A very termagant woman, if ſhe happens alſo to be a very artful one, will be conſcious ſhe has ſo much to conceal, that the dread of betraying her real temper will make her put on an over-acted ſoftneſs, which, from its very exceſs, may be diſtinguiſhed from the natural, by a penetrating eye. That gentleneſs is ever liable to be ſuſpected for the counterfeited, which is ſo exceſſive as to deprive people of the proper uſe of ſpeech and motion, or which, as Hamlet ſays, makes them liſp and amble, and nick-name God's creatures.
The countenance and manners of ſome very faſhionable perſons may be compared to the inſcriptions on their monuments, which ſpeak nothing but good of what is within; but he who knows any thing of the world, or of the human heart, will no more truſt to the courteſy, than he will depend on the epitaph.
Among the various artifices of factitious meekneſs, one of the moſt frequent and moſt plauſible, is that of affecting to be always equally delighted with all perſons and all characters. The ſociety of theſe languid beings is without confidence, their friendſhip without attachment, and their love without affection, or even preference. This inſipid mode of conduct may be ſafe, but I cannot think it has either taſte, ſenſe, or principle in it.
These uniformly ſmiling and approving ladies, who have neither the noble courage to reprehend vice, nor the generous warmth to bear their honeſt teſtimony in the cauſe of virtue, conclude every one to be ill-natured who has any penetration, and look upon a diſtinguiſhing judgment as want of tenderneſs. But they ſhould learn, that this diſcernment does not always proceed from an uncharitable temper, but from that long experience and thorough knowledge of the world, which lead thoſe who have it to ſcrutinize into the conduct and diſpoſition of men, before they truſt entirely to thoſe fair appearances, which ſometimes veil the moſt inſidious purpoſes.
We are perpetually miſtaking the qualities and diſpoſitions of our own hearts. We elevate our failings into virtues, and qualify our vices into weakneſſes: and hence ariſe ſo many falſe judgments reſpecting meekneſs. Self-ignorance is at the root of all this miſchief. Many ladies complain that, for their part, their ſpirit is ſo meek they can bear nothing; whereas, if they ſpoke truth, they would ſay, their ſpirit is ſo high and unbroken that they can bear nothing. Strange! to plead their meekneſs as a reaſon why they cannot endure to be croſſed, and to produce their impatience of contradiction as a proof of their gentleneſs!
Meekness, like moſt other virtues, has certain limits, which it no ſooner exceeds than it becomes criminal. Servility of ſpirit is not gentleneſs but weakneſs, and if allowed, under the ſpecious appearances it ſometimes puts on, will lead to the moſt dangerous compliances. She who hears innocence maligned without vindicating it, falſehood aſſerted without contradicting it, or religion prophaned without reſenting it, is not gentle but wicked.
To give up the cauſe of an innocent, injured friend, if the popular cry happens to be againſt him, is the moſt diſgraceful weakneſs. This was the caſe of Madame de Maintenon. She loved the character and admired the talents of Racine; ſhe careſſed him while he had no enemies, but wanted the greatneſs of mind, or rather the common juſtice, to protect him againſt their reſentment when he had; and her favourite was abandoned to the ſuſpicious jealouſy of the king, when a prudent remonſtrance might have preſerved him.—But her tameneſs, if not abſolute connivance in the great maſſacre of the proteſtants, in whoſe church ſhe had been bred, is a far more guilty inſtance of her weakneſs; an inſtance which, in ſpite of all her devotional zeal and incomparable prudence, will diſqualify her from ſhining in the annals of good women, however ſhe may be entitled to figure among the great and the fortunate. Compare her conduct with that of her undaunted and pious countryman and contemporary, Bougi, who, when Louis would have prevailed on him to renounce his religion for a commiſſion or a government, nobly replied, "If I could be perſuaded to betray my God for a marſhal's ſtaff, I might betray my king for a bribe of much leſs conſequence."
Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active and paſſive; if it will not enable us to ſubdue our own paſſions and reſentments, as well as qualify us to bear patiently the paſſions and reſentments of others.
Before we give way to any violent emotion of anger, it would perhaps be worth while to conſider the value of the object which excites it, and to reflect for a moment, whether the thing we ſo ardently deſire, or ſo vehemently reſent, be really of as much importance to us, as that delightful tranquillity of ſoul, which we renounce in purſuit of it. If, on a fair calculation, we find we are not likely to get as much as we are ſure to loſe, then, putting all religious conſiderations out of the queſtion, common ſenſe and human policy will tell us, we have made a fooliſh and unprofitable exchange. Inward quiet is a part of one's ſelf; the object of our reſentment may be only a matter of opinion; and, certainly, what makes a portion of our actual happineſs ought to be too dear to us, to be ſacrificed for a trifling, foreign, perhaps imaginary good.
The moſt pointed ſatire I remember to have read, on a mind enſlaved by anger, is an obſervation of Seneca's. "Alexander (ſaid he) had two friends, Clitus and Lyſimachus; the one he expoſed to a lion, the other to himſelf: he who was turned looſe to the beaſt eſcaped, but Clitus was murdered, for he was turned looſe to an angry man."