Chapter 147

CAROLINE’S ANSWER TO JULIA.

At the hazard of ceasing to be “_charming_,” “_interesting_,” “_captivating_,” I must, dear Julia, venture to reason with you, to examine your favourite doctrine of “_amiable defects_,” and, if possible, to dissipate that unjust dread of perfection which you seem to have continually before your eyes.

It is the sole object of a woman’s life, you say, to _please_. Her amiable defects _please_ more than her noblest virtues, her follies more than her wisdom, her caprice more than her temper, and _something_, a nameless something, which no art can imitate and no science can teach, more than all.

_Art_, you say, spoils the graces, and corrupts the heart of woman; and at best can produce only a cold model of perfection; which though perhaps strictly conformable to _rule_, can never touch the soul, or please the unprejudiced taste, like one simple stroke of genuine nature.

I have often observed, dear Julia, that an inaccurate use of words produces such a strange confusion in all reasoning, that in the heat of debate, the combatants, unable to distinguish their friends from their foes, fall promiscuously on both. A skilful disputant knows well how to take advantage of this confusion, and sometimes endeavours to create it. I do not know whether I am to suspect you of such a design; but I must guard against it.

You have with great address availed yourself of the _two_ ideas connected with the word _art_: first, as opposed to simplicity, it implies artifice; and next, as opposed to ignorance, it comprehends all the improvements of science, which leading us to search for general causes, rewards us with a dominion over their dependent effects:--that which instructs how to pursue the objects which we may have in view with the greatest probability of success. All men who act from general principles are so far philosophers. Their objects may be, when attained, insufficient to their happiness, or they may not previously have known all the necessary means to obtain them: but they must not therefore complain, if they do not meet with success which they have no reason to expect.

Parrhasius, in collecting the most admired excellences from various models, to produce perfection, concluded, from general principles that mankind would be pleased again with what had once excited their admiration.--So far he was a philosopher: but he was disappointed of success:--yes, for he was ignorant of the cause necessary to produce it. The separate features might be perfect, but they were unsuited to each other, and in their forced union he could not give to the whole countenance symmetry and an appropriate expression.

There was, as you say, a _something_ wanting, which his science had not taught him. He should then have set himself to examine what that _something_ was, and how it was to be obtained. His want of success arose from the _insufficiency_, not the _fallacy_, of theory. Your object, dear Julia, we will suppose is “to please.” If general observation and experience have taught you, that slight accomplishments and a trivial character succeed more certainly in obtaining this end, than higher worth and sense, you act from principle in rejecting the one and aiming at the other. You have discovered, or think you have discovered, the secret causes which produce the desired effect, and you employ them. Do not call this _instinct_ or _nature_; this also, though you scorn it, is _philosophy_.

But when you come soberly to reflect, you have a feeling in your mind, that reason and cool judgment disapprove of the part you are acting.

Let us, however, distinguish between disapprobation of the _object_, and the means.

Averse as enthusiasm is from the retrograde motion of analysis, let me, my dear friend, lead you one step backward.

_Why_ do you wish to please? I except at present from the question, the desire to please, arising from a passion which requires a reciprocal return. Confined as _this_ wish must be in a woman’s heart to one object alone, when you say, Julia, _that the admiration of others_ will be absolutely necessary to your happiness, I must suppose you mean to express only a _general_ desire to please?

Then under this limitation--let me ask you again, why do you wish to please?

Do not let a word stop you. The word _vanity_ conveys to us a disagreeable idea. There seems something _selfish_ in the sentiment--that all the pleasure we feel in pleasing others arises from the gratification it affords to our own _vanity_.

We refine, and explain, and never can bring ourselves fairly to make a confession, which we are sensible must lower us in the opinion of others, and consequently mortify the very _vanity_ we would conceal. So strangely then do we deceive ourselves as to deny the existence of a motive, which at the instant prompts the denial. But let us, dear Julia, exchange the word _vanity_ for a less odious word, self-complacency; let us acknowledge that we wish to please, because the success raises our self-complacency. If you ask why raising our self-approbation gives us pleasure, I must answer, that I do not know. Yet I see and feel that it does; I observe that the voice of numbers is capable of raising the highest transport or the most fatal despair. The eye of man seems to possess a fascinating power over his fellow-creatures, to raise the blush of shame, or the glow of pride.

I look around me, and I see riches, titles, dignities, pursued with such eagerness by thousands, only as the signs of distinction. Nay, are not all these things sacrificed the moment they cease to be distinctions? The moment the prize of glory is to be won by other means, do not millions sacrifice their fortunes, their peace, their health, their lives, for _fame_? Then amongst the highest pleasures of human beings I must place self-approbation. With this belief, let us endeavour to secure it in the greatest extent, and to the longest duration.

Then, Julia, the wish to please becomes only a secondary motive, subordinate to the desire I have to secure my own self-complacency. We will examine how far they are connected.

In reflecting upon my own mind, I observe that I am flattered by the opinion of others, in proportion to the opinion I have previously formed of their judgment; or I perceive that the opinion of numbers, merely as numbers, has power to give me great pleasure or great pain. I would unite both these pleasures if I could, but in general I cannot--they are incompatible. The opinion of the vulgar crowd and the enlightened individual, the applause of the highest and the lowest of mankind, cannot be obtained by the same means.

Another question then arises,--whom shall we wish to please? We must choose, and be decided in the choice.

You say that you are proud; I am prouder.--You will be content with indiscriminate admiration--nothing will content me but what is _select_. As long as I have the use of my reason--as long as my heart can feel the delightful sense of a “well-earned praise,” I will fix my eye on the highest pitch of excellence, and steadily endeavour to attain it.

Conscious of her worth, and daring to assert it, I would have a woman early in life know that she is capable of filling the heart of a man of sense and merit; that she is worthy to be his companion and friend. With all the energy of her soul, with all the powers of her understanding, I would have a woman endeavour to please those whom she esteems and loves.

She runs a risk, you will say, of never meeting her equal. Hearts and understandings of a superior order are seldom met with in the world; or when met with, it may not be a particular good fortune to win them.--True; but if ever she _wins_, she will _keep_ them; and the prize appears to me well worth the pains and difficulty of attaining.

I, Julia, admire and feel enthusiasm; but I would have philosophy directed to the highest objects. I dread apathy as much as you can; and I would endeavour to prevent it, not by sacrificing half my existence, but by enjoying the whole with moderation.

You ask, why exercise does not increase sensibility, and why sympathy with imaginary distress will not also increase the disposition to sympathize with what is real?--Because pity should, I think, always be associated with the active desire to relieve. If it be suffered to become a _passive sensation_, it is a _useless weakness_, not a virtue. The species of reading you speak of must be hurtful, even in this respect, to the mind, as it indulges all the luxury of woe in sympathy with fictitious distress, without requiring the exertion which reality demands: besides, universal experience proves to us that habit, so far from increasing sensibility, absolutely destroys it, by familiarizing it with objects of compassion.

Let me, my dear friend, appeal even to your own experience in the very instance you mention. Is there any pathetic writer in the world who could move you as much at the “twentieth reading as at the first[1]?” Speak naturally, and at the third or fourth reading, you would probably say, It is very pathetic, but I have read it before--I liked it better the first time; that is to say, it _did_ touch me once--I know it _ought_ to touch me now, but it _does not_. Beware of this! Do not let life become _as tedious as a twice-told tale_.

Farewell, dear Julia: this is the answer of fact against eloquence, philosophy against enthusiasm. You appeal from my understanding to my heart--I appeal from the heart to the understanding of my judge; and ten years hence the decision perhaps will be in my favour.

Yours sincerely,

CAROLINE.

[Footnote 1: Hume said, that Parnell’s poems were as fresh at the twentieth reading as at the first.]

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