"In 1765, I was," says M. de St. Pierre, "at Dresden, at a play acted at court; it was the Pere de Famille. The electoress came in with one of her daughters, who might be about five or six years old. An officer of the Saxon guards, who came with me to the play, whispered, 'That child will interest you as much as the play.' As soon as she was seated, she placed both her hands on the front of the box, fixed her eyes upon the stage, and continued with her mouth open, all attention to the motions of the actors. It was truly touching to see their different passions painted on her face as in a glass. There appeared in her countenance successively, anxiety, surprise, melancholy, and grief; at length the interest increasing in every scene, tears began to flow, which soon ran in abundance down her little cheeks; then came agitation, sighs, and loud sobs; at last they were obliged to carry her out of the box, lest she should choke herself with crying. My next neighbour told me, that every time that this young princess came to a pathetic play, she was obliged to leave the house before the catastrophe."
"I have seen," continues M. de St. Pierre, "instances of sensibility still more touching amongst the children of the common people, because the emotion was not here produced by any theatrical effect. As I was walking some years ago in the Pre St. Gervais, at the beginning of winter, I saw a poor woman lying on the ground, busied in weeding a bed of sorrel; near her was a little girl of six years old at the utmost, standing motionless, and all purple with cold. I addressed myself to this woman, who appeared to be ill, and I asked her what was the matter with her. Sir, said she, for these three months I have suffered terribly from the rheumatism, but my illness troubles me less than this child, she never will leave me; if I say to her, Thou art quite frozen, go and warm thyself in the house, she answers me, Alas! mamma, if I leave you, you'll certainly fall ill again!"
"Another time, being at Marly, I went to see, in the groves of that magnificent park, that charming group of children who are feeding with vine leaves and grapes a goat who seems to be playing with them. Near this spot is an open summer house, where Louis XV. on fine days, used sometimes to take refreshment. As it was showery weather, I went to take shelter for a few minutes. I found there three children, who were much more interesting than children of marble. They were two little girls, very pretty, and very busily employed in picking up all round the summer house dry sticks, which they put into a sort of wallet which was lying upon the king's table, whilst a little ill clothed thin boy was devouring a bit of bread in one corner of the room. I asked the tallest of the children, who appeared to be between eight and nine years old, what she meant to do with the wood which she was gathering together with so much eagerness. She answered, 'Sir, you see that little boy, he is very unhappy. He has a mother-in-law' (Why always a mother-in-law?) 'He has a mother-in-law, who sends him all day long to look for wood; when he does not bring any home, he is beaten; when he has got any, the Swiss who stands at the entrance of the park takes it all away from him, and keeps it for himself. The boy is almost starved with hunger, and we have given him our breakfast.' After having said these words, she and her companion finished filling the little wallet, they packed it upon the boy's shoulders, and they ran before their unfortunate friend to see that he might pass in safety."
We have read these three anecdotes to several children, and have found that the active friends of the little wood-cutter were the most admired. It is probable, that amongst children who have been much praised for expressions of sensibility, the young lady who wept so bitterly at the play-house, would be preferred; affectionate children will like the little girl who stood purple with cold beside her sick mother; but if they have been well educated, they will probably express some surprise at her motionless attitude; they will ask why she did not try to help her mother to weed the bed of sorrel.
It requires much skill and delicacy in our conduct towards children, to preserve a proper medium between the indulging and the repressing of their sensibility. We are cruel towards them when we suspect their genuine expressions of affection; nothing hurts the temper of a generous child more than this species of injustice. Receive his expressions of kindness and gratitude with cold reserve, or a look that implies a doubt of his truth, and you give him so much pain, that you not only repress, but destroy his affectionate feelings. On the contrary, if you appear touched and delighted by his caresses, from the hope of pleasing, he will be naturally inclined to repeat such demonstrations of sensibility: this repetition should be gently discouraged, lest it should lead to affectation. At the same time, though we take this precaution, we should consider, that children are not early sensible that affectation is either ridiculous or disgusting; they are not conscious of doing any thing wrong by repeating what they have once perceived to be agreeable in their own, or in the manners of others. They frequently imitate, without any idea that imitation is displeasing; their object, as Locke observes, is to please by affectation; they only mistake the means: we should rectify this mistake without treating it as a crime.
A little girl of five years old stood beside her mother, observing the distribution of a dish of strawberries, the first strawberries of the year; and seeing a number of people busily helping, and being helped to cream and sugar, said in a low voice, not meant to attract attention, "I like to see people helping one another." Had the child, at this instant, been praised for this natural expression of sympathy, the pleasure of praise would have been immediately substituted in her mind, instead of the feeling of benevolence, which was in itself sufficiently agreeable; and, perhaps, from a desire to please, she would, upon the next favourable occasion, have repeated the same sentiment; this we should immediately call affectation; but how could the child foresee, that the repetition of what we formerly liked, would be offensive? We should not first extol sympathy, and then disdain affectation; our encomiums frequently produce the faults by which we are disgusted. Sensibility and sympathy, when they have proper objects, and full employment, do not look for applause; they are sufficiently happy in their own enjoyments. Those who have attempted to teach children, must have observed, that sympathy is immediately connected with all the imitative arts; the nature of this connection, more especially in poetry and painting, has been pointed out with ingenuity and eloquence by those[91] whose excellence in these arts entitle their theories to our prudent attention. We shall not attempt to repeat; we refer to their observations. Sufficient occupation for sympathy, may be found by cultivating the talents of young people.
Without repeating here what has been said in many other places, it may be necessary to remind all who are concerned in female education, that peculiar caution is necessary to manage female sensibility: to make, what is called the heart, a source of permanent pleasure, we must cultivate the reasoning powers at the same time that we repress the enthusiasm of fine feeling. Women, from their situation and duties in society, are called upon rather for the daily exercise of quiet domestic virtues, than for those splendid acts of generosity, or those exaggerated expressions of tenderness, which are the characteristics of heroines in romance. Sentimental authors, who paint with enchanting colours all the graces and all the virtues in happy union, teach us to expect that this union should be indissoluble. Afterwards, from the natural influence of association, we expect in real life to meet with virtue when we see grace, and we are disappointed, almost disgusted, when we find virtue unadorned. This false association has a double effect upon the conduct of women; it prepares them to be pleased, and it excites them to endeavour to please by adventitious charms, rather than by those qualities which merit esteem. Women, who have been much addicted to common novel-reading, are always acting in imitation of some Jemima, or Almeria, who never existed, and they perpetually mistake plain William and Thomas for "My Beverly!" They have another peculiar misfortune; they require continual great emotions to keep them in tolerable humour with themselves; they must have tears in their eyes, or they are apprehensive that their hearts are growing hard. They have accustomed themselves to such violent stimulus, that they cannot endure the languor to which they are subject in the intervals of delirium. Pink appears pale to the eye that is used to scarlet; and common food is insipid to the taste which has been vitiated by the high seasonings of art.
A celebrated French actress, in the wane of her charms, and who, for that reason, began to feel weary of the world, exclaimed, whilst she was recounting what she had suffered from a faithless lover, "Ah! c'étoit le bon temps, j'étois bien malheureuse!"[92]
The happy age in which women can, with any grace or effect, be romantically wretched, is, even with the beautiful, but a short season of felicity. The sentimental sorrows of any female mourner, of more than thirty years standing, command but little sympathy, and less admiration; and what other consolations are suited to sentimental sorrows?
Women, who cultivate their reasoning powers, and who acquire tastes for science and literature, find sufficient variety in life, and do not require the stimulus of dissipation, or of romance. Their sympathy and sensibility are engrossed by proper objects, and connected with habits of useful exertion: they usually feel the affection which others profess, and actually enjoy the happiness which others describe.