The habit of reasoning independently, of investigating without
reference to authority, is by no means a common one. Most people have
their thinking done for them, and are content to quote their clergyman,
their doctor, or their great-grandmother, as the case may require. We
say a man or woman is “original” when they seek Truth wherever she may
be found, regardless of popular opinion.
My friend, though quite practical, loved dearly to wander in the
higher regions of thought. Such an one is apt to suffer for the want
of sympathy, and situated as she was in an obscure inland town, where
living literature was unappreciated and congenial companionship did
not exist, her first year of married life was not all that she had
anticipated. Her husband was “_all business_,” but he wanted his wife
to be happy, and he induced her to send for an old schoolmate “for
company.”
After Miss Wood’s arrival there was no time for morbid regrets or
dissatisfaction. She brought a year’s later news of the old circle of
friends, was full of piquant personal reminiscence, could discuss the
merits of the latest noteworthy literature, and entered heartily into
the political reform movements of England and Italy. The days were now
only too short for the duties and sympathy that had to be crowded into
them.
After the birth of Mrs. Roche’s first child her friend married, and
moved on to a farm some miles away. Mrs. R. had more domestic
occupation, but a close communication was kept up. Then the anti-slavery
agitation was beginning to be felt all over the country, and Mr. R., to
his wife’s great delight, flung himself with all his compact executive
energy into it. During this period another child, a girl, was born.
Suddenly and unexpectedly business losses occurred, which obliged a
removal to a new place.
“It so happened,” said Mrs. R., referring long years later to the
marked difference in her children, “that the months before Cecil’s
birth, I met with no book or person that appealed to me, and I was
always so helplessly dependent on outside influences when I was
_enciente_. The dear boy, in his early youth, gave evidence of the
absence of the speculative intellect. He hates discussion and theories
of every sort. Philosophy is his abomination. The day is good enough
for him without analysis. He likes a fine poem, and adores Ruskin,
and his order and system make him invaluable to his father. But in
comprehensiveness, in capacity for ideas, he ranks far below his
brother and his sister.”