LETTER CCXII.216.
To Colonel Rivers.
Nov. 14.
So you disapprove male friendships, my sweet Colonel! I thought you had better ideas of things in general.
Fitzgerald and I have been disputing on French and English manners, in regard to gallantry.
The great question is, Whether a man is more hurt by the imprudent conduct of his daughter or his wife?
Much may be said on both sides.
There is some hazard in suffering coquetry in either; both contribute to give charms to conversation, and introduce ease and politeness into society; but both are dangerous to manners.
Our customs, however, are most likely to produce good effects, as they give opportunity for love marriages, the only ones which can make worthy minds happy.
The coquetry of single women has a point of view consistent with honor; that of married women has generally no point of view at all; it is, however of use pour passer le tems.
As to real gallantry, the French style depraves the minds of men least, ours is most favorable to the peace of families.
I think I preserve the balance of argument admirably.
My opinion, however, is, that if people married from affection, there would be no such thing as gallantry at all.
Pride, and the parade of life, destroy all happiness: our whole felicity depends on our choice in marriage, yet we chuse from motives more trifling than would determine us in the common affairs of life.
I knew a gentleman who fancied himself in love, yet delayed marrying his mistress till he could afford a set of plate.
Modern manners are very unfavorable to the tender affections.
Ancient lovers had only dragons to combat; ours have the worse monsters of avarice and ambition.
All I shall say further on the subject is, that the two happiest people I ever knew were a country clergyman and his wife, whose whole income did not exceed one hundred pounds a year.
A pretty philosophical, sentimental, dull kind of an epistle this!
But you deserve it, for not answering my last, which was divine.
I am pleased with Emily’s ideas about her dress at the masquerade; it is a proof you are still lovers.
I remember, the first symptoms I discovered of my tendresse for Fitzgerald was my excessive attention to this article: I have tried on twenty different caps when I expected him at Silleri.
Before we drop the subject of gallantries, I must tell you I am charmed with you and my sposo, for never giving the least hint before Emily and me that you have had any; it is a piece of delicacy which convinces me of your tenderness more than all the vows that ever lovers broke would do.
I have been hurt at the contrary behaviour in Temple; and have observed Lucy to be so too, though her excessive attention not to give him pain prevented her shewing it: I have on such an occasion seen a smile on her countenance, and a tear of tender regret starting into her eyes.
A woman who has vanity without affection will be pleased to hear of your past conquests, and regard them as victims immolated to her superior charms: to her, therefore, it is right to talk of them; but to flatter the heart, and give delight to a woman who truly loves, you should appear too much taken up with the present passion to look back to the past: you should not even present to her imagination the thought that you have had other engagements: we know such things are, but had rather the idea should not be awakened: I may be wrong, but I speak from my own feelings.
I am excessively pleased with a thought I met with in a little French novel:
“Un homme qui ne peut plus compter ses bonnes fortunes, est de tous, celui qui connoît le moins les faveurs. C’est le coeur qui les accorde, & ce n’est pas le coeur qu’un homme à la mode interesse. Plus on est prôné par les femmes, plus il est facile de les avoir, mais moins il est possible de les enflammer.”
To which truth I most heartily set my hand.
Twelve o’clock.
I have just heard from your sister, who tells me, Emily is turned a little natural philosopher, reads Ray, Derham, and fifty other strange old fellows that one never heard of, and is eternally poring through a microscope to discover the wonders of creation.
How amazingly learned matrimony makes young ladies! I suppose we shall have a volume of her discoveries bye and bye.
She says too, you have little pets like sweethearts, quarrel and make it up again in the most engaging manner in the world.
This is just what I want to bring Fitzgerald to; but the perverse monkey won’t quarrel with me, do all I can: I am sure this is not my fault, for I give him reason every day of his life.
Shenstone says admirably, “That reconciliation is the tenderest part of love and friendship: the soul here discovers a kind of elasticity, and, being forced back, returns with an additional violence.”
Who would not quarrel for the pleasure of reconciliation! I shall be very angry with Fitzgerald if he goes on in this mild way.
Tell your sister, she cannot be more mortified than I am, that it is impossible for me to be at her masquerade.
Adieu! Your affectionate
A. Fitzgerald.
Don’t you think, my dear Rivers, that marriage, on prudent principles, is a horrid sort of an affair? It is really cruel of papas and mammas to shut up two poor innocent creatures in a house together, to plague and torment one another, who might have been very happy separate.
Where people take their own time, and chuse for themselves, it is another affair, and I begin to think it possible affection may last through life.
I sometimes fancy to myself Fitzgerald and I loving on, from the impassioned hour when I first honored him with my hand, to that tranquil one, when we shall take our afternoon’s nap vis a vis in two arm chairs, by the fire-side, he a grave country justice, and I his worship’s good sort of a wife, the Lady Bountiful of the parish.
I have a notion there is nothing so very shocking in being an oldish gentlewoman; what one loses in charms, is made up in the happy liberty of doing and saying whatever one pleases. Adieu!