The moon shone full upon the dial of Saint Paul's, and showed the
hour-pointer far advanced towards midnight, as Edward Fletcher paused
for a moment to inquire the time, and then pursued his way in deep and
silent meditation. At an early age, by the death of both his parents, he
had been left to the care of an unmarried uncle, who, after giving him a
good education, had placed him in a merchant's office, and had since
enabled him to become the principal of a mercantile establishment. He
had now been for two years the master of a lucrative and increasing
business, and being naturally of a social disposition, he began to court
the company of those of his own rank. In this way he had spent the
evening, and, having accompanied some of his fair companions to their
homes, he was returning to his own lodgings in a distant part of the
metropolis. The warm and genial influence of Society had called into
action the softer emotions of his heart, freed them from the icy fetters
which long and arduous attention to business had thrown over them, and
caused them again to burst forth and to roll onward in an unbroken
current, bearing his thoughts to that far distant period, when, in the
twilight of memory, the forms of past events are dim and indistinctly
visible.
And he lingered on the recollection with a melancholy pleasure, for it
was the happiest period of his existence. He was then the loved and
caressed of parents who were now no more. Those joyous days were passed
among the pleasant hills and valleys of Westmorland, and now he was
confined among the din and bustle of the city. He remembered one fair
girl, who was more than his playmate, with whom "he roamed about the
braes," pulling the cowslips or the early violets; or at evening sat
under the shadow of a spreading elm, telling her the stories which he
had read during the day, and listening to the little hymns which her
mother had taught her; but of her he knew nothing--she too, probably,
was with the dead.
Then he thought of his school-days, with their mischievous tricks and
their active sports, and their hard lessons, and the noble boys who were
his comrades. Some of them, the gentlest and the most beloved, were also
gone to their rest; and the hardy, the active, and enterprising, were
pursuing their separate courses of adversity or success; many, like
himself, were still bachelors, whilst others enjoyed the delights of
domestic felicity in the bosoms of their families. This last subject was
one on which he had often deeply pondered. Arrived at that time of life,
when the enthusiasm of youth has subsided, before the indifference of
age has commenced, he had long felt the solitude of his orphan state; he
had been convinced that he did not move in the sphere for which
Providence had designed him.
He was alone, among strangers; he was exposed to the thousand little
discomforts which are inseparable from the lot of him who has no place
which he can feel to be a home. He engaged in the duties of life without
spirit or energy, more in imitation of the example of others, than from
any heartfelt incitement to action. If prosperity smiled on him, he
viewed it with indifference, but the frowns of adversity chilled and
depressed him. He wished for some one to share with him in the former,
and, by participation, to render the latter less irksome, instead of
being compelled to feel the whole weight of its gloom on his own mind,
and to brood over his misfortunes in cheerless solitude. His observation
had convinced him that marriage alone would give full zest to joy, and
soften the stings of sorrow; and now, his heart, softened by the society
which he had just left, and by his recollections of former days,
nourished and gradually matured the conviction, till at length he firmly
resolved to abjure the state, to him miscalled, of "single-blessedness."
By this time he had reached his own door. He had passed through one
moon-lit street after another, occupied with his own reflections,
unheeding alike the artless laugh of voice, the shout of the drunken
reveller, and the noise and tumult of the thronging crowd which poured
from one of the theatres.
"Yes," said he, "I'll marry." The rapper was in his hand, and it fell
with a heavy knock, as if sounding an "Amen" to his recently-formed
resolution.
He retired to his couch, but not to repose. His thoughts continued to
oppress and agitate him, and he tossed about restless and sleepless. The
hour of midnight, tolled from the neighbouring belfry, had been
succeeded by "the wee short hours ayont the twal," gradually
lengthening and announcing the dawn of day, before he fell into a short
and broken slumber. When he arose he sought his counting-house, but the
time passed slowly and heavily on. He spent the day in a state of
abstraction, relieved only by a conviction that it was his duty to exert
himself more than ever. He would relapse for a while into indolence, and
then, suddenly rousing from his stupor, recommence his employment with
renewed but short-lived energy; and he rejoiced when the approach of
evening allowed him to escape, and to accept the invitation of his
friend, Charles Manson, to walk with him in the Regent's Park.
Charles, who was some years his junior, and was studying for the medical
profession, was a youth of sanguine temperament--one of those who love
to view things on their bright side; who sincerely enjoy the delights of
life; and who, if they are visited by affliction, feel it deeply for a
time, but soon forget it. He was in high spirits. The fineness of the
weather, the number and gay appearance of the company in the Park, and
his relaxation from the labours of the day, all tended to enliven him,
and animated his converse. Scarcely an equipage rolled by, or a horseman
passed them, without furnishing him with occasion for an approving or
satirical remark. Edward, however, seemed not to heed his observations,
or, if he noticed them at all, it was by a cold nod, or a single
syllable of assent.
He passed in silence the various natural and architectural beauties of
the place, on which he was accustomed to dilate. The fine Doric portico,
and massive grandeur of the Colosseum, the splendid facade of Cumberland
Place, the innumerable curiosities of the Zoological Gardens, and the
rural loveliness of the wooded lake, were alike unheeded.
At length Charles stopped, and, looking his companion attentively in the
face, said to him, "Edward, thou art in love."
"In love," he replied, with a feeble laugh, "not I indeed, what can have
given thee such an idea?"
"Thy remarkably grave deportment, moping abstraction, and disregard for
all that's worth seeing. Thou hast passed unnoticed many of thy
favourite subjects of remark; thou hast allowed the most magnificent
carriages, and some of our greatest public characters, to pass thee
unobserved, coldly assenting to my words, or 'nodding thy head like a
mandarin in a tea-shop'--I am persuaded that thou art in love."
"Well, Charles, I own that, though not yet in love, I trust I soon shall
be, and that my love will be consummated by lasting union. I have long
compared the delights of marriage with the discomforts of the bachelor,
and last night, bringing my notions to a point, I came to the resolution
to marry."
"Make no such rash resolve," said Charles, "but consider the
inconveniences as well as the comforts of matrimony. For my own part,
having given myself up to the pursuit of study, I am satisfied that a
wife would retard my progress. It would be impossible for me to pay that
undivided attention to my profession, which my duty, not more than my
inclination demands. Few eminent men have been married. The rule which
prevents Roman Catholic clergymen from being so, was doubtless the
result of great experience and deep conviction on the part of its
framers, that it tended to draw the thoughts from the functions of the
sacerdotal office. So study and celibacy for me; or if I be married, let
my library be my bride."
"And a wife and happiness for me!" replied Edward. "What benefit is
there in amassing a large store of knowledge, which may never be
required, and at the same time neglecting the enjoyment of female
society, and despising its aid as the minister of virtue. The reasons
which induce thee to continue single do not affect me, and, in fact, I
should rather seek a wife to incite me to great exertion, than merely
continue in the spiritless pursuit of wealth or knowledge."
"And what," asked Charles, "are the requisite qualities of such a wife?"
"She must," said Edward, "be a woman whose virtues are the fruit of
religious conviction; she must be modest without affectation, and
cheerful without boldness; lovely in person, and accomplished in mind."
"Let me try to guess who she is," said Charles; and he named some of
their female acquaintance who, he thought, best answered the
description.
But no! Edward's ideas of female excellence were so refined, that none
of these came up to the standard. Each had some fault which might have
passed unobserved by others, but could not escape the discriminating eye
of our philosophic bachelor.
Lucy was "a blue stocking." She spent her time in the study of foreign
languages and abstruse sciences; and her mind, occupied in such
recondite pursuits, could not be expected to bend to the homely and
unpretending duties of a household.
Elizabeth was "a butterfly:"--a giddy, thoughtless child of nature,
content with the powers which nature had bestowed, and regardless of
cultivating and improving them; enjoying the present, as though it
comprised the whole period of her existence, and as if there would be no
future which called for preparation. An imprudent woman was unsuitable
for a wife.
Emma was "an egotist." All her regard seemed to be spent upon her own
person. She was constantly admiring herself in the mirror, arranging
some irregularity in the fold of her kerchief, or some unevenness in her
sleeves, or trying some new posture to show her form to advantage: and
she who was filled with self-love would care little for the happiness of
her husband.
Mary ran into the opposite extreme. He admired simplicity, but he
disliked negligence. Some part of her dress was often in disorder; a
string was wanting in her cap, or a lock of hair hung loosely over her
forehead; and neatness was an indispensable requisite for the partner of
his life.
Jane was "a chatter-box;" gay and volatile, her tongue ran on in
ceaseless prattle, without giving utterance to one idea, the result
either of observation or reflection. Her words sounded prettily enough
to the ear, but they left no impression on the mind; and thought and
foresight ought to belong to every one who might become the head of a
family.
Judith was "a mere negation." She was, perhaps, blameless in regard to
the actual commission of offence, but she was supine and indolent in
virtuous exertion. If she did no evil, she did little good. The course
of her life was one dead level, without rise and without depression. She
acted so as to save appearances with the world; but her heart was a
stranger to every generous impulse, her hand was seldom stretched out in
active benevolence, and her mind was ignorant of the practical operation
of religion and piety. He looked to marriage for a stimulus to renewed
exertion, but he could expect no aid from one so listless and apathetic.
"Most exact of men!" exclaimed Charles, "thy conduct is a perfect
anomaly. Attempting to reason on the most illogical of all
passions--laying down a proposition that thou wilt marry, before falling
in love, and finding fault with those of the fair sex, who are admired
and followed, even by those who never wish to be lovers. Throw off this
fastidiousness; or, depend upon it, that it will be long before thou art
a husband, and before I am left alone in the ranks of celibacy."
They parted--but the feeling daily increased and became stronger in the
mind of Edward. He sought society more eagerly than ever; but though he
felt a transient gratification in its variety, he found, in the
retrospect, nothing but disappointment. He met with none on whom he
could centre his affections. Each had some fault which rendered her
unfit for a wife. He met with many whom he admired, many whom he could
respect as friends, but none whom he could love with that fervour and
singleness of heart which he considered due to her whom he should make
his own. And yet he saw his companions select their partners, and live
apparently in married felicity. Even the fair ones whom he had so
severely criticised and censured, were respectively united to admiring
and joyous husbands. Yet in vain did he seek for some pure, spotless
being, who might realize his opinion of the feminine character; love
seemed to be a tempting fruit hung beyond his reach. He began to doubt
whether he was not differently constituted from the generality of his
species, and incapable of their susceptibilities; yet when he thought of
his early affections to his parents and the fair companion of his youth,
and when he referred to the feelings that even now burned in his bosom,
he was convinced that he only wanted the opportunity to prove himself
possessed of the finest sympathies of humanity.
It was midsummer: the fashionable part of the community had left London
for their seats in the country, and Edward, tired of its suffocating
heat, its forsaken squares, and desolate streets, resolved also to leave
it, and revisit, for the first time since his boyhood, the beautiful
scenery of his native Westmorland.
He took the coach to Kendal, and there left it; preferring to proceed on
foot, as allowing him greater liberty in choosing his route, and in
diverging from the high roads when interest or curiosity might prompt
him to wander. For a week he rambled through the most picturesque
districts of the country, climbing its hills, while the exercise and
the bracing air improved his health; rowing on its lakes, and treading
its flowery meads, which spoke of peace and comfort to his mind; or
gazing on its waterfalls till his sorrow and disquiet were forgotten in
the contemplation. But what were his feelings as he approached the place
of his nativity? He stole up the narrow lane that led to it from the
main road, and cautiously drew near. He thought that the little croft
behind was strangely diminished in size, and that the house had an
altered and more homely appearance than he expected; yet over the
arch-way were the initials of his parents' names, "R. & S. F., 1795."
He looked through the garden-gate, and at the well-known door sat the
mistress of the house, employed with needlework, whilst a young child
gambolled along the walks. How often had his mother sat there, occupied
in the same manner, and smiled on his infant frolics! He found that his
parents were forgotten, and the names of the neighbours were strange to
him; even the heavy-clogged hind, of whom he made the inquiry, who was
homeward "dragging his weary way," eyed him, as if half-suspicious of
some sinister intention. Amid all his distress, he had been accustomed
to reflect on that place, and on the early days he had spent there, with
feelings of pleasure: when the clouds gathered blackest around him, he
remembered them as a gleam of sunshine in his existence, which, overcast
as it had been, might yet dispel the shades, and shed its bright glory
over the evening of his days. And thus to be awakened to the sad
reality, to find himself unknown on the threshold of his father's house,
an alien in the place of his birth; to seek in vain for the friends of
his youth; to feel that he was alone in the world, and must buffet with
it single-handed; to find his last remaining solace depart, and thus to
become fully aware of the solitariness of his situation--convinced him
alike that he had drawn an overcharged picture of the past, and that
doubt and uncertainty appertained to the future--
"He turned and left the spot;
Ah, do not deem him weak,
For dauntless was that youthful heart,
Though a tear was on his cheek."
He pursued his journey; and, on the morrow, after a long ramble across
the hills, reached a small and secluded village, where he thought to
remain for a day or two. After he had dined, he went out to enjoy the
fine views which its vicinity afforded. The road lay along the side of a
hill which, on the one hand, was covered with heather, interspersed with
large stones, whose grey and wrinkled fronts looked out from the purple
blossoms dancing in the breeze, like age surveying the pastimes of
youth; and, on the other, was bordered by trees, whose light waving
branches gave an occasional glimpse of the lake beyond them. A small
avenue opening it to the view, and offering a smooth bank for his seat,
he lay down to repose. The green boughs overhead shaded him from the
rays of the sun; before him, in the distance, were some of Westmorland's
loftiest hills, standing boldly out in the clear blue sky, heathery-clad
at their tops, but, at their base, yellow with waving corn, green with
luxuriant pastures, or dark with extensive woods; whence rose the smoke
of the peasant's cot, the spire of a village church, or the bold front
of some magnificent mansion; while, immediately before him, the lake
spread its expanse of beauty, its waters calm as a mirror, or curled by
the breeze into mimic and noiseless wavelets. A boat moved slowly from
behind one of the islands, rowed by one whose dress showed him to be no
professed sailor, and in the pause between the grating of the oars on
its side, and their splashing in the water, the sound of a soft voice
came in song from a lady sitting at the stern. This "touched the string
on which hung all his sorrows."
"And is there not," said he--"is there not some being like that for me;
is there none on earth to whom I may speak of love? Am I, alone, of all
my race doomed to drag on a long and weary life, a solitary, friendless
creature? I have formed my notions of excellence at an elevation to
which human nature does not attain; I will banish these vain ideas;
lower my scale of excellence, as to the external and less important
parts of personal character, and return into the world, determined to be
pleased, to imitate the example of my fellowmen, and, like them, to be
happy."
He was roused by a voice near him, and, on turning, he perceived a
mendicant asking alms of a young plainly-dressed lady. He arose from his
recumbent posture, and, for the first time, attracted her attention. She
gave but one enquiring glance, blushed deeply, slipped the money
hurriedly into the extended palm, and went on her way, followed by the
benedictions of the grateful sufferer.
By that mysterious principle, that sort of mental magnetism, existing in
every bosom, by which we are instantly and unaccountably attracted to
one whom we have never seen before, but whom we feel an irresistible
desire often to meet--a feeling which time or distance may perhaps
diminish, but which nothing but death can extinguish--Edward felt, as he
returned to his inn, determined, if it were possible, to have an
interview with the fair stranger. Often did she pass before him in the
visions of the night; often was his sleep broken by his dreams, but they
were dreams of happiness and joy.
The Sabbath morn called him to seek the meeting-house of his sect, which
was situate at a short distance from the village. There it stood, with
its gray walls and flagged roof--its bright small-paned windows, and
weather-beaten door and shutters; its shade of arching lime-trees, and
its green grave-yard, surrounded by a low wall and an humble wicket, on
which the peasant might lean and moralise; for the dread of desecration
which encircles the burial places in cities with palisadoes and
chevaux-de-frise had not reached the inhabitants of that peaceful land.
Its interior corresponded with the neatness and simplicity of its
outward appearances. The walls seemed to have been recently
white-washed, and the sand on the floor cracked beneath his tread, as he
sought a seat on one of the old oaken forms.
Few were the assembled worshippers. An aged man, dressed in the good
old-fashioned drab coat, and three-decked hat, from beneath which hung a
few locks of reverend gray, sat under the gallery, resting upon his
staff; beneath him was a stout, hale man, of the middle age, whose
features bespoke him to be his son, and whose wife was sitting on the
adjoining form. The seat parallel to that on which Edward sat, contained
some young women, whose features he could not discern; and several,
whose dress showed them to be servants, or not connected with the body,
were scattered about on the back benches. But though small was the
assembly, and humble the place of gathering, whether it arose from the
quiet that reigned around, the effect of the past week's journey, or the
events connected with it, never did Edward feel more of the pure spirit
of devotion, never did he retire from a house of worship more
strengthened and refreshed in spirit.
At the close of the meeting, the old friend kindly shook him by the
hand, and invited him to his house. Pleased with his venerable
appearance, and wishing to become further acquainted with him, Edward
accepted the invitation.
"Come," said the ancient, "thou's stronger nor me, let me lean on thy
airm;" and, thus supported on the one hand, and with his stick in the
other, they walked at a slow pace through two or three fields, and then
found themselves at his door. His house was of brick, overgrown in the
front with large pear-trees, whose dark foliage strongly contrasted with
the clean white windows. A small plot before it, defended by a green
paling, was filled with pinks, roses, campanulas, and other summer
flowers; at the one end a large, well-stocked orchard extended down the
hill-side beyond which, in the distance, were seen the blue waters of
the lake; and, at the other, was the farm-yard, with its various
out-buildings, its herds of lowing cattle, and troops of poultry. The
old man introduced his son, who had arrived before them, by the name of
James Summers, and then turning to Edward, said, "but as I don't knaw
tha name, I can only half perform my duty."
"My name," he said "is Edward Fletcher."
"From thy dialect," said the son, "I suppose thou art from London."
"Yes, I live there at present, but I was born at Rockgill, about twelve
miles to the west of this place."
"What!" inquired the son, "was thy father's name Richard Fletcher?"
"It was," Edward replied, "but he has been long dead."
"I know he has; he was an intimate friend of ours; in fact we were his
next neighbours, till the advanced age and increasing infirmities of my
father, rendered it necessary for me to assist in the management of his
farm. I am heartily glad to see thee; thou must protract thy stay with
us, for we have been too long separated to part soon."
"Ay," added his wife, "many a time have I dandled thee on my knee when a
child, and Eliza and thou used to wander about together from morning
till night."
"What's getten them?" asked the old man, "they are langer nor common in
comin' in."
As he spoke the door opened, and the sisters entered the room.
"Why," said the old man, "ye ran off to-day, and didn't come an' help me
hame as ye used to do!"
"O! grandfather," said Eliza, "we saw thou wast too well assisted to
need our aid."
"Ay, and wha think ye my helper was?--naebody else but Edward Fletcher,
that used to play wi' thee when ye were bairns, and that thou sae often
talks aboot."
Edward observed her blush deeply at this remark. He had at once
recognized her as the lady who had yesterday crossed his path, and as he
now accosted her, he felt all his prepossessions in her favour
incalculably increased. Her personal appearance was very pleasing. She
was rather tall. Her form was slender and graceful, and her complexion
exceedingly fair. Her chestnut hair was parted on her forehead, a few
stray tresses escaped from the border of her cap, and her light blue
eyes sparkled with innocent cheerfulness and unobtrusive benevolence.
Her sister, a few years younger, was also a lovely girl, but her form
and features were less fully developed.
Placed on this footing, Edward soon felt himself at home, and was
delighted with the family into whose society he had fallen; but his
observation was chiefly directed to the elder daughter. The more he saw,
and the more he conversed with her, the more strongly did she rivet his
affections. He found her possessed of a naturally strong, and
highly-cultivated mind, stored with knowledge of the most useful kind;
with a sweet and gentle disposition, and with a heart in which religion
and virtue held supreme place. As he conversed with her, and found that
her language breathed of an intellectual and religious spirit, he
thought that in her were gathered all the qualities which he had so long
sought for in vain. But it was not till the cool of the day, when they
walked together by the lake, that he became fully aware of the change
which the events of the last twenty-four hours had wrought upon him.
He was with her, whose mere glance had spoken to his inmost heart; her
who was the playmate of his infancy--the only human being, except his
parents, to whom he had ever looked with a higher feeling than that of
esteem: he found that his first impression was increased by future
acquaintance; that her features feebly shadowed forth her mental
excellence, her modesty, good sense, and religious feeling;--he was with
her in his native land at the close of that day, when, if the mind may
be allowed to dwell upon any earthly feeling, it is upon that of
honourable youthful love, the most purified of mortal passions. They
talked of the joys of former days, of the many little incidents which
formed the chain of remembrance of their past pleasure, of the mutual
thoughts of each other which had lingered in their bosoms; and before
the expiration of Edward's sojourn the foundation was laid of a
connection which might only terminate with life.
He returned to the metropolis an altered man. His gloom and abstraction
had vanished, and he pursued his vocation with redoubled assiduity. But
still his heart was absent in "the north countrie," and many a journey
did he take thither, no longer to admire the beauty of its scenery, but
to indulge himself with the company of her, whose lot in after life was
to be bound up with his own. She accepted the offer of his hand; the
consent of her parents was asked and received, the requisite formalities
gone through, and the necessary arrangements completed, when he asked
his friend Charles to accompany him to his marriage. After some demur,
on account of the pressing nature of his studies, and the difference of
opinion between them as to the propriety of the step, Charles consented
to go with him.
When they arrived at the house, they were of course warmly welcomed. The
morrow was appointed for the wedding, and, as many relatives had been
invited from distant parts, great preparations were making for their
accommodation. Eliza seized the opportunity of stealing away,
unobserved, once more to visit her chosen walks and favourite seats, and
to bid adieu to the scenes where she had spent the blissful days of
youth. When she returned, she retired to her room, and having thrown
off her bonnet and gloves, she pondered on the circumstances of her
present situation. She was about to leave a peaceful home, tender
parents, and affectionate friends; but to-morrow she would be a bride:
she would gain one who was more to her than all these, who would cherish
and protect her; and the tear that trickled adown her cheek, was gilded
by the beam of a pure and subdued love. Then, turning her thoughts to
Him who made, and had preserved her, she uttered a sincere and fervent
prayer for his continued mercy and protection.
Never, perhaps, was the old meeting-house so filled as on the morning of
the marriage. Besides the procession of friends and relatives from the
house, the neighbours had gathered from far and near to witness the
nuptial ceremony of one who was universally respected and beloved: and
though there were none of those signs of outward show by which such
occasions are commonly distinguished, though there was no firing of
cannon, no ringing of bells, no flying of flags, yet it was not less a
union of two faithful hearts, nor did their vow of "affection until
death" sound less solemnly and impressively on the ears of the hushed
assembly.
O not in the halls of the noble and proud,
Where fashion assembles her glittering crowd,
Where all is in beauty and splendour array'd,
Were the nuptials perform'd of the meek Quaker maid.
Nor yet in the temple those rites which she took,
By the altar, the mitre-crown'd bishop, and book:
Where oft in bright jewels doth stand the fair bride,
To whisper those vows which through life shall abide.
The building was humble yet sacred to Him,
Before whom the pomp of religion is dim;
Whose presence is not to the temple confin'd,
But dwells with the contrite and lowly of mind.
'Twas there, all unveil'd, save by modesty stood
The Quakeress Bride, in her pure satin hood,
Her charms unadorn'd by the garland or gem,
Yet fair as the lily just plucked from the stem.
A tear glisten'd bright in her dark shaded eye,
And her bosom half utter'd a tremulous sigh,
As the hand she had pledged was confidingly given,
And the low murmured accents recorded in heaven.
I've been at the bridal where wealth spread the board,
Where the sparkling red wine in rich goblets was pour'd:
Where the priest in his surplice from ritual read,
And the solemn response was impressively said.
I've seen the fond sire, in his thin locks of gray,
Give the pride of his heart to the bridegroom away;
While he brush'd the big tear from his deep-furrowed cheek,
And bow'd the assent which his lips might not speak.
But in all the array of the costlier scene,
Nought seem'd in my eye so sincere in its mien;
No language so fully the heart to resign,
As the Quakeress Bride's, "Until death I am thine!"
Edward found in wedlock all the happiness of which he was in quest; nay,
in his relation of a husband and a parent, he partook of many a
heartfelt joy, and many a dear and tender feeling, which, in his days of
speculative bachelorhood, he was not able to anticipate. No longer a
dweller among strangers, living in the cold and cheerless atmosphere of
a hired lodging, and meeting only from the other inmates of the house
with that common-place regard which exists between those who have little
community of feeling, he was happy in the delights of his home, in the
smiles of his child, in the warm affection of his loved and lovely wife.
He no longer sought the company of others as a relief from his cares; he
found an enchaining attraction to his own fireside. No longer
neglectful, or indifferent to the result of his mercantile engagements,
he entered upon them with increased ardour, not with the base and
grovelling view of amassing unprofitable wealth, but as an honourable
employment, affording him the means of supporting those who are
dependent upon him, and of relieving the distresses of his
fellow-creatures.
In difficulty, his wife was a constant, judicious adviser. She
endeavoured to mitigate his afflictions, she attended him with
unremitting care in sickness, she heightened his joys, and alleviated
his sorrows. Her intellectual endowments qualified her to be his
companion in study, and she trod with him the humbler walks of
literature and science. Her mild and amiable disposition softened every
harsh and unkind feeling of his heart, while her piety assisted him in
endeavouring to perform those high and holy duties which man owes to his
Maker. No longer ill at ease with himself or the world, he became a
useful member of the great human family, desirous of fulfilling his
allotted part, by engaging actively in schemes of philanthropy, and in
the exercise of a pure, unostentatious benevolence.
So apparent, indeed, was his happiness, that it was soon rumoured even
of Charles Manson, that, having become a convert to his opinions, and
being convinced that domestic life is the surest source of present
happiness, and a genial nursery of those qualities which fit us for
future felicity, had taken more than one trip among the green hills of
Westmorland, in quest of a companion for life.
My tale is simple, but so are truth, and virtue, and happiness; and to
enforce this moral is the purpose of my story. I might have filled my
canvas with the brilliant colours and iris tints of romance and fiction;
but the eye of the spectator would have been dazzled, and he would have
found nothing on which to rest his gaze: the chaste and sober hues of
truth alone are healthful to the mental sight. If in this humble
colouring I have so traced the picture of Edward and Eliza, as to show
that marriage is one of the first of blessings, and that its joys,
though removed from the superficial and fastidious, may yet be attained
by the simple and sincere; if I have at all shown what are the qualities
to be sought for in a virtuous wife, and how, and where they may be
found; if thus my humble page shall have shed a beam of hope over the
desponding and the solitary, its object will be attained.
"Domestic happiness! thou only bliss
Of paradise, that has survived the fall!
Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure,
Or tasting, long enjoy thee; too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets
Unmixed with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup;
Thou art the nurse of virtue; in thine arms
She smiles appearing as in truth she is,
Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again.
Thou art not known where pleasure is adored,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist.
And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm
Of novelty, her fickle, frail support.
For thou art meek and constant, hating change,
And finding, in the calm of truth-tried love,
Joys that her stormy raptures never yield."