CHAPTER XVIII.There is nothing so difficult to describe as happiness. Whether some feeling of envy enters into the mind upon hearing of it, or whether it is so calm, so unassuming, so little ostentatious in itself, that words give an imperfect idea of it, I know not. It is easier to enjoy it, than to define it. It springs in the heart, and shews itself on the countenance; but it shuns all display; and is oftener found at home, when home has not been embittered by dissensions, suspicions and guilt, than any where else upon earth. Yes, it is in home and in those who watch there for us. Miserable is the being, who turns elsewhere for consolation! Desolate is the heart which has broken the ties that bound it there.Calantha was happy; her home wasblessed; and in Lord Avondale’s society every hour brought her joy. Perhaps the feelings which, at this time united them, were too violent—too tumultuous. Few can bear to be thus loved—thus indulged: very few minds are strong enough to resist it. Calantha was utterly enervated by it; and when the cares of life first aroused Lord Avondale, and called him from her, she found herself unfit for the new situation she was immediately required to fill. When for a few hours he left her, she waited with trembling anxiety for his return; and though she murmured not at the necessary change, her days were spent in tears, and her nights in restless agitation. He more than shared in her distress: he even encouraged the excess of sensibility which gave rise to it; for men, whilst they love, think every new caprice and weakness in the object of it but a new charm; and whilst Calantha could make him grave or merry—or angry or pleased,just as it suited her, he pardoned every omission—he forgave every fault.Used to be indulged and obeyed, she was not surprised to find him a willing slave; but she had no conception that the chains he now permitted to be laid upon him, were ever to be broken; and tears and smiles, she thought, must, at all times, have the power over his heart which they now possessed. She was not mistaken:—Lord Avondale was of too fine a character to trifle with the affections he had won; and Calantha had too much sense and spirit to wrong him. He looked to his home therefore for comfort and enjoyment. He folded to his bosom the only being upon earth, for whom he felt one sentiment of passion or of love. Calantha had not a thought that he did not know, and share: his heart was as entirely open, as her own.Was it possible to be more happy? It was; and that blessing too, was granted. Lady Avondale became a mother:—Shegave to Avondale, the dearest gift a wife can offer—a boy, lovely in all the grace of childhood—whose rosy smiles, and whose infant caresses, seemed even more than ever to unite them together. He was dear to both; but they were far dearer to each other. At Allenwater, in the fine evenings of summer, they wandered out upon the mountains, and saw not in the countenance of the villagers half the tenderness and happiness they felt themselves. They uttered therefore no exclamations upon the superior joy of honest industry:—a cottage offered nothing to their view, which could excite either envy or regret:—they gave to all, and were loved by all; but in all respects they felt themselves as innocent, and more happy than those who surrounded them.In truth, the greater refinement, the greater polish the mind and manner receive, the more exquisite must be the enjoyment the heart is capable of obtaining.Few know how to love:—it is a word which many misuse; but they who have felt it, know that there is nothing to compare with it upon earth. It cannot however exist if in union with guilt. If ever it do spring up in a perverted heart, it constitutes the misery that heart deserves:—it consumes and tortures, till it expires. Even, however, when lawful and virtuous, it may be too violent:—it may render those who are subject to it, negligent of other duties, and careless of other affections: this in some measure was the case of Lord and Lady Avondale.From Allenwater, Lord and Lady Avondale proceeded to Monteith, an estate of Lord Avondale’s, where his Aunt Lady Mowbray and his only sister Lady Elizabeth Mowbray resided. Sir Richard and Lady Mowbray had never had any children, but Elizabeth and Lord Avondale were as dear to them, and perhaps dearer than if they had been their own. The society at Monteith was large. Therepleasure and gaiety and talent were chiefly prised and sought after, while a strong party spirit prevailed. Lady Monteith, a woman of an acute and penetrating mind, had warmly espoused the cause of the ministry of the day. Possessed of every quality that could most delight in society,—brilliant, beautiful and of a truly masculine understanding, she was accurate in judgment, and at a glance could penetrate the secrets of others; yet was she easily herself deceived. She had a nobleness of mind which the intercourse with the world and exposure to every temptation, had not been able to destroy. Bigotted and prejudiced in opinions which early habit had consecrated, she was sometimes too severe in her censures of others.At Castle Delaval, the society was even too refined; and a slight tinge of affectation might, by those who were inclined to censure, be imputed to it. Though ease was not wanting, there was a polishin manner, perhaps in thought, which removed the general tone somewhat too far from the simplicity of nature; sentiment, and all the romance of virtue, was encouraged.At Monteith, on the contrary, this over refinement was the constant topic of ridicule. Every thought was there uttered, and every feeling expressed:—there was neither shyness, nor reserve, nor affectation. Talent opposed itself to talent with all the force of argument.—The loud laugh that pointed out any new folly, or hailed any new occasion of mirth, was different from the subdued smile, and gentle hint to which Calantha had been accustomed. Opinions were there liberally discussed; characters stripped of their pretences; and satire mingled with the good humour, and jovial mirth, which on every side abounded.She heard and saw every thing with surprise; and though she loved and admired the individuals, she felt herselfunfit to live among them. There was a liberality of opinion and a satiric turn which she could not at once comprehend; and she said to herself, daily, as she considered those around her—“They are different from me.—I can never assimilate myself to them: I was every thing in my own family; and I am nothing here.” What talents she had, were of a sort they could not appreciate; and all the defects were those which they most despised. The refinement, the romance, the sentiment she had imbibed, appeared in their eyes assumed and unnatural; her strict opinions perfectly ridiculous; her enthusiasm absolute insanity; and the violence of her temper, if contradicted or opposed, the pettishness of a spoiled and wayward child. Yet too indulgent, too kind to reject her, they loved her, they caressed her, they bore with her petulance and mistakes. It was, however, as a child they considered her:—they treated her as one not arrived at maturity of judgment.Her reason by degrees became convinced by the arguments which she continually heard; and all that was spoken at random, she treasured up as truth: even whilst vehemently contending and disputing in defence of her favourite tenets, she became of another opinion. So dangerous is a little knowledge—so unstable is violence. Her soul’s immortal hopes seemed to be shaken by the unguarded jests of the profane, who casually visited at Monteith, or whom she met with elsewhere:—she read till she confounded truth and falsehood, nor knew any longer what to believe:—she heard folly censured till she took it to be criminal; but crime she saw tolerated if well concealed. The names she had set in her very heart as pure and spotless, she heard traduced and vilified:—indignantly she defended them with all the warmth of ardent youth:—they were proved guilty; she wept in agony, sheloved them not less, but she thought less favourably of those who had undeceived her.The change in Calantha’s mind was constant—was daily: it never ceased—it never paused; and none marked its progress, or checked her career. In emancipating herself from much that was no doubt useless, she stripped herself by degrees of all, till she neither feared, nor cared, nor knew any longer what was, from what was not.Nothing gives greater umbrage than a misconception and mistaken application of tenets and opinions which were never meant to be thus understood and acted upon. Lady Mowbray, a strict adherent to all customs and etiquettes, saw with astonishment in Calantha a total disregard of them; and her high temper could ill brook such a defect. Accustomed to the gentleness of Elizabeth, she saw with indignation the liberty her niece had assumed. It was not for her tocheck her; but rigidity, vehemence in dispute, and harsh truths, at times too bitterly expressed on both sides, gave an appearance of disunion between them, which happily was very far from being real, as Calantha loved and admired Lady Mowbray with the warmest affection.Lord Avondale, in the mean time, solely devoted to his wife, blinded himself to her danger. He saw not the change a few months had made, or he imputed it alone to her enthusiasm for himself. He thought others harsh to what he regarded as the mere thoughtlessness of youth; and, surrendering himself wholly to her guidance, he chided, caressed and laughed with her in turn. “I see how it is Henry,” said Sir Richard, before he left Ireland,—“you are a lost man; I shall leave you another year to amuse yourself; and I fancy by that time all this nonsense will be over. I love you the better for it, however, my dear boy;—asoldier never looks so well, to my mind, as when kneeling to a pretty woman, provided he does his duty abroad, as well as at home, and that praise every one must give you.”
There is nothing so difficult to describe as happiness. Whether some feeling of envy enters into the mind upon hearing of it, or whether it is so calm, so unassuming, so little ostentatious in itself, that words give an imperfect idea of it, I know not. It is easier to enjoy it, than to define it. It springs in the heart, and shews itself on the countenance; but it shuns all display; and is oftener found at home, when home has not been embittered by dissensions, suspicions and guilt, than any where else upon earth. Yes, it is in home and in those who watch there for us. Miserable is the being, who turns elsewhere for consolation! Desolate is the heart which has broken the ties that bound it there.
Calantha was happy; her home wasblessed; and in Lord Avondale’s society every hour brought her joy. Perhaps the feelings which, at this time united them, were too violent—too tumultuous. Few can bear to be thus loved—thus indulged: very few minds are strong enough to resist it. Calantha was utterly enervated by it; and when the cares of life first aroused Lord Avondale, and called him from her, she found herself unfit for the new situation she was immediately required to fill. When for a few hours he left her, she waited with trembling anxiety for his return; and though she murmured not at the necessary change, her days were spent in tears, and her nights in restless agitation. He more than shared in her distress: he even encouraged the excess of sensibility which gave rise to it; for men, whilst they love, think every new caprice and weakness in the object of it but a new charm; and whilst Calantha could make him grave or merry—or angry or pleased,just as it suited her, he pardoned every omission—he forgave every fault.
Used to be indulged and obeyed, she was not surprised to find him a willing slave; but she had no conception that the chains he now permitted to be laid upon him, were ever to be broken; and tears and smiles, she thought, must, at all times, have the power over his heart which they now possessed. She was not mistaken:—Lord Avondale was of too fine a character to trifle with the affections he had won; and Calantha had too much sense and spirit to wrong him. He looked to his home therefore for comfort and enjoyment. He folded to his bosom the only being upon earth, for whom he felt one sentiment of passion or of love. Calantha had not a thought that he did not know, and share: his heart was as entirely open, as her own.
Was it possible to be more happy? It was; and that blessing too, was granted. Lady Avondale became a mother:—Shegave to Avondale, the dearest gift a wife can offer—a boy, lovely in all the grace of childhood—whose rosy smiles, and whose infant caresses, seemed even more than ever to unite them together. He was dear to both; but they were far dearer to each other. At Allenwater, in the fine evenings of summer, they wandered out upon the mountains, and saw not in the countenance of the villagers half the tenderness and happiness they felt themselves. They uttered therefore no exclamations upon the superior joy of honest industry:—a cottage offered nothing to their view, which could excite either envy or regret:—they gave to all, and were loved by all; but in all respects they felt themselves as innocent, and more happy than those who surrounded them.
In truth, the greater refinement, the greater polish the mind and manner receive, the more exquisite must be the enjoyment the heart is capable of obtaining.Few know how to love:—it is a word which many misuse; but they who have felt it, know that there is nothing to compare with it upon earth. It cannot however exist if in union with guilt. If ever it do spring up in a perverted heart, it constitutes the misery that heart deserves:—it consumes and tortures, till it expires. Even, however, when lawful and virtuous, it may be too violent:—it may render those who are subject to it, negligent of other duties, and careless of other affections: this in some measure was the case of Lord and Lady Avondale.
From Allenwater, Lord and Lady Avondale proceeded to Monteith, an estate of Lord Avondale’s, where his Aunt Lady Mowbray and his only sister Lady Elizabeth Mowbray resided. Sir Richard and Lady Mowbray had never had any children, but Elizabeth and Lord Avondale were as dear to them, and perhaps dearer than if they had been their own. The society at Monteith was large. Therepleasure and gaiety and talent were chiefly prised and sought after, while a strong party spirit prevailed. Lady Monteith, a woman of an acute and penetrating mind, had warmly espoused the cause of the ministry of the day. Possessed of every quality that could most delight in society,—brilliant, beautiful and of a truly masculine understanding, she was accurate in judgment, and at a glance could penetrate the secrets of others; yet was she easily herself deceived. She had a nobleness of mind which the intercourse with the world and exposure to every temptation, had not been able to destroy. Bigotted and prejudiced in opinions which early habit had consecrated, she was sometimes too severe in her censures of others.
At Castle Delaval, the society was even too refined; and a slight tinge of affectation might, by those who were inclined to censure, be imputed to it. Though ease was not wanting, there was a polishin manner, perhaps in thought, which removed the general tone somewhat too far from the simplicity of nature; sentiment, and all the romance of virtue, was encouraged.
At Monteith, on the contrary, this over refinement was the constant topic of ridicule. Every thought was there uttered, and every feeling expressed:—there was neither shyness, nor reserve, nor affectation. Talent opposed itself to talent with all the force of argument.—The loud laugh that pointed out any new folly, or hailed any new occasion of mirth, was different from the subdued smile, and gentle hint to which Calantha had been accustomed. Opinions were there liberally discussed; characters stripped of their pretences; and satire mingled with the good humour, and jovial mirth, which on every side abounded.
She heard and saw every thing with surprise; and though she loved and admired the individuals, she felt herselfunfit to live among them. There was a liberality of opinion and a satiric turn which she could not at once comprehend; and she said to herself, daily, as she considered those around her—“They are different from me.—I can never assimilate myself to them: I was every thing in my own family; and I am nothing here.” What talents she had, were of a sort they could not appreciate; and all the defects were those which they most despised. The refinement, the romance, the sentiment she had imbibed, appeared in their eyes assumed and unnatural; her strict opinions perfectly ridiculous; her enthusiasm absolute insanity; and the violence of her temper, if contradicted or opposed, the pettishness of a spoiled and wayward child. Yet too indulgent, too kind to reject her, they loved her, they caressed her, they bore with her petulance and mistakes. It was, however, as a child they considered her:—they treated her as one not arrived at maturity of judgment.
Her reason by degrees became convinced by the arguments which she continually heard; and all that was spoken at random, she treasured up as truth: even whilst vehemently contending and disputing in defence of her favourite tenets, she became of another opinion. So dangerous is a little knowledge—so unstable is violence. Her soul’s immortal hopes seemed to be shaken by the unguarded jests of the profane, who casually visited at Monteith, or whom she met with elsewhere:—she read till she confounded truth and falsehood, nor knew any longer what to believe:—she heard folly censured till she took it to be criminal; but crime she saw tolerated if well concealed. The names she had set in her very heart as pure and spotless, she heard traduced and vilified:—indignantly she defended them with all the warmth of ardent youth:—they were proved guilty; she wept in agony, sheloved them not less, but she thought less favourably of those who had undeceived her.
The change in Calantha’s mind was constant—was daily: it never ceased—it never paused; and none marked its progress, or checked her career. In emancipating herself from much that was no doubt useless, she stripped herself by degrees of all, till she neither feared, nor cared, nor knew any longer what was, from what was not.
Nothing gives greater umbrage than a misconception and mistaken application of tenets and opinions which were never meant to be thus understood and acted upon. Lady Mowbray, a strict adherent to all customs and etiquettes, saw with astonishment in Calantha a total disregard of them; and her high temper could ill brook such a defect. Accustomed to the gentleness of Elizabeth, she saw with indignation the liberty her niece had assumed. It was not for her tocheck her; but rigidity, vehemence in dispute, and harsh truths, at times too bitterly expressed on both sides, gave an appearance of disunion between them, which happily was very far from being real, as Calantha loved and admired Lady Mowbray with the warmest affection.
Lord Avondale, in the mean time, solely devoted to his wife, blinded himself to her danger. He saw not the change a few months had made, or he imputed it alone to her enthusiasm for himself. He thought others harsh to what he regarded as the mere thoughtlessness of youth; and, surrendering himself wholly to her guidance, he chided, caressed and laughed with her in turn. “I see how it is Henry,” said Sir Richard, before he left Ireland,—“you are a lost man; I shall leave you another year to amuse yourself; and I fancy by that time all this nonsense will be over. I love you the better for it, however, my dear boy;—asoldier never looks so well, to my mind, as when kneeling to a pretty woman, provided he does his duty abroad, as well as at home, and that praise every one must give you.”