Excerpts from Original Stories from Real Life

Mary Wollstonecraft, 1788

CHAPTER VII

Virtue the Soul of Beauty.—The Tulip and the Rose.—The Nightingale.—External Ornaments.—Characters.

The next morning Mrs. Mason met them first in the garden; and she desired Caroline to look at a bed of tulips, that were then in their highest state of perfection.  I, added she, choose to have every kind of flower in my garden, as the succession enables me to vary my daily prospect, and gives it the charm of variety; yet these tulips afford me less pleasure than most of the other sort which I cultivate—and I will tell you why—they are only beautiful.  Listen to my distinction;—good features, and a fine complexion, I term bodily beauty.  Like the streaks in the tulip, they please the eye for a moment; but this uniformity soon tires, and the active mind flies off to something else.  The soul of beauty, my dear children, consists in the body gracefully exhibiting the emotions and variations of the informing mind.  If truth, humanity, and knowledge inhabit the breast, the eyes will beam with a mild lustre, modesty will suffuse the cheeks, and smiles of innocent joy play over all the features.  At first sight, regularity and colour will attract, and have the advantage, because the hidden springs are not directly set in motion; but when internal goodness is reflected, every other kind of beauty, the shadow of it, withers away before it—as the sun obscures a lamp.

You are certainly handsome, Caroline; I mean, have good features; but you must improve your mind to give them a pleasing expression, or they will only serve to lead your understanding astray.  I have seen some foolish people take great pains to decorate the outside of their houses, to attract the notice of strangers, who gazed, and passed on; whilst the inside, where they received their friends, was dark and inconvenient.  Apply this observation to mere personal attractions.  They may, it is true, for a few years, charm the superficial part of your acquaintance, whose notions of beauty are not built on any principle of utility.  Such persons might look at you, as they would glance their eye over these tulips, and feel for a moment the same pleasure that a view of the variegated rays of light would convey to an uninformed mind.  The lower class of mankind, and children, are fond of finery; gaudy, dazzling appearances catch their attention; but the discriminating judgment of a person of sense requires, besides colour, order, proportion, grace and usefulness, to render the idea of beauty complete.

Observe that rose, it has all the perfections I speak of; colour, grace, and sweetness—and even when the fine tints fade, the smell is grateful to those who have before contemplated its beauties.  I have only one bed of tulips, though my garden is large, but, in every part of it, roses attract the eye.

You have seen Mrs. Trueman, and think her a very fine woman; yet her skin and complexion have only the clearness that temperance gives; and her features, strictly speaking, are not regular: Betty, the housemaid, has, in both these respects, much the superiority over her.  But, though it is not easy to define in what her beauty consists, the eye follows her whenever she moves; and every person of taste listens for the modulated sounds which proceed out of her mouth, to be improved and pleased.  It is conscious worth, truth, that gives dignity to her walk, and simple elegance to her conversation.  She has, indeed, a most excellent understanding, and a feeling heart; sagacity and tenderness, the result of both, are happily blended in her countenance; and taste is the polish, which makes them appear to the best advantage.  She is more than beautiful; and you see her varied excellencies again and again, with increasing pleasure.  They are not obtruded on you, for knowledge has taught her true humility: she is not like the flaunting tulip, that forces itself forward into notice; but resembles the modest rose, you see yonder, retiring under its elegant foliage.

I have mentioned flowers—the same order is observed in the higher departments of nature.  Think of the birds; those that sing best have not the finest plumage; indeed just the contrary; God divides His gifts, and amongst the feathered race the nightingale (sweetest of warblers, who pours forth her varied strain when sober eve comes on) you would seek in vain in the morning, if you expected that beautiful feathers should point out the songstress: many who incessantly twitter, and are only tolerable in the general concert, would surpass her, and attract your attention.

I knew, some time before you were born, a very fine, a very handsome girl; I saw she had abilities, and I saw with pain that she attended to the most obvious, but least valuable gift of heaven.  Her ingenuity slept, whilst she tried to render her person more alluring.  At last she caught the small-pox—her beauty vanished, and she was for a time miserable; but the natural vivacity of youth overcame her unpleasant feelings.  In consequence of the disorder, her eyes became so weak that she was obliged to sit in a dark room.  To beguile the tedious day she applied to music, and made a surprising proficiency.  She even began to think, in her retirement, and when she recovered her sight grew fond of reading.

Large companies did not now amuse her, she was no longer the object of admiration, or if she was taken notice of, it was to be pitied, to hear her former self praised, and to hear them lament the depredation that dreadful disease had made in a fine face.  Not expecting or wishing to be observed, she lost her affected airs, and attended to the conversation, in which she was soon able to bear a part.  In short, the desire of pleasing took a different turn, and as she improved her mind, she discovered that virtue, internal beauty, was valuable on its own account, and not like that of the person, which resembles a toy, that pleases the observer, but does not render the possessor happy.

She found, that in acquiring knowledge, her mind grew tranquil, and the noble desire of acting conformably to the will of God succeeded, and drove out the immoderate vanity which before actuated her, when her equals were the objects she thought most of, and whose approbation she sought with such eagerness.  And what had she sought?  To be stared at and called handsome.  Her beauty, the mere sight of it, did not make others good, or comfort the afflicted; but after she had lost it, she was comfortable herself, and set her friends the most useful example.

The money that she had formerly appropriated to ornament her person, now clothed the naked; yet she really appeared better dressed, as she had acquired the habit of employing her time to the best advantage, and could make many things herself.  Besides, she did not implicitly follow the reigning fashion, for she had learned to distinguish, and in the most trivial matters acted according to the dictates of good sense.

The children made some comments on this story, but the entrance of a visitor interrupted the conversation, and they ran about the garden, comparing the roses and tulips.

CHAPTER XII

Behaviour to Servants.—True Dignity of Character.

The children not coming down to breakfast one morning at the usual time, Mrs. Mason went herself to enquire the reason; and as she entered the apartment, heard Mary say to the maid who assisted her, I wonder at your impertinence, to talk thus to me—do you know who you are speaking to?—she was going on; but Mrs. Mason interrupted her, and answered the question—to a little girl, who is only assisted because she is weak.  Mary shrunk back abashed, and Mrs. Mason continued, as you have treated Betty, who is ten years older than yourself, improperly, you must now do every thing for yourself; and, as you will be some time about it, Caroline and I will eat our breakfast, and visit Mrs. Trueman.  By the time we return, you may perhaps have recollected that children are inferior to servants—who act from the dictates of reason, and whose understandings are arrived at some degree of maturity, while children must be governed and directed till their’s gains strength to work by itself: for it is the proper exercise of our reason that makes us in any degree independent.

When Mrs. Mason returned, she mildly addressed Mary.  I have often told you that every dispensation of Providence tended to our improvement, if we do not perversely act contrary to our interest.  One being is made dependent on another, that love and forbearance may soften the human heart, and that linked together by necessity, and the exercise of the social affections, the whole family on earth might have a fellow feeling for each other.  By these means we improve one another; but there is no real inferiority.

You have read the fable of the head supposing itself superior to the rest of the members, though all are equally necessary to the support of life.  If I behave improperly to servants, I am really their inferior, as I abuse a trust, and imitate not the Being, whose servant I am, without a shadow of equality.  Children are helpless.  I order my servants to wait on you, because you are so; but I have not as much respect for you as for them; you may possibly become a virtuous character.—Many of my servants are really so already; they have done their duty, filled an humble station, as they ought to fill it, conscientiously.  And do you dare to despise those whom your Creator approves?

Before the greatest earthly beings I should not be awed, they are my fellow servants; and, though superior in rank, which, like personal beauty, only dazzles the vulgar; yet I may possess more knowledge and virtue.  The same feeling actuates me when I am in company with the poor; we are creatures of the same nature, and I may be their inferiour in those graces which should adorn my soul, and render me truly great.

How often must I repeat to you, that a child is inferiour to a man; because reason is in its infancy, and it is reason which exalts a man above a brute; and the cultivation of it raises the wise man above the ignorant; for wisdom is only another name for virtue.

This morning, when I entered your apartment, I heard you insult a worthy servant.  You had just said your prayers; but they must have been only the gabble of the tongue; your heart was not engaged in the sacred employment, or you could not so soon have forgotten that you were a weak, dependent being, and that you were to receive mercy and kindness only on the condition of your practising the same.

I advise you to ask Betty to pardon your impertinence; till you do so, she shall not assist you; you would find yourself very helpless without the assistance of men and women—unable to cook your meat, bake your bread, wash your clothes, or even put them on—such a helpless creature is a child—I know what you are, you perceive.

Mary submitted—and in future after she said her prayers, remembered that she was to endeavour to curb her temper.

CHAPTER XIII

Employment.—Idleness produces Misery.—The Cultivation of the Fancy raises us above the Vulgar, extends our Happiness, and leads to Virtue.

One afternoon, Mrs. Mason gave the children leave to amuse themselves; but a kind of listlessness hung over them, and at a loss what to do, they seemed fatigued with doing nothing.  They eat cakes though they had just dined, and did many foolish things merely because they were idle.  Their friend seeing that they were irresolute, and could not fix on any employment, requested Caroline to assist her to make some clothes, that a poor woman was in want of, and while we are at work, she added, Mary will read us an entertaining tale, which I will point out.

The tale interested the children, who chearfully attended, and after it was finished, Mrs. Mason told them, that as she had some letters to write, she could not take her accustomed walk; but that she would allow them to represent her, and act for once like women.  They received their commission, it was to take the clothes to the poor woman, whom they were intended for; learn her present wants; exercise their own judgment with respect to the immediate relief she stood in need of, and act accordingly.

They returned home delighted, eager to tell what they had done, and how thankful, and happy they had left the poor woman.

Observe now, said Mrs. Mason, the advantages arising from employment; three hours ago, you were uncomfortable, without being sensible of the cause, and knew not what to do with yourselves.  Nay, you actually committed a sin; for you devoured cakes without feeling hunger, merely to kill time, whilst many poor people have not the means of satisfying their natural wants.  When I desired you to read to me you were amused; and now you have been useful you are delighted.  Recollect this in future when you are at a loss what to do with yourselves—and remember that idleness must always be intolerable, because it is only an irksome consciousness of existence.

Every gift of Heaven is lent to us for our improvement; fancy is one of the first of the inferiour ones; in cultivating it, we acquire what is called taste, or a relish for particular employments, which occupy our leisure hours, and raise us above the vulgar in our conversation.  Those who have not any taste talk always of their own affairs or of their neighbours; every trivial matter that occurs within their knowledge they convass and conjecture about—not so much out of ill-nature as idleness: just as you eat the cakes without the impulse of hunger.  In the same style people talk of eating and dress, and long for their meals merely to divide the day, because the intermediate time is not employed in a more interesting manner.  Every new branch of taste that we cultivate, affords us a refuge from idleness, a fortress in which we may resist the assaults of vice; and the more noble our employments, the more exalted will our minds become.

Music, drawing, works of usefulness and fancy, all amuse and refine the mind, sharpen the ingenuity; and form, insensibly, the dawning judgment.—As the judgment gains strength, so do the passions also; we have actions to weigh, and need that taste in conduct, that delicate sense of propriety, which gives grace to virtue.  The highest branch of solitary amusement is reading; but even in the choice of books the fancy is first employed; for in reading, the heart is touched, till its feelings are examined by the understanding, and the ripenings of reason regulate the imagination.  This is the work of years, and the most important of all employments.  When life advances, if the heart has been capable of receiving early impressions, and the head of reasoning and retaining the conclusions which were drawn from them; we have acquired a stock of knowledge, a gold mine which we can occasionally recur to, independent of outward circumstances.

The supreme Being has every thing in Himself; we proceed from Him, and our knowledge and affections must return to Him for employment suited to them.  And those who most resemble Him ought, next to Him, to be the objects of our love; and the beings whom we should try to associate with, that we may receive an inferiour degree of satisfaction from their society.—But be assured our chief comfort must ever arise from the mind’s reviewing its own operations—and the whispers of an approving conscience, to convince us that life has not slipped away unemployed.

CHAPTER XV

Prayer.—A Moon-light Scene.—Resignation.

The harper would frequently sit under a large elm, a few paces from the house, and play some of the most plaintive Welsh tunes.  While the people were eating their supper, Mrs. Mason desired him to play her some favourite airs; and she and the children walked round the tree under which he sat, on the stump of another.

The moon rose in cloudless majesty, and a number of stars twinkled near her.  The softened landscape inspired tranquillity, while the strain of rustic melody gave a pleasing melancholy to the whole—and made the tear start, whose source could scarcely be traced.  The pleasure the sight of harmless mirth gave rise to in Mrs. Mason’s bosom, roused every tender feeling—set in motion her spirits.—She laughed with the poor whom she had made happy, and wept when she recollected her own sorrows; the illusions of youth—the gay expectations that had formerly clipped the wings of time.—She turned to the girls—I have been very unfortunate, my young friends; but my griefs are now of a placid kind.  Heavy misfortunes have obscured the sun I gazed at when first I entered life—early attachments have been broken—the death of friends I loved has so clouded my days; that neither the beams of prosperity, nor even those of benevolence, can dissipate the gloom; but I am not lost in a thick fog.—My state of mind rather resembles the scene before you, it is quiet—I am weaned from the world, but not disgusted—for I can still do good—and in futurity a sun will rise to cheer my heart.—Beyond the night of death, I hail the dawn of an eternal day!  I mention my state of mind to you, that I may tell you what supports me.

The festivity within, and the placidity without, led my thoughts naturally to the source from whence my comfort springs—to the Great Bestower of every blessing.  Prayer, my children, is the dearest privilege of man, and the support of a feeling heart.  Mine has too often been wounded by ingratitude; my fellow-creatures, whom I have fondly loved, have neglected me—I have heard their last sigh, and thrown my eyes round an empty world; but then more particularly feeling the presence of my Creator, I poured out my soul before Him—and was no longer alone!—I now daily contemplate His wonderful goodness; and, though at an awful distance, try to imitate Him.  This view of things is a spur to activity, and a consolation in disappointment.

There is in fact a constant intercourse kept up with the Creator, when we learn to consider Him, as the fountain of truth, which our understanding naturally thirsts after.  But His goodness brings Him still more on a level with our bounded capacities—for we trace it in every work of mercy, and feel, in sorrow particularly, His fatherly care.  Every blessing is doubled when we suppose it comes from Him, and afflictions almost lose their name when we believe they are sent to correct, not crush us.—Whilst we are alive to gratitude and admiration, we must adore God.

The human soul is so framed, that goodness and truth must fill it with ineffable pleasure, and the nearer it approaches to perfection, the more earnestly will it pursue those virtues, discerning more clearly their beauty.

The Supreme Being dwells in the universe.  He is as essentially present to the wicked as to the good; but the latter delight in His presence, and try to please Him, whilst the former shrink from a Judge, who is of too pure a nature to behold iniquity.—The wicked wish for the rocks to cover them, mountains, or the angry sea, which we the other day surveyed, to hide them from the presence of that Being—in whose presence only they could find joy.  You feel emotions that incite you to do good; and painful ones disturb you, when you have resisted the faithful internal monitor.  The wiser, and the better you grow, the more visible, if I may use the expression, will God become—For wisdom consists in searching Him out—and goodness in endeavouring to copy His attributes.

To attain any thing great, a model must be held up to exercise our understanding, and engage our affections.  A view of the disinterested goodness of God is therefore calculated to touch us more than can be conceived by a depraved mind.  When the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts; true courage will animate our conduct, for nothing can hurt those who trust in Him.  If the desire of acting right is ever present with us, if admiration of goodness fills our souls; we may be said to pray constantly.  And if we try to do justice to all our fellow-creatures, and even to the brute creation; and assist them as far as we can, we prove whose servants we are, and whose laws we transcribe in our lives.

Never be very anxious, when you pray, what words to use; regulate your thoughts; and recollect that virtue calms the passions, gives clearness to the understanding, and opens it to pleasures that the thoughtless and vicious have not a glimpse of.  You must, believe me, be acquainted with God to find peace, to rise superior to worldly temptations.  Habitual devotion is of the utmost consequence to our happiness, as what oftenest occupies the thoughts will influence our actions.  But, observe what I say,—that devotion is mockery and selfishness, which does not improve our moral character.

Men, of old, prayed to the devil, sacrificed their children to him; and committed every kind of barbarity and impurity.  But we who serve a long-suffering God should pity the weakness of our fellow-creatures; we must not beg for mercy and not shew it;—we must not acknowledge that we have offended, without trying to avoid doing so in future.  We are to deal with our fellow-creatures as we expect to be dealt with.  This is practical prayer!—Those who practise it feel frequently sublime pleasures, and lively hopes animate them in this vale of tears; that seem a foretaste of the felicity they will enjoy, when the understanding is more enlightened, and the affections properly regulated.

To-morrow I will take you to visit the school-mistress of the village, and relate her story, to enforce what I have been saying.

Now you may go and dance one or two dances; and I will join you after I have taken a walk, which I wish to enjoy alone.

CHAPTER XX

Visit to Mrs. Trueman.—The Use of Accomplishments.—Virtue the Soul of all.

In the afternoon they visited Mrs. Trueman unexpectedly, and found her sitting in the garden playing to her children, who danced on the green sod.  She approached to receive them, and laid aside her guitar; but, after some conversation, Mrs. Mason desired her to take it up again, and the girls joined in the request.  While she was singing Mary whispered Mrs. Mason, that she would give the world to be able to sing as well.  The whisper was not so low but a part of it reached Mrs. Trueman’s ears, who said to her, smiling, my young friend, you value accomplishments much too highly—they may give grace to virtue—but are nothing without solid worth.—Indeed, I may say more, for any thing like perfection in the arts cannot be attained, where a relish; nay, a delight in what is true and noble is wanting.  A superficial observer may be pleased with a picture in which fine colours predominate; and quick movements in music may tickle the ear, though they never reach the heart: but it is the simple strain which affection animates, that we listen to with interest and delight.  Mr. Trueman has a taste for the fine arts; and I wish in every thing to be his companion.  His conversation has improved my judgment, and the affection an intimate knowledge of his virtues has inspired, increases the love which I feel for the whole human race.  He lives retired from the world; to amuse him after the business of the day is over, and my babes asleep, I sing to him.  A desire to please, and the pleasure I read in his eyes, give to my music energy and tenderness.  When he is ruffled by worldly cares, I try to smooth his wrinkled brow, and think mine a voice of melody, when it has had that effect.

Very true, replied Mrs. Mason, accomplishments should be cultivated to render us pleasing to our domestic friends; virtue is necessary; it must ever be the foundation of our peace and usefulness; but when we are capable of affection, we wish to have something peculiar to ourselves.  We study the taste of our friends, and endeavour to conform to it; but, in doing so, we ought rather to improve our own abilities than servilely to copy theirs.  Observe, my dear girls, Mrs. Trueman’s distinction, her accomplishments are for her friends, her virtues for the world in general.

I should think myself vain, and my soul little, answered Mrs. Trueman, if the applause of the whole world, on the score of abilities, which did not add any real lustre to my character, could afford me matter of exultation.  The approbation of my own heart, the humble hope of pleasing the Most High, elevates my soul; and I feel, that in a future state, I may enjoy an unspeakable degree of happiness, though I now only experience a faint foretaste.  Next to these sublime emotions, which I cannot describe, and the joy resulting from doing good; I am happy when I can amuse those I love; it is not then vanity, but tenderness, that spurs me on, and my songs, my drawings, my every action, has something of my heart in it.  When I can add to the innocent enjoyments of my children, and improve them at the same time, are not my accomplishments of use?  In the same style, when I vary the pleasures of my fire-side, I make my husband forget that it is a lonely one; and he returns to look for elegance at home, elegance that he himself gave the polish to; and which is only affected, when it does not flow from virtuous affections.

I beg your pardon, I expatiate too long on my favourite topic; my desire to rectify your notions must plead my excuse.

Mr. Trueman now joined them, and brought with him some of his finest fruit.  After tea Mrs. Trueman shewed them some of her drawings; and, to comply with their repeated request, played on the harpsichord, and Mr. Trueman took his violin to accompany her.  Then the children were indulged with a dance, each had her favourite tune played in turn.

As they returned home, the girls were eagerly lavishing praises on Mrs. Trueman; and Mary said, I cannot tell why, but I feel so glad when she takes notice of me.  I never saw any one look so good-natured, cried Caroline.  Mrs. Mason joined in the conversation.  You justly remarked that she is good-natured; you remember her history, she loves truth, and she is ever exercising benevolence and love—from the insect, that she avoids treading on, her affection may be traced to that Being who lives for ever.—And it is from her goodness her agreeable qualities spring.