ON TRUE AND FALSE MEEKNESS.

A low voice and ſoft addreſs are the common indications of a well-bred woman, and ſhould ſeem to be the natural effects of a meek and quiet ſpirit; but they are only the outward and viſible ſigns of it: for they are no more meekneſs itſelf, than a red coat is courage, or a black one devotion.

Yet nothing is more common than to miſtake the ſign for the thing itſelf; nor is any practice more frequent than that of endeavouring to acquire the exterior mark, without once thinking to labour after the interior grace. Surely this is beginning at the wrong end, like attacking the ſymptom and neglecting the diſeaſe. To regulate the features, while the ſoul is in tumults, or to command the voice while the paſſions are without reſtraint, is as idle as throwing odours into a ſtream when the ſource is polluted.

The ſapient king, who knew better than any man the nature and the power of beauty, has aſſured us, that the temper of the mind has a ſtrong influence upon the features: "Wiſdom maketh the face to ſhine," ſays that exquiſite judge; and ſurely no part of wiſdom is more likely to produce this amiable effect, than a placid ſerenity of ſoul.

It will not be difficult to diſtinguiſh the true from the artificial meekneſs. The former is univerſal and habitual, the latter, local and temporary. Every young female may keep this rule by her, to enable her to form a juſt judgment of her own temper: if ſhe is not as gentle to her chambermaid as ſhe is to her viſitor, ſhe may reſt ſatiſfied that the ſpirit of gentleneſs is not in her.

Who would not be ſhocked and diſappointed to behold a well-bred young lady, ſoft and engaging as the doves of Venus, diſplaying a thouſand graces and attractions to win the hearts of a large company, and the inſtant they are gone, to ſee her look mad as the Pythian maid, and all the frightened graces driven from her furious countenance, only becauſe her gown was brought home a quarter of an hour later than ſhe expected, or her ribbon ſent half a ſhade lighter or darker than ſhe ordered?

All men's characters are ſaid to proceed from their ſervants; and this is more particularly true of ladies: for as their ſituations are more domeſtic, they lie more open to the inſpection of their families, to whom their real characters are eaſily and perfectly known; for they ſeldom think it worth while to practiſe any diſguiſe before thoſe, whoſe good opinion they do not value, and who are obliged to ſubmit to their moſt inſupportable humours, becauſe they are paid for it.

Amongst women of breeding, the exterior of gentleneſs is ſo uniformly aſſumed, and the whole manner is ſo perfectly level and uni, that it is next to impoſſible for a ſtranger to know any thing of their true diſpoſitions by converſing with them, and even the very features are ſo exactly regulated, that phyſiognomy, which may ſometimes be truſted among the vulgar, is, with the polite, a moſt lying ſcience.

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."

A passionate woman's happineſs is never in her own keeping: it is the ſport of accident, and the ſlave of events. It is in the power of her acquaintance, her ſervants, but chiefly of her enemies, and all her comforts lie at the mercy of others. So far from being willing to learn of him who was meek and lowly, ſhe conſiders meekneſs as the want of a becoming ſpirit, and lowlineſs as a deſpicable and vulgar meanneſs. And an imperious woman will ſo little covet the ornament of a meek and quiet ſpirit, that it is almoſt the only ornament ſhe will not be ſolicitous to wear. But reſentment is a very expenſive vice. How dearly has it coſt its votaries, even from the ſin of Cain, the firſt offender in this kind! "It is cheaper (ſays a pious writer) to forgive, and ſave the charges."

If it were only for mere human reaſons, it would turn to a better account to be patient; nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like a ſpirit of forbearance; the return of rage for rage cannot be ſo effectually provoking. True gentleneſs, like an impenetrable armour, repels the moſt pointed ſhafts of malice: they cannot pierce through this invulnerable ſhield, but either fall hurtleſs to the ground, or return to wound the hand that ſhot them.

A meek ſpirit will not look out of itſelf for happineſs, becauſe it finds a conſtant banquet at home; yet, by a ſort of divine alchymy, it will convert all external events to its own profit, and be able to deduce ſome good, even from the moſt unpromiſing: it will extract comfort and ſatiſfaction from the moſt barren circumſtances: "It will ſuck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock."

But the ſupreme excellence of this complacent quality is, that it naturally diſpoſes the mind where it reſides, to the practice of every other that is amiable. Meekneſs may be called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels every obſtruction, and ſmooths every difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their progreſs.

The peculiar importance and value of this amiable virtue may be farther ſeen in its permanency. Honours and dignities are tranſient, beauty and riches frail and fugacious, to a proverb. Would not the truly wiſe, therefore, wiſh to have ſome one poſſeſſion, which they might call their own in the ſevereſt exigencies? But this wiſh can only be accompliſhed by acquiring and maintaining that calm and abſolute ſelf-poſſeſſion, which, as the world had no hand in giving, ſo it cannot, by the moſt malicious exertion of its power, take away.