience and pleasure of those 
 who are to be in it ; and that, if it is converted 
 into a cause of trouble and constraint, their 
 
I 
 
 MRS. CHAPONE. 103 
 
 husbands and guests would be happier without 
 it. The love of fame, that universal passion, 
 will sometimes show itself on strangely insig- 
 nificant subjects ; and a person, who acts for 
 praise only, will always go beyond the mark in 
 every thing. The best sign of a house being 
 well governed is that nobody's attention is 
 called to any of the little affairs of it, hut all 
 goes on so well of course that one is not led to 
 make remarks upon any thing, nor to observe 
 any extraordinary effort that produces the 
 general result of ease and elegance, which pre- 
 vails throughout. 
 
 Domestic Economy, and the credit and hap- 
 piness of a family, depend so much on the 
 choice and proper regulation of servants, that 
 it must be considered as an essential part both 
 of prudence and duty. Those, who keep a 
 great number of them, have a heavy charge on 
 their consciences, and ought to think themselves 
 in some measure responsible for the morals 
 and happiness of so many of their fellow crea- 
 tures, designed like themselves for immortality. 
 Indeed the cares of domestic management are 
 by no means lighter to persons of high rank 
 and fortune, if they perform their duty, than to 
 those of a retired station. It is with a family, 
 as with a commonwealth, the more numerous 
 and luxurious it becomes, the more difficult it 
 is to govern it properly. Though the great are 
 placed above the little attentions and employ- 
 ments, to which a private gentlewoman must 
 dedicate much of her time, they have a larger 
 and more important sphere of action, in which, 
 if they are indolent and neglectful, the whole 
 government of their house and fortune must fafl 
 
104: WORKS OF 
 
 into irregularity. Whatever number of depu- 
 ties they may employ to overlook their affairs, 
 they must themselves overlook those deputies, 
 and be ultimately answerable for the conduct of 
 the whole. The characters of those servants 
 who are entrusted with power over the rest, 
 cannot be too nicely inquired into ; and the 
 mistress of the family must be ever watehful 
 over their conduct : at the same time that she 
 must carefully avoid every appearance of suspi- 
 cion, which whilst it wounds and injures a 
 worthy servant, only excites the artifice and 
 cunning of an unjust one. 
 
 None, who pretend to be friends of religion 
 and virtue, should ever keep a domestic, how- 
 ever expert in business, whom they know to be 
 guilty of immorality. How unbecoming a 
 serious character is it, to say of such an one, 
 " he is a bad man, but a good servant !" What 
 a preference does it show of private convenience 
 to the interests of society, which demand that 
 vice should be constantly discountenanced, 
 especially in every one's own household ; and 
 that the sober, honest, and industrious, should 
 be sure of finding encouragement and reward, 
 in the houses of those who maintain respectable 
 characters. Such persons should be invariabl y 
 strict and peremptory with regard to the be- 
 haviour of their servants, in every thing which 
 concerns the general plan of domestic gov- 
 ernment ; but should by no means bo severe 
 on small faults, since nothing so much weakens 
 authority as frequent chiding. Whilst they 
 require precise obedience to their rules, they 
 must prove, by their general conduct, that these 
 rules are the effect not of humour, but of reason. 
 
V 
 
 MRS. fcHAPONE. 105 
 
 It is wonderful that those, who are careful to 
 conceal their ill-temper from strangers, should be 
 indifferent how peevish and even contemptibly 
 capricious they appear before their servants, 
 on whom their good name so much depends, 
 and from whom they can hope for no real res- 
 pet, when their weakness is so apparent. — 
 Vhen once a servant can say, " I cannot do 
 any thing to please my mistress to-day," all 
 authority is lost. 
 
 Those who continually change their servants, 
 and complain of perpetual ill-usage, have good 
 reason to believe that the fault is in themselves, 
 and that they do not know how to govern. — 
 Few indeed possess the skill to unite authority 
 with kindness, or are capable of that steady and 
 uniformly reasonable conduct, which alone can 
 maintain true dignity and command a willing 
 and attentive obedience. Let us not forget 
 that human nature is the same in all stations. 
 If you can convince your servants, that you 
 have a generous and considerate regard to their 
 health, their interest, and their reasonable gra- 
 tifications ; that you impose no commands but 
 what are fit and right, nor ever reprove but with 
 justice and temper ; why should you imagine 
 that they will be insensible to the good they re- 
 ceive, or whence suppose them incapable of 
 esteeming and prizing such a mistress ? I could 
 never, without indignation, hear it said that 
 " servants have no gratitude ;" as if the condi- 
 tion of servitude excluded the virtues of human- 
 ity. The truth is, masters and mistresses have 
 seldom any real claim to gratitude. They thinly 
 
106 WORKS OF 
 
 highly of what they bestow, and little of the 
 service they receive : they consider only their 
 own convenience, and seldom reflect on the 
 kind of life their servants pass with them : they 
 do not ask themselves, whether it is such an 
 one as is consistent with the preservation of 
 their health, their morals, their leisure for reli- 
 gious duties, or with a proper share of the en- 
 joyments and comforts of life. Th^ dissipated 
 manners, which now so generally prevail, per- 
 petual absence from home, and attendance on 
 assenlblies or at public places, is, in all these 
 respects, pernicious to the whole household, 
 and to the men servants absolutely ruinous. 
 Theip only resource, in the tedious hoi'rs of 
 waiting, whilst their masters and ladies are en- 
 gaged in diversions, is to find out something of 
 the same kind for themselves. Thus are they 
 led into gaming, drinking, extravagance, and 
 bad company ; and thus, by a natural progres- 
 sion, they become distrest and dishonest. That 
 attachment and affiance, which ought to sub- 
 sist between the dependant and his protector, 
 are destroyed. The master looks on his at- 
 tendants as thieves and traitors, wiiilst they con- 
 sider him as one, whose money only gives 
 him power over them, and, who uses that 
 power, without the least regard to their wel- 
 fare. 
 
 * " The fool saith, I have no friends ; I have 
 no thanks for all my good deeds, and they that 
 eat my bread speak evil of me." Thus fool- 
 ishly do those complain, who choose their ser 
 
 ' Ectjlos. xx. 16. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 107 
 
 vants, as well as their friends, without discre- 
 tion, or who treat them in a manner that no 
 worthy person will bear. 
 
 I have been often shocked at the want of 
 politeness, by which masters and mistresses 
 sometimes provoke impertinence from their 
 servants: a gentleman, who would resent to 
 death an imputation of falsehood from his equal, 
 will not scruple, without proof, to accuse his 
 servant of it, in the grossest terms. I have 
 heard the most insolent contempt of the whole 
 class expressed at a table, whilst five or six of 
 them attended behind the chairs, who, the 
 company seemed to think, were without sen- 
 ses, without understanding, or the natural feel- 
 ings of resentment : these are cruel injuries, 
 and will be retorted in some way or other. 
 • If you, my dear, live to be at the head of a 
 family, I hope you will not only avoid all inju- 
 rious treatment of your domestics, but behave 
 to them with that courtesy and good-breeding, 
 which will heighten their respect as well as their 
 affection. If, on any occasion, they do more 
 than you have a right to require, give them at 
 least the reward of seeing that they have oblig- 
 ed you. If, in your service, they have any 
 hardship to endure, let them see that you are 
 concerned for the necessity of imposing it. — 
 When they are sick, give them all the atten- 
 tion and every comfort in your power, with a 
 free heart and kind countenance ; * " not blem- 
 ishing thy good deeds, nor using uncomfort- 
 able words, when thou givest any thing. Is not 
 
 * Ecclus. xviii. 
 
108 works or 
 
 a word better than a gift? but both are with 
 a gracious man ! A fool will upbraid churlish- 
 ly, and a gift of the envious consumeth the 
 eyes." 
 
 Whilst you thus endear yourself to all your 
 servants, you must ever carefully avoid making 
 a favourite of any ; unjust distinctions, and 
 weak indulgences to one, will of course excite 
 envy and hatred in the rest. Your favourite 
 may establish whatever abuses she pleases ; 
 none will dare to complain against her, and you 
 will be kept ignorant of her ill practices, but, 
 will feel the effects of them, by finding all your 
 other servants uneasy in their places, and, per- 
 haps, by being obliged continually to change 
 them. 
 
 When they have spent a reasonable time in 
 your service, and have behaved commendably, 
 you ought to prefer them, if it is in your power, 
 or to recommend them to a better provision. 
 The hope of this keeps alive attention and gra- 
 titude and is the proper support of industry. 
 Like a parent, you should keep in view their 
 establishment in some way, that may preserve 
 their old age from indigence; and to this end, 
 you should endeavour to inspire them with care 
 to lay up part of their gains, and constantly 
 discourage in them all vanity in dress and ex- 
 travagance in idle expenses. That you are 
 bound to promote their eternal as well as tem- 
 poral welfare, you cannot doubt, since, next to 
 your children, they are your nearest depend- 
 ants. 
 
 You ourht therefore to instruct them as far 
 as you are able, furnish them with good books 
 
MRS. CHAPOKE. 109 
 
 suited to their capacity, and see that they at- 
 tend the public worship of God : and you must 
 take care so to pass the sabbath-day as to allow 
 them time, on that day at least, for reading and 
 reflection at home, as well as for attendance at 
 church. Though this is a part of your reli- 
 gious duty, I mention it here, because it is also 
 a part of family management: for the same 
 reason, I shall here take occasion earnestly to 
 recommend family prayers, which are useful 
 to all, but more particularly to servants ; who, 
 being constantly employed, are led to the neg- 
 lect of private prayer; and whose ignorance 
 makes it very difficult for them to frame devo- 
 tions for themselves, or to choose proper helps, 
 amidst the numerous books of superstitious or 
 enthusiastic nonsense, which areprinted for that 
 purpose. Even in a political light, this practice 
 is eligible, since the idea, which it will give them 
 of your regularity and decency, if not counter- 
 acted by other parts of your conduct, will pro- 
 bably increase their respect for you, and will 
 be some restraint, at least on their outward 
 behaviour, though it should foil of that inward 
 influence, which in general may be hoped from 
 it. 
 
 The prudent distribution of your charitable 
 gifts may not improperly be considered as a 
 branch of economy, since the great duty of 
 alms-giving cannot be truly fulfilled without a 
 diligent attention so to manage the sums you 
 can spare as to produce the most real good to 
 your fellow creatures. Many are willing to give 
 money, who will not bestow their time and 
 consideration, and who therefore often hurt 
 
110 WORKS OF 
 
 the community, when they mean to do good 
 tm individuals. The larger are your funds, the 
 stronger is the call upon you to exert your in- 
 dustry and care in disposing of them properly. 
 It seems impossible to give rules for this, as 
 every case is attended with a variety of circum- 
 stances which must all he considered. In gen- 
 eral, charity is most useful, when it is appropri- 
 ated to animate the industry of the young, to 
 procure some ease and comforts to old age, and 
 to support in sickness those whose daily labour 
 is their only maintenance in health. They, 
 who are fallen into indigence, from circumstan- 
 ces of ease and plenty, and in whom education 
 and habit have added a thousand wants to those 
 of nature, must be considered with the tender- 
 est sympathy, by every feeling heart. It is 
 needless to say that to such the bare support of 
 existence is scarcely a benefit; and that the 
 delicacy and liberality of the manner, in which 
 relief is here offered, can alone make it a real 
 act of kindness. In great families, the waste 
 of provisions, sufficient for the support of many 
 poor ones, is a shocking abuse of the gifts o£ 
 providence : nor should any lady think it be* 
 neaih her to study the best means of prevent- 
 ing it, and of employing the refuse of luxury in 
 the relief of the poor. Even the smallest fa- 
 milies may give some assistance in this way, if 
 care is taken that nothing be wasted. 
 
 I am sensible, my dear child, that very little 
 more can be gathered from what I have said 
 on economy, than the general importance of 
 it, which cannot be too much impressed on 
 your mind, since the natural turn of young 
 
SHIS. CHAPONE. Ill 
 
 people is to neglect and even despise it ; not 
 distinguishing it from parsimony and narrow- 
 ness of spirit. But, be assured, my dear, there 
 can be no true generosity without it ; and that 
 the most enlarged and liberal mind will find 
 itself not debased but ennobled by it. Noth- 
 ing is more common than to see the same per- 
 son, whose want of economy is ruining his 
 family, consumed with regret and vexation at 
 the effect of his profusion ; and, by endeavour- 
 ing to save, in such trifles as will not amount 
 to twenty pounds in a year, that which he 
 wastes by hundreds, incur the character and 
 suffer the anxieties of a miser, together with 
 the misfortunes of a prodigal. A rational plan 
 of expense will save you from all these cor- 
 roding cares, and will give you the full and 
 liberal enjoyment of what you spend. An air 
 of ease, of hospitality and frankness will reign 
 in your house, which will make it pleasant to 
 your friends and to yourself. " Better is a 
 morsel of bread" where this is found, than the 
 most elaborate entertainment, with that air of 
 constraint and anxiety, which often betrays 
 the grudging heart through all the disguises of 
 civility. 
 
 That you, my dear, may unite in yourself 
 the admirable virtues of generosity and econ- 
 omy, which will be the grace and crown of all 
 your attainments, is the earnest wish of 
 
 Your ever affectionate. 
 
112 WORKS OF 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 ON POLITENESS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 
 
 Whilst you labour to enrich your mind 
 with the essential virtues of Christianity, with 
 piety, benevolence, meekness, humility, integ- 
 rity, and purity ; and to make yourself useful 
 in domestic management, I would not have 
 my dear child neglect to pursue those graces 
 and acquirements, which may set her virtue 
 in the most advantageous light, adorn her man- 
 ners, and enlarge her understanding : and this, 
 not in the spirit of vanity, but in the innocent 
 and laudable view of rendering herself more 
 useful and pleasing to her fellow creatures, and 
 consequently more acceptable to God. Po- 
 liteness of behaviour, and the attainment of 
 such branches of know-ledge and such arts and 
 accomplishments as are proper to your sex, 
 capacity, and station, will prove so valuable to 
 yourself through life, and will make you so 
 oesirable a companion, that the neglect of them 
 may, resonably be deemed a neglect of duty ; 
 since it is undoubtedly our duty to cultivate 
 the pow r ers entrusted to us, and to render our- 
 selves as perfect as w r e can. 
 
 You must have often observed that nothing 
 is so strong a recommendation on a slight ac- 
 quaintance as politeness ; nor does it lose its 
 value by time or intimacy, when preserved, as 
 it ought to be, in the nearest connexions and 
 strictest friendships. This delightful qualifica- 
 tion, so universally admired and respected, but 
 so rarely possessed in any eminent degree, can- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 113 
 
 uot but be a considerable object of my wishes 
 for you : nor should either of us be discoura- 
 ged by the apprehension that neither I am ca- 
 pable of teaching, nor you of learning \t/mper- 
 fection, since whatever degree you attain will 
 amply reward our pains. 
 
 To be perfectly polite, one must have great 
 presence of mind, with a delicate and quick 
 sense of propriety ; or, in other words, one 
 should be able, to form an instantaneous judg- 
 ment of what is fittest to be said or done, on 
 every occasion as it offers. I have known one 
 or two persons, who seemed to owe this advan- 
 tage to nature only, and to have the pecu- 
 liar happiness of being burn, as it were, with 
 another sense, by which they had an immedi- 
 ate perception of what was proper and impro- 
 per in cases absolutely new to them : but this 
 is the lot of very few : in general, propriety of 
 behaviour must be the fruit of instruction, of 
 observation, and reasoning ; and is to be culti- 
 vated and improved like any other branch of 
 knowledge or virtue. A good temper is a ne- 
 cessary ground-work of it ; and, if to this 
 is added a good understanding, applied indus- 
 triously to this purpose, I think it can hardly 
 foil of attaining all that is essential in it. Par- 
 ticular modes and ceremonies of behaviour 
 vary in different countries, and even in different 
 
 Jmrts of the same town. These can only be 
 earned by observation on the manners of those 
 who are best skilled in them, and by keeping 
 what is called good company. But the princi- 
 ples of politeness are the same in all places. 
 Wherever there are human beings, it must he 
 jjmpolite to hurt the temper or to shock the 
 l 1 2 
 
114 - works or 
 
 passions of those you converse with. It must 
 every where be good breeding, to set your 
 companions in the most advantageous point 
 of light, by giving each the opportunity of dis- 
 playing their most agreeable talents, and by 
 carefully avoiding all occasions of exposing 
 their defects ; to exert }^our own endeavours to 
 please, and to amuse, but not to outshine them ; 
 to give each their due share of attention and 
 notice, not engrossing the talk when others are 
 desirous to speak, nor, suffering the conversa- 
 tiorr to flag, for want of introducing something 
 to continue or renew a subject ; not to push 
 your advantages in argument so far that your 
 antagonist cannot retreat with honour : in short, 
 it is an universal duty in society to consider 
 others more than yourself; " in honour pre- 
 ferring one another." Christianity, in this 
 rule, gives the best lesson of politeness ; yet 
 judgment must be used in the application of it : 
 our humility must not be strained so far as to 
 distress those we mean to honour ; we must 
 not quit our proper rank, nor force others to 
 treat us improperly; or to accept, what we 
 mean as an advantage against their wills. We 
 should be perfectly easy, and make others so if 
 we can. But this happy ease belongs perhaps 
 to the last stage of perfection in politeness, 
 and can hardly be attained till we are conscious 
 that we know the rules of behaviour, and are 
 not likely to offeud against propriety. In a 
 very young person, who has seen little or no- 
 thing of the world, this cannot be expected ; 
 but a real desire of obliging, and a respectful 
 attention, will in a great measure supply the 
 want of knowledge, and will make every one. 
 
MRS. CIIAPONE. 115 
 
 ready to overlook those deficiencies, which are 
 owing only to the want of opportunities to ob- 
 serve the manners of polite company. You 
 ought not therefore to be too mucn depressed 
 by the consciousness of such deficiencies, but 
 endeavour to get above the shame of want- 
 ing what 3 ou have not had the means of ac- 
 quiring. Nothing heightens this false shame, 
 tmd the awkwardness it occasions, so much as 
 vanity. The humble mind, contented to be 
 known for what it is, and unembarrassed by 
 the dread of betraying its ignorance, is present 
 to itself, and can command the use of under- 
 standing, which will generally preserve you 
 from any great indecorum, and will secure you 
 from that ridicule, which is the punishment 
 of affectation rather than of ignorance. Peo- 
 ple of sense will never despise you, whilst you 
 act naturally ; but, the moment you attempt 
 to step out of your own character, you make 
 yourself an object of just ridicule. 
 
 Many are of opinion that a very young wo- 
 man can hardly be too silent and reserved in 
 company ; and certainly, nothing is so disgust- 
 ing in youth as pertness and self-conceit. But, 
 modesty should be distinguished from an awk- 
 ward bashfulness, and silence should only be 
 enjoined, when it would be forward and imper- 
 tinent to talk. There are many proper oppor- 
 tunities for a girl, young even as you are, to 
 speak in company, with advantage to herself; 
 and if she does it without conceit or affectation, 
 she will always be more pleasing than those, 
 who sit like statues without sense or motion. 
 "When you are silent, your looks should show 
 
116 WORKS OF 
 
 your attention and presence to the company : 
 a respectful and earnest attention is the most 
 delicate kind of praise, and never fails to grati- 
 fy and please. You must appear to be inter- 
 ested in what is said, and endeavour to improve 
 yourself by it : if you understand the subject 
 well enough to ask now and then a pertinent 
 question, or if you can mention any circum- 
 stances relating to it that have not before been 
 taken notice of, this will be an agreeable way 
 of showing your willingness to make a part of 
 the company, and will probably draw a particu- 
 lar application to you, from some one or other. 
 Then, when called upon, you must not draw 
 back as unwilling to answer, nor confine your- 
 self merely to yes or no, as is the custom of 
 many young persons, who become intolerable 
 burdens to the mistress of the house, whilst 
 she strives in vain to draw them into notice 
 and to give them some share in the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 In your father's house it is certainly proper 
 for you to pay civility to the guests, and to talk 
 to them in your turn, with modesty and res- 
 pect, if they encourage you to it. Young ladies 
 of near your own age, who visit there, fall of 
 course to your share to entertain. But, whilst 
 you exert yourself to make their visit agreeable 
 to them, you must not forget what is due to the 
 elder part of the company, nor, by whispering 
 and laughing apart, give them cause to suspect, 
 what is too often true, that they themselves 
 are the subjects of your mirth. It is so shock- 
 ing an outrage against society, to talk of, or 
 laugh at, any person in his own presence, that 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 117 
 
 one would think it could only be committed by 
 the vulgar. I am sorry however to say, that I 
 have too often observed it amongst young la- 
 dies, who little deserved that title whilst they 
 indulged their overflowing spirits, in defiance 
 of decency and good nature. The desire of 
 laughing will make such inconsiderate young 
 persons find a subject of ridicule, even in the 
 most respectable characters. Old age, which, 
 if not disgraced by vice or affectation, has the 
 justest title to reverence, will be mimicked and 
 Insulted ; and even personal defects and infirm- 
 ities will too often excite contempt and abuse, 
 instead of compassion. If you have ever been 
 led into such an action, my dear girl, call it se- 
 riously to mind, Avhcn you are confessing your 
 faults to Almighty God: and, be fully persuad- 
 ed, that it is not one of the least which you have 
 to repent of. You w ill be immediately con- 
 vinced of this, by comparing it with the great 
 rule of justice, that of doing to all as you would 
 they should do unto you. No person living is 
 insensible to the injury of contempt, nor is there 
 any talent so invidious, or so certain to create 
 ill will, as that of ridicule. The natural effects 
 of years, which all hope to attain, and the in- 
 firmities of the body, which none can prevent, 
 are surely of all others the most improper ob- 
 jects of mirth. There are subjects enough that 
 are innocent, and on which you may freely in- 
 dulge the vivacity of your spirits ; for I would 
 not condemn you to perpetual seriousness ; on 
 the contrary, I delight in a joyous temper, at 
 all ages, and particularly at yours. Delicate 
 and good natured raillery amongst equal friends, 
 if pointed only against such trifling errors as 
 
118 WORKS OF 
 
 the owner can heartily join to laugh at, or such 
 qualities as they do not pique themselves upon, 
 is both agreeable and useful ; but then it must 
 be offered in perfect kindness and sincere good- 
 humour; if tinctured with the least degree of 
 malice, its sting becomes venomous and de- 
 testable. The person rallied should have liber- 
 ty and ability to return the jest, which must be 
 dropped upon the first appearance of its affect- 
 ing the temper. 
 
 You will wonder, perhaps, when I tell you 
 that there are some characters in the world, 
 which I would freely allow you to laugh at, 
 though not in their presence. Extravagant 
 vanity, and affectation, are the natural subjects 
 of ridicule, which is their proper punishment. 
 When you see old people, instead of maintain- 
 ing the dignity of their years, struggling against 
 nature to conceal them, affecting the graces 
 and imitating the follies of youth ; or a young 
 person assuming 1 he importance and solemnity 
 of old age, I do not wish you to be insensible 
 to the ridicule of such absurd deviations from 
 truth and nature. You are welcome to laugh, 
 when you leave the company, provided you 
 lay up a lesson for yourself at the same time, 
 and remember, that unless you improve your 
 mind whilst you are young, you also will be 
 an insignificant fool in old age ; and that, if you 
 are presuming and arrogant in youth, you are 
 as ridiculous as an old woman with a head-dress 
 of flowers. 
 
 In a young lady's behaviour towards gentle- 
 men, great delicacy is certainly required; yet, 
 I believe, women oftener err from too great a 
 consciousness of the supposed views of men 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. IIS 
 
 than from inattention to those views, or want 
 of caution against them. You are at present 
 rather too young to want rules on this subject; 
 but I could wish that you should behave al- 
 most in the same manner three years hence as 
 now; and retain the simplicity and innocence 
 of childhood with the sense and dignity of riper 
 years. Men of loose morals or impertinent 
 behaviour must always be avoided: or, if at 
 any time you are obliged to be in their compa- 
 ny, you must keep them at a distance by cold 
 civility. But, with regard to those gentlemen, 
 whom your parents think it proper for you to 
 converse with, and who give no offence by their 
 own manners, to them I wish you to behave 
 with the same frankness and simplicity as if 
 they were of your own sex. If you have na- 
 tural modesty, you will never transgress its 
 bounds, whilst you converse with a man, as 
 one rational creature with another, without any 
 view to the possibility of a lover or admirer, 
 where nothing of that kind is profest ; where 
 it is, I hope, you will ever be equallj T a stranger 
 to coquetry and prudery ; and that you will be 
 able to distinguish the effects of real esteem 
 and love from idle gallantry and unmeaning 
 fine speeches: the slighter notice you take of 
 these last, the better; and that, rather with 
 good humoured contempt than with affected 
 gravity : but the first must be treated with se- 
 riousness and well bred sincerity : not giving 
 the least encouragement which you do not 
 mean, nor assuming airs of contempt, whore it 
 is not deserved. But this belongs to a subject, 
 which I have touched upon in a former letter. 
 I have already told you that you will be unsafe 
 
120 WORKS OF 
 
 in every step which leads to a serious attach- 
 ment, unless you consult your parents, from the 
 first moment you apprehend any thing of that 
 sort to be intended ; let them be your first 
 confidants, and let every part of your conduct, 
 in such a case, be particularly directed by 
 them. 
 
 With regard to accomplishments, the chief 
 of these is a competent share of reading, well 
 chosen and properly regulated ; and of this I 
 shall speak more largely hereafter. Dancing 
 and the knowledge of the French tongue are 
 now so universal that they cannot be dispensed, 
 with in the education of a gentlewoman ; and 
 indeed they both are useful as well as ornamen- 
 tal ; the first, by forming and strengthening the 
 body, and improving the carriage : the second, 
 by opening a large field of entertainment and 
 improvement for the mind. I believe there 
 are more agreeable books of female literature 
 in French than in any other language ; and, as 
 they are not less commonly talked of than En- 
 glish books, you must often feel mortified in 
 company, if you are too ignorant to read them. 
 Italian would be easily learnt after French, and, 
 if you have leisure and opportunity, may be 
 worth your gaining, though in your station of 
 life it is by no means necessary. 
 
 To write a free and legible hand, and to un- 
 derstand common arithmetic, are indispensa- 
 ble requisites. 
 
 As to music and drawing, I would only wish 
 you to folloAv as Genius leads : you have some 
 turn for the first, and I should be sorry to see 
 you neglect a talent, which will at least afford 
 you an innocent amusement, though it should 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 421 
 
 not enable you to give much pleasure to your 
 friends : I tnink the use of both these arts is 
 more for yourself than for others : it is but 
 seldom that a private person has leisure or ap- 
 plication enough to gain any high degree of 
 excellence in them ; and your own partial fam- 
 ily are perhaps the only persons who would 
 not much rather be entertained by the perfor- 
 mance of a professor than by yours : but, with 
 regard to yourself, it is of great consequence to 
 have the power of filling up agreeably those in- 
 tervals of time, which too often hang heavily 
 on the hands of a woman, if her lot be cast in 
 a retired situation. Besides this, it is certain 
 that even a small share of knowledge in these 
 arts will heighten your pleasure in the perfor- 
 mances of others : the taste must be improved 
 before it can be susceptible of an exquisite rel- 
 ish for any of the imitative arts: An unskilful 
 ear is seldom capable of comprehending Har- 
 mony, or of distinguishing the most delicate 
 charms of Melody. The pleasure of seeing 
 fine paintings, or even of contemplating the 
 beauties of Nature, must be greatly heightened 
 by our being conversant with the rules of draw- 
 ing, and by the habit of considering the most 
 picturesque objects. As I look upon taste to be 
 an inestimable fund of innocent delight, I wish 
 you to lose no opportunity of improving it, and 
 of cultivating in yourself the relish of such 
 pleasures, as will not interfere with a rational 
 scheme of life, nor lead you into dissipation, 
 with all its attendant evils of vanity and luxu- 
 ry- 
 
 As to the learned languages, though I respect 
 the abilities and application of those ladies, who 
 m m 
 
122 WORKS OF 
 
 have attained them, and who make a modest 
 and proper use of them, yet I would by no 
 means advise you, or any woman who is not 
 strongly impelled by a particular genius, to 
 engage in such studies. The labour and time 
 which they require are incompatible with our 
 natures and proper employments : the real 
 knowledge which they supply is not essential 
 since the English, French, or Italian tongues 
 aftbrd tolerable translations of all the most valu- 
 able productions of antiquity, besides the multi- 
 tude of original authors which they furnish ; 
 and these are much more than sufficient to 
 store your mind with as many ideas as you will 
 know how to manage. The danger of pedant- 
 ry and presumption in a woman, of her excit- 
 ing envy in one sex and jealousy in the other, 
 of her exchanging the graces of imagination 
 fbr the severity and preciseness of a scholar, 
 •would be, 1 own, sufficient to frighten me from 
 the ambition of seeing my girl remarkable, 
 for learning. Such objections are perhaps 
 still stronger with regard to the abstruse scien- 
 ces. 
 
 Whatever tends to embellish your fancy, to 
 enlighten your understanding, and furnish you 
 with ideas to reflect upon when alone, or to con- 
 verse upon in company, is certainly well worth 
 your acquisition. The wretched expedient, to 
 which ignorance so often drives our sex, of 
 calling in slander to enliven the tedious insipidi- 
 ty of conversation, would alone be a strong 
 reason for enriching your mind with innocent 
 subjects of entertainment, which may render 
 you a fit companion for persons of sense and 
 knowledge, from whom you may reap the 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 123 
 
 most desirable improvements: for, though I 
 think reading indispensably necessary to the 
 due cultivation of your mind, I prefer the con- 
 versation of such persons to every other meth- 
 od of instruction : but, this you cannot hope to 
 enjoy, unless you qualify yourself to bear a 
 part in such society, by, at least, a moderate 
 share of reading. 
 
 Though religion is the most important of all 
 your pursuits, there are not many books on that 
 subject, which I should recommend to you at 
 present. Controversy is wholly improper at 
 your age, and it is also too soon for you to in- 
 quire into the evidence of the truth of revela- 
 tion, or to study the difficult parts of scripture: 
 when these shall come before you, there aiv 
 many excellent books, from which you may 
 receive great assistance. At present, practical 
 divinity, clear of superstition and Enthusiasm, 
 but addressed to the heart, and written with a 
 warmth and spirit capable of exciting in it pure 
 and rational piety, is what I wish you to meet 
 with. 
 
 The principal study, I would recommend, is 
 history. I know of nothing equally proper to 
 entertain and improve at the same time, or that 
 is so likely to form and strengthen your judg- 
 ment, and, by giving you a liberal and compre- 
 hensive view of human nature, in some mea- 
 sure to supply the defect of that experience, 
 which is usually attained too late to be of much 
 service to us. Let me add, that more materi- 
 als for conversation are supplied by this kind 
 of knowledge, than by almost any other; bul 
 I have more to say to you on this subject in a 
 future letter. 
 
121 WORKS OP 
 
 The faculty, in which women usually most 
 excel, is that of imagination ; and, when pro- 
 perly cultivated, it becomes the source of all 
 that is most charming in society. Nothing you 
 can read will so much contribute to the im- 
 provement of this faculty as poetry; which, if 
 applied to its true ends, adds a thousand charms 
 to those sentiments of religion, virtue, generosi- 
 ty, and delicate tenderness, by which the hu- 
 man soul is exalted and refined. 1 hope, you 
 are not deficient in natural taste for this en- 
 chanting art, but that you will find it one of 
 your greatest pleasures to be conversant Avith 
 the best poets, whom our language can bring 
 you acquainted with, particularly those immor- 
 tal ornaments of our nation, Shakespear and 
 Milton. The first is not only incomparably 
 the noblest genius in dramatic poetry, but the 
 greatest master of nature, and the most perfect 
 characteriser of men and manners : in this last 
 point of view, I think him inestimable ; and I am 
 persuaded, that, in the course of your life, you 
 will seldom find occasion to correct those ob- 
 servations on human nature, and those princi- 
 ples of morality, which you may extract from 
 his capital pieces. You will at first find his 
 language difficult ; but, if you take the assist- 
 ance of a friend, who understands it well, you 
 will by decrees enter into his manner of phrase- 
 ology, and perceive a thousand beauties, which 
 at first lay buried in obsolete words and un- 
 couth constructions. The admirable Essay on 
 Shakespear which has lately appeared, so much 
 to the nonour of our sex, will open your mind 
 to the peculiar exellences of this author, and en- 
 lighten your judgment on dramatic poetry in 
 
MRS. cnAPONE. 12i> 
 
 general, Avith such force of reason and brillian- 
 cy of wit as cannot fail to delight as well as in- 
 struct you. 
 
 Our great English poet, Milton, is as far 
 above my praise as his Paradise Lost is above 
 any thing which I am able to read, except the 
 sacred writers. The sublimity of this subject 
 sometimes leads him into abstruseness ; but 
 many parts of his great poem are easy to all 
 comprehensions, and must find their way di- 
 rectly to every heart by the tenderness and de- 
 licacy of his sentiments, in which he is not less 
 strikingly excellent than in the richness and sub- 
 limity of his imagination. Addison's criticism 
 in the Spectators, written with that beauty, 
 elegance, and judgment, which distinguish all 
 his writings,, will assist you to understand and 
 to relish this poem. 
 
 It is needless to recommend to you the trans- 
 lations of Homer and Virgil, which every body 
 reads that reads at all. You must have heard 
 that Homer is esteemed the father of poetry, 
 the original from whence all the moderns, not 
 excepting Milton himself, borrow some of their 
 greatest beauties, and from whom they extract 
 those rules for composition, which are found 
 most agreeable to nature and true taste. Vir- 
 gil, you know, is the next in rank amongst the 
 classics : you will read his Eneid with extreme 
 pleasure, if ever you are able to read Italian, in 
 Annibal Caro's translation ; the idiom of the 
 Latin and Italian languages being more alike, 
 it is, I believe, much closer, yet preserves more 
 of the spirit of the original than the English 
 translations. 
 
 m m 2 
 
126 WORKS OP 
 
 For the rest, fame will point out to you the 
 most considerable of our poets; and I would 
 not exclude any of name, among those whose 
 morality is unexceptionable ; but of poets as of 
 all other authors, I wish you to read only such 
 as are properly recommended to you ; since 
 there are many who debase their divine art, 
 by abusing it to the purposes of vice and impi- 
 ety. If you could read poetry with a judicious 
 friend, who would lead your judgment. to a true 
 discernment of its beauties and defects, it 
 would inexpressibly heighten both your pleas- 
 ure and improvement. But, before you enter 
 upon this, some acquaintance with the Heathen 
 Milhology is necessary. I think that you must 
 before now have met with some book under 
 the title of The Pantheon: And, if once you 
 know as much of the gods and goddesses as 
 the most common books on the subject will tell 
 you, the rest may be learned by reading Ho- 
 mer : but then you must particularly attend to 
 him in this view. I do not expect you to pen- 
 etrate those numerous mysteries ; those ama- 
 zing depths of morality, religion, and meta- 
 physics ; which some pretend to have discov- 
 ered in his mithology ; but, to know the names 
 and principal offices of the gods and goddesses, 
 with some idea of their moral meaning, seems 
 requisite to the understanding almost any po- 
 etical composition. As an instance of the mor- 
 al meaning I speak of, I will mention an obser- 
 vation of Bossuet, that Homer's poetry was 
 particularly recommended to the Greeks by 
 the superiority which he ascribes to them over 
 the Asiatics ; this superiority is shown in the 
 Iliad, not only in the conquest of Asia by the 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 121 
 
 Greeks, and in the actual destruction of its cap- 
 ital, but in the division and arrangement of the 
 'gods, who took part with the contending na- 
 tions. On the side of Asia was Venus ; that 
 is, sensual passion, pleasure, and effeminacy. 
 On the side of Greece was Juno ; that is, ma- 
 tronly gravity and conjugal love ; together with 
 Mercury, invention and eloquence ; and Jupi- 
 ter, or political wisdom. On the side of Asia 
 was Mars, who represents brutal valour and 
 blind fury. On that of Greece was Pal- 
 las ; that is, military discipline, and bravery, 
 guarded by judgment. 
 
 This, and many other instances that might 
 be produced, will show you how much of the 
 beauty of the poet's art must be lost to you, 
 without some notion of these allegorical per- 
 sonages. Boys, in their school-learning, have 
 this kind of knowledge impressed on their 
 minds by a variety of books ; but women, who 
 do not go through the same course of instruc- 
 tion are very apt to forget what little they read 
 or hear on the subject : I advise you therefore 
 never to lose an opportunity of inquiring into 
 the meaning of any thing you meet with in 
 poetry, or in painting, alluding to the history 
 of any of the heathen deities, and of obtaining 
 from some friend an explanation of its connex- 
 ion with true history, or of its allegorical refer- 
 ence to morality or to physics. 
 
 Natural philosophy, in the largest sense of 
 the expression, is too wide a field for you to 
 undertake; but, the study of nature, as far as 
 may suit your powers and opportunities, you 
 will find a most sublime entertainment : the 
 objects of this study are all the stupendous 
 
1£8 WORKS'OF 
 
 works of the Almighty Hand tliat lie'withm me 
 reSfch of our observation. In the works of man 
 perfection is aimed at, but, it can only be found 
 in those of the Creator. The contemplation 
 of perfection must produce delight, ana every 
 natural object around you would offer this de- 
 light, if it could attract your attention: if you 
 survey the earth, every leaf that trembles in 
 the breeze, every blade of grass beneath your 
 feet is a wonder as absolutely beyond the reach 
 of human art to imitate as the construction of 
 the universe. Endless pleasures, to those who 
 have a taste for them, might be derived from 
 the endless variety to be found in the composi- 
 tion of this globe and its inhabitants. The fos- 
 sil, the vegetable, and the animal world, gradu- 
 ally rising in the scale of excellence ; the innu- 
 merable species of each, still preserving their 
 specific differences from age to age, yet of 
 which no two individuals are ever perfectly 
 alike, afford such a range for observation and 
 inquiry as might engross the whole term of our 
 short life if followed minutely. Besides all the 
 animal creation obvious to our unassisted sen- 
 ses, the eye, aided by philosophical inventions, 
 sees myriads of creatures, which by the igno- 
 rant are not known to have existence : it sees 
 all nature teem with life ; every fluid, each part 
 of every vegetable and animal, swarm with its 
 peculiar inhabitants ; invisible to the naked eye, 
 out as perfect in all their parts, and enjoying 
 life as indisputably as the elephant or the 
 whale. 
 
 But, if from the earth, and from these mi- 
 nute wonders, the philosophic eye is raised to- 
 wards the Heavens, what a stupendous scene 
 
MUS. CHAPONE. 12f) 
 
 there opens to its view ! those brilliant lights 
 that sparkle to the eye of ignorance as gems 
 adorning the sky, or as lamps to guide the 
 traveller by night, assume an importance that 
 amazes the understanding! they appear to 
 be worlds, formed like ours for a variety of 
 inhabitants; or suns, enlightening numberless 
 other worlds too distant for our discovery ! 1 
 shall ever remember the astonishment and rap- 
 ture with which my mind received this idea, 
 when I was about your age ; it was then per- 
 fectly new to me, and it is impossible to de- 
 scribe the sensation I felt from the glorious, 
 boundless prospect of infinite beneficence 
 bursting at once upon my imagination ! Who 
 can contemplate such a s~ene unmoved? If 
 your curiosity is excited to enter upon this no- 
 ble inquiry, a few books on the subject, and 
 those of the easiest sort, with some of the 
 common experiments, may be sufficient for 
 your purpose ; which is to enlarge your mind, 
 and to excite in it the most ardent gratitude 
 and profound adoration towards that great, 
 and good Being, who exerts his boundless 
 
 Eower in communicating various portions of 
 appiness through all the immense regions of 
 creation. 
 
 Moral philosophy, as it relates to human ac- 
 tions, is of still higher importance than the 
 study of nature. The works of the ancients 
 on this subject are universally said to be en- 
 tertaining as well as instructive, by those who 
 can read them in their original languages; and 
 such of them as are well translated will un- 
 doubtedly, some years hence, afford you great 
 pleasure and improvement. You will also find 
 
13q works OF 
 
 many agreeable and useful books, written orig-. 
 inally in French, and -in English, on morals 
 and manners : for the present, there are 
 works, which, without assuming the solemn air 
 of philosophy, will enlighten your mind on 
 these subjects, and introduce instruction in an 
 easier dress : of this sort are many of the mor- 
 al essays, that have appeared in periodical pa- 
 pers ; which, when excellent in their kind....as 
 are the Spectators, Guardians, Ramblers, and 
 Adventurers ; are particularly useful to young 
 people, as they comprehend a great variety of 
 subjects ; introduce many ideas and observa- 
 tions that are new to them ; and lead to a habit 
 of reflecting on the characters and events that 
 come before them in real life, which I consider 
 as the best exercise of the understanding. 
 
 Books on taste and criticism will hereafter 
 be more proper for you than at present : what- 
 ever can improve your discernment, andf: ren- 
 der your taste elegant and just, must be of 
 great consequence to your enjoyments as well 
 as to the embellishment of your understanding. 
 
 I would by no means exclude the kind of 
 reading, which young people are naturally 
 most fond of; though I think the greatest care 
 should be taken in the choice of those fictitious 
 stories, that so enchant the mind, most of 
 which tend to inflame the passions of youth, 
 whilst the chief purpose of education should 
 be to moderate and restrain them. Add to 
 this, that both the writing and sentiments of 
 most novels and romances are such as are only 
 proper to vitiate your style, and to mislead 
 your heart and understanding. The expecta*- 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 131 
 
 tion of extraordinary adventures, which seldom 
 ever happen to the sober and prudent part of 
 mankind, and the admiration of extravagant 
 passions and absurd conduct, are some of the 
 usual fruits of this kind of reading; which, 
 when a young woman makes it her chief 
 amusement, generally renders her ridiculous in 
 conversation, and miserably wrong-headed in 
 her pursuits and behaviour. There are how- 
 ever works of this class, in which excellent mo- 
 rality is joined with the most lively pictures of 
 the human mind, and with all that can enter- 
 tain the imagination and interest the heart. 
 But, I must repeatedly exhort you, never to 
 read any thing of the sentimental kind, without 
 taking the judgment of your best friends in the 
 choice ; for, I am persuaded, that the indis- 
 criminate reading of such kind of books cor- 
 rupts more female hearts than any other cause 
 whatsoever. 
 
 Before I close this correspondence, I shall 
 point out the course of history I wish you to 
 pursue, and give you my thoughts of geography 
 and chronology, some knowledge of both being, 
 in my opinion, necessary to the reading of his- 
 tory with any advantage. 
 
 I am. my dearest niece, 
 
 Yortr ever affectionate, 
 
IM WORKS OF 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 ON GEOGRAPHY AND CHRONOLOGY, 
 
 My Dear Niece, 
 
 I have told you that you will not be able to 
 read history, with much pleasure, or advantage, 
 without some little knowledge of Geography 
 and Chronology. They are both very easily at- 
 tained, I mean in the degree that will be neces- 
 sary for you. You must be sensible that you can 
 know but little of a country, whose situation 
 with respect to the rest of the world you are 
 entirely ignorant of, and that, it is to little pur- 
 pose that you are able to mention a fact, if you 
 cannot nearly ascertain the time in which it 
 happened, which alone in many cases, gives 
 importance to the fact itself. 
 
 In Geography, the easiest of all sciences, and 
 the best adapted to the capacity of children, I 
 suppose you to have made some beginning; to 
 know at least the figure of the earth ; the sup* 
 posed lines ; the degrees ; how to measure dis- 
 tances ; and a fev/ of the common terms: if 
 you do not already know these, two or three 
 lessons will be sufficient to attain them : the 
 rest is the work of memory, and is easily gain- 
 ed by reading with maps; fori do not wish 
 your knowledge to be exact and masterly, but 
 such only as is necessary for the purposeof un- 
 derstanding history- and. without which, even. 
 a newspaper woultl be unintelligible, it may 
 be sufficient for this end, if, with respect to an- 
 cient Geography, you have a general idea of 
 the situation of all the great states, without 
 
MRS. CHAPOIiE. J$3 
 
 being able precisely to ascertain their limits. 
 But, in the modern, you ought to know the 
 bounds and extent of every state in Europe^ 
 and its situation with respect to the rest. The 
 other parts of the world will require less accu- 
 rate knowledge, except with regard to the Eu- 
 ropean settlements. 
 
 It may be an useful and agreeable method, 
 when you learn the situation of any important 
 country, tojoin with that knoAvledge some one 
 or two leading facts or circumstances concern- 
 ing it, so that its particular property may al- 
 ways put you in mind of the situation, and the 
 situation, in like manner, recall the particular 
 property. When, for instance, jou learn in 
 what part of the globe to find Ethiopia, to be 
 told at the same time that, in that vast unknown 
 tract of country, the Christian religion wa"S 
 once the religion of the state, would be of ser- 
 vice, because the geographical and historical 
 knowledge would assist each other. Thus, to 
 join with Egypt, the nurse and parent of arts 
 and of superstition ; with Persia, shocking des* 
 potism and perpetual revolutions ; with ancient 
 Greece,/reerfom and genius ; with Scythia, har- 
 diness and conquest, are hints which you may 
 make use of as you please. Perhaps annexing 
 to ;iny country the idea of some familiar form 
 which it most resembles may at first assist you 
 to retain a general notion of it ; thus Italy has 
 been called a boot, and Europe compared to a 
 woman sifting. 
 
 The difference of the ancient and modem 
 names of places is somewhat perplexing ; the 
 most important should be known by both 
 > n 
 
134 Works of 
 
 names at the same time, and you must endear 
 vour to fix a few of those which are of most 
 consequence so strongly in your mind, by 
 thinking of them, and hems; often told of them, 
 that the ancient name shall always call up the 
 modern one to your memory, and the modern 
 the ancient : such as the Egean Sea, now The 
 Archipelago ; The Peloponnesus, now The 
 Morea ; Crete, Cajidia ; Gaul, France ; Baby- 
 lon, Bagdat ; Byzantium, to which the Romans 
 transplanted their seat of empire, Constan- 
 tinople, he. 
 
 There have been so many ingenious contri- 
 vances to make Geography easy and amusing, 
 that I cannot hope to add any thing of much 
 service ; I would only prevail with you not to 
 neglect acquiring, by whatever method pleases 
 you best, tnat share of knoAvledge in it, which 
 you will find necessary, and which is so easily 
 attained ; and 1 entreat that you would learn it 
 in such a manner as to fix it in your mind, so 
 that it may not be lost and forgotten among 
 other childish acquisitions, but that it may 
 remain ready for use through the rest of your 
 life. 
 
 Chronology indeed has more of difficulty ; 
 but, if you do not bewilder yourself by attempt- 
 ing to learn too much and too minutely at first, 
 you need not despair of gaining enough for th» 
 purpose of reading history with pleasure and 
 utility. 
 
 Chronology may be naturally divided into 
 three parts, the Ancient, the Middle and the. 
 Modern. With respect to all these the best 
 direction that can be given is to fix on some 
 
MAS. CHArONE. 133 
 
 periods or epochas, which, by being often men- 
 tioned and thought of, explained and referred 
 to, will at last be so deeply engraven on the. 
 memory, that they will be ready to present 
 themselves whenever you call for them : these 
 indeed should be few, and ought to be well 
 chosen for their importance, since they are to 
 serve as elevated stations to the mind, from 
 which it may look backwards and forwards 
 upon a great variety of facts. 
 / Till your more learned friends shall supply 
 you with better, I will take the liberty to re- 
 commend the following, which I have found of 
 service to myself. 
 
 In the ancient chronology, you will find there 
 were four thousand years from the creation to 
 the redemption of man ; and that Noah and 
 his family were miraculously preserved in 
 the ark 16i>0 years after Adam's creation. 
 
 As there is no histor) 7 , except that in the 
 Bible, of any thing before the flood, we may 
 set out from that great event, which happened 
 as I have said above, in the year of the world 
 1650. 
 
 The 2350 years, which passed from the de- 
 luge to our Saviour's birth, maybe thus divided. 
 There have been four successive Empires called 
 Universal, because they extended over a great 
 part of the then known world ; these are usually 
 distinguished by the name of The Four great 
 Monarchies : the three first of them are includ- 
 ed in ancient Chronology, and begun and ended 
 in the following manner: 
 
 1 st. The Assyrian Empire, founded by Nim- 
 rod in the year of the world 1800, ended under 
 jSardanapaJus in 32C>0, endured 1450 years, 
 
136 WORKS OF 
 
 The Median, though not accounted one of 
 the four great monarchies, being conquests of 
 rel>els on the Assyrian empire, comes in here 
 for about 200 years. 
 
 2d, The Persian Empire, which began 
 under Cyrus, in the year of the world 3450, 
 ended in Darius in 3670, before Christ 330, 
 lasted a little more than 200 years. 
 
 3d, The Grecian Empire, begun under 
 Alexander the Great in 3670, was soon after 
 his death dismembered by his successors, but 
 the different parcels into which they divided it 
 w r ere possessed by their respective families, till 
 the famous Cleopatra, the last of the race of 
 Ptolemy, one of Alexander's captains who 
 reigned in Egypt, was conquered by Julius 
 Caesar, about half a century before our Lord's 
 birth, which is a term of about 300 years. 
 
 Thus you see that from the deluge to the es- 
 tablishment of the first great monarchy, the 
 
 Assyrian, is 150 years. 
 
 The Assyrian empire continued.... 1450 
 
 The Median 200 
 
 The Persian 200 
 
 The Grecian 300 
 
 From Julius Caesar, with whom 
 began the fourth great monar- 
 chy, viz. the Roman, to Christ.. 50 
 
 In all 2350 year?. 
 The term from the deluge to Christ. 
 
 I do not give you these dates and periods as 
 correctly true, for 1 have taken only round 
 numbers, as more easily retained by the mem- 
 ory ; so that when you come to consult chro 
 
, Mrs. chapoke. IS? 
 
 nological hooks or tables, you will find variances 
 of some years between them and the above ac- 
 counts ; but precise exactness is not material 
 to a beginner. 
 
 I offer this short table as a little specimen of 
 what you may easily do for yourself; but even 
 this sketch, slight as it is, will give you a gene- 
 ral notion of the ancient history of the world, 
 from the deluge to the birth of Christ. 
 
 Within this period flourished the Grecian and 
 Roman republics, with the history and chrono- 
 logy of which it will be expected you should be 
 tolerably well acquainted ; and indeed you will 
 find nothing in the records of mankind so enter- 
 taining. Greece was divided into many petty 
 states, whose various revolutions and annals you 
 can never hope distinctly to remember ; you 
 are therefore to consider them as forming toge- 
 ther one great kingdom, like the Germanic 
 body, or the united provinces, composed sepa- 
 rately of different governments but sometimes 
 acting with united force for their common inter- 
 est. The Lacedemonian government, formed 
 by Lycurgus in the year of the world 3100, 
 and the Athenian, regulated by Solon about 
 the year 3440, will chiefly engage your atten- 
 tion. 
 
 In pursuing the Grecian chronology, you need 
 only perhaps make one stand or epocha, at the 
 time of Socrates, that wisest of philosophers, 
 whom you must have heard of, who lived about 
 3570 years from the creation, and about 430 
 before Christ ; for within the term of 150 years 
 before Socrates, and 200 after him, will tail in 
 5 nS. 
 
133 works or 
 
 ■most of the great events and illustrious chai*ae« 
 ters of the Grecian history. 
 
 I must inform you that the Grecian method 
 of dating time was by Olympiads, that is four 
 complete years, so called irom the celebration, 
 every fifth year, of the Olympic Games, which 
 were contests in all the manly exercises, such as 
 wrestling, boxing, running, chariot racing, &c. 
 They were instituted in honour of Jupiter, and 
 took their name from Olympia, a city of Elis, 
 near which they were performed : they were 
 attended by all ranks of people, from every state 
 in Greece ; the noblest youths were eager to 
 obtain the prize of victory, which was no other 
 than an olive crown, but esteemed the most 
 distinguishing ornament. These games conti- 
 nued all the time that Greece retained any 
 spark of liberty ; and with them begins the 
 authentic history of that country, all before 
 being considered as fabulous. You must there- 
 fore endeavour to remember that they began 
 in the year of the world 3228 ; after the flood 
 1570 years; after the destruction of Troy 400 ; 
 before the building of Rome 23 ; before Cyrus 
 about 200, and 770 before Christ. If you can- 
 not retain all these dates, at least you must not 
 fail to remember the near coincidence of the 
 /irst Olympiad with the building of Rome, which 
 is of great consequence, because, as the Grecians 
 reckoned time by Olympiads, the Romans dat- 
 ed from the building of their city : and as these 
 two eras are within 23 years of each other, 
 you may, for the ease of memory, suppose 
 them to begin together, in the year of the world 
 3223. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 159 
 
 In reading the history of the Roman Repub- 
 lic, which continued in that form of govern- 
 ment to the time of .Julias Caesar's dictatorship, 
 about the year of the world 39G0, and about 
 48 years before. Christ, you will make as many 
 epochas as you shall find convenient: I will 
 mention only two, the sacking of Rome by the 
 Gauls, which happened in the year of the world 
 3620, in the 365th year of the city, in the 97th 
 Olympiad, before Christ 385, a'nd about 30 
 years before the birth of Alexander. The se- 
 cond epocha may be the 608th year of the city, 
 when, after three obstinate wars, Carthage was> 
 destroyed, and Rome was left without a rival. 
 
 Perhaps the following bad verses, which 
 were given me when I >vas young, may help to 
 fix in your mind the important eras of the 
 Roman and Grecian dates: You must not 
 laugh at them, for chronologers do not pique 
 themselves on their poetry, but they make 
 use of numbers and rhymes merely as assist- 
 ants to memory, being so easily learned by 
 heart. 
 
 " Rome and Olympiads bear the same date, 
 
 " Three thousand two hundred and twenty-eight. 
 
 "In * three hundred and sixty w r as Rome sack'd 
 
 and torn, 
 "' Thirty summers before Alexander w T as born." 
 
 You will allow what I have said in these few 
 pages is very easily learned ; yet, little as it 
 is, I will venture to say that, was you as per* 
 
 * That is, in the 365th year of the city. 
 
140 WORKS OF 
 
 fectly mistress of it as of your alphabet, you 
 might answer several questions relating to an^ 
 cient Chronology more readily than many 
 who pretend to know something of this sci- 
 ence. One is not so much required to tell the 
 precise year, in which a great man lived, as to 
 know with whom he was cotemporary in 
 other parts of the world. I would know then, 
 from the slight sketch above given, about what 
 year of the Roman Republic Alexander the 
 great lived. You would quickly run over in 
 your mind, " Alexander lived in the 3670th 
 year of the world ; 330 before Christ; conse- 
 quently he must have flourished about the 400$. 
 of Rome, which had endured 750 years when 
 Christ was born." Or suppose it was asked, 
 what was the condition of Greece at the time 
 of the sacking of Rome by the Gauls ; had any 
 particular state, or the united body, chosen then 
 to take advantage of the misfortunes of the 
 Romans ? You consider that the S65th year 
 of the city, tne date of that event, is 335 before 
 Christ; consequently this must have happen- 
 ed about the time of Philip of Macedon, father 
 of Alexander, when the Grecians under such a 
 leader, might have extirpated the Roman na- 
 tion from the earth, had they ever heard of 
 thpm, or thought the conquest of them an 
 object worthy their ambition. 
 
 Numberless questions might be answered in 
 like manner, even on this very narrow circum- 
 scribed plan, if it was completely mastered. I 
 might require that other periods or epochas 
 should be learned with the same exactness ; 
 but these may serve to explain my meaning, 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 141 
 
 and to show how practicable and easy it is. 
 One thing, however, I must observe, though 
 perhaps it is sufficiently obvious ; which is, 
 that you can make no use of this sketch of an- 
 cient Chronology, nor even hope to retain it, 
 till you have read the ancient history. When 
 you have gone through Rollin's Histoire An- 
 cienne once, then will be the time to lix the an- 
 cient Chronology deep in your mind, which 
 will very much enhance the pleasure and use 
 of reading it a second time ; for you must re- 
 member that nobody reads a history to much 
 purpose, who does not go over it more than, 
 once. 
 
 When you have got through your course of 
 ancient history, and are come to the more mo- 
 dern, you must then have recourse to the second 
 of the three divisions, viz. middle Chronology ; 
 containing about 800 years, from the birth of 
 our Lord, and from within 50 years of the rise 
 of the Roman empire, to Charlemagne, who 
 died in 814. 
 
 This period, except in the earliest part of it, 
 is too much involved in obscurity to require a 
 very minute knowledge of its history; it may 
 be sufficient to fix two or three of the most sin- 
 gular circumstances, by their proper dates. 
 
 The first epocha to be observed is the year 
 of our Lord 330; when Constantine, the first 
 Christian emperor, who restored peace to the 
 oppressed and persecuted church, removed 
 the seat of empire from Rome to Byzantium, 
 called afterwards from him Constantinople. — 
 4fter his time, about the year 400, began 
 those irruptions of the Goths and Vandals, 
 
142 WORKS OF 
 
 and other northern nations, who settled them- 
 selves all over the western parts of the Roman 
 empire, and laid the foundation of the several 
 states which now subsist in Europe. 
 
 The next epocha is the year 622 ; for the ease 
 of memory say 600 ; when Mahomet, by his 
 successful imposture, became the founder of the 
 Saracen empire, which his followers extended 
 over a great part of Asia and Africa, and over 
 some provinces of Europe. At the same time, 
 St. Gregory, Bishop of Rome, began to assume 
 a spiritual power, which grew by degrees into 
 that absolute and enormous dominion, so long 
 maintained by the popes over the greatest part 
 of Christendom. St. Augustine, a mission- 
 ary from St. Gregory, about this time, began 
 the conversion of Great Britain to Christian- 
 
 ity. 
 
 The third and concluding epocha in this divi- 
 sion is the year 300 ; when Charlemagne, king 
 of France, after having subdued the Saxons, 
 repressed the Saracens, and established the 
 temporal dominion of the pope by a grant of 
 considerable territories, was elected emperor of 
 the west and protector of the Church. The 
 date of this event corresponds with that remark- 
 able period of our English history, the union of 
 the Heptarchy, or seven kingdoms, under Eg- 
 bert. 
 
 As to the third part of Chronology, namely 
 the Modern, I shall spare you and myself all 
 trouble about it at present ; for, if you follow 
 the course of reading which I shall recom- 
 mend, it will be some years before you reach 
 modern history; and, when you do, you will 
 
])1RS. CHAPO^E. 14-5 
 
 easily make periods for yourself, if you do but 
 Remember carefully to examine the dates ae 
 you read, and to impress on your memory 
 those of very remarkable reigns or events. 
 
 I fear you are by this time tired of Chronolo- 
 gy ; but, my sole intention in what I have said 
 is to convince you that it is a science not out of 
 your reach, in the .moderate degree that is re- 
 
 ?uisite for you : the last volume of the Anciei^. 
 Tniversal History is the best English Chrono- 
 logical work I know ; if that does not come in 
 your way, there is an excellent French one 
 called Tablettes Chronologiques de 1' Histoire 
 Universelle, Du Fresnoy, 3 tomes, Paris : there 
 is also a chart of universal history, including 
 Chronology, and a Biographical chart, both 
 by Priestly, which you may find of service to 
 you. 
 
 Indeed, my dear, a woman makes a poor fig- 
 ure who affects, as I have heard some ladies do^ 
 to disclaim all knowledge of times and dates : 
 the strange confusion they make of events, 
 which happened in different periods, and the 
 stare of ignorance when su6h are referred to 
 as are commonly known, are sufficiently piti- 
 able : but the highest mark of folly is to be 
 proud of such ignorance, a resource, in which 
 some of our sex find great consolation. 
 
 Adieu, my dear child ! I am, with the tender-, 
 est affection, 
 
 Ever your'? . 
 
114 WORKS OF 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 ON THE MANNER AND COURSE OF READING 
 HISTORY. 
 
 My Dear Niece, 
 
 When I recommend to you to gain some in- 
 sight into the general history of the world, per- 
 haps you will think I propose a formidable 
 task ; but, your apprehensions will vanish, when 
 you consider that of near half the globe we 
 have no histories at all ; that, of other parts of 
 it, a few facts only are known to us ; and that, 
 even of those nations, which make the greatest 
 figure in history, the early ages are involved in 
 obscurity and fable : it is not indeed allowable to 
 be totally ignorant even of those fables, because 
 they are the frequent subjects of poetry and 
 painting, and are often referred to in more au- 
 thentic histories. 
 
 The first recorders of actions are generally 
 poets : in the historical songs of the bards are 
 found the only accounts of the first ages of eve-? 
 ry state ; but in these we must naturally expect 
 to find truth mixed with fiction, and often dis- 
 guised in allegory. In such early times, before 
 science has enlightened the minds of men, the 
 people are ready to believe every thing ; and 
 the historian, having no restraints from the fear 
 of contradiction or criticism, delivers the most 
 improbable and absurd tales as an account of 
 the lives and actions of their forefathers : thus 
 the first heroes of every nation are gods, or the 
 §ons of gods ; and every great event is accom- 
 
MRS. CHAF0NT. 115 
 
 panied with some supernatural agency. Ho- 
 mer, whom I have already mentioned as a poet, 
 you will find the most agreeable historian of the 
 early ages of Greece, and Virgil will sIioav you 
 the supposed origin of the Carthaginians and 
 Romans. 
 
 It will be necessary for you to. observe some 
 regular plan in your historical studies, which 
 can never be pursued with advantage other- 
 wise than in a continued series. I do not mean 
 to confine you solely to that kind of reading j 
 on the contrary, I wish you frequently to relax 
 with poetry or some other amusement, whilst 
 you are pursuing your course of history ; I on- 
 ly mean to warn you against mixing ancient 
 history with modern, or general histories of one 
 place with particular reigns, in another ; by 
 which desultory manner of reading, many peo- 
 ple distract and. confound their memories, and 
 retain nothing to any purpose from such a con- 
 fused mass of materials. 
 
 The most ancient of all histories, you will 
 read in your Bible: from thence you will pro- 
 ceed to L'Histoire Ancienne of Rollin, who 
 very ingeniously points out the connexion of 
 prophane with sacred history, and enlivens his 
 narrative with many agreeable and improving 
 reflections ; and many very pleasing detached 
 stories and anecdotes, which may serve you as 
 resting places in your journey. It would be an 
 useful exercise of your memory and judgment, 
 to recount these interesting passages to a friend, 
 either by letter or in conversation ; not in the 
 words of the author, but in your own natural 
 style* by memory and not by book ; and to 
 o o 
 
146 WORKS OF 
 
 add whatever remarks may occur to you. i 
 need not say that you will please me much, 
 whenever you are disposed to make this use 
 of me. 
 
 The want of memory is a great discourage- 
 ment in historical pursuits, and is what every 
 body complains of. Many artificial helps have 
 been invented, of which, those who have tried 
 them can best tell you the effects : but the most 
 natural and pleasant expedient is that of con- 
 versation with a friend, who is acquainted with 
 the history which you are reading. By such 
 conversations, you will find out how much is 
 usually retained of what is read, and you will 
 learn to select those characters and facts which 
 are best worth preserving : for, it is by trying 
 to remember every thing without distinction, 
 that young people are so apt to lose every trace 
 of what they read. By repeating to your friend 
 what you can recollect, you will fix it in your 
 memory ; and, if you should omit any striking 
 particular, which ought to be retained, that friend 
 will remind you of it, and will direct your atten- 
 tion to it on a.second perusal. Itis a good rule, to 
 oast your eye each day over what you read the 
 day before, and to look over the contents of 
 every book when you have finished it. 
 
 Rollin's work takes in a large compass ; but, 
 of all the ancient nations it treats of, perhaps 
 there are only the Grecians and Romans, whose 
 stories ought to be read with any anxious desire 
 of retaining them perfectly : for the rest, such 
 as the Assyrians, Egyptians, &c. I believe, you 
 would find, on examination, that most of those, 
 who are supposed tolerably well read in history, 
 
ants, chaponi?. iiT 
 
 Remember no more than a few of the most re- 
 markable facts and characters. I tell you 
 this to prevent your being discouraged on 
 finding so little remain in your mind after 
 reading these less interesting parts of ancient 
 historj\ 
 
 But, when you come to the Grecian and Ro- 
 man stories, 1 expect to find you deeply inter- 
 ested and highly entertained ; and of conse- 
 quence, eager to treasure up in your memory 
 those heroic actions and exalted characters, by 
 which a young mind is naturally so much ani- 
 mated and impressed. As Greece and Rome 
 were distinguished as much for genius as val- 
 our, and were the theatres, not only of the 
 greatest military actions, the noblest efforts of 
 liberty and patriotism, but of the highest per- 
 fection of arts and sciences, their immortal 
 fame is a subject of wonder and emulation, 
 even to these distant ag:es ; and, it is thought a 
 shameful degree of ignorance, even in our sex, 
 to be unacquainted with the nature and revolu- 
 tions of their governments, and with the char- 
 acters and stories of their most illustrious he- 
 roes. Perhaps, when you are told that the gov- 
 ernment and the national character of your 
 own countrymen have been compared with 
 those of the Romans, it may not be an useless 
 amusement, in reading the Roman history, to 
 carry this ohservationin your mind, and toexam- 
 ine how farthe parallel holds good. The French 
 have been thought to resemble the Athenians 
 in their genius, though not in their love of lib- 
 erty. These little hints sometimes serve to 
 awaken reflection and attention in young reads 
 
148 WORKS OP 
 
 ers. I leave you to make what use of them 
 you please. 
 
 When you have got through Rollin, if you 
 add VerioVs Revolutions Romaines, a short, and 
 very entertaining work, you may be said to 
 have read as much as is absolutely necessary of 
 ancient history. Plutarch's Lives of famous 
 Greeks and Romans, a book deservedly of the 
 highest reputation, can never be read to so 
 much advantage as immediately after the his- 
 tories of Greece and Rome : I should even 
 prefer reading each life in Plutarch, imme- 
 diately after the history of each particular 
 hero, as you meet with them in Rollin or in 
 Vertot. 
 
 If hereafter you should choose to enlarge 
 your plan, and should wish to know more of 
 any particular people or period than you find 
 in Rollin, the sources from which he drew may 
 be opened to y_ou ; for there are, I believe, 
 French or English translations of all the orig- 
 inal historians, from whom he extracted his 
 materials. 
 
 Grevier's continuation of Rollin, I believe, 
 gives the best account of the Roman emperors 
 down to Constantine. What shocking instan- 
 ces, will you there meet with, of the terrible 
 effects of lawless power on the human mind ! 
 Hoav will jou be amazed to see the. most pro- 
 mising characters changed by flattery and 
 self-indulgence into monsters that disgrace hu- 
 manity ! to read a series of such lives as those 
 of Tiberius, Nero, or Domitian, would be in- 
 tolerable, were we not consoled by the view of 
 those excellent emperors, who remained un-, 
 
MRS. CIlAFOtfE, 149 
 
 corrupted through all temptations. When the 
 mind, disgusted, depressed, and terrified, turns 
 from the contemplation of those depths of vice, 
 to whichthe human nature may be sunk, aTitus, 
 the delight of mankind, a Trajan, an Antoninus, 
 restore it to an exulting sense of the dignity, to 
 which that nature may be exalted by virtue. 
 Nothing is more awful than this consideration : 
 a human creature given up to vice is infinitely 
 below the most abject brute: the same crea- 
 ture, trained by virtue to the utmost perfection 
 of his nature, is " but a little lower than the 
 angels, and is crowned with glory and immor- 
 tality." 
 
 Before you enter upon the modern history 
 of any particular kingdom, it will be proper to 
 gain some idea of that interval between ancient 
 and modern times, which is justly called the 
 dark and barbarous ages, and which lasted from 
 Constantine to Charlemagne, perhaps one 
 might say to some centuries after. On the ir- 
 ruption of the northern Barbarians, who broke 
 the Roman empire, and dissipated all the treas- 
 ures of knowledge, as well as of riches, which 
 had been *so long; accumulating in that enor- 
 mous state, the European world may be said 
 to have returned to a second infancy : and the 
 Monkish legends, which are the only records* 
 preserved of the times in which they were 
 written, are not less fabulous than the tales 
 of the demi-gods. 1 must profess myself ig- 
 norant how to direct you to any distinct or 
 amusing knowledge of the history of Europe 
 during this period : some collect it from Puffen- 
 dorfs Introduction ; some from The Universal 
 o o 2 
 
150 WORKS OF 
 
 History ; and now, perhaps, with more advau 
 tage and delight, from the first volume of 
 Robertsorts Charles the Fifth, in which he traces 
 the progress of civilization, government, and 
 arts, from the first settlements of the Barbari- 
 ans ; and shows the foundation of the several 
 states, into which Europe is now divided, and 
 of those laws, customs, and politics, which pre- 
 vail in this quarter of the world. 
 
 In these dark ages, you will find no single 
 character so interesting as that of Mahomet ; 
 that bold impostor, who extended his usurped 
 dominion equally over the minds and proper- 
 ties of men, and propagated a new religion, 
 whilst he founded a new empire, over a large 
 
 {portion of the globe. His life has been written 
 >y various hands. 
 
 When you come to the particular histories 
 of The European states, your own country 
 seems to demand the precedence ; and, there 
 is no part more commodious to set out from, 
 since you cannot, learn the history of Great 
 Britain, without becoming in some degree ac- 
 quainted with almost every neighbouring na- 
 tion, and without finding your curiosity excited 
 to know more of those, with whom we are 
 most connected. 
 
 By the amazing progress of navigation and 
 commerce, within the last two or three centu- 
 ries, all parts of the world are now connected : 
 the most distant people are become well ac- 
 quainted, who, for thousands of years, never 
 heard of one another's existence : we are still 
 every day exploring new regions ; and every 
 .day see greater reason to expect that immense 
 
MRS. C1IAF0XE. 151 
 
 countries may yet be discovered, and America 
 no longer retain the name of the New World. 
 You may pass to every quarter of the earth, 
 and find yourself still in the British dominion : 
 this island, in which we live, is the least portion 
 of it ; and, if we were to adopt the style of an- 
 cient conquerors, we might call it the throne, 
 from which we rule the world. To this boast 
 we are better entitled than some of those who 
 formerly called themselves Masters of the 
 Globe, as we possess an empire of greater extent, 
 and, from the superior advantages of our com- 
 merce, much greater power and riches ; but, 
 we have now too many rivals in dominion, to 
 take upon us such haughty titles. 
 
 You cannot be said to know the history of 
 that empire, of which you are a subject, with- 
 out knowing something of the East and West 
 Indies, where so great a part of it is situated : 
 and you will find the accounts of the discovery 
 and conquest of America very entertaining, 
 though you will be shocked at the injustice 
 and cruelty of its conquerors. But with which 
 of the glorious conquerors of mankind must not 
 humanity be shocked ! Ambition, the most re- 
 morseless of all passions, pursues its object by 
 all sorts of means: justice, mercy, truth, and 
 every thing most sacred, in vain oppose its pro- 
 gress ! alas, my dear, shall I venture to tell you 
 that the history of the world is little else than a 
 shocking account of the wickedness and folly of 
 the ambitious ! The world has ever been, and, 
 I suppose, ever must be, governed and insulted 
 by these aspiring spirits ; it has always, in a 
 greater or less degree, groaned under their un 
 just usurpation. 
 
To% WORKS OF 
 
 . But let not the horror of such a scene put a 
 stop to your curiosity : it is proper you should 
 know mankind as they are : You must be ac- 
 quainted with the heroes of the earth, and per- 
 haps you may be too well reconciled to them : 
 Mankind have in general a strong bias in their 
 favour ; we see them surrounded with pomp 
 and splendour, every thing that relates to them 
 has an air of grandeur ; and, whilst we admire 
 their natural powers, we are too apt to pardon 
 the detestable abuse of them, to the injury and 
 ruin of the human race. We are dazzled with 
 false glory, and willingly give in to the delu- 
 sion ; for mighty conquests, like great confla- 
 grations, have something of the sublime that 
 pleases the imagination, though we know, if we 
 reflect at all, that the consequences of them are 
 devastation and misery. 
 
 The Western and Eastern world will present 
 to you very different prospects. In America, 
 the first European conquerors found nature in 
 great simplicity ; society still in its infancy, and 
 consequently the arts and sciences yet un- 
 known : so that the facility, with which they 
 overpowered these poor innocent people, was 
 entirely owing to their superior knowledge in 
 the arts of destroying. They found the inha- 
 bitants brave enthusiastic patriots, but without 
 either the military or political arts necessary 
 for their defence. The two great kingdoms of 
 Mexico and Peru had alone made some pro- 
 gress in civilization ; they were both formed 
 into regular states, and had gained some order 
 and discipline : from these therefore the Spanr 
 iards met with something like an opposition* 
 At first indeed the invaders appeared superna- 
 
MRS. CHAl'OMu. IjS 
 
 lural beings, who came upon them flying over 
 the ocean, on the wings of the wind, and who, 
 mounted on fiery animals, unknown in that 
 country, attacked them with thunder and light- 
 ning in their hands ; for such the fire-arms of 
 the Spaniards appeared to this astonished peo- 
 ple. But, from being worshipped as gods, they 
 soon came to be feared as evil spirits ; and in 
 time being discovered to be men, different 
 from the Americans only in their outrageous 
 injustice, and in the cruel arts of destroying, 
 tHey were abhorred and boldly opposed. The 
 resistance however of a million of these poor 
 naked people, desperately crowding on each 
 other to destruction, served only to make their 
 ruin more complete. The Europeans have des- 
 troyed, with the most shocking barbarity, many 
 millions of the original inhabitants of these coun- 
 tries, and have ever since been depopulating 
 Europe and Africa to supply their places. 
 
 Though our own countrymen have no reason 
 to boast of the justice and humanity of their 
 proceedings in America, yet, in comparison 
 with those of the Spaniards, our possessions 
 there were innocently acquired. Some of them 
 were gained by conquest, or cession, from 
 Spain and from other European powers ; some 
 by contract with the natives, or by settlements 
 on uninhabited lands. We are now possest of 
 a series of colonies, extending above two thou- 
 sand miles along the whole eastern coast of 
 North America, besides many islands of im- 
 mense value. These countries, instead of be- 
 ing thinly peopled by a few hordes of ignorant 
 savages, are now adorned with many great 
 
154 works or 
 
 cities, and innumerable rich plantations, which 
 have made ample returns to their mother coun- 
 try, for the dangers and expenses which at- 
 tended their first establishment. Blest with 
 more natural advantages than almost any coun- 
 try in the world, they are making a swift pro- 
 gress in wealth and grandeur, and seem likely, 
 in some future period, to be as much the seat 
 of empire and of science as Europe is -at pre- 
 sent. Whether their attainments in virtue and 
 happiness will keep pace with their advance- 
 ment in knowledge, wealth, and power, is much 
 to be questioned ; for you Avill observe, in your 
 historical view of the several great empires of 
 the world, that as each grew up towards the 
 highest pitch of greatness, the seeds of destruc- 
 tion grew up with it ; luxury and vice, by de- 
 basing the minds, and enervating the bodies of 
 the people, left them all, in their turns, an easy 
 prey to poorer and more valiant nations. 
 
 In the east, the Europeans introduced them- 
 selves in a milder way : admitted first as traders, 
 and, for the more commodious carrying on 
 their commerce, indulged by the powers of the 
 country, in establishing a few small factories ; 
 they by gentle degrees extended and strength- 
 ened their settlements there, till their force be- 
 came considerable enough to be thought an 
 useful auxiliary to contending princes ; and, as 
 it has often happened to those who have called 
 in foreign powers to interfere in their domestic 
 contentions, by availing themselves of the dis- 
 turbances of a dismembered monarchy, they 
 at length raised a power, almost independent 
 of their employers. Soon the several Europe- 
 
MRS. CHArONE. IW.j 
 
 an nations, who had thus got footing in the In- 
 dies, jealous of each other's growing greatness, 
 made the fueds of the native princes subservi- 
 ent to their mutual contests ; till within a few 
 years, the English, by a happy concurrence of 
 circumstances, obtained the mastery, and ex- 
 pelled their rivals from all their considerable 
 settlements. 
 
 The rapidity of our conquests here has been 
 perhaps equal to that of the first invaders of 
 America, but from different causes. Here we 
 found an old established empire advanced to its 
 crisis ; the magnificence and luxury of the great 
 carried to the highest excess, and the people in 
 a proportionable degree of oppression and de- 
 basement. Thus ripe for destruction, the rival- 
 ships of the viceroys, from the weakness of the 
 government, become independent sovereigns, 
 and the dastardly spirit of the meaner people, 
 indifferent to the cause for which they were 
 compelled to fight, encouraged these ambitious 
 merchants to push their advantages farther 
 than they could at first have supposed possible: 
 with astonishment they saAv the intrepid lead- 
 ers of a few hundreds of brave free Britons 
 boldly oppose and repeatedly put to flight mil- 
 lions of these effeminate Indian slaves ; and, in 
 a short time, raise for them an empire much 
 larger than their mother country. 
 
 From these remote quarters of the world, 
 let us now return to Great Britain, with the 
 history of which, you ought certainly to ac- 
 quaint yourself, before you enter upon that of 
 any other European kingdom. It you have 
 courage and industry enough to begin so high 
 
IIjO WORKS OF 
 
 as the invasion of Julius Caesar, before which 
 nothing is known of the inhabitants of this isl- 
 and, you may set out with Rapin, and proceed 
 with him to William the Conqueror. From 
 this era there are other histories of England 
 more entertaining than his, though, I believe, 
 none esteemed more authentic. Party so 
 strongly influences both historians and their 
 readers, that it is a difficult and invidious task 
 to point out the best amongst the number of 
 English histories that offer themselves ; but, as 
 you will not read with a critical view, nor enter 
 deeply into politics, I think you may be allowed 
 to choose that which is most entertaining ; and, 
 in this view, I believe the general voice will di- 
 rect you to Hume, though he goes no farther 
 than the Revolution. Among other historians t 
 do not forget my darling Shakespear, a faithful 
 as well as a most agreeable one, whose histori- 
 cal plays, if read in a series, will fix in your 
 memory the reigns he has chosen, more dura- 
 bly than any other history. You need not 
 fear his leading you into any material mistakes, 
 for he keeps surprisingly close to the truth, as 
 well in the characters as in the events. One 
 cannot but wish he had given us a play on the 
 reign of every English king, as it would have 
 been the pleasantest, and perhaps the most 
 useful way of becoming acquainted with it. 
 
 For the other portion of Great Britain, Ro- 
 bertson's History of Scotland is a delightful 
 work, and of a moderate size. 
 
 Next to your own country France will be the 
 most interesting object of your inquiries ; our 
 ancient possessions in that country, and the 
 
MRS. CHAPOXE. 15? 
 
 frequent contests we have been engaged in with 
 its inhabitants, connect their history with our 
 own. The extent of their dominion and influ- 
 ence ; their supposed superiority in elegance and 
 politeness ; their eminence in the Arts and Scien- 
 ces ; and that intercourse of thought, if I may 
 so call it, which subsists between us, by the 
 mutual communication of literary productions, 
 make them peculiarly interesting to us; and 
 we cannot but find our curiosity excited to 
 know their story, and to be intimately ac- 
 quainted with the character, genius, and sen- 
 timents of this nation. 
 
 I do not know of any general history of 
 France that will answer your purpose except 
 that of Mezerai, which, even in the abridg- 
 ment, is a pretty large work : there is a very 
 modern one by Velly, and others, which per- 
 haps may be more lively, but is still more volu- 
 minous, and not yet completed. From Me- 
 zerai, you may proceed with Voltaire to the 
 end of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth. 
 
 In considering the rest of Europe, your curi- 
 osity may be confined within narrower limits. 
 Modern history is, from the nature of it, much 
 inore minute and laborious than the ancient, 
 and to pursue that of so many various king- 
 doms and governments would be a task unequal 
 to your leisure and abilities, at least for several 
 years to come : at the same time, it must be 
 owned that the present system of politics and 
 commerce has formed such a relation between 
 the different powers of Europe, that they are 
 in a manner members of one great body, and a 
 pp 
 
15G WORKS OP 
 
 total ignorance of any considerable state would 
 throw an obscurity even upon the affairs of your 
 own country : an acquaintance however with 
 the most remarkable circumstances, that dis- 
 tinguish the principal governments, will suffi- 
 ciently enlighten you, and will enable you to 
 comprehend, whatever relates to them, in the 
 histories with which you are more familiar. — 
 Instead of referring you for this purpose to dull 
 and .uninteresting abridgments, I choose rather 
 to point out to you a few small Tracts, which 
 exhibit striking and lively pictures, not easily 
 effaced from the memory, of the constitutions 
 and the most remarkable transactions of several 
 of these nations. Such are m * 
 
 Sir William Temple's Essay on the United Pro- 
 
 vinces. 
 His Essay on Heroic Virtue, which contains. 
 
 some account of the Saracen Empire. 
 Vertot's Revolutions de Suede. 
 
 de Portugal. 
 
 Voltaire's Charles 12de Suede. 
 
 Pierre le Grand. 
 
 Puffendorf 's Account of the Popes, in his Intro- 
 duction to Modern History. 
 
 Some part of the history of Germany and 
 Spain, you will see more in detail in Robert- 
 son's History of Charles the Vth ; which 1 
 have already recommended to you, in another 
 
 view. •■ •; , „ 
 
 After all this, you may still be at a loss tor 
 the transactions of Europe, in the last fifty 
 years ; for the purpose of giving you, in a ver> 
 small compass, some idea of the state ot af- 
 fairs during that period, I will venture to recom- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 159., 
 
 mend one book more, Campbell's Slate of Eu- 
 rope. 
 
 Thus much may suffice for that moderate 
 scheme, which I think is best suited to your 
 sex and age. There are several excellent histo- 
 ries, and memoirs of particular reigns and peri- 
 ods, which I have taken no notice of in this 
 circumscribed plan ; but, with which, if you 
 should happen to have a taste for the study, 
 you will hereafter choose to be acquainted : 
 these will be read with most advantage, after 
 you have gained some general vieAv of history ; 
 and they will then serve to refresh your mem- 
 ory, and settle your ideas distinctly, as well as 
 enable you to compare different accounts of 
 the persons and facts which they treat of, and 
 to form your opinions of them on just grounds. 
 
 As I cannot, with certaint) r , foresee what de- 
 gree of application or genius for such pursuits 
 you will be mistress of, I shall leave the defi- 
 ciencies of this collection to be supplied by the 
 suggestions of your more informed friends, 
 who, if you explain to them how far you wish 
 to extend your knowledge, will direct you to the 
 proper books. 
 
 But if, instead of an eager desire for this 
 kind of knowledge, you should happen to feel 
 that distaste for it, which is too common in 
 young ladies, who have been indulged in read- 
 ing only Avorks of mere amusement, you will 
 perhaps rather think that I want mercy in 
 Offering you so large a plan, than that there 
 needa an apology for the deficiencies of it : but, 
 romfort yourself with the assurance, that a 
 taste for histor}' will grow and improve by 
 
160 WORKS OF 
 
 Heading : that as you get acquainted with one 
 period or nation, your curiosity cannot fail to 
 be awakened for what concerns those imme- 
 diately connected with it ; and thus, you will 
 insensibly be led on, from one degree of know- 
 ledge to another. 
 
 If you waste in trivial amusement the next 
 three or four years of your life, which are the 
 prime season of improvement, believe me, you 
 will hereafter bitterly regret their loss : when 
 you come to feel yourself inferior in knowledge 
 to almost every one you converse with ; and, 
 above all, if you should ever be a mother, when 
 you feel your own inability to direct and assist 
 the pursuits of your children, you will then 
 find ignorance a severe mortification and a real 
 evil. Let this, my dear, animate your indus- 
 try, and let not a modest opinion of your own 
 capacity be a discouragement to your endea- 
 vours after knowledge; a moderate under- 
 standing, with diligent and well-directed appli- 
 cation, will go much farther than a more lively 
 genius, if attended with that impatience and 
 inattention, which too often accompanies quick 
 parts. It is not from want of capacity that so 
 many women are such trifling insipid compan- 
 ions, so ill qualified for the friendship and con- 
 versation of a sensible man, or for the task of 
 governing and instructing a family ; it is much 
 oftener from the neglect of exercising the tal- 
 ents which they really have, and from omitting 
 to cultivate a taste for intellectual improvement : 
 by this neglect, they lose the sincerest of 
 pleasures; a pleasure, which would remain 
 when almost every other forsakes them ; winch 
 
Mil*. CHAPONE. lbl 
 
 neither fortune nor age can deprive them of, 
 and which would he a comfort and resource in 
 almost every possible situation of life. 
 
 If I can but inspire you, my dear child, with 
 the desire of making the most of your time and 
 abilities, my end is answered ; the means of 
 knowledge will easily be found by those who 
 diligently seek them, and they will find their 
 labours abundantly rewarded. 
 
 And now, my dear, I think it is time to finish 
 this long correspondence, which, though in 
 some parts it may have been tedious to you, will 
 not, 1 hope, be found entirely useless in any. 
 1 have laid before you all thai my maturest re- 
 flections could enable me to suggest, for the di- 
 rection of your conduct through life. My love 
 for you, my dearest child, extends its views be- 
 yond this frail and transitory existence, it con- 
 siders you as a candidate for immortality, as 
 entering the list for the prize of your high call- 
 ing, as contending for a crown of unfading 
 glory. It sees, with anxious solicitude, the dan- 
 gers that surround you, and the everlasting 
 shame that must follow, if you do not exert all 
 your strength in the conflict. Religion there- 
 fore has been the basis of my plan, the princi- 
 ple, to which every other pursuit is ultimately 
 referred. Here then I have endeavoured to 
 guide your researches ; and to assist you in 
 forming just notions on a subject of such infi- 
 nite importance, I have shown you the neces- 
 sity of regulating your heart and temper, ac- 
 cording to the genuine spirit of that religion, 
 which I have so earnestly recommended as the 
 great rule of your life. To the same principle, 
 pp2 
 
162 works of 
 
 I would refer your attention to domestic duties ; 
 and, even that refinement and elegance of man- 
 ners, and all those graces and accomplishments, 
 which will set your virtues in the fairest light, 
 and will engage the affection and respect of all 
 who converse with you. Endeared to society 
 by these amiable qualities, your influence in it 
 will be more extensive, and your capacity of 
 being; useful proportionally enlarged. The 
 studies, which I have recommended to you, 
 must be likewise subservient to the same 
 views ; the pursuit of knowledge, when it is 
 guided and controlled by the principles I have 
 established, will conduce to many valuable 
 ends : the habit of industry, it will give you, 
 the nobler kind of friendships, for which it will 
 qualify you, and its tendency to promote a can- 
 did and liberal way of thinking, are obvious 
 advantages. I might add, that a mind well in- 
 formed in the various pursuits which interest 
 mankind and the influence of such pursuits on 
 their happiness, will embrace, with a clearer 
 choice, and will more steadily adhere to, those 
 principles of virtue and religion, which the judg- 
 ment must ever approve, in proportion as it be- 
 comes enlightened. 
 
 May those delightful hopes be answered 
 which have animated my heart, while with dil- 
 igent attention I have endeavoured to apply to 
 your advantage all that my own experience 
 and best observation could furnish. With 
 what joy should I see my dearest girl shine 
 forth a bright example of every thing that is 
 amiable and praise-worthy ! and how sweet 
 would be the reflection that I had, in any de- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 165 
 
 gree, contributed to make her so ! Mv heart 
 expands with the affecting thought, and pours 
 torth in this adieu the most ardent wishes for 
 your perfection ! If the tender solicitude ex- 
 pressed for your welfare by this " labour of 
 love can engage your gratitude, you will al- 
 ways remember how deeply your conduct 
 interests the happiness of conauct 
 
 Youc most affectionate Aunt 
 
 ZNO OF THE THIRD VOLUME. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 
 Let. i On the First Principles of Re=- 
 
 ligion § 
 
 ii On the Study of the Holy 
 
 Scriptures 16 
 
 in On the Study of the Holy 
 
 Scriptures. Continued........ 130 
 
 iv On the Regulation of the 
 
 Heart and Affections 43 
 
 v On the Regulation of the 
 
 Heart and Affections. Con- 
 tinued 54 
 
 vi On the Government of the 
 
 Temper 78 
 
 vn On Economy 95 
 
 vm....On Politeness and Accom- 
 plishments 1 12 
 
 jx....On Geographyand Chronology 132 
 
 x... M .On the manner and course of 
 
 reading ,. 144 
 
WORKS 
 
 OP 
 
 MRS. CHAPONE; 
 
 NOW FIRST COLLECTED. 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 ■ LETTERS ON THE IM- 
 PROVEMENT OF THE 
 MIND. 
 
 $. MISCELLANIES. 
 
 III. CORRESPONDENCE WITH 
 MR. RICHARDSON. 
 
 IV. LETTERS TO MISS CAR- 
 TER. 
 
 V. FUGITIVE FIECES. 
 
 TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 
 
 IS ACCOUNT OF HER LIFE AND CHARACTER 
 
 DRAWN UP 
 
 BY HER OWN FAMILY, 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 VOL. IV. 
 
 NEW- YORK : 
 
 rtBLlSHED BY EVERT DUYCKIXCK- 
 
 >0. 63 WATER-STREET. 
 
 7 k J. Harper, Printcrj. 
 
 J818, 
 
TO MRS. ELIZABETH CARTER. 
 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 AS my presumption, in offering this 
 little volume to the public, has been 
 principally excited by you, and your 
 admirable friend, Mrs. Montagu, it is 
 fit you should take your share of what- 
 ever blame it may incur. After a 
 course of years, which should have 
 added to my judgment what it has ta- 
 ken from my imagination, and in 
 which vanity and ambition have been 
 sufficiently repressed by affliction, to 
 produce to the world the trifling per- 
 formances of my youth, which I then 
 had modesty enough to conceal, is, I 
 must confess, what my own feelings 
 would never have dictated, had not 
 two such friends, whose judgment and 
 sincerity I could not distrust, pronoun- 
 ced that so it must be. With such 
 supporters, however, I think myself 
 secure against contempt, and that 
 
rV 
 
 when it shall be known that both my 
 youth and age have been blessed and 
 honoured with the friendship of Mrs. 
 Carter, the world will be disposed 
 to treat me with kindness, unless 
 that kindness should be intercepted 
 by envy. 
 
 The following little poems you 
 know were most of them written when 
 I was very young, and all of them 
 (except the translations) many years 
 ago ; the last has already appeared in 
 a far more honourable station, at the 
 head of your admirable translation of 
 Epictetus ; but as many persons read 
 poetry who do not read philosophy, I 
 am advised to reprint it here. 
 
 The prose essays (excepting the 
 Story of Fidelia, which appeared in 
 the Adventurer) are late compositions. 
 I fear the greater number of my read- 
 ers may think them too strongly tinctu- 
 red with that seriousness which has 
 long been the prevailing habit of my 
 mind ; while others, of a more simi- 
 lar cast of thought, may possibly be 
 led by them to useful and improving 
 
reflections. If in any mind they 
 should raise or strengthen a single sen- 
 timent favourable to virtue, I shall be 
 better rewarded than by the most uni- 
 versal applauses of the public. 
 
 Esteemed and honoured as is my 
 excellent friend, amongst the most dis- 
 tinguished characters of this country, I 
 persuade myself that she will not disdain 
 my humbler testimony to that worth, 
 which I prefer to all the learning and 
 genius that have gained her the gen- 
 eral admiration of the world ; but 
 that she will allow me to boast of a 
 title which I consider as the highest 
 honour, that of 
 
 Her most affectionate 
 
 And faithful friend, 
 
 H. CHAPONE. 
 
 Wardour Street, 
 Jan. 20, 1775. 
 
 4 q ii 
 
MISCELLANIES. 
 
 ESSAY I. 
 
 ON AFFECTATION AND S IMPLICIT!. 
 
 If I were asked •which of all the qualities 
 that constitute an amiable character would 
 singly go farthest in gaining my love and ad- 
 miration, I should answer, without hesitation, 
 Simplicity. I cannot suppose myself peculiar 
 in this preference ; for I have observed the 
 general attraction of this quality, which ope- 
 rates even on those who are themselves most 
 deficient in it. How comes it then to pass 
 that an excessive desire of admiration always 
 shows itself in affectation of some kind or 
 other ? That every one should, in proportion 
 to the strength of this desire, act in a manner 
 which most effectually defeats the accomplish- 
 ment of it, is surely a phenomenon in the 
 moral world, not unworthy the inquiry of 
 philosophers. 
 
 Affectation is so universally acknowledged 
 to be disgusting, that it is among the faults 
 
3 WORKS OF 
 
 which the most intimate friends cannot ven- 
 ture gravely to reprove in each other ; for, to 
 tell your friends that they are habitually affect- 
 ed, is to tell them that they are habitually disa- 
 greeable ; which nobody can bear to hear. I 
 beg leave therefore, as a general friend, with- 
 out offending any one, to whisper to all those 
 whose hearts confess that vanity has inspired 
 them with any sort of affectation, that it never 
 does, nor never can succeed as a means of pleas- 
 ing. 
 
 I have a thousand times wished to tell Flir- 
 tilla, that the efforts she makes to be con- 
 stantly in motion, and perpetually giggling, 
 do not pass upon me for the vivacity of youth: 
 I see they cost her a great deal of trouble, 
 and it gives me an irritation of nerves to look 
 at her ; so that it would have been much for 
 her ease and mine, could I have ventured to 
 beg that she would always in my presence 
 give way to her natural langour and dulness, 
 which would be far more agreeable to me. 
 
 Gloriosa, whenever a remarkable instance 
 of generosity or goodness is mentioned, takes 
 infinite pains, with the most pompous elo- 
 quence, to convince me that the action seems 
 poor to the greatness of her soul ; that she 
 should think half her fortune a trifling gift to 
 a worthy friend ; that she would rather suffer 
 the most exquisite pain herself, than see a fel- 
 low creature, though a stranger, endure it ; 
 and that it is a nobler effort in her to refrain 
 from the most generous actions, than it would 
 he in the greatest miser to perform them. I 
 long to let her know, that the only effect these 
 
 
MRS. CIIArOXE. 9 
 
 declarations produce in my mind is, a doubt, 
 which I should otherwise never have enter- 
 tained, whether she really possesses even 
 the common portion of good-nature and be- 
 nevolence. 
 
 Humanus, on the other hand, need not be 
 so much ashamed of his tenderness and good- 
 ness of heart ; which is the only agreeable 
 part of his character, and which ail his affect- 
 ed roughness and insensibility cannot hide. 
 Be content, good Humanus ; you never can 
 attain the reputation to which you aspire, of 
 a stern unfeeling heart ; Ave all know vou are 
 good-natured and affectionate ; and it is for 
 the sake of these qualities alone that we. en- 
 dure all the disgusting airs of brutality you 
 give yourself. 
 
 Poor young Saunter, having observed that 
 the few men of fashion and fortune who ad- 
 mit him into their company are gamesters 
 and debauchees, thinks nothing is more neces- 
 sary to make him appear like a man of fash- 
 ion and fortune than to be thought a game- 
 ster and a debauchee. To this end he really 
 practises some vices, and professes many 
 more. He will entertain you for hours with 
 boasting of ruinous bets which he never made, 
 and riotous debauches of which he never was 
 guilty. But nobody believes him : every bo- 
 dy knows that the poor young man would be 
 Sober enough, if he thought it genteel ; and, 
 notwithstanding the great spirit with which 
 he professes to despise his too indulgent fa- 
 ther, and to wish him dead, there are strong 
 
 Virions that he is not absolutely without 
 
10 WORKS OF 
 
 natural affection, and that he really does not. 
 behave ill to the good old man, except in the 
 article of spending too much of his money. 
 Let me persuade you, Saunter, to make an 
 experiment, whether the world would not re- 
 ceive you as well Avith a few good qualities, 
 as with all the bad ones you assume. If you 
 find it does not succeed, you may more easi- 
 ly return to the w ays of vice, than you could 
 to those of virtue should you delay much 
 longer, and should you ever have sense enough 
 to perceive what a despicable animal vanity 
 has made you. 
 
 The important airs and insolence of a rich 
 mechanic, just setting up for a gentleman, is 
 not a more decisive mark of a low-lived man, 
 than the overstrained humility of Superbia is 
 of an immeasurable pride. Whilst she depre- 
 ciates herself in every sentence, and affects 
 to exalt her companions so far above her, 
 that she will scarcely allow herself worthy to 
 converse with them, she makes them feel her 
 proud condescension in a manner that is more 
 offensive than the most openly assumed su- 
 periority. Her aim is, to place in the strong- 
 est point of view the advantages she has, or 
 thinks she has, over them, and then to be 
 supposed superior in herself to all those ad- 
 vantages, and adorned Avith such humility as 
 must lieighten their respect and admiration. 
 Poor woman ! she fails in both these aims. 
 Her affected humility renders her contempt- 
 ibly ridiculous ; and her real pride arms 
 every body's self-love against her, and dispos- 
 es them to undervalue those circumstances 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 11 
 
 ou which they pee she founds her conse- 
 quence. 
 
 As liars often presume so far on the polite- 
 ness of the company, which forbids the flat 
 contradiction of a matter of fact, as to utter 
 the most palpable falsehoods ; so the persons 
 1 have described presume, on the same 
 grounds, that every one they converse with 
 is the dupe of their affectation. A little bet- 
 ter opinion of the sagacity of others would 
 save both the affected and the cunning a 
 world of unnecessary trouble. Cunning does 
 indeed sometimes succeed in deceiving the 
 particular person to whom it is applied ; but 
 a man characteristically artful is almost al- 
 ways seen through by the generality of the 
 world. Affected gestures, manner, or senti- 
 ments in conversation are obvious to every 
 understanding : every one joins in pronounc- 
 ing them ridiculous. One of the most affect- 
 ed women I ever knew, said to me once, in a 
 tone of the utmost langour, " You know one 
 had better be dead than be affected /" thus, 
 all condemn what they expect to be admired 
 for ; and hope, against all reason and proba- 
 bility, to impose on the world by the same 
 arts which they can themselves so easily dis- 
 cern in others, and so readily join to deride. 
 
 While the vain man is painfully striving to 
 outshine all the company, and to attract thru- 
 admiration by false wit, forced compliments, 
 and studied graces, he must surely be morti- 
 fied to observe how constantly Simplicius en- 
 gages their attention, respect, and compla- 
 cency, without having once thought of him- 
 
ii. WORKS OP 
 
 self as a person of any consequence among 
 them. Simplicius imparts his superior know- 
 ledge, when called upon, as easily and natu- 
 rally as he would tell you what it is o'clock ; 
 and with the same readiness and good will 
 informs the most ignorant, or confers with the 
 most learned. He is as willing to receive in- 
 formation as to give it, and to join the com- 
 pany, as far as he is able, in the most trifling 
 conversation into which they happen to fall, 
 as in the most serious or sublime. If he dis- 
 putes, it is with as much candour on the 
 most important and interesting, as on the 
 most insignificant subjects, and he is not less 
 patient in hearing than in answering his anta- 
 gonist. If you talk to him of himself, or his 
 works, he accepts praise, or acknowledge 
 defects, with equal meekness, and it is impos- 
 sible to suspect him of affectation in either. 
 We are more obliged and gratified by the 
 plai:' unexaggerated expressions of his regard, 
 thau by the compliments and attentions of 
 the most accomplished pattern of high breed- 
 ing ; because his benevolence and sincerity 
 are so strongly marked in every look, worcf, 
 and action, that we are convinced his civili- 
 ties are offered for our sakes, not for his 
 own, and are the natural effects of real kind- 
 ness, not the studied ornaments of behaviour. 
 Every one is desirous to show him kindness 
 in return, which we know will be accepted 
 just as it is meant. All are ready to pay him 
 that deference which he does not desire, and 
 to give him credit for more than he assumes, 
 or even for more than he possesses. With a 
 
BfRS. CIIAF03E. 13 
 
 person ungraceful, and with manners unpol- 
 ished by the world, his behaviour is always 
 proper, easy, and respectable ; as free from 
 constraint and servility in the highest com- 
 pany, as from haughtiness and insolence in 
 the lowest, His dignity arises from his hu- 
 mility ; and the sweetness, gentleness, and 
 frankness of his manners, from the real 
 goodness and rectitude of his heart, which 
 Res open to inspection in all the fearlessness 
 of truth, without any need of disguise or or- 
 nament. 
 
 Where this foundation of real virtue is 
 wanting, every art of pleasing is but the thin 
 superficial covering of deformity, which be- 
 comes the more disgusting by the pains taken 
 to dress it in false colours. No wonder then 
 that Simplicity is so sure of attracting love 
 and approbation, since it implies almost eve- 
 ry other virtue. No wonder that the heart, 
 where envy, pride, and vanity reside, will 
 not venture to trust itself to the lips or eyes. 
 " Dare to be what you are" is a good maxim ; 
 but it will only be put in practice by those 
 who are what they ought to be. Every one 
 may however rest assured, that they are gen- 
 erally known for what they are, and that false- 
 hood, like Cain, has a mark set upon it by 
 Heaven. This mark may not be discerneH. 
 on a superficial view, nor by the foolish, the 
 young, and inexperienced; but in a short 
 course of years it will be discovered by so 
 many eyes, that the world cannot be kept 
 ignorant of it, and it will then be punished by 
 the scorn it deserves. 
 
 R r 
 
14 WORKS OF 
 
 Whoever, therefore, desires to please, to 
 be respected and beloved, let him first give 
 his attention to the inward state of his mind. 
 When all is right there, outward elegances 
 may be easily attained, or the want of them 
 easily excused. But if nature and the heart 
 have no share in dictating his behaviour, his 
 looks, and his sentiments, he may be a fop, a 
 dancing-master, a courtier, or a spy ; but he 
 can never be an amiable man. 
 
 This, the noble writer, whose letters to his 
 son have lately engaged the attention of the 
 public, seems to have forgotten. Intent on 
 those worldly advantages, which cannot be 
 attained without the good will of mankind, 
 he unweariedly recommends and enforces 
 the appearances of all that he thinks enga- 
 ging, but forgets that those appearances must 
 be the result of real excellences, which he 
 takes no pains to inculcate. Even * sweet- 
 ness of countenance he thinks may be put on 
 
 * Vide Lord Chesterfield's Letters, Letter 220. 
 tl Learn even to compose your countenance to the 
 respectful, the cheerful, and the insinuating." 
 Letter 221. " An air. a tone of voice, a com- 
 posure of countenance to mildness and softness, 
 which are all easily acquired, do the business; 
 and without farther examination, and possibly 
 with the contrary qualities, that man is reckoned 
 the gentlest, the.modestest, the best natured man 
 alive. Happy the man who with a certain fund 
 of parts and knowledge gets acquainted with the 
 world early enough to make it his bubble, at an 
 age when most people are the bubbles of the 
 world ! for that is the common case of youth." 
 
MRS. CHAPOrsE. Vo 
 
 and adjusted at the glass, like the rouge and 
 the bouquet ; and that his son may possess 
 les mameres nobles, and all the charms of lib- 
 eral and ingenuous youth, whilst in reality he 
 regulates his * friendships by his views of fu- 
 ture advancement ; f conceals every passion 
 and sentiment of his own heart, and takes 
 advantage of those of others ; whilst he sets 
 no other bounds to his flattery, but those of 
 the credulity of his companions, and lavishes 
 every mark of attention and admiration, of 
 kindness and good nature, with no other mo- 
 tive or end but his own advantage. The fa- 
 vourite maxim which his lordship so often re- 
 peats, I" II volto sciolto, i pensieri streiti" he 
 
 1 Vide Letters 140 and 207. 
 
 t Vide Letter 151. In this Letter his lordship 
 quotes, from Lord Bacon, the distinction between 
 simulation and dissimulation ; '* the last of which 
 is only to hide a man's own cards, wliereas simu- 
 lation is put on in order to look into other peo- 
 ple's." But does not the following account of 
 his own management, which he recommends to 
 his son as an example, come under the description 
 of simulation f " I should desire nothing better in 
 any negotiation, than to have to do with one of 
 these men of warm, quick passions, which I 
 would take care to set in motion. By artful 
 provocations I would extort rash unguarded ex- 
 pressions ; and, by hinting at all the several 
 things I could suspect, infallibly discover the 
 true one, by the alteration it occasioned in the 
 countenance of the person." Is not this to look 
 into another man's cards ? As a minister it may 
 be able conduct, but as a man it is surely detestable 
 
 t The countenance open, the thoughts close. 
 
16 WORKS OP 
 
 thinks as practicable as it is convenient ; for- 
 getting that an open countenance is the index 
 nature gave to an open ingenuous heart; and 
 that the bestteacher can hardly bring a youth 
 of nineteen to such perfection in hypocrisy, 
 as to give his face ana air the frankness propt- 
 er to his age, and his mind the cunning and 
 design of an old statesman. But, God be prais- 
 ed ! we are not constituted to be the dupes 
 of every shallow artifice ; and a hypocrite 
 under twenty has very little chance of making 
 " the world his 6w&feZe."* Scarcely even the 
 weakest of that sex which his lordship consi- 
 ders as far helow rationality,! would be much 
 charmed with a youth who had been tutored 
 by his father to make lovei wherever he went, 
 because it was cheaper and safer to have an 
 arrangement with a married woman of fash- 
 ion, than to keep an opera girl. It is impos- 
 sible to think of this in a moral light without 
 a degree of horror, which obscures the ridi- 
 
 * Vide note p. 9. 
 
 \ Letter 129. 
 
 $ Letter 242. " Address yourself to some wo- 
 man of fashion and beauty wherever you are, and 
 try how far that will go. If the place be not se- 
 cured before hand, and garrisoned, nine times in 
 ten you will take it." Sometimes his lordship 
 directs him to address two at the same time ; one 
 as a Mad. l'Ursay, to instruct him in the art of 
 pleasing, the olhtr to exercise those arts upon. 
 Mad. de Blot is chosen for this last office, on ac- 
 count of her perverse fidelity to her iui=hand > 
 '-' Iho" married above a.year. n 
 
mrs. chapone. 17 
 
 cu\a of it. That such precepts should have 
 been the instructions of a father to his son, 
 and that they should be publicly offered to 
 the youth of a nation where the sacredness 
 of marriage and the bonds of family love 
 are not yet entirely exploded, are indeed 
 most alarming symptoms of corruption. The 
 mean self-love, which is thus inculcated, at 
 the expense of the most important interests of 
 society, must show itself through the whole 
 man, in spite of the frippery in which his 
 lordship would dress him. Elegance of mind 
 can alone produce true elegance of behaviour. 
 Les manieres douces belong to a gentle and 
 good heart ; les manieres nobles to a spirit of 
 generosity, bravery, and truth. 
 
 "■ Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow : 
 u The rest is all but leather or prunella." Pope. 
 
 ESSAY II. 
 
 ON CONVERSATION. 
 
 I have always considered the universal prac- 
 tice of card-playing as particularly pernicious 
 in this respect, that, whilst it keeps peoph: 
 perpetually in company, it excludes conver- 
 sation. The hours which are spent in 
 society may be made, not only the most 
 agreeable, but perhaps the most useful of 
 any, provided our companions are well cho- 
 sen. But though this cannot always be the 
 r r 2 
 
18 WORKS OF 
 
 case, and though few persons are qualified to 
 make a figure in conversation, or to give it 
 all the advantage of which it is capable, yet, 
 oven amongst those of moderate understand- 
 ing and knowledge, it seems almost impossi- 
 ble that an evening should pass in mutual 
 endeavours to entertain each other, without 
 something being struck out that would in 
 some degree enlighten and improve the mind. 
 If we are not instructed by what we hear, 
 we may at least derive some advantage from 
 the exercise of our own powers, from being 
 obliged to recollect and produce what we know 
 or what we mink on the topics which arise; 
 and whilst the understanding is thus kept, in 
 action, though perhaps on subjects not very 
 important, it is certainly more likely to acquire 
 some vigour, than whilst its attention is con- 
 fined to the management of a hand of cards. 
 In the mean time our self-command may be 
 improving by the exercise of politeness ; 
 which teaches us to offer our favourite opin- 
 ions with modesty, to hear them controverted 
 with good-humour, and tomainlain them with 
 moderation : to listen with patient attention 
 to a tedious or a well known story ; to an- 
 swer an objection that is nothing to the pur- 
 pose, and make some civil reply to an argu- 
 ment too confused to be understood. These 
 are useful, though not very pleasant, exertions 
 of benevolence and self-denial ; and such 
 utility may be derived even from those who 
 can no otherwise contribute to our improve- 
 ment. Many more pleasi; § advantages one 
 should expect to find in the company of per- 
 sons of fashion and education. 
 
MRS. CHAPOM. 19 
 
 But, alas! if one attends to the numerous 
 abuses of conversation, and observes how of- 
 ten it offends against some of the first princi- 
 ples of molality, one is tempted to think 
 that even card-playing, though it interests 
 none bat the most unlovely passions, is a less 
 dangerous method of employing time. 
 
 Many are the natural temptations to offen- 
 ces of the tongue, from which we are con- 
 stantly in danger in all times and all places, 
 But some of those which prevail in our pre- 
 sent polite circles, seem to arise merely from 
 the ton which has been imported to us from a 
 neighbouring nation, where perhaps the same 
 things may be natural and harmless, which, 
 in us, are affected, and fruitful of bad conse- 
 quences. Surely nothing can be less natural 
 to the dry and reserved temper of the En- 
 glish, than that flow of unbounded flattery 
 which seems the established commerce of 
 the grand monde, but which, to a modest 
 mind, unhardened by the constant use of it, 
 is really quite overwhelming. That deep and 
 affecting interest, with which a mere com- 
 mon acquaintance talks to you for half an 
 hour of your slightest indisposition ; those 
 tender professions of affection and esteem ; 
 that admiration, which exhausts the language 
 to express itself, are so exceedingly uncon- 
 genial to an English heart (slow* to expand 
 itself, though warm and steady in real affec- 
 tion) that they never sit handsomely on us ; 
 and, though we may be pleased at the mo- 
 ment with the self-consequence given us, we 
 soon feel a degree of disgust arising towards 
 those from whom we receive it. 
 
£0 WORKS Of 
 
 Another fashion, very inconvenient to a 
 people naturally grave, is that of being always 
 gay. Lively airs and diverting sallies are so 
 essential in a fashionable company, that, if 
 they cannot be kept up by harmless wit and 
 humour, they must be produced by throwing 
 an air of ridicule on the most important sub- 
 jects, and the most respectable characters ; 
 not excepting the principles we profess to 
 believe, or the persons we profess to esteem. 
 
 Thus, whilst we lavish our praise on those 
 who are present (a practice which untaught; 
 nature would blush at) we derive all our mirth 
 from the absent, to whom we are not less li- 
 beral of abuse and ridicule (an injustice which 
 every honest peasant would scorn.) Some 
 are even shameless enough to begin their ri- 
 dicule on those who have just quitted the 
 room, and whom they have been grossly flat- 
 tering ; though it is so obvious, that the re- 
 maining part of the company, after having 
 been fatigued with bowing to their compli- 
 ments, must expect the same fate in their 
 turn, as their carriages drive from the door. 
 
 Nothing is to me more disgusting than that 
 air of mildness and benevolence with which 
 some ill-natured observation on the person 
 or dress of our absent acquaintance, or some 
 sly sarcasm, designed to obscure the bright- 
 est part of their character, is usually intro- 
 duced. If the defects of a lady's person are 
 to be held forth to ridicule, it is first remark- 
 ed, that " she is certainly the best kind of 
 woman in the world." If one of distinguish- 
 ed talents is to be tli£ victim, those talents 
 
MRS, chapom:. £i 
 
 are magnified and exalted in the strongest 
 trrms, and then in a lower voice yon are call- 
 ed upon to take notice of the conscious su- 
 periority of her manner, the ostentatious 
 display of her knowledge, or the pointed af- 
 fectation of her wit. Some absurd saying, 
 which envy Lad invented for her, is produced 
 as a sample of her bans mots, and some trait 
 of impertinence, though perhaps the most 
 contrary to her character, related as a speci- 
 men of her behaviour. When the lady * * * 5 
 have been extolled for their charity and good- 
 ness, I have heard it added, " that it is im- 
 possible to pass through their hall without 
 terrible consequences, 'tis so full of company 
 from Broad St Giles's. Mrs. * * * * is con- 
 fessedly the most pious creature upon earth ! 
 poor soul ! she was carried to church in an 
 ague-fit last Sunday ; for she thinks there is 
 no going to heaven without hearing Mr. Such- 
 a-one preach once a week." Thus, by the 
 help of exaggeration, you may possibly suc- 
 ceed in raising a sneer against a plain person, 
 or a bright understanding; against christian 
 beneficence, or rational piety ; but as you pro- 
 fess the highest esteem for the characters you 
 ridicule, nobody must say, that you are censo- 
 rious or unfriendly. 
 
 Another heinous evil arises from the neces- 
 sity of being au fait, with regard to every 
 character and occurrence that is talked of. 
 The word and thing called sentiment being 
 exploded as perfectly ridiculous, all discussion 
 of general topics being formal, tedious, and 
 insufferable; and literary subjects pedantic 
 and affected, there remains nothing, when 
 
22 WORKS 01 
 
 you have done with public affairs and public 
 diversions, but private anecdotes, pulling 
 down, or gently undermining characters, 
 sitting in judgment on those transactions, 
 which, though of a private nature, are, by 
 the newly established custom of the times, 
 laid before the public, or producing fresh ac- 
 counts of them from private hands. I hardly 
 ever heard a conversation of this kind carried 
 on for half an hour, vvithout some flagrant 
 instance of slander and injustice. Itis amaz- 
 ing to observe the courage with which, upon 
 mere common report, facts are repeated, 
 which tend to the utter ruin of a character, 
 and even motives confidently assigned, which 
 it was impossible should be known. I have 
 heard things asserted as indisputable truths, 
 with the air of a person who was behind the 
 curtain and knew the whole, which I have 
 afterwards detected to have been taken on 
 trust from the newspapers. 
 
 The heaviest misfortunes will not shelter 
 you from censure, when the conversation 
 takes this turn. If you have lost your dear- 
 est friend, we pity you indeed ; but we can- 
 not help observing, either that you hare very 
 little feeling, and do not grieve enough, or that 
 you are highly blameable in feeling too much, 
 and grieving too violently ; or else that there 
 is something very ridiculous in j^our manner 
 of showing your grief, or in some circum- 
 stances of your behaviour under it. If you 
 are stripped of your whole fortune, 'tis a ter- 
 rible thing to be sure ; but it can't be dissem- 
 bled, that your own imprudence was, in a 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 23 
 
 great measure, the cause of it. If distemper 
 or accident has disfigured your face or dis- 
 torted your limbs, we can't help being divert- 
 ed with the oddness of your figure ; but, poor 
 creature! we are excessively shocked and 
 concerned at the same time. 
 
 If all the evii-speaking one hears was to be 
 esteemed the effect of malice, one might 
 sometimes fancy one's self in the infernal 
 regions ; but I sincerely believe, malice has 
 very seldom any share in it: the desire of 
 keeping up or enlivening genteel conversa- 
 tion, with the want of rational knowledge, or 
 the fear of being ridiculed for showing the 
 knowledge Ave have, is the general cause of 
 those injuries we do our fellow creatures in 
 our common discourse. 
 
 But if the desire of being fashionable leads 
 to many immoralities, one would expect it 
 should at least preserve us from such as of- 
 fend no less against the laws of politeness, 
 than against those of religion and virtue. It 
 is the boast of this age to have discovered, 
 that true politeness consists, not in modes and 
 ceremonies, but in entering with delicacy into 
 the feelings of our companions, conforming 
 to their inclinations, exalting them in their 
 own opinions, and relieving them as much 
 as possible from every restraint and anxiety : 
 but how ill are these maxims observed to- 
 wards those who have not yet learned the 
 fashionable indifference and levity on serious 
 subjects ! A young person educated in reli- 
 gious sentiments, and warm with the love of 
 virtue, when first admitted into the circles of 
 
£4 WORKS OF 
 
 persons of character, thinks he cannot better 
 recommend himself, than by taking some op- 
 
 Eortunity of expressing the sentiments he has 
 een taught to revere : but how is he shocked 
 and mortified, to find himself stared at and ri- 
 diculed, his gravity answered with contemp- 
 tuous smiles, or received with a general si- 
 lence, the distressful effect of which can only 
 be conceived by those who have fell it ! Sunk 
 into the deepest confusion on finding himself 
 so much too wise and good for his company, 
 he soon determines no more to offend on that 
 side : but would any of the most troublesome 
 formalities of former ages have cost him a 
 pain equal to this unmerited shame, or the 
 constraint he must suffer in disguising his 
 sentiments, and inuring himself to the ridicule 
 and contempt of what he had been used to 
 hold most sacred? The present pain inflicted 
 on him is a cruel outrage on good manners ; 
 but the consequences of it are far more inju- 
 rious. Such an attack on a young man's sen- 
 sibility is but too generally followed by the 
 sacrifice of virtue to fashion ; and he gradu- 
 ally adopts an air of disdain for all that should 
 preserve him from corruption and ruin. 
 
 Refinement of sentiment in a young lady 
 too often meets with a like fate. She has not 
 the courage to assume a superior elegance of 
 mind to those she converses with, who would 
 only laugh at her pretensions ; she must there- 
 fore, on pain of being treated as a romance 
 heroine, learn to debase the pure lustre of 
 virgin delicacy and refined sensibility; she 
 must adopt the worldly notions, and the free. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. £3 
 
 not to say licentious, manners of those who 
 have already trod the round of public diver- 
 sions, and have been hackneyed in the ways 
 of the gay world ; till from copying their ex- 
 ternal behaviour, she gradually reduces her 
 mind to the same standard, and brings down, 
 every high thought, every delicate and ingen- 
 uous sentiment, with which books and edu- 
 cation had inspired her, to the ton of unfeel- 
 ing dissipation. 
 
 Nor can we wonder that the modest timid- 
 ity of youth should be thus borne down by 
 the imposing air of the world, when we see 
 that it has but too strong an effect even on 
 well-principled and long-practised virtue. I 
 believe I may appeal to the bosom of almost 
 every man of religious principles, whose situ- 
 ation has obliged him to converse much with 
 the world, whether he has not found it one 
 of his hardest trials, to stem the torrent of 
 custom, and endure the ridicule which awaits 
 the testimony he is bound to give in the cause> 
 of religion and virtue. Has he never been 
 tempted to suppress that testimony, and to 
 incur the danger of countenancing, by not 
 opposing, contrary notions, rather than ex- 
 pose himself to suffer, or be obliged to resent, 
 the contempt of those who esteemed them- 
 selves polite company ; and who were really 
 too well bred to have ridiculed his mistress, 
 friend, or relation in his presence, though they 
 could allow themselves to insult him on points 
 still more interesting ? 
 
 But, without formally attacking principles, 
 the general tendency of conversation mu?t. 
 B 9 
 
26 WORKS OP 
 
 conduce either to weaken or establish them. 
 The more remote the cause is from the effect, 
 the less are we on our guard against it ; and 
 the slowest method is perhaps the surest, to 
 undermine religion and morality. 
 
 When we are told by our great Master, that 
 " of every idle word we must give an account 
 at the day of judgment," it is not to be ima- 
 gined that he meant to confine our common 
 conversation to serious and important subjects, 
 or to condemn that innocent trifling, which ne- 
 cessarily makes so large a part of our commu- 
 nication with each other : he says not, that eve- 
 ry idle word shall be accounted a fault, but 
 only that an account must be given of it ; that 
 it shall be examined as to the tendency of it, 
 whether it be good or bad, and as such be 
 placed to the account of our good or evil 
 conduct ; for there is no part of our conver- 
 sation so insignificant, as not to be tinctured, 
 in some degree, by our principles and dispo- 
 sitions : none that has not some remote influ- 
 ence on the cause of virtue. 
 
 True religion gives an habitual sweetness 
 and complacency, which produces genuine 
 politeness, without injury to sincerity : it pre- 
 serves the mind from every unfair bias, and 
 inclines it to temper justice with mere) in all 
 its judgments upon others : by regulating 
 our self-love, it prevents our sacrificing to 
 vanity the good fame of a fellow creature : it 
 casts a pleasing light on every object, and in- 
 spires an air of contentment, of thankfulness 
 and joy, which raises the spirits and promotes 
 sucli an innocent cheerfulness of convert 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 27 
 
 tion, as may well compensate for the loss of 
 that mirth which is founded on ill nature : 
 whilst superstition and irreligion equally dis- 
 pose the mi od to gloomy and uncomfortable 
 views ; to think hardly of persons and events ; 
 to consider life as a scene of confusion, and 
 mankind as made up of fools and knaves, 
 who prey on each other, and aggravate the 
 common load of miserj'. Under these me- 
 lancholy impressions, men contrive, by attri- 
 buting the best actions to selfish motives, to 
 level all distinctions of character, and con- 
 clude the whole race under one dreadful sen- 
 tence ; a race which the superstitious-man 
 considers as under the wrath of its Maker, 
 and as the proper subject of never-ending 
 misery ; while the infidel sees it under the 
 less horrible, but dark and hopeless doom oi* 
 annihilation : he perceives not a beneficent 
 hand over-ruling the seeming disorders of 
 this world, nor does his faint eye reach the 
 distant prospect of immortal glor} r , which 
 throws such an animating splendour on the 
 whole scene of existence : his blessings are 
 not heightened by gratitude, nor his suffer- 
 ings mitigated by resignation ; even his mirth 
 is infected with bitterness. Whilst we faugh 
 with Voltaire at the most heightened repre- 
 sentation of human wickedness and misery, 
 disregarded bj' Heaven, and terminating in 
 eternal darkness, surely we must forget, that 
 we also are men, and that this shocking scene 
 is the poor all of existence which his gloomy 
 philosophy allots us. 
 
i28 WORKS OP 
 
 The different views of things which arise 
 from different opinions concerning the moral 
 
 fovemment of trie world, and the end of our 
 eing, cannot but affect the general tenor of 
 conversation even on indifferent topics : a man 
 may show the bent of his mind in talking of a 
 comedy or a piece of news ; and the turn of 
 thought he will introduce from these subjects 
 will tend either to the improvement or corrup- 
 tion of his hearers. 
 
 If we accustom ourselves to reflect on the 
 consequences of our words, and if we live 
 under a sense of the duty of doing good to 
 our fellow creatures, and of forbearing to 
 hurt them in any manner or degree, we shall 
 soon find to how great a sum of good or evil 
 our daily expense of idle words may amount. 
 When we are considering what are the means 
 of doing good intrusted to us, perhaps the 
 sphere of conversation is seldom thought of; 
 yet surely it gives ample scope for the exer- 
 tion of that active principle of beneficence in 
 which true virtue consists ; and it is a sphere 
 of action, from which no station or circum- 
 stances can exclude us : there is not a man 
 who drinks his pot of porter at the alehouse, 
 but has somebody who looks up to his opin- 
 ion, and whose manners and conduct may be 
 influenced by his sentiments : how much then 
 may be done by those whose understandings 
 are held in any estimation among their ac- 
 quaintance ! " A word spoken in season, how 
 good is it !" what a deep and lasting impres- 
 sion does it sometimes make ! especially from 
 the lips of those whose rank, abilities, orattrac- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 29 
 
 tfons give them particular consideration. On 
 the other hand, what diffusive evil may take 
 its rise from a slighting word, or even from a 
 shrug, or a smile ! 
 
 A young gentleman of my acquaintance 
 has assured me, that he never received so 
 much benefit from any sermon he ever heard, 
 as from a reproof which he once received in 
 conversation from a lady, who, when he had 
 been talking on some subject rather licen- 
 tiously, said " it is a sign you did not overhear 
 
 what lord L said of you yesterday, or 
 
 you would never utter such sentiments." 
 The gentleman, when he told it to me, added. 
 u Whoever could be insensible to the keenness 
 of this reproof, and the flattering politeness 
 with which it was tempered, must be flayed 
 (as they say of a Russian) before he could be 
 made to feel." Its influence on him has prob- 
 ably continued to this day ; for 1 never knew 
 h'»m give occasion for another reproof of the 
 same nature. 
 
 The great and irresistible influence, which 
 the choice of our company, as well as the 
 mode of our own conversation, has on our 
 habits of thinking and acting, and on the 
 whole form and colour of our minds, is a sub- 
 ject too common to be much enlarged upon ; 
 it cannot, however, be too deeply considered, 
 as it seems the. leading circumstance of our 
 lives, and that which may chiefly determine 
 our character and condition to all eternity. 
 ss2 
 
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 ESSAY III. 
 
 ON ENTHUSIASM, AND INDIFFERENCE IN RELIGION 
 
 It is an old observation, that nothing is so 
 difficult as to preserve the human affections in 
 the due medium between opposite extremes. 
 This is so remarkably true in our religious 
 sentiments, that whoever examines his own 
 heart will probably be convinced, that, in 
 every part of his life, he has been led too far, 
 either towards enthusiasm or indifference. 
 
 I remember that when I was about fifteen 
 years old, I was charmed with many of the 
 doctrines of the Mystics. Disinterested love 
 of God, contempt of ourselves, and indifference 
 towards our own happiness, appeared to me 
 essential to the true spirit of religion ; and 
 such refinements on human nature were 
 highly gratifying to my romantic turn of mind. 
 I fancied myself exalted by these ideas to a 
 high degree of perfection, and lamented and 
 despised the unhappy state in which I had 
 been before I became acquainted with these 
 sublime religionists. But, as my reason 
 gained strength, I discovered that there was 
 no more reality in these my fancied senti- 
 ments than in my dreams, and that the sen- 
 sations I had produced in my own heart were 
 as entirely the effect of imagination, as the 
 distress I felt in seeing a tragedy. 
 
 This self-delusion is common enough in 
 many of the operations of our own minds, 
 but perhaps in none more than in the ardours 
 of devotion : which are often no other than 
 
MJR.S. CHAPONE. Si. 
 
 the workings of a heated fancy, that, in a 
 kind of frenzy, adds an unnatural force to 
 our sentiments, and makes us undertake 
 flights, of which human nature in its sober 
 state is incapable. 
 
 It is true, that we cannot possibly exceed 
 in the measure of our love to God, to whom 
 reason, as well as revelation, directs us to of- 
 fer the best of our affections, and from whom 
 alone we can hope for that happiness which 
 it is our nature incessantly to desire. But we 
 may fancy that we love him more than we 
 do or can ; and measure that love, not by the 
 rule himself has given us; by our obedience, 
 and by our love to our fellow creatures ; but 
 by the strength of those factitious feelings 
 which we have the art of raising in ourselves, 
 and which can naturally be excited only by 
 the senses or the imagination. God cannot 
 be the proper object of such feelings, since 
 he is not present either to our senses or our 
 imaginations. Of him we can have no idea, 
 since all our ideas are introduced by our 
 senses. We do indeed discover, by the de- 
 ductions of reason, that there must be one 
 self-existent Being possessing all perfection : 
 we therefore accumulate all the good we are 
 acquainted with, ascribing it to the Deity, 
 with no other addition than the negation of 
 all limits or imperfection. This we call an 
 idea of God ; but it is not properly such, for 
 we are incapable of representing to our minds 
 at once all possible excellences, with infinity 
 added to them. When we would contem- 
 plate the Supreme Being, we must trace his 
 
32 WORKS OF 
 
 attributes one by one ; and even thus we 
 must gather from mere mortal things, our 
 notions of those attributes. He is therefore 
 the object and choice of our reason, rather 
 than of our passions : and our contemplations 
 of his divine perfections are rather fitted 
 to produce sentiments of gratitude and re- 
 verential love, like those we feel towards a 
 worthy parent, than such strong desires and 
 flaming raptures as the Mystics describe ; 
 who borrow their expressions from the most 
 sensual kind of love. This love of desire, as 
 they distinguish it, they would appropriate 
 solely to the purest of all spirits, and ieave 
 for sensible objects only calm benevolence. 
 Thus they undertake to change the nature 
 our Maker has given us. They reject the 
 title he has vouchsafed to take upon himself, 
 of our father, and choose to style him their 
 spouse, their lover. They profess to feast 
 and inebriate themselves with his charms, 
 whom they " neither have seen, nor can 
 see," and of whom they can have no real 
 idea ; and to shut their hearts against the at- 
 tractions of all sensible objects. They even 
 undertake a kind of separation from them- 
 selves : they talk of self-annihilation, self- 
 hatred, of being able to will their own eter- 
 nal misery, if it should please God to will it ! 
 in short, they enchant themselves with words 
 void of meaning, and with suppositions which 
 a sound mind is incapable of admitting for a 
 moment. 
 
 That the excellent Fenelon should have 
 adopted such irrational expressions, would 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. S3 
 
 be inconceivable, if we did not know that the 
 richness and strength of such an imagination, 
 and the warmth of such a heart as his, will 
 naturally prevail over reason, and hurry a 
 man into the regions of extravagance, when- 
 ever his favourite object is in view. 
 
 But whatever absurdities may arise from 
 the fancied ardours of enthusiasm, they are 
 much less pernicious to the mind than the 
 contrary extreme of coldness and indiffer- 
 ence in religion. The spirit of chivalry, 
 though it led to many romantic enterprises, 
 was nevertheless favourable to true courage, 
 as it excited and nourished magnanimity and 
 contempt of danger; which, though some- 
 times wasted in a; .surd undertakings, were 
 of the greatest use on real and proper oc- 
 casions. The noblest energies of which we 
 are capable can scarcely be called out with- 
 out some degree of enthusiasm, in whatever 
 cause we are engaged ; and those sentiments, 
 which tend to *he exaltation of human na- 
 ture, though they may often excite attempts 
 beyond the human powers, will however pre- 
 vent our stopping short of them, and losing, 
 by careless indolence and self-desertion, the 
 greatest part of that strength with which we 
 really are endued. 
 
 How common is it for those who profess 
 (and perhaps sincerely) to believe with entire 
 persuasion the truth of the gospel, to declare 
 that they do not pretend to frame their lives 
 according to the purity of its moral precepts ! 
 " I hope," say they, " I am guilty of no great 
 rnmes: but the customs of the world in 
 
34 WORKS OF 
 
 these times will not admit of a conduct 
 agreeable, either to reason or revelation. I 
 know the course of life 1 am in is wrong ; 
 I know that I am engrossed by the world ; 
 that 1 have no time for reflection, nor for the 
 practice of many duties which I acknowledge 
 to be such. But I know not how it is ; I do 
 not find that I can alter my manner of liv- 
 ing." Thus they coolly and contentedly 
 give themselves up to a constant course of 
 dissipation, and a general worthlessness of 
 character, which, I fear, is as little favour- 
 able to their happiness here or hereafter, as 
 the occasional commission of crimes at which 
 they would start and tremble. The habitual 
 neglect of all that is most valuable and im- 
 portant, of children, friends, servants; of 
 neighbours and dependants, of the poor ; of 
 God, and of their own minds, they consider 
 as an excusable levity, and satisfy themselves 
 with laying the blame on the manners of the 
 times. • *' 
 
 If a modern lady of fashion was to be cal- 
 led to account for the disposition of her time, 
 I imagine her defence would run in this 
 stvle : " I can't, you know, be outof the world, 
 nor act differently from every body in it. 
 The hours are every where late, conse- 
 quently I rise late. I have scarce breakfasted 
 before morning visits begin, or 'tis time to go 
 to an auction, or a concert ; or to take a lit- 
 tle exercise for my health. Dressing my hair 
 is a long operation ; but one can't appear 
 with a head unlike every body else. One 
 must sometimes go to a play, or an opera : 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 35 
 
 though I own it hurries one to death. Then 
 ■what with necessary visits, the perpetual en- 
 gagements to card parties at private houses ; 
 and attendance on the public assemblies, to 
 which all people of fashion subscribe, the 
 evenings you see are fully disposed of. "What 
 time then can I possibly have for what you 
 call domestic duties ? You talk of the offices 
 and enjoyments of friendship ; alas ! I have 
 no hours left for friends ! I must see them in 
 a crowd, or not at all. As to cultivating the 
 friendship of my husband, we are very civil 
 when we meet ; but we are both too much 
 engaged to spend much time with each other. 
 With regard to my daughters, 1 have given 
 them a French governess, and proper mas- 
 ters — I can do no more for them. You tell 
 me, I should instruct my servants, but 1 have 
 not time to inform myself, much less can I 
 undertake any thing of that sort for them, or 
 even be able to guess what they do with 
 themselves the greatest part of the twenty- 
 four hours. I go to church, if possible, once 
 on a Sunday, and then some of my servants 
 attend me ; and if they will not mind what 
 the preacher says, how can I help it? The 
 management or our fortune, as far as I am 
 concerned, I must leave to the steward and 
 housekeeper ; for I fi d I can barely snatch 
 a quarter of an hour just to look over the bill 
 of fare when I am to have company, that 
 they may not send up any thing frightful or 
 old fashioned. As to the christian duty of 
 charity, I assure you I ara <> ill-natured; and 
 (considering that the ^vr-at expense of being 
 
36 WOKKS OF 
 
 always dressed for company, with losses at 
 cards, subscriptions, and public spectacles, 
 leave me very little to dispose of) I am ready 
 enough to give my money when 1 meet with 
 a miserable object. You say, I should in- 
 quire out such, inform myself thoroughly of 
 their cases, make an acquaintance with the 
 poor of my neighbourhood in the country, 
 and plan out the best methods of relieving 
 the unfortunate, and assisting the industrious. 
 But this supposes much more time, and much 
 more money than I have to bestow. I have 
 had hopes indeed that my summers would 
 have afforded me more leisure ; but we stay 
 pretty late in town ; then we generally pass 
 several weeks at one or other of the water- 
 drinking places, where every moment is spent 
 in public ; and, for the few months in which 
 we reside at our own seat, our house is al- 
 ways full, with a succession of company, to 
 whose amusement one is obliged to dedicate 
 every hour of the day." 
 
 So here ends the account of that time 
 which was given you to prepare and educate 
 yourself for eternity ? yet you believe the 
 immortalitj of the soul, and a future state of 
 rewards and punishments. Ask your own 
 heart what rewards you deserve, or what 
 kind of felicity you are fitted to enjoy ? 
 Which of those faculties or affections, which 
 heaven can be supposed to gratify, have you 
 cultivated and improved ? If, in that eternal 
 world, the stores of knowledge should be laid 
 open before you, have you preserved that 
 thirst of knowledge, or that taste for truth, 
 
Sirs, chapone. 57 
 
 which is now to be indulged with endless in- 
 formation ? If, in the society of saints and 
 angels, the purest benevolence and most cor- 
 dial love is to constitute your happiness, 
 where is the heart that should enjoy this de- 
 lightful intercourse of affection ? Has yours 
 been exercised and refined to a proper capa- 
 city of it during your state of discipline, by 
 the energies of generous friendship, by the 
 meltings of parental fondness, or by that 
 union of heart and soul, that mixed exertion 
 of perfect friendship and ineffable tender- 
 ness, which approaches nearest to the full 
 satisfaction 01 our nature, in the bands of 
 conjugal love? Alas ! you scarce knew you 
 had a heart, except when you feel it swell 
 with pride, or flutter with vanity. Has your 
 piety and gratitude to the Source of all good 
 teen exercised and strengthened by constant 
 acts of praise and thanksgiving? Was it 
 nourished by frequent meditation, and silent 
 recollection of all the wonders he hath done 
 for us, till it burst forth in fervent prayer ? I 
 fear it w r as rather decency than devotion that 
 carried you once a week to the place of pub- 
 lic worship, and, for the rest of the week, 
 your thoughts and time were so very differ- 
 ently filled up, that the idea of a Ruler of the 
 Universe could occur but seldom, and then, 
 rather as an object of terror than of hope 
 and joy. How then shall a soul so dead to 
 divine love, so lost to all but the most childish 
 pursuits, be able to exalt and enlarge rtselfto 
 a capacity of that bliss which we are allowed 
 
 . T t 
 
33 Works of 
 
 to hope for, in a more intimate perception of 
 the divine presence, in contemplating more 
 nearly the perfections of our Creator, and 
 in pouring out before his throne our ardent 
 gratitude, love, and adoration? What kind 
 of training is the life you have passed through 
 for such an immortality ? 
 
 And dare you look down with contempt 
 on those whom strong temptation from na- 
 tural passion?, or a train of unfortunate cir- 
 cumstances, have sunk into the commission 
 of what you call great crimes'? Dare you 
 speak peace to your own heart, because by 
 different circumstances you have been pre- 
 served from them ? Far be it from me to 
 Wish to lessen the horror of crimes : but yet, 
 as the temptations to these occur but seldom, 
 whereas the temptations to neglect, and in- 
 difference towards our duty for ever surround 
 us, it may be necessary to awaken ourselves 
 to some calculation of the proportions be- 
 tween such habitual omission of all that is 
 good, and the commission of more heinous 
 acts of sin ; between wasting our whole life 
 in what is falsely called innocent amusement, 
 and disgracing it by faults which would alarm 
 society more, though possibly they might 
 injure it less. 
 
 How amazing is the distance between the 
 extreme of negligence and self indulgence in 
 such nominal christians, and the opposite ex- 
 cess of rigour which some have unhappily 
 thought meritorious! between a Pascal (who 
 dreaded the influence of pleasure so much, 
 as to wear an iron, which he pressed into his 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 5Q 
 
 side "whenever he found himself taking delight 
 in any object of sense) and those who think 
 life lent them only to be squandered in sense- 
 less diversions, and the frivolous indulgence 
 of vanity! what a strange composition is 
 man ! ever diverging from the right line, for- 
 getting the true end of his being, or widely 
 mistaking the means that lead to it ! 
 
 If it were indeed true, that the Supreme 
 Being had made it the condition of our future 
 happiness, that we should spend the days of 
 our pilgrimage here on earth in voluntary 
 suffering and mortification, and a continual 
 opposition to every inclination of nature, it 
 "would surely be worth while to conform even 
 to these conditions, however rigorous : and 
 we see, by numerous examples, that it is not 
 more than human creatures are capable of, 
 when fully persuaded that their eternal in- 
 terests demand it. But if, in fact, the laws 
 of God are no other than directions for the 
 better enjoyment of our existence ; if he has 
 forbid us nothing that is not pernicious, and 
 commanded nothing that is not highly ad- 
 vantageous to us ; if, like a beneficent parent, 
 he inflicts neither punishment nor constraint 
 unnecessarily, but makes our good the end 
 of all his injunctions, it will then appear 
 much more extraordinary that we should per- 
 versely go on in constant and acknowledged 
 neglect of those injunctions. 
 
 Is there a single pleasure worthy of a ra- 
 tional being, which is not, within certain limi- 
 tations, consistent with, religion and virtue ? 
 Apd are not the limits, withjn which w.e are 
 
40 wbRKS OF 
 
 permitted to enjoy them, the same which 
 are prescribed by reason and nature, and 
 which we cannot exceed without manifest 
 hurt to ourselves, or others ? It is not the 
 life of a hermit, or a Pert dt la Trappt, that 
 is enjoined us : it is only the life of a rational 
 being, formed for societj', capable of con- 
 tinual improvement, ana consequently of 
 continual advancement in happiness. 
 
 Sir Charles and Lady Worthy are neither 
 gloomy ascetics nor frantic enthusiasts. They 
 married from affection founded on long ac- 
 quaintance and perfect esteem. They there- 
 fore enjoy the best pleasures of the heart in 
 the highest degree. They concur in a ra- 
 tional scheme of life, which, whilst it makes 
 them always cheerful and happy, renders 
 them the friends of human kind, and the 
 blessing of all around them. They do not 
 desert their station in the world, nor deny 
 themselves the proper and moderate use of 
 their large fortune ; though that portion of it 
 which is appropriated to the use of others, 
 is that from which they derive their highest 
 gratifications. They spend four or five 
 months of every year in London, where 
 they keep up an intercourse of hospitality 
 and civility with many of the most respect- 
 able persons of their own, or of higher rank ; 
 but have endeavoured rather at a select than 
 a numerous acquaintance ; and as they never 
 play at cards, this endeavour has the mure 
 easily succeeded. Three days in the week, 
 from the hour of dinner, are given up to this 
 intercourse with what may be called the 
 
MRS, CHAPOSE, 41 
 
 world. Three more are spent in a family 
 way, with a few intimate friends, whose 
 tastes are conformable to their own, and with 
 whom the book and working-table, or some- 
 times music, supply the intervals of useful 
 and agreeable conversation. In these parties 
 their children are always present, and par- 
 take of the improvement that arises from 
 such society, or from the well chosen pieces 
 which are read aloud. The seventh day is 
 always spent at home, after the due atten- 
 dance on public worship; and is peculiarly 
 appropriated to the religious instruction of 
 their children and servants, or to-other works 
 of charity. As they keep regular hours, and 
 rise early, and as Lady Worthy never pay.; 
 or admits morning visits, they have seven or 
 eight hours in every day free from all inter- 
 ruption from the world, in which the culti- 
 vation of their own minds, and those of their 
 children, the due attention to health, to econ- 
 omy, and to the poor, are carried on in the 
 most regular manner. 
 
 Thus, even in London, they contrive, with- 
 out the appearance of quarrelling with the 
 world, or of shutting themselves up from it, 
 to pass the greatest part of their time in a 
 reasonable and useful, as well as an agree- 
 able manner. The rest of the year they 
 spend at their family seat in the country, 
 where the happy effects of their example, 
 and of their assiduous attention to the good 
 of all around them, are still more observable 
 ?han in town. Their neighbours, their ten- 
 T t 2 
 
4£ works or 
 
 ants, and the poor, for many miles about 
 them, find hi them a sure resource and com- 
 fort in calamity, and a ready assistant to 
 every scheme of honest industry. The 
 young are instructed at their expense, and 
 under their direction, and rendered useful at 
 the earliest period possible; the aged and the 
 sick have every comfort administered that 
 their state requires ; the idle and dissolute 
 are kept in awe by vigilant inspection ; the 
 quarrelsome are brought, by a sense of their 
 own interest, to live more quietly with their 
 family and neighbours, and amicably to refer 
 their disputes to Sir Charles's decision. 
 
 This amiable pair are not less highly pri- 
 zed by the genteel families of their neigh- 
 bourhood, who are sure of finding in their 
 house the most polite and cheerful hospitali- 
 ty, and in them a fund of good sense and good 
 humour, with a constant disposition to pro- 
 mote every innocent pleasure. They are par- 
 ticularly tlie delight of all the young people,, 
 who consider them as their patrons, and their 
 oracles, to whom they always apply for ad- 
 vice and assistance in any kind of distress, 
 or in any scheme of amusement. 
 
 Sir Charles and Lady Worthy are seldom 
 without some friends in the house with them 
 during their stay in the country ; but, as their 
 methods are known, they are never broken 
 m upon by their quests, who do not expect 
 to see them till dinner-time, except at the 
 hour of prayer and of breakfast. In their 
 private walks or rides, they usually visit the 
 cottages of the labouring poor, with all yf 
 
MRS. CIIAPONE. 43 
 
 whom they are personalty acquainted; and 
 by the sweetness and friendliness of their 
 manner, as well as by their beneficent actions, 
 they so entirely possess the hearts of these 
 people, that they are made the confidants of 
 all their family grievances, and the casuists 
 to settle all their scruples of conscience or 
 difficulties in conduct. By this method of 
 conversing freely with them, they find out 
 their different characters and capacities, and 
 often discover and apply to their own benefit, 
 as well as that of the person they distinguish, 
 talents, which would otherwise have been 
 for ever lost to the public. 
 . From this slight sketch of their manner of 
 living, can it be thought that the practice of 
 virtue costs them any great sacrifices? Do they 
 appear to be the servants of a hard master ? 
 It is true, they have not the amusement of 
 gaming, nor do they curse themselves in bit- 
 terness of soul, for losing the fortune Provi- 
 dence had bestowed upon them : they are 
 not continually in public places, nor stifled in 
 crowded assemblies ; nor are their hours con- 
 sumed in an insipid interchange of unmean- 
 ing chat with hundreds of fine people who 
 are perfectly indifferent to them ; but then, in 
 return, the Being whom they serve indulges 
 them in the best pleasures of love, of friend- 
 ship, of parental and family affection, of di- 
 vine beneficence, and of a piety, which chief- 
 ly consists in joyful acts of love and praise ! 
 not to mention the delights they derive from 
 a taste uncorrupted and still alive to natural 
 pleasures j from the beauties of nature, and 
 
44 WORKS OF 
 
 from cultivating those beauties joined with, 
 utility in the scenes around them ; and, above 
 all, from that flow of spirits, which a life ot 
 activity, and the constant exertion of right 
 affections naturally produce. Compare their 
 countenances with those of the wretched 
 slaves of <fce world, who are hourly compiam- 
 in«- of fatigue, of listlessness, distaste, and 
 vapours ; and who, with faded cheeks and 
 worn-out constitutions, still continue to haunt 
 the scenes where once their vanity found 
 gratification, but where they now meet only 
 with mortification and disgust: then tell mc 
 which has chosen the happier plan, admit- 
 ting for a moment that no future penalty was 
 annexed to a wrong choice? Listen to the 
 character that is given of Sir Charles Wor- 
 thy and his lady, wherever they are named, 
 and then tell me, whether even your idol, the 
 world, is not more favourable to them than to 
 
 y °Perhaps it is vain to think of recalling 
 those whom long habits, and the established 
 tyranny of pride and vanity, have almost 
 precludedfrom a possibility of imitating such 
 patterns, and in whom the very desire of 
 amendment is extinguished; but for those 
 who are now entering on the stage ot lite, 
 and who have their parts to choose, how 
 earnestly could I wish for the spirit of per- 
 suasion? for such a " warning voice' as 
 should make itself heard amidst all the gay 
 bustle that surrounds them ! it should cry to 
 them without ceasing, not to be led away by 
 the crowd of fools, without knowing win- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 45 
 
 ther they are going ; not to exchange real 
 happiness for the empty name of pleasure ; 
 not to prefer fashion to immortality ; and not 
 to fancy it possible for them to be innocent, 
 and at the same time useless. 
 
A LETTER 
 ro THE ADVENTURER', 
 
 THE STOKY OF FIDELIAS 
 
 Peccare docenles 
 
 Fallax hislorias monet. Hor. 
 
 To tint th' attentive mind she tries 
 Willi (ales of exemplary vice. 
 
 TO THE ADVENTURER. 
 SIR, 
 
 I shall make no apology for the trouble I 
 am about to give you, since I am sure the 
 motives that induce me to give it will have as 
 much weight with you as they have with me: 
 I shall therefore, without further preface, re- 
 late to you the events of a life, which, how- 
 ever insignificant and unentertaining, affords 
 a lesson of the highest importance ; a lesson, 
 the value of which I have experienced, and 
 may therefore recommend. 
 
 I am the daughter of a gentleman of good 
 family, who, as he was a younger brother, 
 
 * The story of Fidelia made its first appear, 
 ance in the Adventurer, Numbers 77, 7S ; 79. 
 
48 WORKS OF 
 
 iuirchased, with the portion that was allotted 
 lim, a genteel post under the government. 
 My mother died when I was but twelve 
 years old ; and my father, who was excessive- 
 ly fond of me, determined to be himself my 
 preceptor, and to take care that my natural 
 genius, which his partiality made him think 
 above the common rank, should not want the 
 improvements of a liberal education. 
 
 He was a man of sense, with a tolerable 
 share of learning. In his youth he had been 
 a free liver, and perhaps for that reason took 
 some pains to become what is called a free-- 
 thinker. But whatever fashionable frailties 
 he might formerly have allowed in himself, he 
 was now in advanced life, and had at least 
 worldly wisdom enough to know, that it was 
 necessary his daughter should be restrained 
 from those liberties, which he had looked up- 
 on as trifling errors in his own conduct. He, 
 therefore, laboured with great application to 
 inculcate in me the love of order, the beauty 
 of moral rectitude, and the happiness and self- 
 reward of virtue ; but at the same time pro- 
 fessed it his design to free my mind from 
 vulgar prejudices and superstition, for so he 
 called revealed religion. As I was urged 
 to choose virtue, and reject vice, from mo- 
 tives which had no necessary connexion with 
 immortality, I was not led to consider a fu- 
 ture state either with hope or fear : my fa- 
 ther, indeed, when I urged him upon that 
 subject, always intimated that the doctrine of 
 immortality, whether true or false, ought 
 not at all to influence my conduct or interrupt 
 
MRS. CHAPOKE. ,J1J 
 
 my peace ; because the virtue which secured 
 happiness in the present state, would also 
 secure it in a future : a future state, therefore, 
 1 wholly disregarded, and, to confess a truth 
 disbelieved: for I thought I could plainly 
 discover that it was disbelieved by my father 
 though he had not thought fit explicitly to 
 declare his sentiments. As 1 had no very 
 turbulent passions, a ductile and good dispo- 
 sition, and the highest reverence for his un- 
 derstanding, as well as the tenderest affection 
 tor him, he found it an easy task to make me 
 adopt every sentiment and opinion which he 
 proposed to me as his own ; especially as he 
 took care, to support his principles by the au- 
 thority and arguments of the best writers 
 against Christianity. At the age of twen- 
 ty, 1 was called upon to make use of all the 
 philosophy I had been taught, by his death ; 
 which not only deprived me of a parent I 
 most ardently loved, but with him of all fee 
 ease and affluence to which I had been accus- 
 tomed. His income was only for life, and he 
 had rather lived beyond than within it : con- 
 sequently, there was nothing left for me but 
 the pride and helplessness of genteel life, a taste 
 for every thing elegant, and. a delicacy and 
 sensibility that has doubled all my sufferings. 
 In this distress a brother of my mother's, who 
 was grown rich in trade, received me into 
 his house, and declared he would take the 
 same care of me as if I had been his own 
 child. W hen the first transports of my grief 
 were abated, I found myself in an easy situ- 
 ation, and, from the natural cheerfulness of 
 uu 
 
50 WORKS OF 
 
 my temper, I was beginning once more to 
 taste of happiness. My uncle, who was a 
 man of a narrow understanding and illiberal 
 education, was a little disgusted with me for 
 employing so much of my time in reading ; 
 but still more so, when, happening to examine 
 my books, he found by the titles that some 
 of them were what he called blasphemy, and 
 tended, as he imagined, lo make me an athe- 
 ist. I endeavoured to explain my principles, 
 which I thought it beneath the dignity of vir- 
 tue to disguise or disavow ; but as 1 never could 
 make him conceive any difference between a 
 Deist and an Atheist, my arguments only 
 served to confirm him in the opinion, that I 
 was a wicked wretch, who, in his own phrase, 
 believe neither God nor devil. As he was 
 really a good man, and heartily zealous for 
 the established faith, though more from ha- 
 bit and prejudice than reason, my errors gave 
 him great affliction : I perceived it with the 
 utmost concern; I perceived, too, that he 
 looked upon me with a degree of abhorrence 
 mixed with pity, and that I was wholly in- 
 debted to his good nature for that protection 
 which I had flattered myself I should owe. to 
 his Jove. I comforted myself, however, with 
 my own integrity, and even felt a conscious 
 pride in suffering this persecution from igno- 
 rance and folly, only because I was superior 
 to vulgar errors and popular superstition ; and 
 that Christianity deserved these appella- 
 tions, I was not more convinced by my fa- 
 ther's arguments than my uncle's conduct, 
 who, as his zeal was not according to know 1 
 
MRS. CIIAPONE. ol 
 
 lodge, was by no means qualified to " adorn 
 the doctrine" which he professed to believe. 
 I had lived a few months under the painful 
 sensibility of receiving continual benefits from 
 a person whose esteem and affection I had 
 lost, when my uncle one day came into my 
 chamber, and after preparing me for some 
 unexpected good fortune, told me, he had 
 just had a proposal of marriage for me from 
 a man to whom I could not possibly have 
 any objection. He then named a merchant, 
 with whom I had often been in company at his 
 table. As the man was neither old nor ugly, 
 had a large fortune, and a fair character, my 
 uncle thought himself sufficiently authorized 
 to pronounce as he did, that I could not pos- 
 sibly have any objection to him. An objec- 
 tion, however, I had, which I told my uncle 
 was to me insuperable ; it was, that the per- 
 son whom he proposed to me as the compan- 
 ion, the guide and director of my whole life, 
 to whom I was to vow not only obedience 
 but love, had nothing in him that could ever 
 engage my affection : his understanding was 
 low, his sentiments mean and indelicate, and 
 his manner unpolite and unpleasing. " What 
 stuff is all this !" interrupted my uncle, " sen- 
 timents indelicate! unpolite! his understand- 
 ing, forsooth, not equal to your own ! Ah, 
 child, if you had less romance, conceit, and 
 arrogance, and more true discretion and pru- 
 dence, it would do you more good than all 
 the fine books you have confounded your 
 poor head with, and what is worse, perhaps, 
 ruined your poor soul. 1 own, it went a lit 
 
59 WORKS OF 
 
 tie against my conscience to accept my honest 
 friend's kind offer, and give him such a pagan 
 for his wife. But how know I whether tne be- 
 lieving husband may not convert the unbe- 
 lieving wife ? As to your flighty objections, 
 they are such nonsense, that I wonder you 
 can suppose me fool enough to be deceived 
 by them. No, child ; wise as you are, you 
 cannot impose upon a man who has lived as 
 manj r years in the world as I have. I see 
 your motive ; you have some infidel libertine 
 rake in your eye, with whom you would go 
 headlong to perdition. But I shall take care 
 not to have your soul to answer for as well 
 as your person. Either I shall dispose of you 
 to an honest man that may convert you, or 
 you shall dispose of yourself how you please 
 for me ; for I disclaim all further care or 
 trouble about you: so I leave you to consi- 
 der, whether or no the kindness I have shown 
 you entitles me to some little influence over 
 you, and whether you choose to seek pro- 
 tection where you can find it, or accept or the 
 happy lot Providence has cut out for you." 
 He left me at the close of this fine har- 
 angue, and I seriously set myself to consider, 
 as he bade me, which of the two states he 
 had set before me I ought to choose ; to sub- 
 mit to a legal sort of prostitution, with the 
 additional weight of perjury on my con- 
 science, or to expose myself to all the dis- 
 tresses of friendless poverty and unprotected 
 youth. After some hours of deliberation, I 
 determined on the latter, and that more from 
 principle than inclination ; for though mj 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 63 
 
 delicacy would have suffered extremely in 
 accepting a husband, at least indifferent to 
 me ; yet as my heart was perfectly disengag- 
 ed, and my temper naturally easy, I thought 
 I could have been less unhappy in following 
 my uncle's advice, than I might probably be 
 by rejecting it : but then I must have sub- 
 mitted to an action I could not think justifia- 
 ble, in order to avoid mere external distresses. 
 This would not have been philosophical. I 
 had always been taught, that virtue was of 
 itself sufficient to happiness : and that those 
 things which are generally esteemed evils, 
 could have no power to disturb the felicity of 
 a mind governed by the eternal rule of right, 
 and truly enamoured of the charms of moral 
 beauty. 1 resolved, therefore, to run all 
 risques, rather than depart from this glorious 
 principle ; I felt myself raised by the trial, 
 and exulted in the opportunity of showing 
 my contempt of the smiles or frowns of for- 
 tune, and of proving the power of virtue to 
 sustain the soul under all accidental circum- 
 stances of distress. 
 
 I communicated my resolution to my un- 
 cle, assuring him at the same time of my 
 everlasting gratitude and respect, and that 
 nothing should have induced me to offend or 
 disobey him, but his requiring me to do what 
 my reason and conscience disapproved ; that 
 supposing the advantages of riches to be 
 really as great as he believed, yet still those 
 uu2 
 
54 WORKS OF 
 
 of virtue were greater, and I could not re- 
 solve to purchase the one by a violation oi' 
 the other ; that a false vow was certainly 
 criminal ; and that it would be doing an act 
 of the highest injustice, to enter into so so- 
 lemn an engagement without the power of 
 fulfilling it ; that my affections did not de- 
 pend on my own will; and that no man 
 should possess my person, who could not 
 obtain the first place in m) r heart. 
 
 I was surprised that my uncle's impatience 
 had permitted me to go on thus far; but 
 looking in his face, I perceived that passion 
 had kept him silent. At length the gather- 
 ing storm burst over my head in a torrent of 
 reproaches. My reasons were condemned as 
 romantic absurdities, which I could not my- 
 self believe ; I was accused of designing to 
 deceive, and to throw myself away on some 
 worthless fellow, whose principles were as 
 bad as my own. It was in vain for me to as- 
 sert that I had no such design, nor any incli- 
 nation to marry at all ; my uncle could soon- 
 er have believed the grossest contradiction, 
 than that a young woman could so strenuous- 
 ly refuse one man without being prepossess- 
 ed in favour of another. As I thought myself 
 injured by his accusations and tyranny, I 
 gave over the attempt to mitigate his anger. 
 He appealed to Heaven for the justice of his 
 resentment, and against my ingratitude and 
 rebellion ; and then giving me a note of fifty 
 pounds, which he said would keep me from 
 immediate indigence, he bade me leave his 
 house, and see his face no more. I bowed in 
 sign of obedience ; and collecting all my dig- 
 
MKS. CHAFONE. Jo 
 
 nity and resolution, I arose, thanked him for 
 his past benefits, and with a low courtesy left 
 the room. 
 
 In less than an hour I departed with my 
 little wardrobe to the house of a person who 
 had formerly been my father's servant, and 
 who now kept a shop and let lodgings. From 
 hence I went the next day to visit my father's 
 nephew, who was in possession of the family 
 estate, and had lately married a lady of great 
 fortune. He was a young gentleman of good 
 parts, his principles the same as my father's, 
 though his practice had not been quite agree- 
 able to the strict rules of morality : however, 
 setting aside a few of those vices which are 
 looked upon as genteel accomplishments in 
 young fellows of fortune, I thought him a 
 good sort of man ; and as we had always 
 lived in great kindness, I doubted not that I 
 should find him my friend, and meet with ap- 
 probation and encouragement at least, if not 
 assistance from him. 1 told him my story, 
 and the reasons that had determined me to 
 the refusal which had incurred my uncle's 
 displeasure. But how was I disappointed, 
 when, instead of the applause I expected for 
 my heroic virtue, ana unmerited persecu- 
 tions, I perceived a smile of contempt on his 
 face, when he interrupted me in the following 
 manner ! " And what, in the devil's name, my 
 dear cousin, could make a woman of your sense 
 behave so like an idiot? What ! forfeit all your 
 hopes from your uncle, refuse an excellent 
 match, and reduce yoursel f to beggary, because 
 truly you were not in love? Surely, one might 
 have expected better from you even at fil- 
 
56 WORKS OF 
 
 teen. Who is it, pray, that marries the per- 
 son of their choice ? For my own part, who 
 have rather a better title to please myself, 
 with a good fifteen hundred a year, than you 
 who have not a shilling, I found it would not 
 do, and that there was something more to be 
 sought after in a wife than a pretty face or a 
 genius. Do you think I cared three farthings 
 for the woman I married ? No, faith. But 
 her thirty thousand pounds were worth hav- 
 ing ; with that I can purchase a seraglio of 
 beauties, and indulge my taste in every kind 
 of pleasure. And pray what is it to me whe- 
 ther my wife has beauty, or wit, or elegance, 
 when her money will supply me with all that 
 in others ? You, cousin, had an opportunity 
 of being as happy as I am : the men, believe 
 me, would not like you a bit the worse for 
 being married ; on the contrary, you would 
 find, that for one who took notice of you as 
 a single woman, twenty would be your ad- 
 mirers and humble servants when there was 
 no danger of being taken in. Thus you might 
 have gratified all your passions, made an ele- 
 gant figure in life, and have chosen out some 
 gentle swain as romantic and poetical as you 
 pleased for your Cecisbee. The good John 
 Trott husband would have been easily man- 
 aged, and " Here my indignation could 
 
 be contained no longer, and I was leaving the 
 room in disdain ; when he caught me by the 
 hand; " Nay, prithee, my dear cousin, none 
 of these violent airs. I thought you and I 
 had known one another better. Let the poor 
 souls, who are taught by the priests and their 
 
MRU. CH.APONE. i>7 
 
 nurses to be afraid of hell-fire, and to think 
 thev shall go to the devil for following nature 
 ana making life agreeable, be as outrageously 
 virtuous as they please: you have too much 
 sense to be frightened at bugbears ; you know- 
 that the term of our existence is but short; 
 and it is highly reasonable to make it as plea- 
 sant as possible." I was too angry to attempt 
 confuting his arguments ; but bursting from 
 his hold, told him, I would take care not to 
 give him a second opportunity of insulting 
 my distress, and affronting my understand- 
 ing ; and so left his house with a resolution, 
 never to enter it again.- 
 
THE STORY OF FIDELIA 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Propter vitam vivendi perdere causas. Ju v . 
 
 Nor quit for life, what gives to life its worth. 
 
 I went home mortified and disappointed, 
 My spirits sunk into a dejection, which took 
 from me for many days all inclination to stir 
 out of my lodging, or to see a human face. 
 At length I resolved to try, whether indigence 
 and friendship were really incompatible, 
 and whether 1 should meet with the same 
 treatment from a female friend, whose affec- 
 tion had been the principal pleasure of my 
 youth. Surely, thought I, the gentle Aman- 
 ita, whose heart seems capable of every ten- 
 der and generous sentiment, will do justice to 
 the innocence and integrity of her unfortu- 
 nate friend ; her tenderness will encourage 
 my virtue and animate my fortitude, her 
 praises and endearments will compensate all 
 my hardships. Amanda was a single woman 
 of a moderate independent fortune, which I 
 heard she was going to bestow on a young 
 officer, who had little or nothing besides his 
 commission. 1 had no doubt of her appro- 
 
^Q WORKS OF 
 
 bation of ray refusing a mercenary match,, 
 since she herself had chosen from motives so 
 opposite to those which are called prudent. 
 She had been in the country some months, 
 so that my misfortunes had not reached her 
 ear till I myself related them to her. She 
 heard me with great attention, and answered 
 me with politeness enough, but with a cold- 
 ness that chilled my very heart. "You are 
 sensible, my dear Fidelia," said she, "that I 
 never pretended to set my understanding m 
 competition with yours, I knew my own 
 inferiority ; and though many of your no- 
 tions and opinions appeared to me very 
 strange and particular, 1 never attempted to 
 dispute them with you. To be sure, you 
 know best ; but it seems to me a very odd 
 conduct for one in your situation to give 
 offence to so good an uncle ; first by main- 
 taining doctrines which may be very true 
 for aught I know, but which are very con- 
 trary to the received opinions we are 
 brought up in, and therefore are apt to 
 shock a common understanding ; and sec- 
 ondly, to renounce his protection, and throw 
 yourself into the wide world, rather than 
 marry the man he chose for you ; to Avhoni, 
 after all, I do not find you had any real ob- 
 jection, nor any antipathy for his person 
 Antipathy, my dear! said 1; are there not 
 many degrees between loving and honouring 
 a man preferable to all others, and beholding 
 him with abhorrence and aversion: The hrst 
 is, in my opinion, the jl 'J. y of a wile, a duty 
 volrnitarily takea upon herself, and engaged 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 61 
 
 in under the most solemn contract. As to 
 the difficulties that may attend my friendless, 
 unprovided state, since they are the conse- 
 quences of a virtuous action, the) r cannot 
 really be evils, nor can they disturb that hap- 
 piness which is the gift of virtue. " I am 
 heartily glad," answered she, "that you have 
 found the art of making yourself happy by 
 the force of imagination ! I wish your enthu- 
 siasm may continue ; and that you may still 
 be further convinced, by your own experi- 
 ence, of the folly of mankind, in supposing 
 poverty and disgrace to be evils." 
 
 I was cut to the soul by the unkind manner 
 which accompanied this sarcasm, and was 
 going to remonstrate against her unfriendly 
 treatment, when her lover came in with an- 
 other gentleman, who, in spite of my full 
 heart, engaged my attention, and for a while 
 made me forget the stings of unkindness. 
 The beauty and gracefulness of his person 
 caught my eye, and the politeness of nis ad- 
 dress, and the elegance of his compliments, 
 soon prejudiced me in favour of his under- 
 standing. He was introduced by the Cap- 
 tain to Amanda as his most intimate friend, 
 and seemed desirous to give credit to his 
 friend's judgment, by making himself as 
 agreeable as possible. He succeeded so well, 
 that Amanda was wholly engrossed by the 
 pleasure of his conversation, and the care of 
 entertaining her lover and her new guest : her 
 face brightened, andher.good humour return- 
 ed. When I arose to leave her, she pressed 
 me so earnestly to stay to dinner, that I 
 w w 
 
62 WORKS OP 
 
 could not, without discovering how much I 
 resented her behaviour, refuse. This, how- 
 ever, I should probably have done, as I was 
 naturally disposed to show every sentiment 
 of my heart, had not a secret wish arisen 
 there to know a little more of this agreeable, 
 stranger. This inclined me to think it pru- 
 dent to conceal my resentment, and to ac- 
 cept the civilities of Amanda. The conver- 
 sation grew more and more pleasing ; I took 
 my share in it, and had more than my share 
 of the charming stranger's notice and atten- 
 tion. As we all grew more and more unre- 
 served, Amanda dropt hints in the course of 
 the conversation relating to my story, my sen- 
 timents, and unhappy situation. Sir George 
 Freelove, for that was the young gentleman's 
 name, listened greedily to all that was said 
 of me, and seemed to eye me with earnest 
 curiosity as well as admiration. We did not 
 part till it was late, and Sir George insisted 
 on attending me to my lodgings : I strongly 
 refused it, not without a sensation which more 
 properly belonged to the female than the phi- 
 losopher, and which I condemned in myself 
 as arising from dishonest pride. I could not 
 without pain suffer the polite Sir George, 
 upon so short an acquaintance, to discover 
 the meanness of my abode. To avoid this, 
 I sent for a chair ; but was confused to find 
 that Sir George and his servants prepared to 
 attend it on foot by way of guard : it was in 
 vain to dispute ; he himself walked before, 
 and his servants followed it. I was covered 
 with blushes, when, after all this parade, he 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 6S 
 
 handed me in at the little shop door, and took 
 leave with as profound respect as if he had 
 guarded me to a palace. A thousand different, 
 thoughts kept me from closing my eyes that 
 night. The behaviour of Amanda wounded 
 me to the soul : I found that I must look on 
 her as no more than a common acquaintance : 
 and that the world did not contain one per- 
 son whom I could call my friend. My heart 
 felt desolate and forlorn ; I knew not what 
 course to take for my future subsistence ; the 
 pain which my pride had just given me, con- 
 vinced me that I was far from having con- 
 quered the passions of humanity, and that 
 I should feel too sensibly all the mortifications 
 which attend on poverty. I determined, 
 however, to subdue this pride, and called to 
 my assistance the examples of ancient sages 
 and philosophers, who despised riches and 
 honours, and felt no inconveniences from the 
 malice of fortune. I had almost reasoned 
 myself into a contempt for the world, and 
 fancied myself superior to its smiles or 
 frowns, when the idea of Sir George Free- 
 love'rushed upon my mind, and destroyed at 
 once the whole force of my reasoning. I 
 found that however I might disregard the rest 
 of the world, I could not be indifferent to his 
 opinion ; and the thought of being despised 
 by him was insupportable. I recollected 
 that my condition was extremely different 
 from that of an old philosopher, whose rags, 
 perhaps, were the means of gratifying his 
 pride, by attracting the notice and respect of 
 
64 WORKS OP 
 
 mankind : at least, the philosopher's schemes 
 and wishes were very different from those 
 which at that time were taking possession of 
 my heart. The looks and behaviour of Sir 
 George left me no douht that I had made as 
 deep an impression in his favour as he had 
 done in mine. I could not bear to lose the 
 ground I had gained, and to throw myself 
 into a state below his notice. I scorned 
 the thought of imposing on him with re- 
 gard to my circumstances, in case he should 
 really have had favourable intentions for 
 me ; yet to disgrace myself for ever in 
 his eye, by submitting to servitude, or any 
 low way of supporting myself, was what I 
 could not bring myself to resolve on. 
 
 In the midst of these reflections I was sur- 
 prised the next morning by a visit from Sir 
 George. He made respectful apologies for the 
 liberty he took ; told me he had learnt, from 
 my friend, that the unkindness and tyranny 
 of an uncle had cast me into uneasy circum- 
 stances ; and that he could not know that so 
 much beauty and merit were so unworthily 
 treated by fortune, without earnestly wishing 
 to be the instrument of doing me more jus- 
 tice. He entreated me to add dignity and 
 value to his life, by making it conducive to 
 the happiness of mine ; and was going on 
 with the most fervent offers of service, when 
 I interrupted him by saying, that there was 
 nothing in his power that I could with hon- 
 our accept, by which my life could be made 
 happier, but that respect which was due to 
 me as a woman and a gentlewoman, and 
 
MRS. CIIArONE. C5 
 
 ■which ought to have prevented such offers of 
 service from a stranger, as could only be jus- 
 tified by a long experienced friendship ; that 
 I was not in a situation to receive visits, and 
 must decline his acquaintance, Avhich, never- 
 theless, in a happier part of my life, would 
 have given me pleasure. 
 
 He now had recourse to all the arts of his 
 sex, imputing his too great freedom to the 
 force of his passion, protesting the most in- 
 violable respect, and imploring on his knees, 
 and even with tears, that I would not punish 
 him so severely as to deny him the liberty of 
 seeing me, and making himself more and 
 more worthy of my esteem. My weak heart 
 was but too* much touched by his artifices, 
 and I had only just fortitude enough to per- 
 severe in refusing his visits, and to insist on 
 his leaving me, which at last he did ; but it 
 was after such a profusion of tenderness, 
 prayers, and protestations, that it was some 
 time before I could recall my reason enough 
 to reflect on the whole of his behaviour, and 
 on my own situation, which compared, left 
 me but little doubt of his dishonourable 
 views. 
 
 I determined never more to admit him to 
 my presence, and accordingly gave orders to 
 be denied if he came again. My reason ap- 
 
 {)lauded, but my heart reproached me, and 
 leavily repined at the rigid determination 
 of prudence. I knew that I acted rightly, and 
 I expected that that consciousness would 
 make me happy ; but I found it otherwise ; 1 
 was wretched beyond what I had ever felt 
 w w % 
 
tj'6 WORKS OF 
 
 or formed any idea of; I discovered that my 
 heart was entangled in a passion which must 
 for ever be combated, or indulged at the ex- 
 pense of virtue. I now considered riches as 
 truly desirable, since they would have placed 
 me above disgraceful attempts, and given me 
 reasonable hopes of becoming the wife of 
 Sir George Freelove. I was discontented 
 and unhappy, but surprised and disappointed 
 to find myself so, since hitherto I had no one 
 criminal action to reproach myself with ; on 
 the contrary, my difficulties were all owing 
 to my regard for virtue. 
 
 I resolved, however, to try still farther the 
 power of virtue to confer happiness, to go 
 on in my obedience to her laws, and patient- 
 ly wait for the good effects of it. But I had 
 stronger difficulties to go through than any I 
 had yet experienced. Sir George was too 
 much practised in the arts of seduction to 
 be discouraged by a first repulse : every day 
 produced either some new attempt to see 
 me, or a letter full of the most passionate 
 protestations and entreaties for pardon and 
 Favour. It was in vain I gave orders that 
 no more letters should be taken in from him ; 
 he had so many different contrivances to 
 convey them, and directed them in hands so 
 unlike, that I was surprised into reading them 
 contrary to my real intentions. Every time 
 I stirred out he was sure to be in my way, 
 and to employ the most artful tongue that 
 ever ensnared the heart of woman, in blind- 
 ing my reason and awakening my passions. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 07 
 
 1*1 y virtue, however, did not yet give way, 
 hut my peace of mind was utterly destroyed. 
 Whenever I was with him, I summoned all 
 my fortitude, and constantly repeated my 
 commands that he should avoid me. His 
 disobedience called for my resentment, and, 
 in spite of my melting heart, I armed my 
 eyes with anger, and treated him with as 
 much disdain as I thought his unworthy de- 
 signs deserved. But the moment he left me, 
 all my resolution forsook me. I repined at 
 my fate : I even murmured against the 
 Sovereign Ruler of all things, for making 
 me subject to passions which I could not sub- 
 due, yet must not indulge : I compared my 
 own situation with that of my libertine cou- 
 sin, whose pernicious arguments I had heard 
 with horror and detestation, who gave the 
 reins to every desire, whose house was the, 
 seat of plenty, mirth, and delight, whose face 
 was ever covered with smiles, and whose 
 heart seemed free from sorrow and care. 
 Is not this man, said I, happier than I am ? 
 And if so, where is the worth of virtue ? 
 Have I not sacrificed to her my fortune and 
 my friends ? Do I not daily sacrifice to her 
 my darling inclination ? Yet what is the com- 
 pensation she offers me ? What are my pros- 
 pects in this world but poverty, mortification, 
 disappointment and grief? Every wish of my 
 heart denied, every passion of humanity 
 combated and hurt, though never conquered ? 
 Are these the blessings with which Heaven 
 distinguishes its favourites ? Can the King of 
 Heaven want power or will to distinguish 
 
68 WORKS O* 
 
 them? or does he leave his wretched crea- 
 tures to be the sport of chance, the prey of 
 wickedness and malice ? Surely, no. Yet is 
 not the condition of the virtuous often more, 
 miserable than that of the vicious ? I myself 
 have experienced that it is. I am very un- 
 happy, and see no likelihood of my being 
 otherwise in this world — and all beyond the 
 grave is eternal darkness. Yet why do I say, 
 that I have no prospect of happiness ? Does 
 not the most engaging of men offer me all 
 the joys that love and fortune can bestow ? 
 Will not he protect me from every insult of 
 the proud world that scoffs at indigence? Will 
 not his liberal hand pour forth the means of 
 every pleasure, even of that highest and tru- 
 est of all pleasures, the power of relieving the 
 sufferings of my fellow creatures, of changing 
 the tears of distress into tears of joy and grat- 
 itude, of communicating my own happiness to 
 all around me ! Is not this a state far preferable 
 to that in which virtue has placed me ? 
 But what is virtue ? Is not happiness the lau- 
 dable pursuit of reason ? Is it not then laud- 
 able to pursue it by the most probable means ? 
 Have I not been accusing Providence of 
 unkindness, whilst I myself only am in fault, 
 for rejecting its offered favours? Surely, I 
 have mistaken the path of virtue : it must be 
 that which leads to happiness. The path 
 which I am in is full of thorns and briars, and 
 terminates in impenetrable darkness ; but I 
 see another that is strowed with flowers, and 
 
MRS. CHAFONE. gj> 
 
 hri rht with the sunshine of prosperity : this 
 surely, is the path of virtue, and the road to 
 happiness. Hither then let me turn mv wea- 
 ry steps, nor let vain and idle prejudices* fright 
 me from felicity. It is surely impossible that 
 I should offend GOD, by yielding to a temp- 
 tation which he has given me no motive to 
 resist. He has allotted me a short and pre- 
 carious existence, and has placed before me 
 
 ?£? d and evil * What is £° od but Pleasure 9 
 What is evil but pain ? Reason and nature 
 direct me to choose the first, and avoid the 
 last. I sought for happiness in what is called 
 virtue, but I found it not: shall I not try the. 
 othe r experiment, since I think I can hardly 
 be more unhappy by following inclination, 
 than I am by denying it? 
 
 Thus had my frail thoughts wandered into 
 a wilderness of error, and "thus had I almost 
 reasoned myself out of every principle of 
 morality, by pursuing through all their conse- 
 quences the doctrines which had been taught 
 me as rules of life and prescriptions for feli- 
 C . lty T"i i ta,isman s of Truth, by which I 
 should be secured in the storms of adversity 
 and listen without danger to the syrens of 
 temptation— when in the fatal hour of my 
 presumption, sitting alone in my chamber, 
 collecting arguments on the side of passion 
 almost distracted with doubts, and phmeine 
 deeper and deeper into falsehood, I saw Sir 
 George b reelove at my feet, who had gained 
 admittance, contrary to my orders, by cor- 
 ruph-.g my landlady. Ft is not necessary to 
 describe to you his arts, or the weak efforts 
 
70 works or 
 
 of that virtue which had been graciously im- 
 planted in my heart, but which I had taken 
 impious pains to undermine by false reason- 
 ing, and which now tottered from the founda- 
 tion : suffice it that I submit to the humilia- 
 tion I have so well deserved, and tell you, 
 that, in all the pride of human reason, 1 da- 
 red to condemn, as the effect of weakness 
 and prejudice, the still voice of conscience, 
 which would yet have warned me from ruin; 
 that my innocence, my honour, was the 
 sacrifice to passion and sophistry; that "my 
 boasted philosophy, and too much flattered 
 understanding, preserved me not from the 
 lowest depth of infamy, which the weakest 
 of my sex with humility and religion would 
 have avoided. . 
 
 I now experienced a new kind ot wretcn- 
 edness. My vile seducer tried in vain to 
 reconcile me to the shameful life to Avhich 
 he had reduced me, by loading me with fine- 
 ry, and lavishing his fortune in procuring 
 me pleasures which I could not taste, and 
 pomp which seemed an insult on my 
 disgrace. In vain did I recollect the argu- 
 ments which had convinced me of the law- 
 fulness of accepting offered pleasures, and 
 following the dictates of inclination: the 
 light of my understanding was darkened, 
 but the sense of guilt was not lost. My 
 pride and my delicacy, if, criminal as I was, 
 I may dare to call it so, suffered the most 
 intolerable mortification and disgust, eve- 
 ry time I reflected on my infamous, situa- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 71 
 
 tion. Every eye seemed to upbraid me, 
 even that of my triumphant seducer. O 
 depth of misery ! to be conscious of deser- 
 ving the contempt of him I loved, and for 
 whose sake I was become contemptible to 
 mvscTf. 
 
THE STORY OF FIDELIA. 
 
 COxVCLUDED. 
 
 Quisnam igitur liber f Sapiens: sibi qui imperiosus ; 
 Quern neque pauperies, neque mors, neque vinculo. 
 
 terrent : 
 Jtesponsare cupidinibus, contemnere honores 
 Fortis, et inseipso totus*: teres atque rolundus, 
 Externi ne quid valeai perlceve morari. Hor. 
 
 Who then is free ? The wise, who well maintains 
 An empire o'er himself: whom neither chains, 
 Nor want, nor death, with slavish fear inspire ; 
 Who boldly answers to his warm desire ; 
 Who can ambition's vainest gifts despise ; 
 Firm in himself who on himself relies; 
 Polish'd and round who runs his proper course, 
 And breaks misfortune with superior force. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 This was the state of my mind during a 
 year which I passed in Sir George's house. 
 His fondness was unabated for eight months 
 of the time ; and as 1 had no other object to 
 share my attention, neither friend nor rela- 
 tion to call off any part of my tenderness, all 
 x x 
 
74 WORKS OF 
 
 the love of a heart naturally affectionate cen- 
 tred in him. The first dawnings of unkind- 
 ness were hut too visible to my watchful 
 eyes. I had now all the torments of jealousy 
 to endure, till a cruel certainty put an end to 
 them. I learnt, at length, that my false lover 
 was on the brink of marriage with a lady of 
 great fortune. I immediately resolved to 
 leave him ; but could not do it without first 
 venting my full heart in complaints and re- 
 proaches. This provoked his rage, and drew 
 on me insolence, which though I had deserv- 
 ed, I had not learnt to bear. I returned, with 
 scorn which no longer became me, all the 
 wages of my sin, and the trappings of my 
 shame, and left his house in the bitterest an- 
 guish of resentment and despair. 
 
 1 returned to my old lodgings : but unable 
 to bear a scene which recalled every circum- 
 stance of my undoing, ashamed to look in 
 the face of any creature who had seen me in- 
 nocent, Avretched in myself, and hoping from 
 change of place some abatement of my mis- 
 ery, I put myself into a post-chaise, at two 
 in the morning, with orders to the driver to 
 carry me as far from town as he could before 
 the return of night, leaving it to him to choose 
 Hie road. 
 
 My reason and my senses seemed benumb- 
 ed and stupified during my journey. I made 
 no reflections on what I was about, nor for- 
 med any design for my future life. When 
 night came, my conductor would have 
 stopped at a large town, but I bid him go on 
 to the next village. There I alighted at a 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 7;> 
 
 paltry inn, and dismissed my vehicle, with- 
 out once considering Avhat I was to do with 
 myself, or why I chose that place for my 
 abode. To say truth, 1 can give no account 
 of my thoughts at this period of time : they 
 were all confused and distracted. A short 
 frenzy must have filled up those hours, 
 of wliich my memory retains such imperfect 
 traces. I remember only, that without hav- 
 ing pulled off my clothes, I left the inn as 
 isoon as I saw the day, and wandered out of 
 the village. 
 
 My unguided feet carried me to a range 
 of willows by a river's side, where, after hav- 
 ing walked some time, the freshness of the 
 air revived my senses, and awakened my rea- 
 son. My reason, my memory, my anguish 
 and despair, returned together ! Every cir- 
 cumstance of my past life was present to my 
 mind; but most the idea of my faithless lo- 
 ver and my criminal love tortured my imagi- 
 nation, and rent my bleeding heart, which, in 
 spite of all its guilt and all its wrongs, retain- 
 ed the tenderestand most ardent affection for 
 its undoer. This unguarded affection, which 
 was the effect of a gentle and kind nature, 
 heightened the anguish of resent ment, and 
 completed my misery. In vain did I call off 
 my thoughts from this gloomy retrospect, and 
 hope to tinda gleam of comfort in my future 
 prospects. They were still more dreadful : 
 poverty, attended by infamy and want, groan- 
 ing under the cruel hand of oppression and 
 the taunts of insolence, was before my eyes. 
 I., who had once been the darling and the 
 
76 WORKS OF 
 
 pride of indulgent parents, who had once 
 been beloved, respected, and admired, was 
 now the outcast of human nature, despised 
 and avoided by all who had ever loved me, 
 by all whom I had most loved ! hateful to 
 myself, belonging to no one, exposed to 
 wrongs and insults from all ! 
 
 I tried to find out the cause of this dismal 
 change, and how far I was myself the occa- 
 sion of it. My conduct with respect to 
 Sir George, though I spontaneously con- 
 demned, yet, upon recollection, I thought the 
 arguments which produced it would justify. 
 But as my principles could not preserve me 
 from vice, neither could they sustain me in 
 adversity : conscience was not to be pervert- 
 ed by the sophistry which had beclouded my 
 reason. And if any, by imputing my con- 
 duct to error, should acquit me of guilt, let 
 them remember, it is yet true, that in this 
 uttermost distress, I was neither sustained 
 by the consciousness of innocence, the exul- 
 tation of virtue, nor the hope of reward •« 
 whether I looked backward or forward, all 
 was confusion and anguish, distraction and 
 despair. I accused the Supreme Being of 
 cruelty and injustice, who, though he gave 
 me not sufficient encouragement to resist de- 
 sire, yet punished me with the consequences 
 of indulgence. If there is a God, cried I, he 
 must be either tyrannical and cruel, or regard- 
 less of his creatures. I will no longer endure 
 a being which is undeservedly miserable, 
 either from chance or design, but fly to that 
 annihilation in which all my prospects terr 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 77 
 
 minate. Take back, said I, lifting my eyes 
 to heaven, the hateful gift of existence, and 
 let my dust no more be animated to suffering, 
 and exalted to misery. 
 
 So saying, I ran to the brink of the river, 
 and was going to plunge in, when the cry of 
 some person very near me made me turn my 
 eyes to see whence it came. I was accosted 
 by an elderly clergyman, who, with looks of 
 terror, pity, and benevolence, asked what I was 
 about to do ? At first I was sullen, and re- 
 fused to answer him ; but by degrees the 
 compassion he showed, and the tenderness 
 with which he treated me, softened my heart, 
 and gave vent to my tears. 
 
 "O! Madam," said he, "these are gra- 
 cious signs, and unlike those which first drew 
 my attention, and made me watch you unob- 
 served, fearing some fatal purposein your mind. 
 What must be the thoughts which could 
 make a face like yours appear the picture of 
 horror ? I was taking my morning walk, and 
 have seen you a considerable time; some- 
 times stopping and wringing your hands, 
 sometimes quickening your pace, and some- 
 times walking slow, with your eyes fixed on 
 the ground, till you raised them to heaven, 
 with looks not of supplication and piety, but 
 rather of accusation and defiance. For pity 
 tell me how is it that you have quarrelled 
 with yourself, with life, nay even with Hea- 
 ven ? Recal your reason, and your hope, and 
 let this seasonable prevention of your fatal 
 purpose be an earnest to you of good things 
 to come, of GOD's mercy not yet alienated 
 x x 2 
 
78 woiiks or 
 
 from you, and stooping, from his throne to 
 save your soul from perdition." 
 
 The tears which flowed in rivers from my 
 eyes while he talked, save me so much re- 
 lief, that I found myself able to speak, and 
 desirous to express my gratitude for the good 
 man's concern for me. It was so long since 
 I had known the joys of confidence, that I 
 felt surprising comfort and pleasure from un- 
 burdening my heart, and telling my kind de- 
 liverer every circumstance of my story, and 
 every thought of rny distracted mind. He 
 shuddered to hear me upraid the Divine 
 Providence ; and stopping me short, told 
 me, he would lead me to one who should 
 preach patience to me, whilst she gave me 
 the example of it. 
 
 As we talked he led me to his own house, 
 and there introduced me to his wife, a middle- 
 aged woman, pale and emaciated, but of a 
 cheerful placid countenance, who received me 
 with the greatest tenderness and humanity. 
 She saw 1 was distressed, and her compassion 
 was beforehand with my complaints. Her 
 tears stood ready to accompan}^ mine ; her 
 looks and her voice expressed the kindest 
 concern : and her assiduous cares demonstra- 
 ted that true politeness and hospitality, which 
 is not the effect of art but of inward benev- 
 olence. While she obliged me to take some 
 refreshment, her husband gave her a short 
 account of my story, and of the state in 
 which he had found me. " This poor lady," 
 said he, " from the fault of her education and 
 principles, sees every thing through a gloomy 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 79 
 
 medium : she accuses Providence, and 
 hates her existence, for those evils which are 
 the common lot of mankind in this short state 
 of trial. You, my dear, who are one of the 
 greatest sufferers I have known, are best 
 qualified to cure her of her faulty impatience ; 
 and to convince her, by your own example, 
 that this world is not the place in which vir- 
 tue is to find its reward, she thinks no;one so 
 unhappy as herself; but if she knew all that 
 you have gone through, she would surely be 
 sensible, that if you are happier than she, it 
 is only because your principles are better." 
 
 " Indeed, my dear madam," said she, " that 
 is the only advantage I have over you ; but 
 that indeed outweighs every thing else. It is 
 now but ten days since I followed to the 
 grave my only son, the survivor of eight 
 children, who were all equally the objects of 
 my fondest love. My heart is no less tender 
 than your own, nor my affections less warm. 
 For a whole year before the death of my last 
 darling, I watched the fatal progress of his 
 disease, and saw him suffer the most amazing 
 pains. Nor was poverty, that dreaded evil 
 to which you could not submit, wanting to 
 my trials. Though my husband is by his 
 profession a gentleman, his income is so small, 
 that I and my children have often wanted ne- 
 cessaries : and though I had always a weakly 
 constitution, I have helped to support my 
 family by the labour of my own hands. At 
 this time 1 am consuming by daily tortures, 
 with a cancer which must shortly be my 
 death. My pains, perhaps, might be mitiga 
 
GO WORKS OF 
 
 ted by proper assistance, though nothing 
 could preserve my life ; but I have not the 
 means to obtain that assistance." O hold, 
 interrupted I, my soul is shocked at the enu- 
 meration of such intolerable sufferings. How 
 is it that you support them ? Why do I not 
 see you, in despair like mine, renounce your 
 existence, and put yourself out of the reach 
 of torment? But above all, tell me how it is 
 possible for you to preserve, amidst such 
 complicated misery, that appearance of cheer- 
 fulness and serene complacency which shines 
 so remarkably in your countenance, and ani- 
 mates every look and motion ? 
 
 " That cheerfulness and complacency," 
 answered the good woman, " I feel in my 
 heart. My mind is not only serene, but of- 
 ten experiences the highest emotions of joy 
 and exultation, that the brightest hopes can 
 give-" And whence, said I, do you derive 
 this astonishing art of extracting joy from 
 misery, and of smiling amidst all the terrors 
 of pain, sorrow, poverty and death ? She was 
 silent a moment ; then stepping to her clos- 
 et, reached a Bible, which she put into my 
 hands. " See there," said she, " the volume 
 in which I learn this art. Here I am taught, 
 that everlasting glory is in store for all who 
 will accept it upon the terms which Infinite 
 Perfection has prescribed; here I am 
 promised consolation, assistance, and support 
 from the LoRn of Life ; and here I am as- 
 sured that my transient afflictions are only 
 meant to fit me for eternal and unspeakable 
 happiness. This happiness is at hand. The 
 

 MRS. CHAPONE. 81 
 
 short remainder of my life seems but a point, 
 beyond which opens the glorious prospect of 
 immortality. Thus encouraged, now should 
 I be dejected ? Thus supported, how should 
 I sink ? With such prospects, such assured 
 hopes, how can I be otherwise than happy ?" 
 
 While she spoke, her eyes sparkled, and 
 her whole face seemed animated with joy. 
 I was struck with her manner, as well as her 
 words. Every syllable she uttered seemed 
 to sink into my soul, so that 1 never can for- 
 get it. I resolved to examine a religion, which 
 was capable of producing such effects as I 
 could not attribute either to chance or error. 
 The good couple pressed me with so much 
 unaffected kindness, to -.make their little par- 
 sonage my asylum till I could better dispose 
 of myself, that I accepted their offer. Here, 
 with the assistance of the clergyman, who is 
 a plain, sensible, and truly pious man, I have 
 studied the Holy Scriptures, and the evi- 
 dences of their authority. But after reading 
 them with candour and attention, I found all 
 the extrinsic arguments of their truth super- 
 fluous. The excellency of their precepts, 
 the consistency of their doctrines, and tbfi 
 glorious motives and encouragements to vir- 
 tue which they propose, together with the 
 striking example I nad before mv eyes of 
 their salutary effects, left me no doubt of their 
 divine authority. 
 
 During the time of my abode here, I have, 
 been witness to the more than heroic, the joy- 
 ful, the triumphant death of the dear good wo- 
 man. With as much softness and tenderness 
 
S2 WORKS OF 
 
 as ever I saw in a female character, she show- 
 ed more dauntless intrepidity than the stern- 
 est philosopher or the proudest hero. No 
 torment could shake the constancy of her 
 soul, or length of pain wear out the strength 
 of her patience. Death was to her an object 
 not of horror but of hope. When I heard her 
 pour forth her last breath in thanksgiving, and 
 saw the smile of ecstasy remain on her pale 
 face when life was fled, I could not help cry- 
 ing out in the beautiful language I had lately 
 learned from the Sacred Writings, " O 
 death ! where is thy sting ? O Grave ! where 
 is thy victory ?" 
 
 I am now preparing to leave my excellent 
 benefactor, and get my bread in a service, to 
 which he has recommended me in a neigh- 
 bouring family. A state of servitude, to 
 which once I could not resolve to yield, ap- 
 pears no longer dreadful to me ; that pride, 
 which would have made it galling, Christi- 
 anity has subdued, though philosophy at- 
 tempted it in vain. As a penitent, I should 
 gratefully submit to mortification ; but as a 
 Christian, I find myself superior to every 
 mortification, except the sense of guilt. This 
 has humbled me to the dust : but the full as- 
 surances, that are given me by the Saviour 
 of the World, of the Divine pardon and 
 favour upon sincere repentance, have calmed 
 my troubled spirit, and filled my mind with 
 peace and joy, which the world can neither 
 give nor take away. Thus, without any 
 change for the better in my outward circum- 
 stances, I find myself changed from a dis- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 83 
 
 tractcd, poor, despairing wretch, to a eontent- 
 rd, happy, grateful heing; thankful for, and 
 pleased with my present state of existence, 
 vet exulting in the hope of quitting it for end- 
 less glory and happiness. 
 
 O ! Sir, tell the unthinking mortals, who 
 will not take the pains of inquiring into those 
 truths which most concern them, and who 
 are led by fashion and the pride of human 
 reason, into a contempt for the Sacred Or- 
 acles of GOD ; tell them these amazing 
 effects of the power of Christiamty ; tell 
 them this truth, which experience has taught 
 me, that il Though Vice is constantly attend- 
 ed by misery, Virtue itself cannot confer 
 happiness in this world, except it is animated 
 with the hopes of eternal bliss in the world 
 to come." 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 FIDELIA 
 
A LETTER TO A NEW-MARRIED 
 LADY. 
 
 Indeed, my dear young friend, you have 
 highly obliged me by such a distinguishing 
 mark of friendship and consideration^ that 
 of finding time, on the most important day of 
 your life, to inform me, with your own hand, 
 of Jyour marriage: an event most interesting 
 to me, who wish your happiness with the 
 sincerest ardour. You tell me you expect 
 from me, not a letter of formal congratula- 
 tion, but of serious and friendly advice on the 
 new situations and duties in which you are 
 going to be engaged. You wish I could be 
 always with you to watch and direct your 
 con d u ct, and seem full of that salutary fear 
 and distrust of your own prudence, which is 
 the best security for youth and inexperience. 
 Whilst you retain this, I may venture to 
 answer for you, that you will not macerially 
 deviate from the paths of duty and happi- 
 ness. rc 
 
 I am glad you are still to remain a few 
 weeks under the paternal roof, which has hi- 
 therto sheltered you from everv evil, and 
 
 V V 
 
86 WORKS OF 
 
 where you have seen examples only- of good ; 
 but, from this scene of regularity and quiet 
 cheerfulness, you will soon go to London, to 
 become mistress of yourself and of a family, 
 and to plunge at once into the hurry and bus- 
 tle of a world to which you are almost a stran- 
 ger. Thither will my anxious good wishes 
 attend you ; for, on the manner of your first 
 setting out depends more than you can possi- 
 bly imagine. 
 
 1 know you have not been brought up in 
 modish principles, and that you do not at pre- 
 sent consider marriage as a title to unbounded 
 liberty and perpetual dissipation, instead of a 
 solemn engagement to subjection and obedi- 
 ence, to family cares ancf serious employ- 
 ments. You will probably, indeed, meet with 
 people who will endeavour to laugh you out 
 of all such regards, and who will find some- 
 thing very ludicrous in the idea of authority 
 in a husband. But, whatever your opinions 
 may be on this head, it is certain that a man 
 cf Mr. B's. generosity would be much mor- 
 tified and distressed to find himself obliged to 
 exert his authority in restraining your plea- 
 sures, particularly on his first setting out with 
 you on the journey of life. He knows he 
 should be universally condemned, as either 
 jealous or covetous, should he interfere to 
 stem the torrent of dissipation, into which it 
 will be the business of most of your acquaint- 
 ance to see you fairly plunged ; for well they 
 know that when once you are drawn into the 
 whirlpool, more than female strength is re- 
 quired to get out of it again. Curiosity and 
 
MRS. CHAPOSE. 87 
 
 vanity will join their temptations. You have 
 a new face and new finery to show, new flat- 
 tery to hear, and every fine place about town 
 to see and to be seen in. 
 
 Alas ! poor Mr. B. ! — What chance have 
 you for a moment's attention ! and what a 
 sudden end is here of all that dear domestic 
 happiness to which you both looked forward 
 with rapture a few weeks ago! — you have 
 nothing for it but to engage as deeply in the 
 same course, and to leave to whining swains 
 in the country all ideas of that union of heart, 
 that sweet intercourse of tenderness and 
 friendship of which " soft souls in love" are 
 apt to dream, when they think of living with 
 the object of their wishes. 
 
 Mr. B. chose you from affection only : the 
 superiority of his fortune, and the large field 
 of choice which that fortune, joined with his 
 amiable person and character, secured to 
 him, precludes the possibility of any other 
 motive. I, who know the disinterestedness 
 of your nature, and the perfect freedom of 
 rejection which your parents have always al- 
 lowed you, have not the least doubt that your 
 preference of him was the genuine effect of a 
 real attachment, without any bias from his 
 riches. Youth is naturally disinterested, and 
 your heart is hitherto uncorrupted. But, my 
 dear, the mode of living, in this too civilized 
 part of the world, leaves scarce a single trace 
 of nature, and even youth now grows a stran- 
 ger to tenderness and truth, and pursues 
 wealth (as the means of gratifying vanity) 
 with all the rapacity of an old usurer. It is 
 
88 WORKS OF 
 
 necessary, therefore, that you should prove 
 to your husband the sincerity of your attach- 
 ment, which he may justly doubt if he sees 
 that your happiness arises from the enjoy- 
 ment of his fortune rather than of him. By 
 a reserved and moderate use of his indulgence, 
 by always preferring his company, and that 
 of his particular friends, to public diversions 
 and assemblies, by studying his taste rather 
 than your own, and making the gratification 
 of it your highest pleasure, you must convince 
 him that your heart is his own ; a truth which 
 should always appear in the general tenor of 
 your conduct, rather than in professions, or 
 in that officious parade of affection which de- 
 signing women often substitute in the place 
 of every genuine mark of tenderness and con- 
 sideration. Dean Swift,* in his coarse way, 
 says very sensible things on the subject of 
 displaying affection, which, however, may 
 safely be left to your own natural delicacy: 
 V amour, " de sa nature, aime le secret ,•" and 
 a person of sensibility is always averse to 
 showing any passion or affection before those 
 whose sympathy is not interested in it. An 
 amiable authorf of much more delicacy than 
 the Dean, goes so far as to advise his daugh- 
 ters never to show the extent of their love, 
 even to their husbands ; a precept which 
 does no honour to his own sex, and which 
 would take from ours its sweetest charms, 
 simplicity and artless tenderness. A haughty 
 
 * Vide Letter to a new married Lady. 
 - Dr. Gregory. Vide Father's Legac) r . 
 
MRS. CHAPOKE. 35 
 
 and imperious woman, who desired an undue 
 power over her husband, would indeed do 
 wisely to keep him always in suspense, and 
 conceal from him an affection which must 
 increase his power and diminish her own ; 
 but a gentle and truly feminine nature has no 
 such desires, and consequently needs no such 
 arts. A modest heart may trust its genuine 
 feelings with a husband who has generosity 
 and delicacy, and who, like yours, is untaint- 
 ed with that base opinion of women, which a 
 commerce with the worst of the sex always 
 inspires. 
 
 Swift, (and almost every male writer on 
 the subject) pronounces that the passion of 
 love in men is infallibly destroyed by pos- 
 session, and can subsist but a short time after 
 marriage. What a dreadful sentence must 
 this appear to you at this time ! your heart, 
 which feels its own affection increased, 
 knows not how to support the idea of such 
 a change in the beloved object: but, my dear 
 friend, the God of Nature, who provided the 
 passion of love as the incitement to marriage, 
 has also provided resources for the happiness 
 of this his own institution, which kind and un- 
 corrupted natures will not fail to find. It is not 
 indeed intended that we should pass our lives 
 iri the delirium of passion: but whilst this 
 subsides, the habit of affection grows strong. 
 The tumult and anxiety of desire must of 
 course be at an end when the object is se- 
 cure ; but a milder and more serene happi- 
 ness succeeds, which in good hearts creates 
 3 tenderness that is often wanting amidst the 
 v v £ 
 
SO WORKS Of 
 
 fervours of violent passion. Before this palls, 
 your business is to build the solid foundation 
 of a durable friendship. This will best be 
 done whilst the partiality of fondness places 
 all your excellencies in the fairest point of 
 view, and draws a veil over your defects. 
 This season you should take care to prolong, 
 as far as is possible, that habit and esteem 
 may have time to take deep root : to this end 
 you must avoid every thing that can create 
 a moment's disgust towards either your per- 
 son or your mind. Keep the infirmities of 
 both out of the observation of your husband 
 more scrupulously than of any other man ; 
 and never let your idea in his imagination be 
 accompanied with circumstances unpleasant 
 or disgraceful. A mistress of a family can- 
 not always be adorned with smiles. It will 
 sometimes be incumbent on you to find 
 faults, and human nature may sometimes 
 fail of doing this with proper tamper and 
 dignity ; therefore let it never be done in the 
 
 Eresence of your husband. Do not disturb 
 im with the detail of your grievances from 
 servants or tradespeople, nor with your me- 
 thods of family management. But above all, 
 let nothing of this kind embitter his meals 
 when you happen to be tete-a-tete at table. 
 In mixing with the world and its affairs, he 
 will often meet with such things as cannot 
 fail to hurt a mind like his, and which may 
 sometimes affect his temper. But when he. 
 returns to his own house, let him there find 
 every thing serene and peaceful, and let your 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 91 
 
 cheerful complacency restore his good hu- 
 mour, and quiet every uneasy passion. 
 
 Endeavour to enter into his pursuits, catch 
 his taste, improve by his knowledge ; nor let 
 any thing that is interesting to him appear 
 a matter of indifference to you. Thus will 
 you make yourself delightful to him as a 
 companion and friend, in whom he may be 
 always sure to find that sympathy which is 
 the grand cement of friendship. But if you 
 affect to speak of his pursuits as beyond your 
 capacity or foreign to your taste, you can be 
 no longer pleasing to him in that light, and 
 must rely merely on your personal attrac- 
 tions, of which, alas, time and familiarity 
 must every day impair the value. When 
 you are in the country, perhaps you may 
 sometimes find hours, and even days for each 
 other's society, without any other company : 
 in this case, conversation will hardly supply 
 sufficient entertainment; and, next to dis- 
 pleasing or disgusting him, you should of all 
 things dread his crowing dull and weary in 
 your company. If you can prevail uj)on him 
 to read with you, to practise music with you, 
 or to teach you a language or a science, you 
 will then find amusement for every hour ; and 
 nothing is more endearing than such commu- 
 nications. The improvements and accomplish- 
 ments you gain from him will be doubly valu- 
 able in his esteem ; and certainly you can never 
 acquire them so agreeably as from his lips. 
 And though you should not naturally be dis- 
 posed to the same taste in reading or amusa- 
 
92 WORKS OF 
 
 ment, this may be acquired by habit, and 
 by a hearty desire of conforming to his incli- 
 nations and sharing in his pleasures. With 
 such a master you will find your understand- 
 ing enlarge, and your taste refine to a degree 
 far beyond your expectations ; and the sweet 
 reward of his praises will inspire you with 
 such spirit and diligence as will easily sur- 
 mount any natural inaptitude. 
 
 Your behaviour to his particular friends 
 and near relations will have the most impor- 
 tant effects on your mutual happiness. If 
 you do not adopt his sentiments with regard 
 to these, your union must be very incom- 
 plete, and a thousand disagreeable circum- 
 stances will continually arise from it. I am 
 told that he is an excellent son to a mother, 
 who, with many good qualities, has defects 
 of temper which determined him to decline 
 her continuing to live with him after his mar- 
 riage. In this he is equally kind and pru- 
 dent ; for though he could himself meritori- 
 ously bear with failings to which he had 
 been accustomed from his infancy, in a pa- 
 rent who doats upon him, yet this would 
 have been too hard a task upon you, who 
 have not an equal affection to support your 
 duty, and to whom her ways would have 
 been new and unusual. But though I thus 
 far highly approve his consideration for you, 
 yet you must remember how great a part of 
 her happiness she is thus deprived of on your 
 account, and make her all the amends in your 
 power by your own attentions, as well as by 
 promoting opportunities of indulging her in 
 
MRS. CIJAPONE. 95 
 
 the company of her son. It would be a 
 grievous charge on your conscience, if 
 through your means he should become 
 less observant of her, or diminish aught of 
 that duty and affection which has hitherto 
 so amiably distinguished him. Be careful 
 therefore that no dispute may ever happen 
 between this lady and yourself, no complaint 
 from either of you disturb his peace, to whom 
 it would be so painful and unnatural to take 
 part against either. Be armed against the 
 sallies of her temper, and predetermined 
 never to quarrel with her, whatever she may 
 say or do. In such a relationship, this con- 
 duct would not be meanness but merit ; nor 
 would it imply any unworthy compliance or 
 false assent ; since silence and good-humour- 
 ed steadiness may always preserve sincerity 
 in your conversation, and proper freedom in 
 your conduct. If she should desire to con- 
 trol your actions, or to intermeddle in the af- 
 fairs of your family, more than you think is 
 reasonable, hear her advice with patience,, 
 and answer with respect, but in a manner 
 that may let her see you mean to judge of 
 your own duties for yourself. " I will consi- 
 der of what you are so good to observe to 
 
 me I will endeavour to rectify whatever 
 
 is amiss" or some such general answer, 
 
 will probably for the time put a stop to her 
 attempts of this kind. 
 
 Great care must be taken to proportion at 
 least your outward regards with equity and 
 good breeding between your husband's rela- 
 tions and your own. It would be happy if 
 
94 WORKS OF 
 
 your feelings could be almost the same to 
 both : but whether they are so or net, you 
 are bound by duty and prudence to cultivate 
 as much as possible the good will and friend- 
 ship of the family into which you are now 
 adopted, without prejudice to that affection 
 and gratitude in which 1 am sure you can 
 never be wanting towards your own. 
 
 If it is an important duty to avoid all dissen- 
 tions and disobligations with those who are 
 nearly connected with your husband, of how 
 much greater consequence is to avoid all oc- 
 casions of resentment between yourselves ? 
 Whatever may be said of the quarrels of 
 lovers, believe me those of married people 
 have always dreadful consequences, especial- 
 ly if they are not very short and very slight. 
 If they are suffered to produce bitter or con- 
 temptuous expressions, or betray an habitual 
 dislike in one party of any thing in the person 
 or mind of the other, such wounds can scarce- 
 ly ever be thoroughly healed : and though 
 regard to principle and character lay the 
 married couple under a necessity to make up 
 the breach as well as they can, yet is their 
 affiance in each other's affection so rudely 
 shaken in such conflicts, that it can hardly 
 ever be perfectly fixed again. The painful 
 recollection of what is past, will often intrude 
 upon the tenderest hours, and every trifle 
 will awaken and renew it. You must even 
 noiv be particularly on your guard against 
 this source of misery. A new married pair, 
 from their very excess of fondness, some- 
 times give way to little jealousies and child- 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 9i) 
 
 ish quarrels, which at first, perhaps, quickly 
 end in the renewal and increase of tenderness, 
 but, if often repeated, they loose these agree- 
 able effects, and soon produce others of a 
 contrary nature. The dispute grows every 
 time more serious ; jealousies and distrusts 
 take deeper root ; the temper is hurt on both 
 sides; habits of sourness, thwarting, and 
 mutual misconstruction prevail, and soon 
 overpower all that tenderness which origi- 
 nally gave them birth. Keep it then con- 
 stantly in mind, that the happiness of mar- 
 riage depends entirely upon a solid and per- 
 manent friendship, to which nothing is more 
 opposite than jealousy and distrust. Nor 
 are they less at variance with the true inter- 
 ests of passion. You can never be a gainer 
 by taxing your husband's affection beyond 
 its natural strength ; the fear of alarming 
 your jealousy, and bringing on a quarrel, 
 may force him to feign a greater fondness 
 than he feels ; but this very effort and con- 
 straint will in fact diminish, and by degrees 
 extinguish that fondness. If therefore he 
 should appear less tender or attentive than 
 you wish, you must either awaken his pas- 
 sion by displaying some new grace, some 
 winning charm of sweetness and sensibility, 
 or else conform (at least in appearance) to 
 that rate of tenderness which his example 
 prescribes ; for it is your part rather modestly 
 to follow as he leads, than make him feel the 
 uneasiness of not being able to keep pace 
 with you. At least one may pronounce thai 
 there is nothing less likely to increase affec 
 
96 works or 
 
 tion than ill humour and captiousness. The 
 truth is, that pride rather than tenderness 
 usually occasions the unreasonable expec- 
 tations of an exceptious person, and it is re- 
 warded as it deserves, with mortifications, 
 and the cold dislike of those who suffer from 
 it. 
 
 I am unwilling to sadden your present hal- 
 cyon days, and the fair prospect of happiness 
 before you, by supposing the possibility of 
 any proper cause of jealousy — any real un- 
 kindness or infidelity on the part of Mr. B. 
 As far as the human character can be known 
 and relied on, you have reason to think your- 
 self secure from this heaviest of calamities ; 
 and nothing but irresistible proof, unsought 
 for, and obtruded upon your senses, should 
 ever shake your confidence and esteem. If 
 this were to happen — if my dear tender 
 friend should be doomed to the heart-break- 
 ing trial of seeing those looks of love chang- 
 ed into 
 
 ". hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, 
 
 " That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow :" Grat. 
 
 What must [then be your resource ?- 
 
 Not rage and exclamation not sullen- 
 
 ness and pride not an appeal to the 
 
 world, which would laugh at your complaints, 
 nor even to your friends, who cannot help 
 you, unless by a separation, which would 
 publish and complete your misfortune ! The 
 comforts and helps of religion, with a firm 
 resolution not to be driven out of the path of du- 
 ty, can alone support you under such a sorow. 
 
MJIS. CHAPONE. 97 
 
 The only hope of removing the cause of it 
 must be derived from time and future con- 
 tingencies, which you will watch for and im- 
 prove. Sickness or disappointment may 
 give him opportunity for reflection, and for 
 observing the merit of that silent patience, 
 the dignity of that uniform adherence to your 
 duty which must force his esteem, and may 
 at length regain his heart. If not, yours will 
 of course be cured of the exquisite pain of 
 unrequited love, which cannot very long 
 subsist in a mind of any dignity or strength. If 
 you have children, theyjwill supply the" aching 
 void" with a passion not less lively than 
 that which you will have subdued ; for their 
 sakes life will still be valuable to you, and en- 
 tertained with cheerfulness. But let me 
 hasten from a subject so unsuitable to your 
 present situation, and to your most reasona- 
 ble hopes. 
 
 I cannot but flatter myself that ladies are 
 mightily improved since the time when Deaa 
 Swift (writing on the same occasion that I do 
 now) exhorts his fair pupil to make no friend- 
 ships with any of her own sex. This is, in 
 effect, forbidding her to make any friendships 
 at all ; for the world, with very good reason, 
 tolerates no male friendsat your age, except- 
 ing your nearest relations. The rules of de- 
 corum, in such points, are founded on a 
 knowledge of human nature, which young 
 women cannot have attained, and are there- 
 fore apt to despise such rules, as founded on 
 base ideas of the nature of friendship, or of 
 the hearts that entertain it. But one would 
 
 2 Z 
 
& 
 
 98 WORKS OF 
 
 have supposed that the Dean had lived Ion 
 enough in the world, and thought ill enough 
 of mankind to have been convinced of the 
 impropriety of a young lady's making her 
 strictest intimacies and confidential attach- 
 ments with persons of the other sex. But, 
 setting aside the danger to her reputation, 
 and even to her morals, surely a woman who 
 despised her own sex, and would converse 
 with none but men, would be not less ridicu- 
 lous than a man who should pass his whole time 
 among women. Like the monkey in the 
 fable, she would stand a chance of being 
 rejected and disowned by both species. 
 The reasons the Dean gives for this prepos- 
 terous advice, if ever founded in truth, are 
 certainly so no longer. You may find ad- 
 vantages in the conversation of many ladies, 
 if not equal to those which men are qualified 
 to give, yet equal at least to what you, as a fe- 
 male, are capable of receiving. Yet in one 
 point the Dean and I agree ; in recommend- 
 ing your husband to be your first and dearest 
 friend, and his judgment to be consulted in 
 the choice of every new one you may here- 
 after make. Those you already possess are, 
 I believe, secure of some portion of his es- 
 teem, and he is too much interested in your 
 constancy and fidelity of heart, to wish you 
 to be fickle towards them. I shall therefore 
 depend on his full consent to my having al- 
 ways the pleasure of styling myself 
 Your faithful 
 
 And affectionate friend, 
 
 H. CHAPONE. 
 
WRITTEN DURING A VIOLENT STORM AT MIDNIGHT, 
 
 1749. 
 i 
 
 IN gloomy pomp whilst awful midnight reigns, 
 And wide o'er earth her mournful mantle 
 
 spreads, 
 Whilst deep-voic'd thunders threaten guil- 
 ty heads, 
 And rushing torrents drown the frighted plains, 
 And quick-glanc'd lightnings to my dazzled 
 
 sight 
 Betray the double horrors of the night ; 
 
 A solemn stillness creeps upon my soul, 
 And all its pow'rs in deep attention die ; 
 My heart forgets to beat ; my steadfast eye 
 Catches the flying gleam ; the distant roll, 
 Advancing gradual, swells upon my ear 
 With louder peals, more dreadful as more near. 
 
 Awake, my soul, from thy forgetful trance ! 
 
 The storm calls loud, and Meditation wakes ; 
 
 How at the sound pale Superstition shakes, 
 Whilst all her train of frantic Fears advance ! 
 Children of darkness, hence, fly far from mc ! 
 And dwell with Guilt and Infidelity ! 
 
100 WORKS OF 
 
 But come, with look compos'd and sober pace> 
 Calm Contemplation, come ! andhither lead 
 Devotion, that on earth disdains to tread ; 
 Her inward flame illumes her glowing face, 
 Her upcast eye, and spreading wings, prepare 
 Her flight for heav'n, to find her treasure there. 
 
 She sees, enraptur'd, thro' the thickest gloom, 
 Celestial beauty beam, and, 'midst the howl 
 Of warring winds, sweet music charms 
 her soul ; 
 She sees, while rifted oaks in flames consume, 
 A Father-God, that o'er the storm presides, 
 Threatens, to save, and loves, when most he 
 chides. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 101 
 
 OCCASIONED BY READING 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE STYLE AND MANNER OF SPENSER, 
 
 By T. Edwards, Esq. 1749. 
 
 Blest Bard! to whom the Muses, grateful^ 
 gave 
 That pipe which erst their dearest Spenser 
 
 won, 
 As once they found thee, pensive and alone, 
 Strewing sweet flow'rs upon his hallow'd 
 
 grave ; 
 Then bade thy fancy glow with sacred fire, 
 And softest airs thy rural verse inspire. 
 
 Again the elfin Faries and Sylphids come, 
 At dusky eve, or in the moonlight pale, 
 To the accustom'd mead, or shadowy dale, 
 Or where the wild wood sheds a browner 
 
 gloom, 
 Where oft, unseen, they listen'd to the lay 
 Of their lov'd Colin-clout, till peep of day. 
 z z 2 
 
 
102 WORKS OP 
 
 Once more they listen, while with mimic hand 
 Thou tun'st his rustic reed ; and oft their 
 
 feet, 
 Charm'd by thy simple verse and music 
 sweet, 
 Forget the dance, and all in silence stand ; 
 They hush the breeze, and chide the brook 
 
 to peace, 
 And. Philomel is mute till Damon cease. 
 
 But most thy strains my raptur'd spirit raise, 
 When love of virtue prompts thy tuneful 
 
 tongue ; 
 When * Richardson's lov'd name adorns 
 thy song, 
 What honest heart but echoes back thy praise! 
 Sing on, sweet bard ! prolong the darling theme ! 
 Hush'd be the breeze ! and mute the bab'ling 
 stream ! 
 
 Fain wouldl, shepherd, catch the pleasingnote 5 
 And vainly try to learn thy wond'rous skill ; 
 So the young linnet, when with varied trill 
 The woodlark shakes his wildly- warbling 
 
 throat, 
 Delighted flutters quick her trembling wing, 
 Tries her weak voice, and twitt'ring, aims to 
 sing. 
 
 * Mr. Samuel Richardson, Author of Clarissa, 
 and of Sir Charles Grandhon. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 10S 
 
 SONNET TO MISS MULSO, 
 
 IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 By T. Edwards, Esq. 
 
 Sweet Linnet, who from off the laurel spray 
 That hangs o'er Spenser's ever sacred tomb, 
 Pour'st out such notes as strike the Wood- 
 lark dumb, 
 
 And vie with Philomel's enchanting lay ; 
 
 How shall my verse thy melody repay ? 
 If my weak voice could reach the age to 
 
 come, 
 Like Colin Clout's, thy name should ever 
 bloom 
 Through future times, unconscious of decay : 
 
 But my frail aid thy merits not require ; 
 
 Thee Polyhymnia, in the roseate bow'rs 
 
 Of high Parnassus, 'midst the vocal throng 
 Shall glad receive, and to her tuneful sire 
 
 Present, where crown'd with amaranthine 
 flow'rs, 
 
 The raptur'd choir shall listen to thy song. 
 
104 WORKS OP 
 
 ^TO HEALTH. 
 
 O health ! thou friend of Nature ! God- 
 dess blythe, 
 That oft upon the Uplands bleak art seen, 
 Printing with nimble step the dewy green. 
 To help the early mower wet his scythe, 
 Or with the jocund swain partake the toil 
 To press the plough, and break the stubborn 
 soil : 
 
 Ah, wherefore dost thou fly me, nymph divine? 
 
 With Youth and Innocence thou lov'st to 
 
 dwell, 
 And gentle Peace, soft whisp'ring, " all is 
 well !" 
 Youth, Innocence, and gentle Peace are mine ; 
 Nor sacred Friendship to my heart denies 
 Her richest treasures, and her sweetest joys. 
 No boist'rous passion shook my troubled 
 frame, 
 To fright thee from my breast, nor pining 
 
 Care, 
 Nor rankling Envy ever Fester'd there, 
 Nor did Intemp'rance e'er my blood inflame 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 105 
 
 And Grief, tho' long an inmate of my mind, 
 To Hope and Cheerfulness her place resign'd. 
 
 O Health, thy Napier calls, well-skill'd to 
 save, 
 Foe of thy foes, and friend of human race, 
 Whose potent hand the tyrant Pain can 
 chase, 
 And pale Disease, that points an op'ning grave ; 
 Nor thou, ungrateful, can'st to him deny, 
 Thy glad return, fresh source of springing joy ! 
 
 Without thee, Virtue's self forgets to smile, 
 And sufif 'ring saints with heav'n in view 
 
 complain ; 
 Philosophy, and Stoic pride how vain, 
 To stifle anguish, or the sense beguile ! 
 Yet thou art often to the good unkind, 
 Like Fortune partial, and to merit blind. 
 
 Hast thou not left a Richardson unblest ? 
 
 He wo os thee still in vain, relentless maid ! 
 
 Tho' skill'd in sweetest accents to persuade, 
 And wake soft Pity in a savage breast. 
 Him Virtue loves, and brightest Fame is his, 
 Smile thou too, Goddess, and complete his 
 bli^s. 
 
106 WORKS or 
 
 But if regardless thou can'st hear him sigh. 
 Shall I not silence my presumptuous plea ! 
 To him obdurate, wilt thou yield to me ? 
 
 Ah no ! to thee, mild Patience, I'll apply, 
 
 Affliction's nurse ! hear thou my humbler 
 pray'r, 
 
 And teach, the ills I may not shun, to bear ! 
 
MRS. CHAPOtfE, 107 
 
 TO A ROBIN REDBREAST. 
 
 Dear social bird ! that giv'st with fearless love 
 Thy tender form to man's protecting care, 
 Pleas'd, when rude tempests vex the ruffled 
 air, 
 
 For the warm roof to leave the naked grove ; 
 
 Kindest and last of Summer's tuneful train ! 
 
 Ah ! do not yet give o'er thy plaintive lay ; 
 
 But charm soft Zephyr to a longer stay. 
 And oft renew thy sweetly parting strain. 
 
 So when rough Winter frowns with brow se- 
 vere, 
 And chilling blasts shall strip the sheltering 
 
 trees, 
 When meagre Want thy shiv'ring frame 
 shall seize, 
 And Death, with dart uplifted, hover near, 
 My grateful hand the lib'ral crumbs shall give. 
 My bosom warm thee, and my kiss revive. 
 
10S WORKS OF 
 
 TO STELLA. 
 
 No more, my Stella, to the sighing shades t 
 Of blasted hope and luckless love complain ; 
 
 But join the sports of Dian's careless maids, 
 And laughing Liberty's triumphant train. 
 
 And see, with these is holy Friendship found, 
 With chrystal bosom open to the sight; 
 
 Her gentle hand shall close the recent wound, 
 And fill the vacant heart with calm delight. 
 
 Nor Prudence slow, that ever comes too late, 
 
 Nor stern-brow'd Duty, check her gen'rous 
 
 flame ; 
 
 On all her footsteps Peace and Honour wait, 
 
 And Slander's ready tongue reveres her 
 
 name. 
 
 Say, Stella, what is Love, whose tyrant pow'r 
 Robs Virtue of content, and Youth of joy ? 
 
 What nymph or goddess, in a fatal hour, 
 Gave to the world this mischief-making 
 boy? 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 109 
 
 By lying bards in forms so various shown, 
 Deck'd with false charms or arm'd with 
 terrors vain, 
 
 Who shall his real properties make known, 
 Declare his nature, and his birth explain. 
 
 Some say of Idleness and Pleasure bred, 
 The smiling babe on beds of roses lay, 
 
 There, with sweet honey-dews by Fancy fed, 
 His blooming beauties open'd to the day. 
 
 His wanton head with fading chaplets bound, 
 Dancing, he leads his silly vot'ries on 
 
 To precipices deep o'er faithless ground, 
 Then laughing flies, nor hears their fruitless 
 moan. 
 
 Some say from Etna's burning entrails torn, 
 More fierce than tigers on the Lybian plain. 
 
 Begot in tempests, and in thunders born, 
 Love wildly rages like the foaming main. 
 
 With darts and flames some arm his feeble 
 hands, 
 His infant brow with regal honours crown 
 Whilst vanquished Reason, bound with silken 
 
 bands, 
 Meanly submissive, falls before his t hrone 
 
 a a 
 
110 WORKS OP 
 
 Each fabling poet sure alike mistakes 
 The gentle power that reigns o'er tender 
 hearts ! 
 Softlovenotempesthurls,northunder shakes, 
 Nor lifts the flaming torch, nor poison'd 
 darts. 
 
 Heav'n born, the brightest seraph of the sky, 
 For Eden's bow'r he left his blissful seat, 
 When Adam's blameless suit was heard on 
 high, 
 A beauteous Eve first cheer'd his lone re- 
 treat. 
 
 At Love's approach all earth rejoic'd, each 
 hill, 
 Each grove that learnt it from the whisp'r- 
 ing gale ; 
 Joyous the birds their liveliest chorus fill, 
 And richer fragrance breathes in ev'ry vale. 
 
 Well pleas'd in Paradise awhile he roves, 
 With innocence and Friendship, hand in 
 hand; 
 
 Till Sin found entrance in the with 'ring groves, 
 And frighted innocence forsook the land. 
 
•IRS.'CHAPONE. Ill 
 
 But Love, still faithful to the guilty pair, 
 
 With them was driv'n amidst a world of 
 woes, 
 Where oft he mourns his lost companion dear, 
 And trembling flies before his rigid foes. 
 
 Honour, in burnish'd steel completely clad, 
 And hoary Wisdom, oft against him arm ; 
 
 Suspicion pale, and Disappointment sad, 
 Vain Hopes and frantic Fears his heart 
 alarm. 
 
 Fly then, dear Stella, fly th' unequal strife, 
 Since Fate forbids that Peace should dwell 
 with Love ! 
 Friendship's calm joys shall glad thy future 
 life, 
 And Virtue lead to endless bliss abovet 
 
US WORKS OF 
 
 TO ASPASIA, 
 
 IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 BY* MISS h*******. 
 
 Wisdom, Aspasia, by thy gentle Muse, 
 Warns me to shun the dang'rous paths of 
 Love, 
 
 And rather those of sober Friendship choose, 
 With cheerful Liberty, in Dian's grove. 
 
 Yet, led by Fancy through deceitful ground, 
 
 Oft have I Friendship sought, but sought 
 
 in vain ; 
 
 Unfaithful friends with myrtle wreaths I 
 
 crown'd, 
 
 Unpleasing subjects of my plaintive strain. 
 
 In youthful innocence, a school-day friend 
 First gain'd my sister-vows ; unhappy 
 maid ! 
 
 How did I wipe thy tears, thy griefs attend, 
 And how was all my tenderness repaid ! 
 
 * Now Mrs. D*******, to whose kindness Mrs. 
 Chapone is indebted for the liberty of inserting 
 here this elegant answer to the Ode to Stella 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 115 
 
 .No sooner Grandeur, Love, and Fortune 
 smil'd, 
 
 Than base Ingratitude thy heart betrays, 
 That friend forgot, who all thy woes beguil'd, 
 
 Lost in the sunshine of thy prosp'rous daj s. 
 
 Save me, kind Heav'n, from smiling Fortune's 
 power ! 
 
 And may my wishes never meet success, 
 If e'er I can forget, one single hour, 
 
 The friend who gave me comfort in distress ! 
 
 Yet Friendship's influence I again implor'd, 
 To heal the wounds by Disappointment 
 made ; 
 
 Friendship my soul to balmy Peace restor'd, 
 And sent a gentle virgin to my aid. 
 
 Soft, modest, pensive, melancholy Fair, 
 She seem'd to Love and pining Grief a 
 prey; 
 
 I saw her fading cheek, and fear'd Despair 
 Fed on her heart and stole her life away.. 
 
 But ah ! how chang'd my friend ! how vain 
 
 my fears ! 
 Not Death, but Hymen, stole her from my 
 
 heart ; 
 Another love dispell'd her sighs and tears, 
 
 And fame was left the secret to impart. 
 
 a 2 
 
114 WORKS OF 
 
 Not twice the changing moon her course had 
 run 
 Since first the pleasing youth was seen and 
 lov'd, 
 The fair in secret haste he woo'd and won, 
 No friend consulted, for no friend approv'd. 
 
 Suspense not long my anxious bosom pain'd, 
 My friend arriv'd — I clasp'd her to my 
 breast, 
 
 I wept, I smil'd, alternate passions reign'd, 
 Till she the sad unwelcome tale confess'd. 
 
 Lost to her brother, country, and to me, 
 A stranger wafts her to a foreign shore, 
 
 She travels mountains, and defies the sea, 
 Nor thinks of Albion or of Stella more. 
 
 Sure Nature in her weakest, softest mould, 
 Form'd my unhappy heart, False Friend- 
 ship's prey ! 
 Another story yet remains untold, 
 Which fond Compassion bids me not dis- 
 play : 
 
 The lovely sister of a faithless friend 
 Weeping entreats me spare the recent tale ; 
 
 Her sighs 1 hear, her wiskes I attend, 
 And o'er her sister's failings draw the veil. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 115 
 
 Tliis my success in search of Friendship's 
 grove, 
 Where Liberty and Peace 1 hop'd to find, 
 And soften'd thus with Grief, deceitful Love, 
 In Friendship's borrow'd garb, attack'd my 
 mind. 
 
 No passion raging like the roaring main, 
 But calm and gentle as a summer sea, 
 
 Meek Modesty and Virtue in his train, 
 What Friendship ought, true Love appear'd 
 to be. 
 
 But soon was chang'd, alas! the pleasing 
 scene, 
 Soon threat'ning storms my timid heart 
 alarm'd ; 
 And love no more appear'd with brow serene, 
 But cloth'd in terrors, and with dangers 
 , arm'd. 
 
 From these enchanted bowers my steps I 
 turn, 
 And seek from Prudence safety and re- 
 pose ; 
 Her rigid lessons I resolve to learn, 
 And gain that bliss which self-approof be- 
 stows. 
 
116 WORKS OF 
 
 Thus, dear Aspasia, my unhappy fate, 
 My heart's first darling schemes all blasted, 
 see; 
 Yet now my bosom glows, with hope elate, 
 Fair Friendship's blessings still to find with 
 thee. 
 
 By thee conducted to the realms of Peace, 
 No more in plaintive strains the Muse shall 
 sing, 
 Henceforth with hymns of praise, and grate- 
 ful bliss, 
 The groves shall echo, and the valleys ring;. 
 
MRS. CHAPOISE. 117 
 
 *TO PEACE. 
 
 Written during the late Rebellion, 1745. 
 
 Return, sweet Peace ! Ah whither art thou 
 flown ? 
 How art thou frighted from this wretched 
 land! 
 Which once it pleas'd thee to protect and own, 
 How great ! how blest ! beneath thy mild 
 command. 
 
 Fair child of holy Love ! companion dear 
 Of meek Content and smiling Innocence J 
 
 Oh ! if thy gentle eyes such sight can bear, 
 Of Briton's sons behold the dire offence ! 
 
 Behold sad Caledonia's horrid plain, 
 
 What hellish fury fires the shouting bands ! 
 Ah see ! with brother's blood their swords 
 they stain ; 
 Ye weeping angels, hold their murd'rous 
 hands ! 
 
 * This was written at a very early age, and was 
 the author's first poetical attempt. 
 
118 WORKS OF 
 
 Thy banks, fair Tweed ! were wont to echo 
 sweet 
 
 The lover's wailing, and the lover's song ; 
 Or, to the jocund pipe, the sounding feet 
 
 Of blithest lads, thy bonny berks among : 
 
 Now bright-arm'd hosts thy pleasant banks 
 invade, 
 And fright thy helpless villages around ; 
 Thy shepherds leave their flocks, and fly dis- 
 may*d ; 
 With war's harsh din the distant rocks re- 
 sound. 
 
 Th' industrious merchant's everanxiousmind, 
 Opprest with care, his treasure lost de- 
 plores ; 
 Yet curses he nor treach'rous seas, nor wind, 
 Nor pointed rocks unseen, nor craggy 
 shores : 
 > 
 But thee he curses, oh thou most accurst ! 
 
 Offspring of mad Ambition ! cruel War ! 
 Go reign in hell, be there supremely worst, 
 The blackest, most malignant demon far. 
 
 Whether remote in twilight shades you sleep, 
 Mild Peace ! or choose in cottage low to 
 dwell ; 
 
 Or won by pray'r, and nurs'd in silence deep, 
 Hide your fair form within the hermits cell ; 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 119 
 
 Oh let Britannia's griefs thy pity move ; 
 
 Return ! and with thee bring a beauteous 
 train ; 
 Plenty and Order, Piety, and Love, 
 
 And art, and Science, wait thy blissful reign. 
 
 Ah turn ! let thy majestic looks serene 
 Check the wild rage of thy presumptuous 
 foes: 
 Thy beamy smile shall calm the troubled 
 scene, 
 Cheer my sad heart, and heal my country's 
 woes. 
 
120 WORKS OF 
 
 TO SOLITUDE. 
 
 Thou gentle nurse of pleasing wo! 
 
 To thee, from crowds, and noise, and show. 
 
 With eager haste I fly. 
 Thrice welcome, friendly Solitude ! 
 O let no busy food intrude, 
 
 Nor list'ning ear be nigh. 
 
 Soft, silent, melancholy maid ! 
 With thee to yon sequester'd shade 
 
 My pensive steps I bend ; 
 Still, at the mild approach of night, 
 When Cynthia lends her sober light, 
 
 Do thou my walk attend ! 
 
 To thee alone my conscious heart 
 Its tender sorrow dares impart, 
 
 And ease my lab'ring breast ; 
 To thee I trust the rising sigh, 
 And bid the tear that swells mine eye 
 
 No longer be supprest. 
 
 With thee among the haunted groves 
 The lovely sorc'ress Fancy roves, 
 
MRS CHAPOM. . 151 
 
 O let me find her here ! 
 For she can time and space control, 
 And swift transport my fleeting sou! 
 
 To all it holds most dear ! 
 
 Ah no ! — ye vain delusions hence ! 
 No more the hallow'd influence 
 
 Of Solitude pervert ! 
 Shall Fancy cheat the precious hour., 
 Sacred to Wisdom's awful pow'r 
 
 And calm Reflections part ? 
 
 O Wisdom ! from the sea-beat shore 
 Where, list'ning to the solemn roar, 
 
 Thy lov'd *Eliza strays, 
 Vouchsafe to visit my retreat, 
 And teach my erring, trembling feet 
 
 Thy heav'n-protected ways ! 
 
 Oh guide me to the humble cell 
 Where Resignation loves to dwell 
 
 Contentment's bow'r in view. 
 Nor pining Grief with Absence drear, 
 Nor sick Suspense, nor anxious Fear, 
 
 Shall there my step pursue. 
 
 * Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, a lady well known to 
 the literary world, author of a beautiful Ode t» 
 Wisdom, 
 
 b b 
 
122 WORKS OF 
 
 There let my soul to Him aspire 
 Whom none e'er sought with vain desire, 
 
 Nor lov'd in sad despair ! 
 There, to his gracious will divine 
 My dearest, fondest hope resign, 
 
 And all my tend'rest care ! 
 
 Then Peace shall heal this wounded breast. 
 That pants to see another blest, 
 
 From selfish passion pure ; 
 Peace, which when human wishes rise 
 Intense, for aught beneath the skies. 
 
 Can never be secure. 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 123 
 
 TO WINTER. 
 
 Hail Winter ! venerable sage ! 
 
 "Whose provident and sparing age 
 In lean a'nd naked poverty appears, 
 
 Whilst all thy treasure thou dost hide, 
 
 Lock'd in some mountain's hollow side, 
 With future blessings to enrich thy heirs. 
 
 First, youthful Spring, fantastic maid, 
 In green embroidered robe array'd, 
 
 Thy store with all her gay attire supplies : 
 Enrich'd by thee, she flings her sweets 
 With lavish hand on all she meets, 
 
 " Her bells and ilow'rets of a thousand dyes." 
 
 The fertile earth, with softening rain 
 By thee prepar'd to ev'ry grain 
 
 A safe retreat within her bosom yields : 
 Thy snowy mantle covers o'er, 
 With kindly warmth, the golden store 
 
 That Summer pours on Ceres' waving fields. 
 
 Pomona's trees their nourish'd root, 
 Their folded bud, and infant shoot, 
 
 Owe to thy cautious age and patient care : 
 With riches gather'd from thy hoard 
 Pale Autumn's plenteous horn is stored, 
 
 That may with Summer's boasted sheaves 
 compare. 
 
124 WORKS OF 
 
 What tho' thy rigid hand refuse 
 
 One wreath to crown my vent'rous muse, 
 
 One flow'r to grace my unadorn'd lays, 
 Yet love shall tune my grateful voice, 
 Nor shall my thankless heart rejoice 
 
 In silent bliss, unmindful of thy praise. 
 
 Rescued by thee from gloomy fears, 
 From restless wishes, anxious cares, 
 
 And all the sorrows that on Absence wait, 
 By thee restor'dto ev'ryjoy 
 That tender Friendship can supply, 
 
 To all my fondest pray'rs had ask'd of Fate, 
 
 Shall not my reed be tuned for thee, 
 Thou friend of sweet Society ? 
 
 Patron of rational eorone delights ! 
 
 Welcome thy keen enliv'ning frost ! 
 Thy doubtful days in twilight lost ! 
 Welcome thy long-protracted social nights ! 
 
 Tho' Fancy flies thy sullen reign, 
 And ev'ry Muse forsakes the plain, 
 
 Nor haunts the leafless grove, nor ice-bound 
 stream, 
 Philosophy and Reason view 
 Thy hoary head with rev'rence due, 
 
 And bid thy horrors raise their solemn theme. 
 
MRS. CHAP0NE. 1£5 
 
 "Well pleas'd thy hollow voice they hear 
 Among the naked branches drear, 
 
 Or through the vaulted cavern bellowing loud; 
 Or listen studious to the sound 
 Of rushing waters, pouring round, 
 
 From the black bosom of the impending cloud. 
 
 Thee glad Devotion's heav'n-taught lays 
 Shall welcome ! She, with constant praise, 
 
 Meets each appointment of great Nature's 
 King. 
 Thy dear return with blessings fraught, 
 Shall ever wake my grateful thought, 
 
 And annual off'rings to thy fane I'll bring. 
 
 B b 2 
 
126 WORKS OF 
 
 L'ESTATE METASTASIO. 
 
 Or che niega i doni suoi 
 La stagion de' fiori arnica, 
 Cinta il crin di bionda spica 
 
 Volge a noi 
 L'E state il pie. 
 
 E gia sotto al raggio ardente 
 Cosl bollono 1' arene 
 
 Che alia barbara Cirene 
 Piu cocente 
 II sol non e 
 
 Piu non hanno i primi albori 
 
 Le lor gelide rugiade ; 
 
 Piu dal ciel pioggia non cade, 
 Che ristori 
 
 E l'erba, e'l fior : 
 Alimento il fonte, il rio 
 
 Al terren piu non comparte, 
 
 Che si fende in ogni parte 
 Per desio 
 
 Di nuovo umor. 
 
 Polveroso al sole in faccia 
 Si scolora il verde faggio, 
 Che di frondi al nuovo maggio 
 
 iLe sue braccia 
 Rivesti. 
 
MRS. CHAPOJVE. 12? 
 
 SUMMER. FROM METASTASIO. 
 
 Farewell, mild Spring ! farewell, each ear- 
 ly flow'r 
 
 On the soft bank or verdant meadow born ! 
 Summer advances to assert her pow'r, 
 
 Her yellow tresses crown'd with ears of corn. 
 
 The streams decrease beneath the solar ray, 
 
 Shrink from its rage, and leave the burning 
 
 sand ; 
 
 Not more oppressive beams, the raging day 
 
 Points on the parch'd Cirene's barb'rous 
 
 land. 
 
 No more the morning sheds her frosty dews, 
 While no rude winds her gentle hours dis- 
 turb; 
 
 Nor fruitful rain from equal heav'n renews 
 Each beauteous flow'ret and salubrious herb. 
 
 No more the fountain, or the wand'ring stream, 
 Pours its abundance o'er th' irriguous plain ; 
 
 Earth gapes beneath the sun's relentless beam, 
 And vainly asks the cool refreshing rain. 
 
 Discolour'd, dry, the tall majestic beech, 
 ThatMAY had freshly clothed in vivid green, 
 And bade his broad arms, wide projected, 
 reach 
 The pride, the glory of the sylvan scene, 
 
128 WORKS OF 
 
 Ed ingrato al suol natio 
 
 Fuor del tronco ombra non atende? 
 
 Ne dal sol l'acque disende 
 Di quel rio 
 
 Che lo nutri. 
 
 Molle il volto, il sen bagnato, 
 
 Dorme steso in strana guisa 
 
 Su la messe gia recisa 
 L'affannato 
 
 Mietitor : 
 E con man pietosa, e pronte 
 
 Va tergendogli la bella 
 
 Amorosa villanella 
 Delia fronte 
 
 11 suo sudor. 
 
 La su l'arido terreno 
 
 Scemo il Can d'ogni vigore 
 Langue accanto al suo signore 
 
 E ne meno 
 Osa latrar ; 
 
 Ma tramanda al seno oppress© 
 Per le fauci inaridite 
 Nuove sempre aure gradite 
 
 Con lo spesso . 
 Respirar. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 1£9 
 
 Withers, ungrateful to its native ground, 
 And scarce beyond the trunk its shadows 
 spread ; 
 No sheltering leaves ^protect with coolness 
 round 
 The friendly rill that long its branches fed. 
 
 His face and bosom bathed in honest sweat, 
 The weary reaper throws him careless down , 
 
 Stretch'd on the swarth, and, thro' the mid- 
 day heat, 
 Sleeps on the harvest that his labours crown: 
 
 Whilst with a ready and a tender hand, 
 The village-maid, to love and Corin true, 
 
 latent and silent takes her careful stand, 
 And from his forehead wipes the trickling 
 dew. 
 
 On the scorch'd ground, near his lov'd mas- 
 ter, lies 
 
 The panting Dog, whose clammy jaws now 
 fail 
 
 To give the watchful bark, and oft he tries, 
 With quick short breath, to catch the grate- 
 ful gale. 
 
ISO WORKS OF 
 
 Quel Tore], ch' innamorava 
 Del suo ardir ninfe, e pastori 
 Se ne' tronchi degli allori 
 
 S'avezzava 
 A ben serir, 
 
 Del ruscello or su le sponde 
 Lento giace, e mugge, e guata 
 La giovenca innamorata, 
 
 Che risponde 
 Al suo muggir. 
 
 Per timor del caldo raggio 
 L'augellin non batte l'ale, 
 Alle stridule cicale 
 
 Cede il faggio 
 L'ufignuol. 
 
 Mostran gia spoglie novelle 
 Le macchiate antiche Serpi, 
 Che ravvolte a' nudi sterpi 
 
 Si fan belle 
 In faccia al fol. 
 
 Al calor del lungo giorno 
 Senton la ne' salsi umori 
 Anche i muti abitatori, 
 
 Che il soggiorno 
 Intiepidi : 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 1S1 
 
 The youthful Bull,, whom oft the ructic swain 
 
 With wondersaw exert his dauntless might? 
 
 No more, with butting forehead, rules the 
 
 plain, 
 
 Nor wounds the bending trees in mimic 
 
 fight. 
 
 Laid on the margin of the scanty rill, 
 Lowing, he watches his lov'd Heifer near ; 
 
 Whose faint responsive moans no longer fil| 
 Heav'n's echoing vault, but feebly strike 
 the ear. 
 
 No more with nimble wing the feather'd race 
 In the fierce eye of day advent'rous tow'r ; 
 The Nightingale resigns her ruin'd sprays, 
 And noisy Grasshoppers usurp the bow'r. 
 
 But the sleek Serpents, by the genial fires 
 Reviv'd desert their faded sloughs,'and bold, 
 
 Round the bare branch weaving their agile 
 spires, 
 Blaze to the sun in renovated gold. 
 
 The mute inhabitants that coolly play, 
 And in their native briny waters lave, 
 
 Feel the long rigours of the Summer's day, 
 And dread the changes of the tepid wave. 
 
1S£ WORKS OF 
 
 E aV loro antri muscosi 
 Piu non van scorrendo il mare : 
 Ma fra'sassi, e l'alghe amare 
 
 Stanno ascosi 
 A' rai del d>. 
 
 Pur l'Estate tormentosa, 
 S'io rimiro, amataFille, 
 Le tue placide pupille, 
 
 Si penosa 
 A me non e : 
 
 Mi conduca il cieco Dio 
 Fra' Numidi, o al Mar gelato, 
 Io sar5 sempre beato, 
 
 Idol mio, 
 Vicino a te. 
 
 Benche adusta abbia la fronte 
 Conle curve oppostespalle, 
 Una ombrosa opaca valle 
 
 Celail monte 
 Al caldo sol : 
 
 La dall' alto in giu cadendo 
 Serpe un rio limpido, e vago, 
 Che raccolto in piceiol lago 
 
 Va nutrendo 
 H verde suol. 
 
MRS. CHAPO.VE. 1S5 
 
 Xear the hot surface they forbear to glide, 
 In mossy caves or coral grottos laid 
 
 Beneath the dark projecting rocks they hide> 
 Or where the bitter sea-weed lends its shade. 
 
 Yet will not 1 deplore the painful heat, 
 Tho' Summer drives her burning car so 
 nigh, 
 
 When my fond looks my lovely Phillis greet? 
 And the soft languish of her modest eye. 
 
 Lead me, blind God, if such thy wild decree, 
 To Afric's sands with ceaseless heats opprest, 
 Or where cold Zembla views her frozen sea, 
 Sure, if with thee, my fairest, to be blest. 
 
 And see, my love, beneath that mountain's 
 height, 
 
 That bears its shoulder to the burning skies, 
 Cool, and protected from oppressive light, 
 
 Form'd for retreat, the shady valley lies. 
 
 There down the rocks the winding riv'lets 
 flow, 
 Thro' shaggy brakes their limpid streams 
 are seen, 
 Which, gather'd in the crystal lake below, 
 Nourish the fertile vale's perennial green. 
 c c 
 
154 WORKS OP 
 
 La del sol dubbia e la luce, 
 Come suol notturna luna, 
 Ne pastor greggia importuna 
 
 Vi conduce 
 A pascolar : 
 
 E se v'entra il sol furtivo, 
 Vedi l'ombra delle piante 
 Al variar d'aura incostante 
 
 Dentro il rivo 
 Tremolar. 
 
 La, mia vita, uniti andiamo, 
 La cantando il di s'inganni : 
 Per timor di nuovi affanni 
 
 Non lasciamo 
 Di gioir. 
 
 Che raddoppia i suoi tormenti, 
 Chi con occhio mal sicuro 
 Fra la nebbia del futuro 
 
 Va gli eventi 
 A prevenir. 
 
 I\Ie non sdegni il biondo Dio, 
 Me con Fille unisca Amore ; 
 E poi sfoghi il suo rigore 
 
 Fato rio, 
 Nemico ciel. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 135 
 
 There the sun's doubtful light, attemper'd, 
 shows 
 
 Like the mild lustre of the nightly moon j 
 Ho shepherd the sequester'd shelter knows, 
 
 Nor thither leads th' intruding flock at noon. 
 
 Should through the gloom the stealthy sun 
 prevail, 
 See from his ray the scene new beauties 
 take; 
 The margin plants, mov'd by the varying gale, 
 Reflected wave along the trembling lake. 
 
 In that sweet spot together let us live ; 
 
 The tedious day shall hasten while we sing J 
 Content and joy the present hour shall give, 
 
 And hide the ills futurity may bring : 
 
 For woes on woes that anxious wretch pursue. 
 
 And on his soul fantastic terrors crowd, 
 Who dares with eye distrustful stretch his 
 view 
 Where Fate has spread her providential 
 cloud. 
 
 Let but the fair-hair'd God confirm my state, 
 In silken bands to my lov'd Phillis led, 
 
 Let adverse seasons then and cruel Fate 
 Exhaust their rigours on my patient head. 
 
136 WORKS OP 
 
 Che il desio non mi tormenta 
 O di fasto, o di ricchezza ; 
 Ne d'incomoda vecchiezza 
 
 Mi spaventa 
 II pigro gel. 
 
 Curvo il tergo, e bianco il mento 
 Tocchero le corde usate, 
 E alle corde mal temprate 
 
 Roco accento 
 Accoppier6 : 
 
 E a que' rai non phi vivaci 
 Rivolgendomi talora, 
 Su la man, che m'innamora, 
 
 Freddi baci 
 Imprimer5. 
 
 Giusti Dei, che riposate 
 Placidissimi sull'etra, 
 La mia Fille, e la mia cetra 
 
 Ueh serbate 
 Per pieta ! 
 
 Fili poi la Parca avara 
 I miei dl mill' anni, e mille, 
 La mia cetra, e la mia Fill* 
 
 Sempre cara 
 A me sari. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. 137 
 
 For me nor wealth, nor glitt'ring pomp allure, 
 Their specious charms no more my heart 
 engage, 
 
 Nor shall it shrink, affrighted, to endure 
 The lazy frost of chill enervate age : 
 
 For then, with bending back, and snowy beard, 
 And trembling hand, I'll touch th' accus- 
 tom'd string, 
 
 And still, with partial ear by Phillis heard, 
 To love her, and in hoarser accents sing ; 
 
 Still on those faded eyes my sight I'll rest. 
 No longer kind'ling at her lover's songs ; 
 
 And print, while pressing to my faithful breast, 
 Cold kisses on the hand I lov'd so long. 
 
 Ye who at ease on ether soft recline, 
 Indulgent hear this only fond desire ! 
 
 Oh hear, for gentle pity, Pow'rs divine ! 
 And grant me still my Phillis and my lyre ! 
 
 Then, would penurious Fate the pray'r regard, 
 And spin my days beyond the thousandth 
 year, 
 Still to the bosom of their grateful bard 
 My lyre and Phillis should be ever dear. 
 cc2 
 
186 WORKS or 
 
 SONNETTO. 
 
 Qual agnellina dal sentiero uscita, 
 E'l pastor e l'ovil posto in oblio, 
 Molt' anni err6, lungi da te, mio dio, 
 
 Da te, vero Pastor, l'alma fuggita.* 
 
 Se miro vago rio, valle fiorita, 
 Cola rivolse ilgiovenil desio, 
 Ma sempre amari i fior, torbido il rio 
 
 Ella trov5, dal proprio error tradita. 
 
 Ond'hor, cangiato alfin 1'incauto stile, 
 Gia del suo lungo vanaggiar si pente, 
 E a te ritorna ed al tuo fido ovile : 
 Deh l'accogli, O Signor ! se'l ciel lucente 
 Un di cangiasti con capanna umile 
 Per lei sottrar d'infernal lupo al dente. 
 
MRS. CHAPONE, 15§ 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGO- 
 ING SONNET. 
 
 How like a wanton lamb, that careless play'd, 
 The shepherd and the fold forgotten quite, 
 My vagrant soul, in search of vain delight, 
 
 Many long years from her true Shepherd 
 stray'd ! 
 
 If winding stream or flow'ry vale she spied, 
 Thither her youthful wishes eager led ; 
 But bitter were the flow'rs on which she fed, 
 
 The turbid stream no cooling draught supplied. 
 
 Thus oft beguil'd, at length her fruitless range, 
 Her heedless wand'ring steps, she deeply 
 
 mourns, 
 And back to thee and to thy fold returns. 
 Receive her, dearest Lord ! who once didst 
 
 change 
 Heav'n's brightest mansion for a roof of 
 
 straw, 
 To snatch her from the wolf's devouring 
 
 jaw. 
 
14* works or 
 
 AN IRREGULAR ODE. 
 
 TO MRS. ELIZA CARTER. 
 
 Who had recommended to me the Stoic Philoso- 
 phy, as productive of Fortitude ; and who was 
 about to publish a Translation of Epictetus. 
 I. 
 Come, Epictetus, arm my breast 
 With thy impenetrable steel. 
 No more the wounds of grief to feel, 
 Nor mourn, by others' woes deprest. 
 O teach my trembling heart 
 To scorn Affliction's dart ! 
 Teach me to mock the Tyrant Pain ! 
 For see, around me stand 
 A dreadful murd'rous band ! 
 I fly their cruel pow'r in vain ! 
 Here lurks Distemper's horrid train, 
 
 And thereihe Passions lift their flaming 
 brands ; 
 These with fell rage my helpless body tear, 
 
 While those, with daring hands, 
 Against th' immortal soul their impious wea- 
 pons rear. 
 
 II. 
 Where'er I turn fresh evils meet my eyes ; 
 Sin, Sorrow, and Disgrace 
 Pursue the human race ! 
 There, on the bed of sickness, Virtue lies ! 
 See Friendship bleeding by the sword 
 Of base Ingratitude ! 
 
MRS. CHAPONE. Hi 
 
 See baleful Jealousy intrude, 
 And poison all the bliss that Love had stor'd. 
 Oh seal ray ears against the piteous cry 
 Of Innocence distrest ! 
 Nor let me shrink when Fancy's eye 
 Beholds the guilty wretch's breast 
 Beneath the tort'ring pincers heave ! 
 Nor for the num'rous wants of Mis'ry 
 
 grieve, [relieve ! 
 
 Which all-disposing Heav'n denies me to 
 III. 
 No longer let my fleeting joys depend 
 On social or domestic ties ! 
 Superior let my spirit rise, 
 Not in the gentle counsels of a friend, 
 Nor in the smiles of love expect delight : 
 But teach me in myself to find 
 Whate'er can please or fill my mind. 
 Let inward beauty charm the mental sight; 
 Let godlike reason, beaming bright, 
 Chase far away each gloomy shade, 
 Till Virtue's heavenly form display'd 
 Alone shall captivate my soul, 
 And her divinest love possess me whole ! 
 IV. 
 But ah ! what means this impious pride, 
 
 Which heav'nly hosts deride ? 
 Within myself does Virtue dwell ? 
 Is all serene and beauteous there ? 
 What mean these chilling damps of fear ? 
 
14£ WORKS OF 
 
 Tell me, Philosophy ! thou boaster ! tell : 
 This godlike all sufficient mind, 
 Which, in its own perfection blest, 
 Defies the woes or malice of mankind .- 
 To shake its self-possessing rest, 
 Is it not foul, weak, ignorant, and blind ? 
 Oh man! from conscious Virtue's praise 
 Fall'n, fall'n ! — what refuge can'st thou 
 What pitying hand again will raise [find • 
 From native earth thy groveling frame ? 
 Ah, who will cleanse thy heart from spot of 
 V. [sinful blame 
 
 But see ! what sudden glories from the sky 
 To my benighted soul appear, 
 And all the gloomy prospect cheer ! 
 What awful form approaches nigh ? 
 Awful, yet mild, as is the southern breeze 
 That whispers through the rustling 
 And gently bids the forest nod. [trees, 
 Hark ! thunder breaks the air, and angels 
 speak ! 
 " Behold the Saviour of the world ! behold 
 the Lamb of God !" 
 Ye sons of Pride, behold his aspect meek i 
 The tear of pity on his cheek ! 
 See in his train appear 
 Humility, and Patience sweet ; 
 Repentance, prostrate at his sacred feet, 
 Bedews with tears, and wipes them with hex* 
 flowing hair ! 
 
HltS. CHAPONE. 143 
 
 VI. 
 
 "What scenes now meet my wond'ring 
 
 What hallow'd grave, [eyes ! 
 
 By mourning maids attended round, 
 Attracts the Saviour's steps ? what heart-felt 
 
 wound 
 His spotless bosom heaves with tender sighs? 
 Why weeps the son belov'd, omnipotent to 
 But lo ! he waves his awful hand ; [save ? 
 The sleeping clay obeys his dread command. 
 O " Lazaru I come forth /" — come forth, and 
 see 
 The dear effects of wond'rous love ! 
 He, at whose word the seas and rocks re- 
 move, 
 Thy Friend, thy Lord, thy Maker, weeps for 
 thee! 
 
 VII. 
 Thy walls, Jerusalem, have seen thy King, 
 In meekness clad, lament thy hapless fate ! 
 Unquench'd his love, tho' paid with ruth- 
 less hate ! 
 O lost, relentless Sion ! didst thou know 
 Who thus vouchsafes thy courts to tread, 
 What loud Hosannas wouldst thou sing ! 
 How eager crown his honour'd head ! 
 Nor see unmov'd his kind paternal wo, 
 Nor force his tears, his precious blood, for 
 thee to flow ! 
 
144 WORKS OP MRS. CHAPONE. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 No more'repine, my coward soul, 
 
 The sorrows of mankind to share, 
 Which he who could the world control 
 Did not disdain to bear! 
 Check not the flow of sweet fraternal love, 
 
 By Heav'ns high King in bounty giv'n, 
 Thy stubborn heart to soften and impr. 
 Thy earth-clad spirit to refine, 
 And gradual raise to love divine, 
 And wing its soaring flight to Heav'n ! 
 
 IX. 
 Nor thou, Eliza, who from early youth, 
 
 By genius led, by Virtue train'd, 
 Hast sought the fountain of eternal truth, 
 And each fair spring of knowledge drain'd, 
 Nor thou, with fond chimeras vain, 
 With Stoic pride and fancied scorn 
 Of human feelings, human pain, 
 
 My feeble soul sustain ! 
 Far nobler precepts should thy page adorn . 
 O, rather guide me to the sacred source 
 Of real wisdom, real force, 
 Thy life's unerring rule ! 
 To thee fair Truth her radi ant form unshrouds, 
 Tho', wrapp'd in thick impenetrable clouds, 
 She mock'dthe labours of the Grecian school. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 L60 . : , H 22 8 6 
 


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