Helas! ou donc chercher ou trouver le bonheur?En tout lieu, en tout temps, dans toute la nature,Nulle part tout entier, partout avec mesure,Et partout passager, hors dans son seul Auteur.Il est semblable au feu dont la douce chaleur,Dans chaque autre élément en secret s' insinue,Descend dans les rochers, s' éleve dans la nue,Va rougir le corail dans le sable des mers,Et vit dans les glaçons qu'ont durcis les hivers.[8]Voltaire.
Helas! ou donc chercher ou trouver le bonheur?En tout lieu, en tout temps, dans toute la nature,Nulle part tout entier, partout avec mesure,Et partout passager, hors dans son seul Auteur.Il est semblable au feu dont la douce chaleur,Dans chaque autre élément en secret s' insinue,Descend dans les rochers, s' éleve dans la nue,Va rougir le corail dans le sable des mers,Et vit dans les glaçons qu'ont durcis les hivers.[8]
Voltaire.
Whilst Adelaide remained at the Parsonage, she had the advantages of becoming acquainted with a scene of domestic life of the most admirable nature; and she did not fail, with her usual good sense, to derive many useful lessons from her intercourse with Mrs. Temple. From her example as much was proved to her mind by reason, as had been demonstratedab absurdoby the Webberly family; and as, during Baron Wildenheim's life, she had never been domesticated with females of her own rank, the faults of the one, and the merits of the other, appeared to her view with all the force of novelty. Mrs. Temple in herself, her children, and her establishment, displayed a model of amiable and judicious conduct; as a wife and mother, she was beyond praise, and nothing could exceed the comfort and respectability of her well regulated family; for being a woman of good understanding, she did not carrymanagementto an extreme, that is destructive of the comfort it is meant to promote; nor was she possessed by the would-be thrifty housewife's expensive and troublesome mania for pickling and preserving, but in all things observed that happy medium, which good sense alone knows how to keep. Mr. Temple had in his youth lived much in the world, there associating principally with literary and scientific men; with several of such as still survived he maintained a constant correspondence, and, by occasional visits to London and Oxford, where his affairs sometimes called him, he renewed his acquaintance with men of his own stamp. He also kept himself up to the changes and occurrences of the times, by taking in at the Parsonage the daily papers, reviews, and the best of the new publications of every description. Two or three times a year some members of his or Mrs. Temple's family visited the Rectory; and they preserved such habits of friendly intercourse with their rich and poor neighbours, that they seldom found that want of society, which is so universally deplored.
It would be curious to make those, who are constantly lamenting the want of good society, point out whereit is to be found.—Dissipation, say they, has banished it from great capitals and watering-places. What in country towns is called society, consists of a repetition of card parties, differing from each other in no one respect, except as to the rooms they are held in; where, besides "old men and women," are to be foundgirlsof all ages, doing their best to amuse themselves, without the smallest assistance being afforded them by the hostess; with here and there an old married clergyman, an attorney's or apothecary's apprentice, "thinly scatter'd to make up a show," and remind the ladies that "beaux are not to be had." In the country, unless people have fortune, which enables them to bring their company, like other luxuries, from a distance, society consists of a few dinner parties in summer, where a tedious repast is quickly followed by tea and coffee, which serve as a signal for every body to go away, that they may, before darkness comes on, walk or drive home in safety over bad roads; and the master and mistress, as soon as their guests have departed, congratulate each other that "every thing went off so well." Nor is it the least of their joy, that their company have gone off too!
To all this it may be answered, that our mothers and grandmothers tell us society was very gay in their young days. The truth is, people were not then so fastidious, and were content to be amused in any way they could. There is now a twilight of refinement spread over the middle classes, just sufficient to show them disagreeables they had never before suspected, but not bright enough to teach them the best way of avoiding them. Formerly people could be amused with an ill sung song, or an awkward dance. But now every girl must sing bravuras and dance like Angelina. The young men, having reached a still higher pitch of refinement, neither sing nor dance at all.
The same fastidiousness reigns throughout. Every body's dress must be of the newest fashion; and a whole family is put to inconvenience for a week, to give their company an attempt at French cookery. In short, if people cannot be entertained "in a good style," they are resolved not to be entertained at all. Pleasant society, like happiness, if proper means are taken to cultivate it, is, with very few exceptions, to be found every where or no where. The misfortune is, people repulse it, unless it comes arrayed in the very garb they wish it to wear. How few have the wisdom to act on that sage maxim, "When we have not what we like, we must like what we have!" This was always Mr. and Mrs. Temple's practice; and, though they enjoyed to the utmost the intellectual pleasures afforded by the society of Miss Wildenheim, they found in the kindness and simplicity of Mrs. Martin's sentiments pleasure of another kind, and to a well judging mind one not less delightful. With this good lady and hercoteriethey occasionally varied their winter evenings, by playing a friendly game of cards; and Lucy was not unfrequently the companion of Mrs. Temple's summer walks.
Mr. Temple was extremely anxious, to make Adelaide's present visit to the Parsonage of lasting benefit to her peace of mind. When she had been there the year before, her grief was too recent to render any allusion to the subject of it advisable; and at Webberly House it was treated with so little delicacy, that her pride, as well as her tenderness of feeling for her father's memory, made her most carefully confine it to her own bosom. With the bitterest anguish at heart she outwardly carried the appearance of quiet contentment. Had she continued thus circumstanced much longer, she would either have sunk into an early grave, or have acquired an unbending sternness of character, that would have crushed all the finer feelings of her soul, and have made her as impervious to joy as to sorrow. Though she spared no pains, to promote the welfare of others by every means in her power, and, whenever duty commanded, hesitated not for an instant, to perform any sacrifice it might require; yet, perhaps it had been the fault of her education, to lead her to rely too much on her own mind to secure her happiness; and it was the misfortune of her nature to have feelings of such intensity, that she feared to trust them to exercise even their just power. This peculiar turn of character, thus moulded by circumstances, did not escape Mr. and Mrs. Temple's observation, and they anxiously endeavoured to rouse her from this state of mental torpor. Until the letter she had addressed to the latter, she had never ventured to express the sorrow, that corroded her heart, to any human being; but having once voluntarily touched on it, Mrs. Temple designedly led her to speak of it, and while she probed the wound, prepared the lenient balm that in time would heal it. The peculiar tenderness of soul, that Adelaide possessed from nature, had been most wisely balanced by the firmness of mind she had derived from education; only the most unpropitious circumstances could have endangered either degenerating to an extreme. To insult she was impervious, but the voice of kindness was to her like the soft breath of spring, which
"Melts the icy chains that twineAround entranced nature's form."
"Melts the icy chains that twineAround entranced nature's form."
Relaxing into all the softness of her sex and age, her tears flowed without restraint, as she poured her sorrows into Mrs. Temple's friendly bosom; and, from the well merited praise and judicious counsel she received in return, derived a supporting power, that raised her to a new existence. From consolation Mrs. Temple proceeded to admonition, forcibly representing to Adelaide how culpable she would be, if she continued to nourish in secret a grief, that would render of no avail the capability of usefulness she possessed in mind and fortune, and by this wilful waste of happiness, not only for herself but others, counteract the intention of her being; finally pointing out to her, that, though she had lost the object of her first duties, the world yet presented a wide field, in which she was bound to exert herself to supply their place by others, even should she never find any of equal interest or importance.
O! Primavera, gioventu del' anno,Bella madre di fiori,D'herbe novelle, e di novelli amori,Tu torni ben ma tecoNon tornano i sereniE fortunati di de le mie gioje.Tu torni ben, tu torniMa teco altro non tornaChe del perduto mio caro tesoro,La rimembranza misera e dolente.[9]Il Pastor Fido.
O! Primavera, gioventu del' anno,Bella madre di fiori,D'herbe novelle, e di novelli amori,Tu torni ben ma tecoNon tornano i sereniE fortunati di de le mie gioje.Tu torni ben, tu torniMa teco altro non tornaChe del perduto mio caro tesoro,La rimembranza misera e dolente.[9]
Il Pastor Fido.
The Parsonage garden was now blooming in all the beauty of summer, and the hedges had exchanged the fragrance of the violet for that of the flaunting woodbine. Instead of a brisk walk of a bracing March evening, its happy inmates enjoyed a sauntering ramble by the light of the newly risen stars, over rich meadows, or through wooded glades and cheerful valleys.
Mrs. Temple and Adelaide were one evening returning from such a walk: every thing was at rest in the surrounding scene; the very flowers of day had closed their corollas, and ceased to give forth their perfumes; but the air was fragrant with the night-blowing orchis, and the new-mown grass; and sometimes it brought to their ear the melody of the nightingale, the hooting of the owl, or the hum of the night crow.
Such a scene is more favourable to meditation than discourse; and, when speech is found, it more resembles thinking aloud than conversation. The two friends had continued long in silence, when Mrs. Temple said, "I am never so pious as in such a scene as this; my heart overflows with gratitude to the Author of the spontaneous happiness, that, unsought, seems to pour in on the mind." "Certainly the devotion of the heart is most pure in such a temple," replied Adelaide; "I wonder the worship of the air was not in ancient times more general. It appears to my mind the best emblem of the deity, that man by reason alone can form;—it is every where present, every where invisible; in it 'we live and move, and have our being.' We confess its awful might in the storm, and feel its beneficent power every moment of our lives." These and similar reflections cheated the friends of their time till they reached the Parsonage, where a light in the drawing-room informed them Mr. Temple had returned from his ride. As they entered the room, he gave Adelaide the long expected letter from Mrs. Sullivan; she hesitated for an instant to open it, with that undefined dread we always feel on receiving any communication from a person, whose good will we are doubtful of possessing. However, on reading her letter, she was not a little relieved to find it written in a style of unusual civility; but was surprised beyond measure to find it request, or ratherdesire, her to meet Mrs. Sullivan at Shrewsbury, from whence she intended proceeding to Ireland, declining all discussion as to matters of business, till their return to Webberly House. In her first surprise, she did not perceive the short period of Mrs. Sullivan's intended absence from her accustomed residence; but a confused picture of being taken to another kingdom, and separated from the only people from whom she had any chance of receiving kindness or protection, mixed with painful recollections of her last journey, rose to her mind. Her first thought was not to go; but she as quickly remembered, that Mrs. Sullivan's authority, as her guardian, was indisputable; also that she ought no longer to trespass on the hospitality of her kind hosts. The agitation of her countenance did not escape Mrs. Temple's observation, but she forbore to notice it; and Adelaide, commanding herself sufficiently to bid good night, retired to her room.
When she read Mrs. Sullivan's letter more attentively a second time, she smiled at the phantom she had raised to terrify herself; for she found her guardian proposed returning home rather before she should be of age, and that of course the dilemma, she had fancied would arise from her being in Ireland without any positive claim on Mrs. Sullivan's protection, would not occur.
Being convinced she could not avoid going to Ireland, her next endeavour was to persuade herself the journey would not be unpleasant; for it was always her custom to look for the best side of every thing and every body: she therefore soon discovered, that becoming acquainted with a country and a people she knew as little of as the Iroquois tribes, would afford her more amusement, than spending another summer at Webberly House. The civility of Mrs. Sullivan's letter was so striking, that Adelaide began to think she had been too harsh in her judgment of her character, and determined that her expedition should commence with a voyage of discovery, to ascertain the unknown perfections of the mother and daughters. A strong intellect may command the feelings, but the body is not so obedient as the mind. Adelaide found, though she could compose her thoughts to rest, she could not quiet her nerves to sleep, and therefore got up with the sun; and taking a book to fix her ideas, remained out of doors till Mrs. Temple's early breakfast hour.
At breakfast she read to her friends the subjoined letter from Mrs. Sullivan. Notwithstanding all her distress of mind, it was with the utmost difficulty she could command her countenance while she did so. She omitted some passages, and slightly altered the wording of others; but though her eyes during this time were perseveringly cast down, their comical expression was not thus concealed; for the light that streamed from beneath their half-closed lids was reflected on her cheek, and brightened her whole countenance, displaying as unequivocally what passed in her mind, as if she had directed to her auditors the most meaning glances of arch drollery. She was too generous to wish to expose Mrs. Sullivan's extreme ignorance to her friends, as it was exemplified in this ill spelled, ill written scrawl. But she had yet another secondary motive, which prompted her to screen it from their eyes; and this trifling circumstance may perhaps explain her character more effectually, than one of greater importance, in which nine rational people out of ten would act alike.
She had but little vanity, yet from nature and education was proud in the extreme. This ambiguous quality, partaking of vice and virtue, which is "both perhaps or neither," was interwoven in the very texture of her mind, was blended with many of her virtues and most of her errors, and prompted her always to shield as much as possible from ridicule any person she was even slightly connected with. Mrs. Temple was nearly as much amused by the grave dignity of her countenance, when she looked up after reading her letter, which seemed to say, "You ought not to laugh," as she had been by its droll expression a few moments before.
Mrs. Sullivan to Miss Wildenheim.London, June 1st.——My dear Miss Wildenheim,I've received your letter, and am glad to hear your well: so is Meelly and Cilly. I be sometimes troubled with the vind; but howsomedever I gets my health middling. This comes to say we be all a-going to Ireland with all speed; and I mustretreatandinsistthat you come two; and we can taulk all about what you wrot me in March when we returns from them there outlandish parts. But I'm in great hops Jack will mary his cozen Hannah Leatherly after all, which I just menshion, as young girls be very apt to think ever a man that looks after 'em be in love with 'em. But says I to my eye, Addle Wildenheim has two much spirit of her own to covet her neighbour's goods. So, my dear, if you'll meat us at Shrovesbirry, I'll be excedin glad to be your shoprun; and we mean to reeturn to Webberly House afore the time comes of your mynoritie been over; so till then I wont here taulk of your chousing no other garden.We be a goin to see Mr. Sullivan and his sister, for he thinks he's a going to put on his wooden great coat, so he's anxshious to see my little Carline, for it's quite natral he shoud desire to see his nearest akin; and so we shoud a gone six weeks ago, only for certain good raisins that made us wish to stay over Lady Ashbrooke's bawll, which was three nights ago. But no good come off it, after all. Some folks are so fine and so sassy, they'd turn up their noses at their own bread and butter. But every dog has his day, and Carline may be as grate a airass as no other guess parson. So now I conclude with complements to Mr. and Mrs. Temple. I'll send John Arding to retort you from Webberly House to Shrovesbirry, and so you may expect him in less than a weak. You must come in the post-shay; and you'd better bring your made Lamotte with you, but you must send her back from Shrovesbirry (mind I'm at no costs for her jurney); for I can't take but one made to attend both you and I. Seeing she can taulk no English, she'd be of small sarvice to I. I've got a stout girl to do our turn. You must pay half the wagers and travailing expences, and I'll charge you naught for her wittals; for d'ye mind me, Mr. Sullivan will see to that, which will be all the better for you: a penny saved is a penny got, as my poor father tot me betimes. I'll send Mrs. Harris home to Webberly, (so she'll keep kumpany with Lamotte); for she'll be wanted to do the sweetmeats and pikchols this summer; and I wish, my dear, you'd wright word to John Gardiner, to sell all the fruit at Deane which isn't vaunted for persarvin; and I expect a good account when I go home. So hopping to met you at Shrovesbirry without fail,I remane your affectionate friend,Hannah Sullivan.P.S.—I'm sure you'd be very sory to take Lamotte to Ireland, you've tot her such bad kustoms, becase she's lived with you since you was a year old. She'd be 'mazed attendin I. You no I be's a bustling body, and a trifle hasty; but I'm nothing the worse for having a good spirit of my own.
Mrs. Sullivan to Miss Wildenheim.
London, June 1st.——
My dear Miss Wildenheim,
I've received your letter, and am glad to hear your well: so is Meelly and Cilly. I be sometimes troubled with the vind; but howsomedever I gets my health middling. This comes to say we be all a-going to Ireland with all speed; and I mustretreatandinsistthat you come two; and we can taulk all about what you wrot me in March when we returns from them there outlandish parts. But I'm in great hops Jack will mary his cozen Hannah Leatherly after all, which I just menshion, as young girls be very apt to think ever a man that looks after 'em be in love with 'em. But says I to my eye, Addle Wildenheim has two much spirit of her own to covet her neighbour's goods. So, my dear, if you'll meat us at Shrovesbirry, I'll be excedin glad to be your shoprun; and we mean to reeturn to Webberly House afore the time comes of your mynoritie been over; so till then I wont here taulk of your chousing no other garden.
We be a goin to see Mr. Sullivan and his sister, for he thinks he's a going to put on his wooden great coat, so he's anxshious to see my little Carline, for it's quite natral he shoud desire to see his nearest akin; and so we shoud a gone six weeks ago, only for certain good raisins that made us wish to stay over Lady Ashbrooke's bawll, which was three nights ago. But no good come off it, after all. Some folks are so fine and so sassy, they'd turn up their noses at their own bread and butter. But every dog has his day, and Carline may be as grate a airass as no other guess parson. So now I conclude with complements to Mr. and Mrs. Temple. I'll send John Arding to retort you from Webberly House to Shrovesbirry, and so you may expect him in less than a weak. You must come in the post-shay; and you'd better bring your made Lamotte with you, but you must send her back from Shrovesbirry (mind I'm at no costs for her jurney); for I can't take but one made to attend both you and I. Seeing she can taulk no English, she'd be of small sarvice to I. I've got a stout girl to do our turn. You must pay half the wagers and travailing expences, and I'll charge you naught for her wittals; for d'ye mind me, Mr. Sullivan will see to that, which will be all the better for you: a penny saved is a penny got, as my poor father tot me betimes. I'll send Mrs. Harris home to Webberly, (so she'll keep kumpany with Lamotte); for she'll be wanted to do the sweetmeats and pikchols this summer; and I wish, my dear, you'd wright word to John Gardiner, to sell all the fruit at Deane which isn't vaunted for persarvin; and I expect a good account when I go home. So hopping to met you at Shrovesbirry without fail,
I remane your affectionate friend,Hannah Sullivan.
P.S.—I'm sure you'd be very sory to take Lamotte to Ireland, you've tot her such bad kustoms, becase she's lived with you since you was a year old. She'd be 'mazed attendin I. You no I be's a bustling body, and a trifle hasty; but I'm nothing the worse for having a good spirit of my own.
Adelaide's delicacy prevented her from allowing her friends to suppose she had any dislike to accompanying Mrs. Sullivan to Ireland, well knowing that if they were aware of it, they would apply to her guardian for permission to protract her stay at the Parsonage; and she succeeded in impressing them with an idea, that the project was far from unpleasant to her. This matter being discussed, they gave her a pressing invitation to spend the following winter with them, during which time Mr. Temple promised, if she gave him authority so to do, to use his best endeavours either to procure her reception by her family, or an eligible abode, wherever she might wish to fix her residence; also authorizing her, should she find herself in any dilemma previous to her return, to apply to him for whatever assistance she might require. The worthy rector soon interrupted Adelaide's warm acknowledgements for his present and past kindness, by saying, "I hope this delightful scheme, to which Mrs. Temple and I look forward with so much pleasure, will not be prevented by your being run away with by some fine fellow at the other side of the channel. Joking apart," said he seriously, "there is an English gentleman, who is as much in love as his nature will suffer him to be, to whom I hope no consideration will ever tempt you to unite yourself." Adelaide blushed and blushed, till the tears stood in her eyes. Mr. Temple looked at her with astonishment; "Is it possible!" thought he: "You may think me impertinent, Miss Wildenheim, but I know you never contemn the advice of experience and friendship. It would be heart-rending to see you so thrown away;—such a total dissimilarity of character can never produce happiness. You are beings of a different sphere. The moment in which you marry Mr. Webberly, you sign the misery of your whole life." The expression of her countenance was now quite changed, and the few calm words she spoke, convinced her reverend adviser shethenfelt convinced she could never marry Mr. Webberly. But he had, in the course of his life, seen so many strange matches made, that the word "amazement" in matrimony had to him lost its meaning; particularly as he had so often known it commence without "dearly beloved" on the part of either of the persons concerned; and still having some little distrust of the future, he would sincerely have rejoiced to hear, that Mr. Webberly had done Miss Leatherly the honour of making her his wife. When Adelaide retired after breakfast, Mr. Temple questioned his wife as to the possibility of her having become attached to Augustus Mordaunt, whom she had frequently met at the Rectory. "What vain creatures you men are!" said she: "A girl can't spend a sleepless night, and be a little agitated by an unexpected change in her plans, but you must suppose her colour comes and goes in the intermittent fits of a love fever." "You may quiz, Charlotte, but I assure you, when Miss Wildenheim used to meet Augustus here, her eyes told more than her tongue." "Then believe me, they told intolerable stories! No young woman of good sense, or good conduct, will ever love a man, who does not show her the most unequivocal preference. After all, what is called love has its residence more in the brain than the heart. Believe me, Adelaide is no such fool; she has strength of mind to conquer even a reciprocal attachment, if necessary. She has a great deal of feeling, with an equal portion of reason and reflection; but I think herimaginationis rather in the minority, at least it takes its rise from her feelings, not her feelings from it." "Well, Charlotte, you may think an attachment a very silly thing now; but, you know, you were in love once yourself." "Never with you, I assure you: you know, my dear, that was impossible, for you were old enough to have passed for my father when we married. I had always too much respect for your reverence. Yet I don't think I have made the worse wife, because I never mistook you for a Strephon, but saw from the first you were a good, plain, steady country parson." "And but for this good, plain, steady country parson, Charlotte," said he, "you would never have been the estimable woman you now are. But to return to Miss Wildenheim: what is it that distresses her? You are clear there is nobody in England she is sorry to leave behind." "Pardon me; I think she is very sorry to leave us." "That I take for granted; but on the whole she seems pleased with her expedition. Perhaps she is unprepared to meet so unexpected a demand on her purse; and Mrs. Sullivan's elegant epistle does not say a word on the subject of money:—she should have had more consideration! I will make an estimate of what the journey to Shrewsbury will cost her—will you give it to her, and say I shall be happy to advance what money she may require." "That I will," replied Mrs. Temple; "Poor thing! I'm sure she would die before she would ask Mrs. Sullivan—at leastIshould, without doubt." When Mr. Temple made out his memorandum, and his wife giving it to Adelaide repeated his offer, she was so touched by this new instance of her friend's kindness, that she could not for a short time reply to Mrs. Temple; but pressing her hand with the earnestness of gratitude, remained silent for an instant, and then, both by word and look, expressed her grateful sense of all the benefits they had bestowed on her. "In the present instance, however," said she, "I need not trespass on Mr. Temple's goodness; I assure you I am quite rich, sufficiently so to make this unexpected journey no inconvenience." "Nobody is rich now-a-days," said Mrs. Temple; "in such an extravagant family how have you managed, my dear Adele, to get into such a good condition of purse?" "When I was first at Webberly House, I was too unhappy to have any fancies to indulge; and as soon as by your benevolent care I recovered from my primary state of stupefaction, I became so terrified at my unprotected situation, that I determined to provide for any emergency that might occur, by limiting my expenditure as much as possible. Impressed with these fears, Idarednot give myself habits of extravagance. I assure you I have been economical almost to parsimony." "Your poor pensioners do not say so," rejoined Mrs. Temple, in a tone of affectionate approbation.—"I do not think it permissible, my dear Mrs. Temple, to provide for future wants by the neglect of present duties. I look upon charity in proportion to our means, as a necessity as indispensable to our condition as daily food and raiment; a due portion of whatever fund procures the one, ought surely to provide for the other." "You are a singular girl," said Mrs. Temple; "I will apply to you Goldsmith's epitaph on Dr. Bernard:—
"If you have any faults, you have left us in doubt,At least in six weeks I could not find them out."
"If you have any faults, you have left us in doubt,At least in six weeks I could not find them out."
The few days Adelaide had to spend at the Parsonage flew most rapidly away. She saw the dreaded morning arrive, in which she was to commence her journey, with a heavy heart, and perhaps those she was to leave behind were yet more sorrowful than herself. In the separation of friends, those who depart are never half so much to be pitied as those who remain. Change of scene, motion, and fatigue, insensibly divert the former; but the latter have nothing new to fill up the uncomfortable void they feel. It is long before the eye ceases to look for the beloved face it has been used to gaze on, or the ear unconsciously to expect the well-known voice or step. The children had bid farewell to Adelaide the night before, not without many pressing entreaties for her speedy return; but the father and mother got up at a very early hour, to take leave of her on the morning of her departure. At the sight of Mrs. Temple she could no longer control her feelings, but threw herself in an agony of sorrow into her arms, saying, it was her fate always to be torn from what was dear to her in life, and that she should know nothing like happiness till she saw her again. Mr. Temple, seeing her make a great effort to restrain her tears, said, "Do not, my dear young friend, suppress the expression of your sorrow; here are those who respect your tears—they are most natural to your age and sex. You have too much the habit of suppressing your own feelings, to avoid distressing those of others. We shall all meet happily again in a few months, and then your connection with that unamiable family will cease. You are too deserving of happiness not to meet with it;—indeed you will find it in your own mind, when you recover from the first shock of the heavy affliction it has pleased Providence to assign you. You may, if it is any consolation, take with you an old man's blessing; whose utmost wish would be gratified in having a daughter to resemble you." Mrs. Temple, who had been nearly as much comforted by his commendation as Adelaide, now said, "Rouse yourself, my dear girl, and look at all those impertinent Webberlys, as much as to say, 'I hold ye in sovereign, contempt.' I wish you were not content, withfeelingyour own superiority, but would occasionally assert it. I should like to see them smarting under the power of ridicule certain arch smiles have told me you possess—indeed, indeed, my dear, you are righteous over much: do oblige me, and be a little spiteful."
By the time breakfast was over, Adelaide's spirits were comforted by Mr. Temple, and rallied by his wife. Though she could not trust herself to say, "Good bye," she stept into the carriage with tolerable composure; but when she lost sight of them and their cheerful abode, she experienced an acuteness of sorrow she some time before had thought she was as incapable of ever feeling again, as an equal degree of joy.
When the carriage drove away, Mr. Temple made a speedy retreat into his study; and the traces of tears were still visible on his wife's face, when they met at dinner.
One only passion unreveal'dWith maiden pride the maid conceal'd;Yet not less purely felt the flame—Oh! need I then that passion name?Scott.
One only passion unreveal'dWith maiden pride the maid conceal'd;Yet not less purely felt the flame—Oh! need I then that passion name?
Scott.
Civil people always meet with civility, and Adelaide accomplished her journey without meeting either accident or insult. When the carriage stopped at the Talbot Inn in Shrewsbury, she was received at the door by Mr. Webberly, who had evidently been watching her arrival. On her asking for his mother and sisters, he pointed to a window, where she saw Mrs. Sullivan attired in a sky-blue habit of cassimir, with a white beaver hat and feathers. Cecilia, in a modish pelisse, looking at that distance very handsome; and Miss Webberly, in the opposite window,intentlyreading. Mrs. Sullivan met Adelaide half way down stairs, apparently glad to see her. The young ladies greeted her with a slight bow, just muttering a scarcely audible "How d'ye do:"—one turning to stare out of the window, the other affecting to bestow all her attention on her book. Little Caroline, exclaiming "Oh, tie my frock quick, quick! there's my dear Adele come: I hear mama talking to her,"—burst from an inner apartment, heedless of the remonstrances of her maid, and jumping up with one spring, twisted her ivory arms about her neck; and as Adelaide fondly pressed the lovely child to her heart, her countenance expressed those feelings—
"Which are to mortals given,With less of earth in them than Heav'n:"
"Which are to mortals given,With less of earth in them than Heav'n:"
For affliction had indeed "touched her looks with something that was scarce earthly," and, when brightened by any emotion near akin to joy, smiles such as might have beamed in the face of a seraph illuminated hers. Mrs. Sullivan, in a tone of sorrowful admiration, whispered to Cecilia, "Jack can't choose but fancy her; she's beautifuller than ever: I han't seen her like since we parted." "Law, mama!" replied Cecilia with unmixed vexation, "I believe you've taken leave of your senses, since you used to say she was a sallow poking thing. You forget what beautiful girls the Miss Nathans, and the Miss Bakers, and all the Lunnon ladies are." Here, with affected indifference and real mortification, she stopped to examine the subject of their discourse through her glass. As she continued to gaze, her soft cheek became crimsoned with anger, and her beautiful eye, which seemed formed to convey the tender feelings of the gentlest female heart, scowled with the dark expression of envy. Adelaide, turning her eyes on her face, met that glance, and sighing to see the youthful bloom of this fair creature deformed by malevolent emotions, felt for her the pity of a superior nature, that from its own beatitude beholds the fretful passions of a being incessantly employed in weaving the web of its own misery, and mourns that it may not save the wretched victim from its self-destroying arts.
When Adelaide sat down, Mr. Webberly, leaning over the arm of the sofa, began a complimentary conversation, which she soon terminated on the excuse of retiring to make some slight alteration in her travelling dress before the time of dinner. In the course of this evening, Mrs. Sullivan and her son overloaded Miss Wildenheim with officious civilities; and the young ladies paid her many ironical compliments intended as insults; but shewouldnot show, by word or look, that she understood them otherwise than according to the literal sense, and amused herself a little maliciously (forgive her, for she was but human) by observing their disappointment at finding their best efforts at mortifying her fail of success. But at night, her feelings were those of bitter anguish, as she involuntarily compared this day with the last she had spent at the Parsonage of Deane, in the enlightened society of her kind friends. "But I shall meet them again ere long, and shall enjoy their society doubly from the comparison of my present associates. I am resolved to think the time till we meet as little disagreeable as possible." Her thoughts then reverted to the scenes of her early life, on which they could now rest with mournful complacency; and, as she recalled to memory the precepts of her beloved father, with a pardonable superstition, she fondly flattered herself that he yet spoke to her heart. The treasured admonitions of this revered parent at once fortified her mind and soothed her feelings; on them she continued to ponder till sleep deprived her of recollection and his image at the same moment. Her heart was cheered by a sentiment of filial piety, similar to that so beautifully expressed by Scott's Ellen:
My soul, though feminine and weak,Can image his; even as the lake,Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke,Reflects the invulnerable rock.
My soul, though feminine and weak,Can image his; even as the lake,Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke,Reflects the invulnerable rock.
Notwithstanding Adelaide's best endeavours to persuade herself the Webberlysen massewere a pleasant family, and not less amiable than agreeable, she now found them more intolerable than ever.
Mr. Webberly's attentions were as incessant as disgusting, and to her astonishment his mother no longer gave them overt opposition. His sisters, on the contrary, were more than ever devoured by "proud spleen and burning envy;" but they excited in her mind only the most profound compassion. Pity is said to be near akin to love; it is sometimes however very closely allied to that mournful pardon we grant to a character, whose irremediable defects excite our unqualified hopeless disapprobation.
As for Mrs. Sullivan, Adelaide felt grieved she could not like her, for she at least had the feelings of a mother; and where is the character so degraded, that these will not give a claim to our love, to our veneration? When she saw this poor woman, full of love and pride in her elder children, pour forth her fondness on them, and saw the ungrateful objects of her tenderness insultingly disdain it, because it did not appear in the language and gestures of what they supposed to be fashion, she redoubled her attentions, and her sweetly soothing manners, sometimes chased the starting tears from the offended mother's eye, sometimes made them flow from the bitterness of the comparison they caused her to make. But when, softened by compassion, Adelaide was reproaching herself for her want of liking to a woman, who, though a mistaken, was an affectionate mother, some trait of ostentatious arrogant despotism to those not united by ties of relationship sent her benevolent feelings, with accelerated motion, back to the source of kindness from whence they had begun to flow. Vulgarity alone was no crime in her mind; she considered it merely as an accident to which certain conditions are liable, and, therefore, when it was an accompaniment of worth, she did notdareto feel it a fit subject of contempt. She was too noble in soul, too pious in heart, to presume on her accidental advantages of education, to despise "the pure in spirit," who are, however lowly in earthly station, glorious in the approving smile of Heaven.
But as Mrs. Sullivan was on one point alone entitled to respect, and even there imperfectly, (for, owing to the mercenary artifices of her elder daughters, she was nearly indifferent to Caroline,) Adelaide had now a hard task to perform—namely, to fortify herself once more with indifference to all her associates. Her feelings had been awakened from their temporary torpor by her visit to the Temples, and she now felt it most painful to lower them to the icy temperature they had attained in the soul-benumbing atmosphere of Webberly House. "However, (thought she,) I must only play the dormouse, and, like it, having gone through a few months' torpidity, I shall then wake to an existence of positive enjoyment."
Mrs. Sullivan, during Miss Wildenheim's absence, had become conscious of the value of her decorum of manner; for besides the attention it prompted this young lady to pay her, as due to the person under whose roof she resided, it acted as a restraint on the rudeness of her daughters, who, when unshackled by the presence of an example of propriety in their domestic scene, opposed their mother in every trifle with the most perverse obstinacy. Mr. Webberly, as soon as he had been refused by Selina, told his mother, in the first effusions of his wounded pride, he was determined to marry Miss Wildenheim directly. "He was rich enough to please himself after all; he was sure she was a far personabler woman than Miss Seymour, though Miss did think no small beer of herself." As he could not have Selina, his mother now wished him to marry his cousin Miss Leatherly, who was nearly as rich, though she had not the advantages of connection, that had won her pride to prefer Miss Seymour. She had long delayed her answer to Adelaide's letter, determining she should seek another home; but her son declared if she did not bring her to Ireland, he would not go either, but would remain in whatever place she resided till she was of age, and then it would not be in his mother's power to prevent their marriage. Mrs. Sullivan, alarmed at this menace, determined no longer to use open opposition, but to trust to chance and the possibility of Miss Wildenheim's own pride assisting her to defeat his wishes; therefore offered to compromise the matter, by saying she would bring Miss Wildenheim with her to Ireland, on condition he did not actually propose for her till the period fixed for their return to England, promising she would do nothing to prevent his paying her what attentions he pleased; but, at the same time giving him to understand, the match would never receive her approbation, reminding him that a ten thousand pound fortune with a wife was nothing! and that he had little now left but what she pleased to give him. Mr. Webberly had found out from Selina's conduct, it was possible he might be refused; therefore, yielding in part to his mother's wishes, acknowledging, on second thoughts, a little delay would be no bad thing, as it might enable him to conquer his mistress's resentment for his having transferred his attention elsewhere, which he elegantly expressed, by saying "In the first brush of the thing she may cuff off her nose to punish her face."
Our travellers proceeded on their journey with the most dissimilar feelings possible. Mrs. Sullivan enjoying the idea of the fortune this expedition would secure to Caroline—the Miss Webberlys, in sullen discontent, were forming schemes to make their mother return as soon as possible to the neighbourhood of London, supposing the society of Ballinamoyle must be still more insipid than that in the vicinity of Webberly House—their brother engaged in promoting the success of his passion for Adelaide, she not less so in keeping him at a distance, and in the endeavour to divert her thoughts from her companions to the country they passed through—Caroline alone, with unfeigned pleasure, was enjoying the change of scene, and coaxing her "Dear, precious Adele," who returned the sweet child's caresses with equal affection. The weather was intolerably hot; the Miss Webberlys would not consent to have their pelisses faded by opening the barouche—"You know, mama, we can't get any thing from London for a long time, and you would not haveusdress in the Irish fashions:" so the four ladies and Caroline were nearly suffocated with heat; little relief was obtained from letting down the front windows, for Mr. Webberly and a footman in the driving seat intercepted the air. Mr. Webberly had placed himself there, that he might from time to time cast sweet looks at Adelaide. She sat with her back to him that she might not see them; but this was of little avail, for he tapped her every five minutes on the shoulder, on pretence of pointing out some remarkable object to her notice, therefore she willingly accepted Mrs. Sullivan's offer of making room for her on the other seat. Oh! how she envied the abigails, as they drove past in the post chaise! she could not enjoy the pleasure of walking up the hills with Caroline, as in that case, Mr. Webberly was at her side in an instant, ready primed with the compliments he had composed on the barouche seat. But notwithstanding all this, she was enchanted with the picturesque scenery of North Wales: the Vale of Langollen, Capel Kerrick, and Lake Oggen, called forth her rapturous praise, in the expression of which she was sometimes joined by her companions, though they were little capable of feeling the pleasure she experienced.
Mrs. Sullivan's parsimony always showing itself in trifles, she quarrelled with all the drivers, ostlers, chamber maids, and waiters, as she came along, by offering them less than people who travelled with the samecortègeusually did. The Welsh are a remarkably sturdy people; and if, on entering Wales, you offend the man who drives you the first stage, the bad effects of his irascible feelings follow your carriage wheels to the last. What must it be when each equestrian is individually enraged at you!
The carriage windows were no sooner drawn up, to put an end to the clamour occasioned by such squabbles on the outside, than the usual contentions were renewed within, which seldom ceased till the time for wrangling with the ostlers arrived again, for which a scold to the last turnpike keeper, for the badness of the roads, in proportion to the high tolls, served as a prelude. However, they at last reached Holyhead: as Adelaide skipped into the inn, overjoyed to be comparatively at liberty, she exclaimed, in thought, "Thank goodness, so much of my Purgatory is over! Why Webberly House was Heaven to this! However we shall travel only a small portion of the time I am to spend in penance for my sins.—They will all be sea-sick to-morrow, and then I shall have a few hours' peace."
Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers floatUpon the wanton breezes; strew the deckWith lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets,That no rude savour maritime invadeThe nose of nice nobility.Cowper.
Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers floatUpon the wanton breezes; strew the deckWith lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets,That no rude savour maritime invadeThe nose of nice nobility.
Cowper.
On the following evening, wind and tide answering, the packet in which our travellers were to embark was prepared for sailing.
The music of the indefatigable harper, in the passage, was completely drowned by the uproar of an universal commotion; the persons and voices of masters and mistresses, children, ladies' maids, footmen, and boatmen, were mixed in one undistinguished throng, as they crowded about the inn door. Mrs. Sullivan stood at the foot of the stairs screaming, loud enough for her shrillcontr'altoto be heard above all the murmuring crowd:—"Meely! Cilly! do bestir yourselves; we're too late by a mile! here's the wery last boat imparting." The tardy-gaited damsels made their appearance just as one of the boatmen informed their mother, the captain had sent to say, he would not wait another minute; and they reached the side of the ship exactly at the moment he prepared to put his threat in execution. Poor Mrs. Sullivan had seldom seen, and had never been on the sea before, therefore it is not surprising that she was much terrified at finding herself in a small boat, on this, to her, unusual element; however, after many exclamations of terror, she congratulated herself, and all the party, on being safe on board: she might now have said with Foote,
"When first I went on board, Good Lord! what a racket,Such babbling and squalling fore and aft through the packet;The passengers bawling, the sailors yo-ho-ing,The ship along dashing, the wind aloft blowing;Some sick, and some swearing, some singing, some shrieking,Sails hoisting, blocks rattling, the yards and booms creaking!"
"When first I went on board, Good Lord! what a racket,Such babbling and squalling fore and aft through the packet;The passengers bawling, the sailors yo-ho-ing,The ship along dashing, the wind aloft blowing;Some sick, and some swearing, some singing, some shrieking,Sails hoisting, blocks rattling, the yards and booms creaking!"
It was that season of the year in which such of the Irish bipeds as are birds of passage, pay a summer's visit to their native shores: the packet was crowded to excess; and not only every birth was taken, but the cabin floors were spread with mattresses for the supernumeraries. Mrs. Sullivan had secured thestatecabin, where people pay an additional price, for the honour and glory of encountering imminent danger of suffocation, in a commodious apartment, six feet broad by eight feet long, containing four beds, two above and two below; and in this receptacle of pride, many a repentant victim of human vanity has sent forth pious aspirations after "a new birth." Mrs. Sullivan, on going below, found that, besides the beds in the state cabin, only two others could be procured for Caroline and the maids; she however settled the matter, much to her satisfaction, by saying, "Willis must sit up all night." But Adelaide seeing the poor woman's face changing colour, with a compassion that never rose for aninferiorin Mrs. Sullivan's breast, said, "If you will allow me, I will make up a bed for myself in the floor of your cabin, with the night sacks and dressing boxes; and then Willis can have my birth; she looks very sick, poor thing, perhaps you will give her leave to go to bed now." "I have no dejection to your doing what you likes with your own birth, Miss Vildenheim; but if Villis goes to bed, what can I do to undress?"—"Oh! I will be your waiting woman with pleasure." So saying, Adelaide seized the golden opportunity before the permission could be recalled, and persuaded the fainting Willis to occupy her bed.
When they returned to the deck all was comparatively quiet; the ladies were seated, and the gentlemen walking about in parties, examining the various groups of females which presented themselves to their view. Next to Adelaide was seated a very elegant woman, whom she heard addressed by the name of St. Orme, and whose husband was walking arm in arm with a remarkably handsome man, who united in his deportment the mien of a soldier, with the air of a man who had lived much in the world. His back was to Adelaide when he first attracted her notice, but when he came close to her, she started up, and met the hand he extended to her, with reciprocal cordiality, and their mutual astonishment, making them for an instant regardless of the presence of so numerous an audience, they addressed each other in the language they had long been accustomed to converse in, and, after a few hasty sentences of German, Adelaide, blushing to her fingers' ends, on perceiving she had attracted the attention of every person present, introduced the handsome stranger to Mrs. Sullivan as Colonel Desmond, and he was not a little surprised to find in her the widow of his most particular friend. This ceremony being over, Colonel Desmond again addressed Adelaide: "Good Heavens! Miss Wildenheim, who could have thought of seeing youhere! how time does run on! I hope you don't forget what I remember with so much pleasure, that our acquaintance commenced before you were six years old; and that you used to seat yourself on my knee, with as little ceremony as that beautiful child is preparing to do on yours." Adelaide's dialogue with her new found friend was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Sullivan becoming so qualmish, that a speedy retreat to her own cabin was judged advisable, and Colonel Desmond, after assisting the ladies to go down stairs, returned to the deck, his fair acquaintance remaining below to give her promised aid to herchaperone.
Though Colonel Desmond was then in his forty-fifth year, his florid complexion, brilliant eye, and martial air, made him appear nearly ten years younger; nor were the few unwelcome gray hairs, that attempted to tell tales of other times, in contradiction to their darker companions, in sufficient number to counteract the appearance of youth, that the finest set of teeth in the world gave to his face. His forehead, eyes, and brows, seemed the seat of sense and manly daring, but all the kindly affections of human nature dwelt about his mouth. Adelaide had early applied to him the motto of the Chevalier Bayard—L'homme sans peur et sans reproche: and in the days of youthful enthusiasm, he had, in her scale of admiration, ranked next to her father—nor was he unworthy of her regard.
This gallant soldier was the second son of a country gentleman, whose family had lived from generation to generation in habits of friendship with that of the late Mr. Sullivan, who was also a younger son. These young men were companions, school-fellows, and friends, and on the death of their fathers, found themselves but scantily provided for. Edward Desmond, being intended for the church, had gone through some part of his collegiate course in the university of Dublin; but on the death of his father, agreeing with his young friend, that "it was much better to be a soldier than a damned quiz of a parson" resolved to exchange the cassock for the sword. Being a protestant, Edward did not labour under the same disabilities as his friend, but he would not separate their fortunes, and determined to share the same fate, and follow the same standard; accordingly they left their homes, in order, as they expressed it, in the words of a favourite song, to "go round the world for sport."
They entered the Austrian armies, and the first five years of their career served under the command of Baron Wildenheim, during which time he proved himself their patron and friend; gratitude on their side, and regard on his, preserved the intimacy thus formed, by correspondence and personal communication, long after they had ceased to be brother soldiers. Colonel Desmond remained in Germany, several years subsequent to Mr. Sullivan's return to England, so that he was much better known to Adelaide than the latter gentleman; and till she recollected he was unmarried, she had often wondered her father had not left her to his guardianship, in preference to a person who was to her a comparative stranger. Though Desmond and Sullivan had commenced their career of life together, they did not long continue on an equality as to character. The superior education Edward had received, in order to qualify him for the profession he was originally designed to embrace, showed its beneficial effects in far different pursuits; for whilst Maurice Sullivan plunged into every species of dissipation, his companion, incited by the expostulations and example of Baron Wildenheim, occupied himself in the acquirement of the knowledge most necessary to his profession, occasionally varying his studies by the pleasures arising from the cultivation of literature and the fine arts. But, however advantageous Colonel Desmond's intercourse with Baron Wildenheim had been to the formation of his character, it had latterly been dangerous to the peace of his mind. He had so long regarded the daughter of his friend with almost parental affection, that he was not exactly aware of the moment, when his feelings towards her became those of a lover; but when awakened to a sense of the real nature of his sentiments, his hours of solitude were tinctured with regret, as he bitterly lamented that hitherto disregarded want of fortune, which forbade his seeking the hand of the lovely girl. Neither Adelaide, nor the Baron, was ever conscious of this attachment; she only felt for him as a sort of second father, in whose approbation she delighted, and by whose admonition she profited; honour and generosity withheld his using any endeavours to win further on her regard; and feeling that self-control would not much longer be possible, he left Vienna, apparently induced only by the desire to revisit his native country. Time and absence had deadened, but not changed his feelings: with such sentiments, it may therefore be supposed, what happiness this unexpected meeting gave to both. The Miss Webberlys had come down below with their mother and Adelaide, so that the latter was obliged to stay in the suffocating cabin, where she remained in durance vile above an hour; from time to time she heard Caroline's little merry voice on deck, and longed to be there also; at last, when the little girl retired to bed, she gave Adelaide Mrs. St. Orme's compliments, to know if she would like to come on deck, adding, that she and Colonel Desmond were waiting in the outer cabin to take her up. With the utmost delight she profited by this good natured attention. When they ascended, she found all the passengers disposed of for the night, except Mr. and Mrs. St. Orme and Colonel Desmond.
Miss Wildenheim's presentchaperonewas a very elegant pleasing Irish woman, who added to the ease of well bred manners that sort of kindliness, which appears in those of her countrywomen in general. She was of good family, and was so well assured of her own place in society, that she never took the least trouble to impress any body else with an idea of her consequence; but her unaffected simplicity of dress, manner, and deportment, were the best credentials she could present to those accustomed to move in the same rank of life with herself. Adelaide and she understood each other at once: before their acquaintance had lasted half an hour, a casual observer would have supposed they had long been known to each other.
It was a most delightful night, the ship was smoothly cutting her rapid way before a fair, wind, and as it passed, the rippling waters sparkled with the beams of the moon. Colonel Desmond, leaning carelessly over the side of the vessel, half sung, half hummed, this verse, translated from an ancient Irish song:—