ON THE DANGER OF SENTIMENTAL OR ROMANTIC CONNEXIONS.

Among the many evils which prevail under the ſun, the abuſe of words is not the leaſt conſiderable. By the influence of time, and the perverſion of faſhion, the plaineſt and moſt unequivocal may be ſo altered, as to have a meaning aſſigned them almoſt diametrically oppoſite to their original ſignification.

The preſent age may be termed, by way of diſtinction, the age of ſentiment, a word which, in the implication it now bears, was unknown to our plain anceſtors. Sentiment is the varniſh of virtue to conceal the deformity of vice; and it is not uncommon for the ſame perſons to make a jeſt of religion, to break through the moſt ſolemn ties and engagements, to practiſe every art of latent fraud and open ſeduction, and yet to value themſelves on ſpeaking and writing ſentimentally.

But this refined jargon, which has infeſted letters and tainted morals, is chiefly admired and adopted by young ladies of a certain turn, who read ſentimental books, write ſentimental letters, and contract ſentimental friendſhips.

Error is never likely to do ſo much miſchief as when it diſguiſes its real tendency, and puts on an engaging and attractive appearance. Many a young woman, who would be ſhocked at the imputation of an intrigue, is extremely flattered at the idea of a ſentimental connexion, though perhaps with a dangerous and deſigning man, who, by putting on this maſk of plauſibility and virtue, diſarms her of her prudence, lays her apprehenſions aſleep, and involves her in miſery; miſery the more inevitable becauſe unſuſpected. For ſhe who apprehends no danger, will not think it neceſſary to be always upon her guard; but will rather invite than avoid the ruin which comes under ſo ſpecious and ſo fair a form.

Such an engagement will be infinitely dearer to her vanity than an avowed and authoriſed attachment; for one of theſe ſentimental lovers will not ſcruple very ſeriouſly to aſſure a credulous girl, that her unparalleled merit entitles her to the adoration of the whole world, and that the univerſal homage of mankind is nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms. No wonder then ſhe ſhould be eaſily prevailed on to believe, that an individual is captivated by perfections which might enſlave a million. But ſhe ſhould remember, that he who endeavours to intoxicate her with adulation, intends one day moſt effectually to humble her. For an artful man has always a ſecret deſign to pay himſelf in future for every preſent ſacrifice. And this prodigality of praiſe, which he now appears to laviſh with ſuch thoughtleſs profuſion, is, in fact, a ſum [oe]conomically laid out to ſupply his future neceſſities: of this ſum he keeps an exact eſtimate, and at ſome diſtant day promiſes himſelf the moſt exorbitant intereſt for it. If he has addreſs and conduct, and, the object of his purſuit much vanity, and ſome ſenſibility, he ſeldom fails of ſucceſs; for ſo powerful will be his aſcendancy over her mind, that ſhe will ſoon adopt his notions and opinions. Indeed, it is more than probable ſhe poſſeſſed moſt of them before, having gradually acquired them in her initiation into the ſentimental character. To maintain that character with dignity and propriety, it is neceſſary ſhe ſhould entertain the moſt elevated ideas of diſproportionate alliances, and diſintereſted love; and conſider fortune, rank, and reputation, as mere chimerical diſtinctions and vulgar prejudices.

The lover, deeply verſed in all the obliquities of fraud, and ſkilled to wind himſelf into every avenue of the heart which indiſcretion has left unguarded, ſoon diſcovers on which ſide it is moſt acceſſible. He avails himſelf of this weakneſs by addreſſing her in a language exactly conſonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own weapons, and oppoſes rhapſody to ſentiment—He profeſſes ſo ſovereign a contempt for the paltry concerns of money, that ſhe thinks it her duty to reward him for ſo generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully advances of his own unworthineſs, is conſidered by her as a freſh demand which her gratitude muſt anſwer. And ſhe makes it a point of honour to ſacrifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to regard. Theſe profeſſions of humility are the common artifice of the vain, and theſe proteſtations of generoſity the refuge of the rapacious. And among its many ſmooth miſchiefs, it is one of the ſure and ſucceſſful frauds of ſentiment, to affect the moſt frigid indifference to thoſe external and pecuniary advantages, which it is its great and real object to obtain.

A sentimental girl very rarely entertains any doubt of her perſonal beauty; for ſhe has been daily accuſtomed to contemplate it herſelf, and to hear of it from others. She will not, therefore, be very ſolicitous for the confirmation of a truth ſo ſelf-evident; but ſhe ſuſpects, that her pretenſions to underſtanding are more likely to be diſputed, and, for that reaſon, greedily devours every compliment offered to thoſe perfections, which are leſs obvious and more refined. She is perſuaded, that men need only open their eyes to decide on her beauty, while it will be the moſt convincing proof of the taſte, ſenſe, and elegance of her admirer, that he can diſcern and flatter thoſe qualities in her. A man of the character here ſuppoſed, will eaſily inſinuate himſelf into her affections, by means of this latent but leading foible, which may be called the guiding clue to a ſentimental heart. He will affect to overlook that beauty which attracts common eyes, and enſnares common hearts, while he will beſtow the moſt delicate praiſes on the beauties of her mind, and finiſh the climax of adulation, by hinting that ſhe is ſuperior to it.

But nothing, in general, can end leſs delightfully than theſe ſublime attachments, even where no acts of ſeduction were ever practiſed, but they are ſuffered, like mere ſublunary connexions, to terminate in the vulgar cataſtrophe of marriage. That wealth, which lately ſeemed to be looked on with ineffable contempt by the lover, now appears to be the principal attraction in the eyes of the huſband; and he, who but a few ſhort weeks before, in a tranſport of ſentimental generoſity, wiſhed her to have been a village maid, with no portion but her crook and her beauty, and that they might ſpend their days in paſtoral love and innocence, has now loſt all reliſh for the Arcadian life, or any other life in which ſhe muſt be his companion.

On the other hand, ſhe who was lately

is ſhocked to find herſelf at once ſtripped of all her celeſtial attributes. This late divinity, who ſcarcely yielded to her ſiſters of the ſky, now finds herſelf of leſs importance in the eſteem of the man ſhe has choſen, than any other mere mortal woman. No longer is ſhe gratified with the tear of counterfeited paſſion, the ſigh of diſſembled rapture, or the language of premeditated adoration. No longer is the altar of her vanity loaded with the oblations of fictitious fondneſs, the incenſe of falſehood, or the ſacrifice of flattery.—Her apotheoſis is ended!—She feels herſelf degraded from the dignities and privileges of a goddeſs, to all the imperfections, vanities, and weakneſſes of a ſlighted woman, and a neglected wife. Her faults, which were ſo lately overlooked, or miſtaken for virtues, are now, as Caſſius ſays, ſet in a note-book. The paſſion, which was vowed eternal, laſted only a few ſhort weeks; and the indifference, which was ſo far from being included in the bargain, that it was not ſo much as ſuſpected, follows them through the whole tireſome journey of their inſipid, vacant, joyleſs exiſtence.

Thus much for the completion of the ſentimental hiſtory. If we trace it back to its beginning, we ſhall find that a damſel of this caſt had her head originally turned by pernicious reading, and her inſanity confirmed by imprudent friendſhips. She never fails to ſelect a beloved confidante of her own turn and humour, though, if ſhe can help it, not quite ſo handſome as herſelf. A violent intimacy enſues, or, to ſpeak the language of ſentiment, an intimate union of ſouls immediately takes place, which is wrought to the higheſt pitch by a ſecret and voluminous correſpondence, though they live in the ſame ſtreet, or perhaps in the ſame houſe. This is the fuel which principally feeds and ſupplies the dangerous flame of ſentiment. In this correſpondence the two friends encourage each other in the falſeſt notions imaginable. They repreſent romantic love as the great important buſineſs of human life, and deſcribe all the other concerns of it as too low and paltry to merit the attention of ſuch elevated beings, and fit only to employ the daughters of the plodding vulgar. In theſe letters, family affairs are miſrepreſented, family ſecrets divulged, and family miſfortunes aggravated. They are filled with vows of eternal amity, and proteſtations of never-ending love. But interjections and quotations are the principal embelliſhments of theſe very ſublime epiſtles. Every panegyric contained in them is extravagant and hyperbolical, and every cenſure exaggerated and exceſſive. In a favourite, every frailty is heightened into a perfection, and in a foe degraded into a crime. The dramatic poets, eſpecially the moſt tender and romantic, are quoted in almoſt every line, and every pompous or pathetic thought is forced to give up its natural and obvious meaning, and with all the violence of miſapplication, is compelled to ſuit ſome circumſtance of imaginary woe of the fair tranſcriber. Alicia is not too mad for her heroics, nor Monimia too mild for her ſoft emotions.

Fathers have flinty hearts is an expreſſion worth an empire, and is always uſed with peculiar emphaſis and enthuſiaſm. For a favourite topic of theſe epiſtles is the groveling ſpirit and ſordid temper of the parents, who will be ſure to find no quarter at the hands of their daughters, ſhould they preſume to be ſo unreaſonable as to direct their courſe of reading, interfere in their choice of friends, or interrupt their very important correſpondence. But as theſe young ladies are fertile in expedients, and as their genius is never more agreeably exerciſed than in finding reſources, they are not without their ſecret exultation, in caſe either of the above intereſting events ſhould happen, as they carry with them a certain air of tyranny and perſecution which is very delightful. For a prohibited correſpondence is one of the great incidents of a ſentimental life, and a letter clandeſtinely received, the ſupreme felicity of a ſentimental lady.

Nothing can equal the aſtoniſhment of theſe ſoaring ſpirits, when their plain friends or prudent relations preſume to remonſtrate with them on any impropriety in their conduct. But if theſe worthy people happen to be ſomewhat advanced in life, their contempt is then a little ſoftened by pity, at the reflection that ſuch very antiquated poor creatures ſhould pretend to judge what is fit or unfit for ladies of their great refinement, ſenſe, and reading. They conſider them as wretches utterly ignorant of the ſublime pleaſures of a delicate and exalted paſſion; as tyrants whoſe authority is to be contemned, and as ſpies whoſe vigilance is to be eluded. The prudence of theſe worthy friends they term ſuſpicion, and their experience dotage. For they are perſuaded, that the face of things has ſo totally changed ſince their parents were young, that though they might then judge tolerably for themſelves, yet they are now (with all their advantages of knowledge and obſervation) by no means qualified to direct their more enlightened daughters; who, if they have made a great progreſs in the ſentimental walk, will no more be influenced by the advice of their mother, than they would go abroad in her laced pinner or her brocade ſuit.

But young people never ſhew their folly and ignorance more conſpicuouſly, than by this over-confidence in their own judgment, and this haughty diſdain of the opinion of thoſe who have known more days. Youth has a quickneſs of apprehenſion, which it is very apt to miſtake for an acuteneſs of penetration. But youth, like cunning, though very conceited, is very ſhort-ſighted, and never more ſo than when it diſregards the inſtructions of the wife, and the admonitions of the aged. The ſame vices and follies influenced the human heart in their day, which influence it now, and nearly in the ſame manner. One who well knew the world and its various vanities, has ſaid, "The thing which hath been, it is that which ſhall be, and that which is done is that which ſhall be done, and there is no new thing under the ſun."

It is alſo a part of the ſentimental character, to imagine that none but the young and the beautiful have any right to the pleaſures of ſociety, of even to the common benefits and bleſſings of life. Ladies of this turn alſo affect the moſt lofty diſregard for uſeful qualities and domeſtic virtues; and this is a natural conſequence: for as this ſort of ſentiment is only a weed of idleneſs, ſhe who is conſtantly and uſefully employed, has neither leiſure nor propenſity to cultivate it.

A sentimental lady principally values herſelf on the enlargement of her notions, and her liberal way of thinking. This ſuperiority of ſoul chiefly manifeſts itſelf in the contempt of thoſe minute delicacies and little decorums, which, trifling as they may be thought, tend at once to dignify the character, and to reſtrain the levity of the younger part of the ſex.

Perhaps the error here complained of, originates in miſtaking ſentiment and principle for each other. Now I conceive them to be extremely different. Sentiment is the virtue of ideas, and principle the virtue of action. Sentiment has its ſeat in the head, principle in the heart. Sentiment ſuggeſts fine harangues and ſubtile diſtinctions; principle conceives juſt notions, and performs good actions in conſequence of them. Sentiment refines away the ſimplicity of truth and the plainneſs of piety; and, as a celebrated wit[6] has remarked of his no leſs celebrated contemporary, gives us virtue in words and vice in deeds. Sentiment may be called the Athenian, who knew what was right, and principle the Lacedemonian who practiſed it.

But theſe qualities will be better exemplified by an attentive conſideration of two admirably drawn characters of Milton, which are beautifully, delicately, and diſtinctly marked. Theſe are, Belial, who may not improperly be called the Demon of Sentiment; and Abdiel, who may be termed the Angel of Principle.

Survey the picture of Belial, drawn by the ſublimeſt hand that ever held the poetic pencil.

Here is a lively and exquiſite repreſentation of art, ſubtilty, wit, fine breeding and poliſhed manners: on the whole, of a very accompliſhed and ſentimental ſpirit.

Now turn to the artleſs, upright, and unſophiſticated Abdiel,

But it is not from theſe deſcriptions, juſt and ſtriking as they are, that their characters are ſo perfectly known, as from an examination of their conduct through the remainder of this divine work: in which it is well worth while to remark the conſonancy of their actions, with what the above pictures ſeem to promiſe. It will alſo be obſerved, that the contraſt between them is kept up throughout, with the utmoſt exactneſs of delineation, and the moſt animated ſtrength of colouring. On a review it will be found, that Belial talked all, and Abdiel did all. The former,

In Abdiel you will conſtantly find the eloquence of action. When tempted by the rebellious angels, with what retorted ſcorn, with what honeſt indignation he deſerts their multitudes, and retreats from their contagious ſociety!

No wonder he was received with ſuch acclamations of joy by the celeſtial powers, when there was

And afterwards, in a cloſe conteſt with the arch fiend,

What was the effect of this courage of the vigilant and active ſeraph?

Abdiel had the ſuperiority of Belial as much in the warlike combat, as in the peaceful counſels.

But notwithſtanding I have ſpoken with ſome aſperity againſt ſentiment as oppoſed to principle, yet I am convinced, that true genuine ſentiment, (not the ſort I have been deſcribing) may be ſo connected with principle, as to beſtow on it its brighteſt luſtre, and its moſt captivating graces. And enthuſiaſm is ſo far from being diſagreeable, that a portion of it is perhaps indiſpenſably neceſſary in an engaging woman. But it muſt be the enthuſiaſm of the heart, not of the ſenſes. It muſt be the enthuſiaſm which grows up with a feeling mind, and is cheriſhed by a virtuous education; not that which is compounded of irregular paſſions, and artificially refined by books of unnatural fiction and improbable adventure. I will even go ſo far as to aſſert, that a young woman cannot have any real greatneſs of ſoul, or true elevation of principle, if ſhe has not a tincture of what the vulgar would call Romance, but which perſons of a certain way of thinking will diſcern to proceed from thoſe fine feelings, and that charming ſenſibility, without which, though a woman may be worthy, yet ſhe can never be amiable.

But this dangerous merit cannot be too rigidly watched, as it is very apt to lead thoſe who poſſeſs it into inconveniencies from which leſs intereſting characters are happily exempt. Young women of ſtrong ſenſibility may be carried by the very amiableneſs of this temper into the moſt alarming extremes. Their taſtes are paſſions. They love and hate with all their hearts, and ſcarcely ſuffer themſelves to feel a reaſonable preference before it ſtrengthens into a violent attachment.

When an innocent girl of this open, truſting, tender heart, happens to meet with one of her own ſex and age, whoſe addreſs and manners are engaging, ſhe is inſtantly ſeized with an ardent deſire to commence a friendſhip with her. She feels the moſt lively impatience at the reſtraints of company, and the decorums of ceremony. She longs to be alone with her, longs to aſſure her of the warmth of her tenderneſs, and generouſly aſcribes to the fair ſtranger all the good qualities ſhe feels in her own heart, or rather all thoſe which ſhe has met with in her reading, diſperſed in a variety of heroines. She is perſuaded, that her new friend unites them all in herſelf, becauſe ſhe carries in her prepoſſeſſing countenance the promiſe of them all. How cruel and how cenſorious would this inexperienced girl think her mother was, who ſhould venture to hint, that the agreeable unknown had defects in her temper, or exceptions in her character. She would miſtake theſe hints of diſcretion for the inſinuations of an uncharitable diſpoſition. At firſt ſhe would perhaps liſten to them with a generous impatience, and afterwards with a cold and ſilent diſdain. She would deſpiſe them as the effect of prejudice, miſrepreſentation, or ignorance. The more aggravated the cenſure, the more vehemently would ſhe proteſt in ſecret, that her friendſhip for this dear injured creature (who is raiſed much higher in her eſteem by ſuch injurious ſuſpicions) ſhall know no bounds, as ſhe is aſſured it can know no end.

Yet this truſting confidence, this honeſt indiſcretion, is, at this early period of life as amiable as it is natural; and will, if wiſely cultivated, produce, at its proper ſeaſon, fruits infinitely more valuable than all the guarded circumſpection of premature, and therefore artificial, prudence. Men, I believe, are ſeldom ſtruck with theſe ſudden prepoſſeſſions in favour of each other. They are not ſo unſuſpecting, nor ſo eaſily led away by the predominance of fancy. They engage more warily, and paſs through the ſeveral ſtages of acquaintance, intimacy, and confidence, by ſlower gradations; but women, if they are ſometimes deceived in the choice of a friend, enjoy even then an higher degree of ſatiſfaction than if they never truſted. For to be always clad in the burthenſome armour of ſuſpicion is more painful and inconvenient, than to run the hazard of ſuffering now and then a tranſient injury.

But the above obſervations only extend to the young and the inexperienced; for I am very certain, that women are capable of as faithful and as durable friendſhip as any of the other ſex. They can enter not only into all the enthuſiaſtic tenderneſs, but into all the ſolid fidelity of attachment. And if we cannot oppoſe inſtances of equal weight with thoſe of Nyſus and Euryalus, Theſeus and Pirithous, Pylades and Oreſtes, let it be remembered, that it is becauſe the recorders of thoſe characters were men, and that the very exiſtence of them is merely poetical.