I am afflicted by a mental peculiarity, which seems to be hereditary in
my family. It is my fate to form attachments, that will not yield to
circumstances, and cannot be subdued by any act of volition;
attachments, in short, that are terminated only by death. Among the
individuals of our family, this peculiarity has sometimes proved a
blessing--at other times a misfortune. Such an infatuation for Mr
Leary existed in the mind of my mother. It had been cured only by her
death. My sister and brother had experienced a similar regard for the
respective objects of their affection. In the case of both it appeared
to have led to a blessing. I had been less fortunate than they; and
perhaps not more so than my departed mother: for the memories of a young
girl, met in early life, had blighted all my hopes, and chilled the
aspirations of my youthful manhood.
It may seem strange that a young man who had seen something of the
world--and gathered gold enough to enable him to meet the demands of
every day life--should find any difficulty in choosing a wife. Perhaps
I may be understood, when I state that I was unable to act as most men
would have done in a similar situation. The idea of my being united to
any other than Lenore, seemed to me something like sacrilege--a crime, I
could neither contemplate nor commit.
This condition of mind was, in all probability, mere foolishness on my
part; but I could neither help, nor control it. A man may have
something to do in the shaping of his thoughts; but in general they are
free from any act of volition; and my inability to conquer the affection
I had formed for Lenore Hyland--from whatever source it proceeded--had
been proved by long years of unsuccessful trying. My will had been
powerless to effect this object.
I had once been astonished at the conduct of my mother. Her long-felt
affection for Mr Leary had appeared to me the climax of human folly.
After all, was it any greater than my own? I was a young man,
possessing many advantages for a life of happiness. Thousands might
have envied my chances. Yet I was not happy; and never likely to be. I
was afflicted with an attachment that produced only misery--as
hopelessly afflicted, as ever my poor mother had been; and that, too,
for one whom it was wrong in me to love, since she was now the wife of
another.
In one thing, it might be supposed, that I had the advantage of my
unfortunate mother. I had the satisfaction of knowing, that my love had
been bestowed upon a worthy object. For all this, my happiness was as
effectually ruined--as had been my mother's, by an affection for the
most worthless of men!
I believed myself to have been very unfortunate in life. The reader may
not think so; but I can assure him, that the person who imagines himself
unhappy, really is so--whether there be a true cause for it, or not.
Call it by what name you will, folly, or misfortune--neither or both--my
greatest pleasure was in permitting my thoughts to stray back to the
happy hours I once spent in the society of Lenore; and my greatest
sorrow was to reflect, that she was lost to me for ever!
My determination to return to Australia became fixed at length; and
there seemed nothing to prevent me from at once carrying it into effect.
Something whispered me, however, that before going to the other side of
the world, I should once again look upon Lenore.
I knew not what prompted me to this resolve, for it soon became such.
Cannon's counsel might have had something to do with it; but it was not
altogether that. I was influenced by a higher motive.
I had heard that after her marriage, her husband had taken her to reside
in London. I presumed, therefore, that she was in London at that
moment; but, for any chance that there would be of my finding her, she
might as well have been in the centre of the Saharan desert. I had no
clue to her address--not the slightest. I did not even know the name of
the man she had married. The steward, who at Sydney had told me the
news, did not give the name; and at the time I was too terribly affected
to think of asking it. It is true that I might have found her by
advertising in the papers; but the circumstances were such, as to forbid
my resorting to such means as that. I only desired to see her--not to
speak to her. Nothing could have tempted me to exchange a word with
her. I wished but to gaze once more upon her incomparable beauty--
before betaking myself to a place where the opportunity could never
occur again.
I thought of Cannon's conversation--of his plan for becoming
disenchanted; but I had not the slightest idea, that, in my case, it
would prove successful.
While reflecting, on how I might find Lenore, a happy idea came to my
aid. She had lived in Liverpool--she had been married there. I was
acquainted with some of Mrs Hyland's friends, who must still be in
Liverpool. Surely they would know the name and address of the young
lady, who was once Lenore Hyland? It would only cost me a journey to
Liverpool--with some disagreeable souvenirs, to spring up in my mind
while there--but my reward would be to gaze once again upon the beauty
of Lenore.
I had seen in the papers, that Captain Nowell's vessel was to sail for
Melbourne in a few days. I was pleased at this information: for I
intended to take passage with him; and might anticipate a more pleasant
voyage, than if I went with a stranger.
Before setting out for Liverpool, I wrote a note to Captain Nowell--
informing him of my intention to go out in his ship; and requesting him
to keep for me one of the best berths of his cabin. This business
settled, I took the train for the metropolis of Lancashire. I was not
over satisfied with myself while starting on this journey. I was
troubled with a suspicion, that I was doing a very foolish thing. My
conscience, however, became quieted by the reflection that it was of
very little consequence, either to myself, or any one else, whether I
went to Liverpool, or stayed in London. I was alone in the world--a
rolling stone--and why should I not follow the guidance of my destiny?
I became better satisfied with my proceedings when I reflected that they
would lead to my finding Lenore, and once more looking upon her.
I knew that by so doing my unhappiness might only be increased; but I
fancied that even this would be a change from the dull aching misery, I
had been so long enduring.
My railroad journey by Liverpool was not without an incident that
interested me. In the carriage in which I had taken my seat, was a
man--accompanied by his wife, their child, and a servant girl who nursed
the "baby." I had not been ten minutes in the company of this
interesting group, before I became convinced that it was worthy of being
studied, although like a Latin lesson, the study was not altogether
agreeable.
The husband was a striking example, of how a sensible man may sometimes
be governed by a silly woman. The child was about two years and a half
old; and the fact, that it had already learnt to cry, seemed to its
mother something to be surprised at!
The selfishness which causes that painful reserve, or want of
sociability, observable amongst the travelling English of the middle
class, was in the case of the woman in question, subdued by a silly
conceit about her child--which she appeared to regard as a little lump
of concentrated perfection. Before we had been in the carriage
half-an-hour, she had told me its age, the number of its teeth, what it
did, and did not like to eat, along with several remarkable things it
had been heard to say.
"But is it not strange," asked she, after a long speech in manifestation
of its many virtues, "that a child of its age cannot walk?"
"There is nothing strange about it," muttered the husband, "how can the
child learn to walk, when it never has an opportunity of trying? It'll
never have a chance to try, as long as there is a servant girl in the
United Kingdom strong enough to carry it about. I'll answer for that."
"John, dear, how can you talk so?" exclaimed the mother of the blessed
baby, "you have not the least consideration, or you would not expect an
infant to be a man."
During the two hours I shared the carriage with this interesting family,
I heard that mother use to her child about one-fourth of all the words
in the English language--adding to each word the additional syllable
"ee."
When the father ventured to open his mouth, and speak to the child in
plain English, the mother would accuse him of scolding it; and then the
little demon would set up a loud yelling, from which it would not
desist, until mother and nurse had called it every pet name they could
think of--adding to each the endearing syllable "ee."
Becoming perfectly satisfied at the observations I had made of the
peculiarities of this pleasant family, I took the first opportunity of
"changing carriages;" and left the fond mother to enjoy, undisturbed,
the caresses of her spoilt pet. Perhaps, had Fortune been a little
kinder to myself, I might have felt less afflicted in such society. But
as I had no intention of ever becoming a family man, I thought the
knowledge of "what to avoid," was hardly worth acquiring--at the expense
of being submitted to the annoyance that accompanied the lesson.
Volume Three, Chapter XXIX.