Coelebs In Search of a Wife Part 9

It looked like nature in the world's first spring.

"My heart was touched with joy and grat.i.tude. 'Look, madam,' said I, 'at the bountiful provision which a beneficent Father makes, not only for the necessities, but for the pleasures of his children;

----not content With every food of life to nourish man, He makes all nature beauty to his eye, And music to his ear.

"'These flowers are of so little apparent use, that it might be thought profuseness in any economy short of that which is divine, to gratify us at once with such forms, and such hues, and such fragrance. It is a gratification not necessary, yet exquisite, which lies somewhere between the pleasure of sense and intellect, and in a measure partakes of both.

It elevates while it exhilarates, and lifts the soul from the gift to the Giver. G.o.d has not left his goodness to be _inferred_ from abstract speculation, from the conclusions of reason, from deduction and argument: we not only collect it from observation, but have palpable evidences of his bounty, we feel it with our senses. Were G.o.d a hard master, might he not withhold these superfluities of goodness? Do you think he makes such rich provision for us, that we should shut our eyes and close our ears to them? Does he present such gifts with one hand, and hold in the other a stern interdict of 'touch not, taste not, handle not?' And can you believe he is less munificent in the economy of grace, than in that of nature? Do you imagine that he provides such abundant supplies for our appet.i.tes and senses here, without providing more substantial pleasures for our future enjoyment? Is not what we see a prelude to what we hope for, a pledge of what we may expect? A specimen of larger, higher, richer bounty, an encouraging cl.u.s.ter from the land of promise? If from his works we turn to his word, we shall find the same inexhaustible goodness exercised to still n.o.bler purposes. Must we not hope then, even by a.n.a.logy, that he has in store blessings exalted in their nature, and eternal in their duration, for all those who love and serve him in the gospel of his Son?'

"We now got on fast. She was delighted with my wife, and grew less and less afraid of my girls. I believe, however, that we should have made a quicker progress in gaining her confidence if we had looked less happy.

I suggested to her to endeavor to raise the tone of her daughters'

piety, to make their habits less monastic, their tempers more cheerful, their virtues more active; to render their lives more useful, by making them the immediate instruments of her charity; to take them out of themselves, and teach them to compare their fict.i.tious distresses with real substantial misery, and to make them feel grateful for the power and the privilege of relieving it.

"As Dr. Barlow has two parishes which join, and we had pre-occupied the ground in our own, I advised them to found a school in the next, for the instruction of the young, and a friendly society for the aged of their own s.e.x. We prevailed on them to be themselves not the nominal but the active patronesses; to take the measure of all the wants and all the merit of their immediate neighborhood; to do every thing under the advice and superintendence of Dr. Barlow, and to make him their 'guide, philosopher, and friend.' By adopting this plan, they now see the poverty of which they only used to hear, and know personally the dependants whom they protect.

"Dr. Barlow took infinite pains to correct Lady Aston's views of religion. 'Let your notions of G.o.d,' said he, 'be founded, not on your own gloomy apprehensions, and visionary imaginations, but on what is revealed in his word, else the very intenseness of your feelings, the very sincerity of your devotion, may betray you into enthusiasm, into error, into superst.i.tion, into despair. Spiritual notions which are not grounded on scriptural truth, and directed and guarded by a close adherence to it, mislead tender hearts and warm imaginations. But while you rest on the sure unperverted foundation of the word of G.o.d, and pray for his Spirit to a.s.sist you in the use of his word, you will have little cause to dread that you shall fear him too much, or serve him too well. I earnestly exhort you,' continued he, 'not to take the measure of your spiritual state from circ.u.mstances which have nothing to do with it. Be not dismayed at an incidental depression which may depend on the state of your health, or your spirits, or your affairs. Look not for sensible communications. Do not consider rapturous feelings as any criterion of the favor of your Maker, nor the absence of them as any indication of his displeasure. An increasing desire to know him more, and serve him better; an increasing desire to do, and to suffer his whole will; a growing resignation to his providential dispensations is a much surer, a much more unequivocal test.'

"I next," continued Mr. Stanley, "carried our worthy curate, Mr.

Jackson, to visit her, and proposed that she should engage him to spend a few hours every week with the young ladies. I recommended that after he had read with them a portion of Scripture, of which he would give them a sound and plain exposition, he should convince them he had not the worse taste for being religious, by reading with them some books of general instruction, history, travels, and polite literature. This would imbue their minds with useful knowledge, form their taste, and fill up profitably and pleasantly that time which now lay heavy on their hands; and, without intrenching on any of their duties, would qualify them to discharge them more cheerfully.

"I next suggested that they should study gardening; and that they should put themselves under the tuition of Lucilla, who is become the little Repton of the valley. To add to the interest, I requested that a fresh piece of ground might be given them, that they might not only exercise their taste, but be animated with seeing the complete effect of their own exertions, as a creation of their own would be likely to afford them more amus.e.m.e.nt than improving on the labors of another.

"I had soon the gratification of seeing my little Carmelites, who used when they walked in the garden to look as if they came to dig a daily portion of their own graves, now enjoying it, embellishing it, and delighted by watching its progress; and their excellent mother, who, like Spenser's Despair, used to look 'as if she never dined,' now enjoying the company of her select friends. The mother is become almost cheerful, and the daughters almost gay. Their dormant faculties are awakened. Time is no longer a burden, but a blessing: the day is too short for their duties, which are performed with alacrity since they have been converted into pleasures. You will believe I did not hazard all these terrible innovations as rapidly as I recount them, but gradually, as they were able to bear it.

"This happy change in themselves has had the happiest consequences.

Their friends had conceived the strongest prejudices against religion, from the gloomy garb in which they had seen it arrayed at Aston Hall.

The uncle who was also the guardian, had threatened to remove the girls before they were quite moped to death; the young baronet was actually forbidden to come home at the holidays; but now the uncle is quite reconciled to them, and almost to _religion_. He has resumed his fondness for the daughters; and their brother, a fine youth at Cambridge, is happy in spending his vacations with his family, to whom he is become tenderly attached. He has had his own principles and character much raised by the conversation and example of Dr. Barlow, who contrives to be at Aston Hall as much as possible when Sir George is there. He is daily expected to make his mother a visit, when I shall recommend him to your particular notice and acquaintance."

Lucilla blushing, said, she thought her father had too exclusively recommended the _brother_ to my friendship; she would venture to say the _sisters_ were equally worthy of my regard, adding, in an affectionate tone, "they are every thing that is amiable and kind. The more you know them, sir, the more you will admire them; for their good qualities are kept back by the best quality of all, their modesty." This candid and liberal praise did not sink the fair eulogist herself in my esteem.

CHAPTER XVII.

I had now been near three weeks at the Grove. Ever since my arrival I had contracted the habit of pouring out my heart to Mr. and Mrs. Stanley with grateful affection and filial confidence. I still continued to do so on all subjects except one.

The more I saw of Lucilla, the more difficult I found it to resist her numberless attractions. I could not persuade myself that either prudence or duty demanded that I should guard my heart against such a combination of amiable virtues and gentle graces: virtues and graces which, as I before observed, my mind had long been combining as a delightful idea, and which I now saw realized in a form more engaging than even my own imagination had allowed itself to picture.

I did not feel courage sufficient to risk the happiness I actually enjoyed, by aspiring too suddenly to a happiness more perfect. I dared not yet avow to the parents, or the daughter, feelings which my fears told me might possibly be discouraged, and which, if discouraged, would at once dash to the ground a fabric of felicity that my heart, not my fancy, had erected, and which my taste, my judgment, and my principles equally approved, and delighted to contemplate.

The great critic of antiquity, in his treatise on the drama, observes that the introduction of a new person is of the next importance to a new incident. Whether the introduction of two interlocutors is equal in importance to two incidents, Aristotle has forgotten to establish. This dramatic rule was ill.u.s.trated by the arrival of Sir John and Lady Belfield, who, though not new to the reader or the writer, were new at Stanley Grove.

The early friendship of the two gentlemen had suffered little diminution from absence, though their intercourse had been much interrupted. Sir John, who was a few years younger than his friend, since his marriage, having lived as entirely in town as Mr. Stanley had done in the country.

Mrs. Stanley had, indeed, seen Lady Belfield a few times in Cavendish-square, but her ladyship had never before been introduced to the other inhabitants of the Grove.

The guests were received with cordial affection, and easily fell into the family habits, which they did not wish to interrupt, but from the observation of which they hoped to improve their own. They were charmed with the interesting variety of characters in the lovely young family, who in return were delighted with the politeness, kindness, and cheerfulness of their father's guests.

Shall I avow my own meanness? Cordially as I loved the Belfields, I am afraid I saw them arrive with a slight tincture of jealousy. They would, I thought, by enlarging the family circle, throw me at a further distance from the being whom I wished to contemplate nearly. They would, by dividing her attention, diminish my proportion. I had been hitherto the sole guest, I was now to be one of several. This was the first discovery I made that love is a narrower of the heart. I tried to subdue the ungenerous feeling, and to meet my valuable friends with a warmth adequate to that which they so kindly manifested. I found that a wrong feeling at which one has virtue enough left to blush, is seldom lasting, and shame soon expelled it.

The first day was pa.s.sed in mutual inquiries and mutual communications.

Lady Belfield told me that the amiable f.a.n.n.y, after having wept over the grave of her mother, was removed to the house of the benevolent clergyman, who had kindly promised her an asylum till Lady Belfield's return to town, when it was intended she should be received into her family; that worthy man and his wife having taken on themselves a full responsibility for her character and disposition; and generously promised that they would exert themselves to advance her progress in knowledge during the interval. Lady Belfield added, that every inquiry respecting f.a.n.n.y, whom we must now call Miss Stokes, had been attended with the most satisfactory result, her principles being as unquestionable as her talents.

After dinner, I observed that whenever the door opened, Lady Belfield's eye was always turned toward it, in expectation of seeing the children.

Her affectionate heart felt disappointed on finding that they did not appear, and she could not forbear whispering to me, who sat next her, "that she was afraid the piety of our good friends was a little tinctured with severity. For her part, she saw no reason why religion should diminish one's affection for one's children, and rob them of their innocent pleasures." I a.s.sured her gravely I thought so too; but forbore telling her how totally inapposite her application was to Mr.

and Mrs. Stanley. She seemed glad to find me of her opinion, and gave up all hope of seeing the "little melancholy recluses," as she called them, "unless," she said, laughing, "she might be permitted to look at them through the grate of their cells." I smiled, but did not undeceive her, and affected to join in her compa.s.sion. When we went to attend the ladies in the drawing-room, I was delighted to find lady Belfield sitting on a low stool, the whole gay group at play around her. A blush mixed itself with her good-natured smile as we interchanged a significant look. She was questioning one of the elder ones, while the youngest sat on her lap singing. Sir John entered, with that kindness and good humor so natural to him, into the sports of the others, who, though wild with health and spirits, were always gentle and docile. He had a thousand pleasant things to entertain them with. He, too, it seems, had not been without his misgivings.

"Are not these poor miserable recluses?" whispered I maliciously to her ladyship, "and are not these rueful looks proof positive that religion diminishes our affection for our children? and is it not abridging their innocent pleasures, to give them their full range in a fresh airy apartment, instead of cramming them into an eating-room, of which the air is made almost fetid by the fumes of the dinner and a crowded table?

and is it not better that they should spoil the pleasure of the company, though the mischief they do is bought by the sacrifice of their own liberty?" "I make my _amende_," said she. "I never will be so forward again to suspect piety of ill nature." "So far from it, Caroline," said Sir John, "that we will adopt the practice we were so forward to blame; and I shall not do it," said he, "more from regard to the company, than to the children, who I am sure will be gainers in point of enjoyment; liberty, I perceive, is to them positive pleasure, and paramount to any which our false epicurism can contrive for them."

"Well, Charles," said Sir John, as soon as he saw me alone, "now tell us about this Lucilla, this paragon, this nonpareil of Dr. Barlow's. Tell me what is she? or rather what is she not?"

"First," replied I, "I will as you desire, define her by negatives--she is _not_ a professed beauty, she is _not_ a professed genius, she is _not_ a professed philosopher, she is _not_ a professed wit, she is _not_ a professed any thing; and, I thank my stars, she is _not_ an artist!" "Bravo, Charles, now as to what she is." "She is," replied I, "from nature--a woman, gentle, feeling, animated, modest. She is by education, elegant, informed, enlightened. She is, from religion, pious, humble, candid, charitable."

"What a refreshment will it be," said Sir John, "to see a girl of fine sense, more cultivated than accomplished--the creature, not of fiddlers and dancing-masters, but of nature, of books, and of good company! If there is the same mixture of spirit and delicacy in her character, that there is of softness and animation in her countenance, she is a dangerous girl, Charles."

"She certainly does," said I, "possess the essential charm of beauty where it exists; and the most effectual subst.i.tute for it, where it does not; the power of prepossessing the beholder by her look and manner, in favor of her understanding and temper."

This prepossession I afterward found confirmed, not only by her own share in the conversation, but by its effect on myself; I always feel that our intercourse unfolds, not only her powers, but my own. In conversing with such a woman, I am apt to fancy that I have more understanding, because her animating presence brings it more into exercise.

After breakfast, next day, the conversation happened to turn on the indispensable importance of unbounded confidence to the happiness of married persons. Mr. Stanley expressed his regret, that though it was one of the grand ingredients of domestic comfort, yet it was sometimes unavoidably prevented by an unhappy inequality of mind between the parties, by violence, or imprudence, or imbecility on one side, which almost compelled the other to a degree of reserve, as incompatible with the design of the union, as with the frankness of the individual.

"We have had an instance among our own friends," replied Sir John, "of this evil being produced, not by any of the faults to which you have adverted, but by an excess of misapplied sensibility, in two persons of near equality as to merit, and in both of whom the utmost purity of mind, and exactness of conduct rendered all concealment superfluous. Our worthy friends Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton married from motives of affection, and with a high opinion of each other's merit, which their long and intimate connection has rather contributed to exalt than to lower; and yet, now at the end of seven years, they are only beginning to be happy.

They contrived to make each other and themselves as uncomfortable by an excess of tenderness, as some married pairs are rendered by the want of it. A mistaken sensibility has intrenched, not only on their comfort, but on their sincerity. Their resolution never to give each other pain has led them to live in a constant state of petty concealment. They are neither of them remarkably healthy, and to hide from each other every little indisposition, have kept up a continual vigilance to conceal illness on the one part, and to detect it on the other, till it became a trial of skill which could make the other most unhappy; each suffering much more by suspicion when there was no occasion for it, than they could have done by the acknowledgment of slight complaints when they actually existed.

"This valuable pair, after seven years' apprenticeship to a petty martyrdom, have at last found out that it is better to submit to the inevitable ills of life cheerfully and in concert, and to comfort each other under them cordially, than alternately to suffer and inflict the pain of perpetual disingenuousness. They have at last discovered that uninterrupted prosperity is not the lot of man. Each is happier now with knowing that the other is sometimes sick, than they used to be with suspecting they were always so. The physician is now no longer secretly sent for to one, when the other is known to be from home. The apothecary is at last allowed to walk boldly up the public staircase fearless of detection.

"These amiable persons have at length attained all that was wanting to their felicity, that of each believing the other to be well when they _say_ they are so. They have found out that unreserved communication is the lawful commerce of conjugal affection, and that all concealment is contraband."

"Surely," said I, when Sir John had done speaking, "it is a false compliment to the objects of our affection, if, for the sake of sparing them a transient uneasiness, we rob them of the comfort to which they are ent.i.tled, of mitigating our sufferings by partaking it. All dissimulation is disloyal to love. Besides, it appears to me to be an introduction to wider evils, and I should fear, both for the woman I loved and for myself, that if once we allowed ourselves concealment in one point, where we thought the motive excused us, we might learn to adopt it in others, where the principle was more evidently wrong."

"Besides," replied Mr. Stanley, "it argues a lamentable ignorance of human life, to set out with an expectation of health without interruption, and of happiness without alloy. When young persons marry with the fairest prospects, they should never forget that infirmity is inseparably bound up with their very nature, and that in bearing one another's burdens, they fulfill one of the highest duties of the union."

CHAPTER XVIII.

After supper, when only the family party were present, the conversation turned on the unhappy effects of misguided pa.s.sion. Mrs. Stanley lamented that novels, with a very few admirable exceptions, had done infinite mischief, by so completely establishing the omnipotence of love, that the young reader was almost systematically taught an unresisting submission to a feeling, because the feeling was commonly represented as irresistible.

"Young ladies," said Sir John, smiling, "in their blind submission to this imaginary omnipotence, are apt to be necessarians. When they _fall_ in love, as it is so justly called, they then obey their _fate_; but in their stout opposition to prudence and duty, they most manfully exert their _free will_; so that they want nothing but _knowledge absolute_ of the miseries attendant on an indiscreet attachment, completely to exemplify the occupation a.s.signed by Milton to a cla.s.s of beings to whom it would not be gallant to resemble young ladies."

Mrs. Stanley continued to a.s.sert, that ill-placed affection only became invincible, because its supposed invincibility had been first erected into a principle. She then adverted to the power of religion in subduing the pa.s.sions, that of love among the rest.

I ventured to ask Lucilla, who was sitting next me (a happiness which, by some means or other, I generally contrived to enjoy), what were her sentiments on this point? With a little confusion, she said, "to conquer an ill placed attachment, I conceive may be effected by motives inferior to religion. Reason, the humbling conviction of having made an unworthy choice, for I will not resort to so bad a motive as pride, may easily accomplish it. But to conquer a well-founded affection, a justifiable attachment, I should imagine, requires the powerful principle of Christian piety; and what can not that effect?" She stopped and blushed, as fearing she had said too much.

Lady Belfield observed, that she believed a virtuous attachment might possibly be subdued by the principle Miss Stanley had mentioned; yet she doubted if it were in the power of religion itself, to enable the heart to conquer aversion, much less to establish affection for an object for whom dislike had been entertained.