'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of

fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really

possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous

quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or

delight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passage

through this world, painful circumstances occur more frequently than

pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute than

our sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless we can

in some degree command them. I know you will say, (for you are young, my

Emily) I know you will say, that you are contented sometimes to suffer,

rather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at others;

but, when your mind has been long harassed by vicissitude, you will be

content to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You will

perceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the substance;

for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a

temperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is

continually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to

feeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the

dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age

I should have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors of

sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads to

positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-governed

sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a vice; but

the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhausted

myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied you, my Emily; but,

on a subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to be

perfectly understood.'

Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that

she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it.

St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I repeat

it,' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could;

I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out

how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that

self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons;

beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if you

yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always remember

how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of

sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy

cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence,

one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the

world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead

us to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely

because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good,

for the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man

of sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who

delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes

that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from

the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be

contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is that

humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!'




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