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 ÈlÈment en secret s' insinue,
Descend dans les rochers, s' Èleve dans la nue,
Va rougir le corail dans le sable des mers,
Et vit dans les glaÁons qu'ont durcis les hivers.[8]
VOLTAIRE.
[Footnote 8:
Alas! then where should happiness be sought?
In Nature's self.--Cast but thine eyes around,
In every place, in every age, 'tis found;
No where entire, but always in degree,
And fleeting still, except, Oh God! with thee,
(Thou its great Author.) Like thy fire, its heat
In every other element we meet;
Deep in the bosom of the harden'd stone,
As in the clouds its vital power we own;
In ocean's caves, in coral beds it glows,
And lives beneath the glacier's endless snows.
As the reader may find it not uninteresting to compare the ideas of such
great writers as Pope and Voltaire on the same subject, the opening
verses of the fourth epistle of the Essay on Man are here subjoined,
though perhaps an apology is due for transcribing lines impressed on
every English memory.
Oh Happiness! our being's end and aim!
Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name:
That something still, which prompts th' eternal sigh
For which we bear to live, or dare to die;
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlook'd, seen double by the fool and wise.
Plant of celestial seed! if dropp'd below,
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow;
Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shine,
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?
Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field?
Where grows? where grows it not? If vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil:
Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere,
'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where;
'Tis never to be bought, but always free,
And, fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with thee.
]
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 demonstrated _ab
absurdo_ by 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 carry _management_ to 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 where _it 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
found _girls_ of 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
her _coterie_ they 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 twine
Around 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.