Thus we find that even Plutarch is pressed into service to inculcate a religious moral. The Bluestocking ladies were sufficiently enlightened to recognise the deep wisdom of the Ancients, which is of all ages and independent of religious doctrines. Mrs. Carter, the translator of Epictetus, was a woman of profound piety.
The bookseller now remarks that some authors have indeed tried to instil virtuous notions. In Clarissa Harlowe "one finds the dignity of heroism tempered by the meekness and humility of religion, a perfect purity of mind and sanctity of manners", and Sir Charles Grandison is "a noble pattern of every private virtue, with sentiments so exalted as to render him equal to every public duty." Next to Richardson, Fielding and Marivaux are remarkable for their fine moral touches, and some comfort is to be derived from the reflection that when there is wit and elegance enough in a book to make it sell, it is not the worse for good morals.
Here Charon appears to conduct our bookseller to his future abode, but deeming him after all "too frivolous an animal to present to wise Minos", proposes to constitute him friseur to Tisiphone, and make him "curl up her locks with satires and libels".
The above pieces derive their chief interest from the fact that they are among the very first instances of female satire of a kind which in being more pointed and more direct than that of the Spectator, and less bitter and exaggerated than that of Swift, written by a member of the sex who was herself a recognised leader of society, was more calculated than anything else to impress the female mind with the necessity of thorough reform.
Strange to say, Mrs. Montagu's claims for female instruction other than moral are very modest. It is a subject she seldom refers to, although there is a letter dated 1773 to her sister-in-law Mrs. Robinson, containing a reference to the education of her little niece, in which she certainly does not aim very high. A boarding-school is recommended in spite of the fact that what girls learn there is most trifling, "but they unlearn what would be of great disservice—a provincial dialect which is extremely ungenteel, and other tricks that they learn in the nursery." French lessons she deems unnecessary, "unless for persons in very high life", and she expects a great deal of benefit from a good air and a good dancing-master. Mrs. Montagu here presents that curious mixture of good sense and narrow conventionality which proves the extreme difficulty of getting away from influences and forming an independent judgment.
In the "Essay on Shakespeare" (1769) Mrs. Montagu appears as a literary critic. She felt offended at Voltaire's disparagement of the great English author and also at the Frenchman's haughty arrogance. The Essay was favourably criticised in the Critical Review, and Cowper praised it in a letter to Lady Hesketh in the following words: "I no longer wonder that Mrs. Montagu stands at the head of all that is called learned, and that every critic veils his bonnet to her superior judgment.... The learning, the good sense, the sound judgment, and the wit displayed in it fully justify not only my compliment, but all compliments that either have been already paid to her talents or shall be paid hereafter." But Johnson spoke scornfully of it. He said he had "taken up the end of the web, and finding it packthread, had thought it useless to go further in search of embroidery," but had to grant afterwards that it was conclusive against Voltaire. It procured Mrs. Montagu a great many friends in France, where such wit as hers was sure to find full appreciation. When, seven years later, she visited Paris, Voltaire wrote another furious article against Shakespeare, which was read at the Académie in her presence. "I think Madam," said one of the members when the reading was over, "you must be rather sorry at what you have just heard." Mrs. Montagu shrugged her shoulders. "I, Sir! Not at all! I am not one of M. Voltaire's friends!"
Of quite a different cast of character was Mrs. Chapone, whose "Letters on the Improvement of the Mind" were dedicated to Mrs. Montagu. She was plain and uninteresting, and when the romance of her life had taken an untimely ending, it is to be feared her conversation became too much like sermonizing to suit vivacious young ladies like Fanny Burney, who thought her assemblies "very dull". But whatever she wrote bears the stamp of sincerity. She was evidently deeply concerned about the moral welfare of the niece she addressed in her Letters—the example set by Mme de Sévigné and imitated by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu had found followers—and she honestly tried to reconcile what was noble and proper in her eyes with the demands of convention. Above all she tried to inculcate that sense of responsibility for our actions which she held to be the basis of true Christianity. All our strivings should have the same purpose; that of bringing us nearer to God. Her niece is told to render herself more useful and pleasing to her fellow-creatures (a concession to prevailing opinions), "and consequently more acceptable to God". This last addition completely subverts the meaning of what precedes. Without it, the sense would be: "Please others and you will please your own vanity," which now becomes: "Please others and try to make them happy, and you will please God."
Mrs. Chapone thought pride and vanity the worst vices. Men were particularly addicted to the former, since to be proud is to admire oneself; and women to the latter, for vain is she who desires to be admired by others. It is the vice of little minds, chiefly conversant with trifling subjects, and brings affectation in its train.
The vain woman turns exaggerated weakness to account to ensure her empire over the stronger sex. Thus arises that false sensibility which will weep for a fly and leads to a thousand excesses. A well-directed reason will keep the feelings under control and spur us to actions of Christian charity. Those who relieve the sufferer are of more benefit to him than those who lament over his misfortunes.
Sensibility is, indeed, one of the catchwords of the century. Originally a laudable compassion and sympathy with the sufferings of others and a reaction against "the faithless coldness of the times", Richardson's novels show how soon it began to degenerate into sickly sentimentality which, when indulging in the luxury of woe, forgot to relieve the suffering which called forth the tears of sentiment. One of the most serious charges brought against J. J. Rousseau was that in his "Nouvelle Héloise" and in his "Confessions" he makes his lovers wallow to a sickening extent in the ecstasy of grief, inducing others by the magic of his personality to imitate him. This false sensibility was as much the abomination of the Bluestocking ladies as a well-regulated fellow-feeling was thought commendable, and here at least Mary Wollstonecraft heartily agreed with them. The usual reproach that the revolutionary leaders, those "friends of humanity", in fighting for the interest of the human race neglected the immediate wants of the individual—of which argument especially the Anti-Jacobin made ample use—was, therefore, in her case at least, utterly undeserved.