Fordyce’s Sermons; Mr Collins’ Favorite Book

When Mr. Collins comes to stay at Longbourn, Mr. Bennet, finding the reverend ‘as absurd as he had hoped,’ mischievously asks his guest to read aloud to his daughters. Mr. Collins readily assents, and:

…after some deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages…

James Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women was a popular guidebook on women’s conduct, published in 1767. In his sermons, Fordyce argued that ‘men of the best sense have usually been averse to the thought of marrying a witty female.’ Fordyce’s book was obviously a favorite of Mr Collins, although following its prescriptions would surely have condemned the latter to life as a bachelor. Where would the reverend find a woman less witty than himself?

The reader does not need to know about Fordyce’s sermons to see the truth of Elizabeth’s assertion that:

‘You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.’

Nevertheless, Collins’ enthusiasm for Fordyce’s views on desirable female conduct exaggerates the mismatch even further. Lizzy’s sparkling wit is, of course, one of her definining characteristics, not to mention a trait that attracts Mr. Darcy.

Here, then, is a passage from Fordyce’s sermons:

When I speak on this subject, need I tell you, that men of the best sense have usually been averse to marrying a witty female?

You will probably tell me, they were afraid of being outshone, and some of them perhaps might be so. But I am apt to believe, that many of them acted on different motives. Men who understand the science of domestic happiness, know that its very first principle is ease. Of that indeed we grow fonder, in whatever condition, as we advance in life, and as the heat of youth abates. But we cannot be easy, where we are not safe. We are never safe in the company of a critic; and almost every wit is a critic by profession. In such company we are not at liberty to unbend ourselves. All must be the straining of study, or the anxiety of apprehension: how painful! Where the heart may not expand and open itself with freedom, farewell to real friendship, farewell to convivial delight! But to suffer this restraint at home, what misery! From the brandishings of wit in the hand of ill nature, of imperious passion, or of unbounded vanity, who would not flee! But when that weapon is pointed at a husband, is to be wondered that if from his own house he takes shelter in the tavern? He sought a soft friend; he expected to be happy in a reasonable companion. He found a perpetual satirist, or a self-sufficient prattler. How have I pitied such a man, when I have seen him in continual fear on his own account, and that of his friends, and for the poor lady herself; les, in the run of discourse, she should be guilty of some petulance, or some indiscretion, that would expose her and hurt them all! But take the matter at the best; there is still all the difference in the world between the entertainer of an evening, and a partner for life.

My favorite part is where Fordyce writes of men escaping the torments of their wives’ wits by fleeing to the tavern! Otherwise, I shall have to use Mr. Fordyce’s words against him with the verdict, ‘How painful!’

Yours in happy marriage to a witty woman!

Darcy