“It is, my dear, to a certain degree a pity; for a pretty face, like a pleasant prospect, gives pleasure to the beholder, and leads the mind to contemplate the great Author of beauty in his works, and rejoice in the perfection every where visible in nature. The possessors of beauty may, however, so often spare it with advantage to themselves and their near connections, that the loss of it, provided there is neither sickness, nor any very disgusting appearance, left behind, does not appear to me a very great misfortune.”
“But surely, mamma, people may be both very pretty and very good?”
“Undoubtedly, my dear; but such are the temptations handsome people are subject to, that they are much more frequently to be pitied than envied; yet envy from the illiberal and malicious seldom fails to pursue them; and when they are neither vain nor arrogant, generally points them out as both.”
“I have often wished to be handsome, mamma, because I thought people would love me if I were; but if that is the case, I must have been mistaken, mamma.”
“Indeed you were, my child; personal charms, however attractive to the eye, do not blind, or even engage the heart, unless they are accompanied by good qualities, which would have their effect, you know, without beauty—nay, even in ugly persons, when we become thoroughly acquainted with them. Can you suppose, Ellen, that if you were as handsome as the picture over the chimney-piece, that you would be more dear to me on that account, or that you would, in any respect, contribute more to my happiness?”
“You would not love me better, dear mamma, but yet you would be more proud of me, I should think.”
“Then I must be a very weak woman to be proud of that which implied no merit, either in you or me, and which the merest accident might, as we perceive, destroy in a moment; but this I must add, that if, with extraordinary beauty, you possessed sufficient good sense to remain as simple in your manners, and as active in the pursuit of intellectual endowments, as I hope to see you, then I might be proud of you, as the usual expression is; for I beg you to remember that, strictly speaking, it is wrong to be proud of any thing.”
“Zebby always said that Mr. Hanson was very proud of Matilda—I suppose it was of her beauty.”
“I suppose so too, and you could not have brought forward a more decisive proof of the folly and sin of pride, and the inefficacy of beauty to procure love, than in the conduct and qualities of the persons in question. Mr. Hanson’s pride of his daughter’s beauty rendered him blind to her faults, or averse to correcting them; and from his indulgence, the effect of that very beauty for which he sacrificed every real excellence, was so completely impaired, that I am sure, with all your predilection for a pretty face, you will allow that Matilda, with all those red spots plastered with white ointment, is a thousand times more agreeable than Matilda with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks on her first landing.”
“Oh yes, yes!” cried Ellen, looking at her with the tenderest affection, and relapsing into tears, which had frequently visited her eyes since the time of the terrible accident.