# Original Stories from Real Life/Chapter 7

CHAP. 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 houſe-maid, 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 poliſsh, 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.