[Footnote 7: Proceeding from a frivolous head and a cold heart, their object is to express to women all that men do not feel, and all they wish to persuade them they do.]

The time now approached for Lord and Lady Eltondale's leaving London, if so might be called that removal of their physical bodies to another scene of action, where their habits, their pursuits, and their a.s.sociates remained the same. The Viscountess had not yet completed the annual circle of dissipation, and it was therefore determined, that while Lord Eltondale returned home alone, her Ladyship and Selina should, by a visit to Cheltenham, protract for a still longer time their return to the comparative retirement of Eltondale. Of course the due preparation for this new scene of gaiety served as an excuse for renewed visits to the whole circle of shops. In one of these expeditions Lady Eltondale had left Selina at Mrs.----'s, in Bond Street, while she paid a visit in the neighbourhood; and Selina was just in the act of trying on a bonnet, that the officious milliner declared was supremely becoming, when her ears were suddenly a.s.sailed by the loudest tone of Mrs. Sullivan's discordant voice, "Yes, it be wastly becoming, to be sure; but, for my part, I thinks a little servility and policy, much more becoming to a young lady, be she never so much of an airy-a.s.s. Aye, Aye, Miss Seymour, you may stare and gobble; but it's to you, and of you, I'm a speaking." "Of me, ma'am?" returned the half frightened girl. "Yes, Miss, of you, with all your looks of modesty and ingeniousness;--but in my day, whenever a young lady got a love letter from a young man, she never lost no time in supplying to him; and, for my part, I think a purling answer to a civil question would never do n.o.body no harm, if it was the queen herself, in all her state of health." "If you allude to a letter from Mr. Webberly"--"To be sure I do," interrupted the zealous parent, "what else should I delude to? And if you did receive Jack's pistol, Miss Seymour, why didn't ye condescend to answer his operation yourself?" "I thought, my dear madam, Lady Eltondale could express my regrets much better than I could." "Aye! Aye!

Lady Eltondale, that's it--I'll tell ye vat, Miss Seymour--that 'ere Lady Eltondale vill make a cat's paw of you, if ye don't mind. As to my Jacky, he doesn't care for your refusal a bra.s.s farthing--but ye may go farther, and fare worse--he's healthy and wealthy, as the saying is; and he's not a man for a girl to throw over her shoulder--ye mayn't meet such a carowzel as his, every day in the veek.--But now I'll tell ye vat, once for all--ye see me and mine be a-going to Ireland; and it may so be, that ve may never see each other no more.--Now, ye see, I always respected your old father, and so out of compliment to him, I'll just give you a piece of my mind; and that is, that that Lady Eltondale, with all her valk-softly airs, has some kind of a sign upon you, depend upon it, or she'd never take all the trouble she does about ye, for it's not in her nature to do it for mere affection to you or your father either; and that 'ere sheep-faced Mr. Sedley, with all his aperient indifference, and no shambles (_nonchalance_), as they call it; he's playing the puck with you too, I can see that, fast enough; and so, now, as I have given you varning, and wented my mind a little, I'll just shake hands with you, for old acquaintance sake." The reconciliation was scarcely effected, before Lady Eltondale returned for Selina, who most joyfully escaped from her _soi-disant_ friend. She casually mentioned the rencontre to the Viscountess, but did not mention the hints she had received; thus showing to her instructress her first essay in the practice of her own lessons in the art of dissimulation. By nature Selina's disposition was candid, even to a fault. For she was not only willing to confide all her actions, all her thoughts, to those she loved; but so necessary did she feel it to her happiness to be able to repose all her feelings, and even the responsibility of her conduct, on the bosom of another, that she would have preferred having an indifferent friend to being deprived of a confidant. But her intercourse with Lady Eltondale had already, in some degree, seared her best feelings. She had already, even then, acquired that general anxiety to please, which appertains more to vanity than to benevolence, and which never fails, in time, to wither the finer sensibilities of the soul. The natural superiority of her talents enabled her, to discover the true character of those she a.s.sociated with. But even her penetration was dangerous to her purity. She saw hypocrisy was the means, and self-interest the end, pursued by all: even the stronger pa.s.sions were brought under their control: and in being convinced, that in the crowd that surrounded her there was no individual she could love, she experienced a chasm in her heart, which left it more open to the reception of those petrifying principles, that Lady Eltondale so sedulously inculcated. At this moment, in Selina's history, she stood on that narrow line, which separates vice and virtue. Her avidity of praise, by teaching her how best to improve and exercise her talents, had as yet but increased her charms; and her distrust of others first taught her to exercise her own judgment. Circ.u.mstances were still to decide, whether her strengthening reason would serve to control the affections of her heart, or whether the school of stoicism, in which she was now entered, would entirely eradicate its better feelings: whether her natural volatility was to be corrected by reflection, or matured into coquetry by artifice: in short, whether the dormant seeds of a rational education would finally spring up in the very hotbed of fashion, which called forth the premature weeds of folly and extravagance; or whether the intoxicating incense of flattery, aided both by the precept and example of the designing Viscountess, would destroy them in the bud, and offer up one more heartless victim as a sacrifice to that world, which but repays with present scorn and future repentance the devotion of its wretched votaries.

CHAPTER X.

There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the sad, but sorrow wastes the mournful, and their days are few! They fall away like the flower on which the Sun looks in his strength, after the mildew has pa.s.sed over it, and its head is heavy with the drops of night.

CROMA.

Whilst Selina thus brilliantly moved in the gayest scenes of fashionable splendor, Adelaide Wildenheim, unknown, unnoticed, was endeavouring, in the calm retirement of the country, to acquire fort.i.tude to support a weight of misfortune, by which a less firm mind would have been crushed, and which, from time and s.p.a.ce, seemed but to gain increased momentum.

In the beginning of winter, each day to her had pa.s.sed by but as the sad shade of its miserable anniversary; for, at that period, she had not even the consolation of seeing either Mr. or Mrs. Temple, and the inhabitants of Webberly House becoming hourly more repugnant to her feelings, she was insensibly falling a prey to that habitual depression of spirits, which is equally fatal to the mind and body of those who indulge in it; and which is indeed commonly but a refined name for discontent, or ill temper. Some trifling circ.u.mstances roused her to a sense of the state of her mind, and she immediately determined to struggle against it; resolving, as the best preliminary, to look her situation steadily in the face, and ascertain whether it was in her power to remedy it; well knowing, that if once convinced it was unavoidable, she should acquire strength to bear it, not only with resignation but cheerfulness. Though she but too acutely felt, that in losing a beloved parent, she had lost all that had formerly const.i.tuted the happiness of her existence; yet, in her rigid self-examination, she confessed she harboured more of repining sorrow at being deprived of this blessing, than of grat.i.tude to Heaven for having so long enjoyed it; and acknowledged it was unworthy of a religious or a rational being, to convert the felicity of one period of life into a curse for the remainder by vain comparison. Turning therefore from the past, she accused herself of being too fastidious in her sentiments towards the companions of her present lot; and, with laudable self-delusion, endeavoured to think her dislike of Mrs. Sullivan and the Miss Webberlys unreasonable; and that from the affection of the charming little Caroline she derived a pleasure more than equivalent to the annoyances occasioned by her mother and sisters. But here the mother and sisters very naturally brought the brother to her mind, and with him a long train of reflections, which ended in her adopting the wise but simple plan, of laying her situation open to Mr. and Mrs. Temple, in order to consult them, as to the propriety of her quitting Webberly House at the expiration of her minority.

Young Webberly's attentions to Miss Wildenheim had, previous to his last visit to town, been unremitting; and no less marked was his mother's disapprobation of them, arising partly from interested motives, partly from the idea of Adelaide being the natural sister of Caroline; which made Mrs. Sullivan regard the prospect of her marrying her son with a sentiment little short of abhorrence. But these objections had but little weight with Mr. Webberly, who, when Selina was not present to awaken his vanity or his cupidity, found no counterpoise to his conceited pa.s.sion, which was more piqued than restrained by the dignified simplicity of Miss Wildenheim's manners; and had she given him any encouragement, no remonstrance from his mother would have prevented his making the most explicit declaration of his attachment; for it was the practice of this amiable family, to set their mother at defiance, whenever she, in the slightest degree, interfered with their wishes.

Adelaide's pride and sense of propriety equally prompted her desire to relieve Mrs. Sullivan from the presence of a person, who was evidently a cause of quarrel between her and her son; and therefore, when the Webberly family proposed visiting London, in the beginning of March, she wrote the subjoined letter to Mrs. Temple:--

MISS WILDENHEIM TO MRS. TEMPLE.

My dear Mrs. Temple,

The kindness you and Mr. Temple have honoured me with encourages me, to apply to you for advice in a most embarra.s.sing situation. I am sure your usual humanity will prompt you, to grant it to one who has, at present, no friend to resort to for counsel but yourself. If you will permit me, I will call upon you, and lay open to your view my situation and my wishes. But as it is not justice to a friend in asking advice to give but a half confidence, before you hear my plans, I ought to make you acquainted with all the circ.u.mstances regarding myself, that it is in my power to confide.

Though all matters of business are best discussed _viva voce_, yet there are things it would be impossible to speak, and are sufficiently painful to write: such a distressing task it is the object of this letter to fulfil. My history is but short, and simple--all my happiness was centred in a beloved father; all my misery caused by his loss. Oh! Mrs. Temple, what grief can be compared to that desolation a daughter feels, when she is deprived of the parent, whom it has been the study of her whole life to please; when she first finds she has no filial duty to perform, no approving smile to look for!

My father was not only the tenderest parent, but my sole instructor, and, in his fond love, condescended to be even my companion and friend. His image is the first object memory recurs to in my infant years; and I now feel, that to be enabled to practise his own lessons of resignation and fort.i.tude, I must banish that image from my mind. The aid I might derive from employment is denied me; for every pursuit is inseparably a.s.sociated with scenes I ought not now to think of. 'When I look up to Heaven thou art there; when I behold the earth, thou art there also!' My mother having died at Hamburgh the day I was born, this beloved father was the only parent I ever knew. He, though a German Baron, was both by birth and education English, being the son of a British peer. But some unfortunate circ.u.mstances, with which I am unacquainted, gave him an unconquerable aversion to his native country; and having, by the maternal line, inherited large possessions in Westphalia, he very early in life repaired to the continent, where he continued to reside, princ.i.p.ally at Vienna, till I had attained my nineteenth year. About sixteen months ago, to my inexpressible astonishment, he adopted the sudden resolution of visiting England. His health, which had always in my recollection been delicate, had about that period rapidly declined, and I have the grief of thinking, that the journey to England shortened his life. The misery of this thought is still further aggravated by knowing, that he came to this country solely to accomplish my introduction to his family, with whom he had never maintained any intercourse or correspondence since the period of my birth. How little during the progress of our journey did I suspect its fatal termination! The usual tenderness and indulgence of my father's manner was, if possible, increased, and visions of the brightest joy occupied my mind. Our journey through France was the most delightful one we had ever undertaken. My father concealed the anguish of his own mind, and to divert my attention from observing it, spared neither pains nor expense to gratify every capricious fancy I formed. We remained a month at Paris waiting for letters from England, which were to direct our future proceedings, and during that time pa.s.sed so rapidly from one public place to another, that we never had a moment's private conversation. At last my dear father received letters to inform him, that the late Mr.

Sullivan, who had been his old friend and fellow-soldier, and whom I had known very well in my childish days at Vienna, waited at Dover to welcome us to England. This communication, the precursor of all my sorrow, was read by me with the most extravagant joy.

When we landed at Dover, we also met Mr. Austin, my father's former law agent, and one of his sincerest friends. For two days I scarcely saw my father, as he was in constant consultation with the gentlemen I have mentioned. On the morning of the third, I was informed he had decided on resigning me to their care; that Mr.

Sullivan would immediately introduce me to my relations, as Baron Wildenheim himself was under the unavoidable necessity of returning to France without delay. You may imagine my despair on receiving this fatal sentence:--the scenes that ensued are too dreadful for me to touch on. My beloved father's life fell a sacrifice to the agitation of his feelings. Oh, that I had died too! Pity me, dear Mrs. Temple, and excuse my writing any more. Nothing now remains, that I cannot tell you when we meet.

Ever sincerely and gratefully yours, ADELAIDE WILDENHEIM.

The day after Mrs. Temple received the above letter, she called on Miss Wildenheim, and invited her to remain at the Parsonage, if she had any dislike to accompany Mrs. Sullivan to London; saying, in conclusion, "Mr. Temple told me the other day you looked so ill, he was afraid you would suffer from the journey; and desired I would make my best speech to induce you to stay with us. Indeed it would be an act of charity, for we have had so great a loss in the dear family at Deane Hall! If you will afford us the gratification of your society, we can at leisure discuss the subjects you wish to consult us upon, and you shall have my opinion; and, what is of much more value, Mr. Temple's, to the best of our judgment. You know not how sincerely we commiserate your misfortunes, nor what an interest we feel in your welfare." Adelaide gratefully accepted her friend's invitation, a.s.suring her she felt convinced, that spending a little time at the Rectory would more effectually mitigate her grief, than any other probable occurrence.

Mrs. Temple immediately applied for Mrs. Sullivan's permission, who gave it with a joy that defied concealment, as by this means what she supposed the only obstacle to her son's union with Miss Seymour would be removed; for whenever Adelaide was present, his interest and inclination were at constant variance.

One fine evening in March, the Webberly family commenced their journey to London, and stopping as they drove past the Parsonage, left Miss Wildenheim to the care of its friendly owners. Mrs. Temple and her children were setting out on their evening walk, and Adelaide, begging she might not disappoint the little folks, joined them in their ramble with the utmost delight. It would be difficult to say, whether the mother or children were most pleased to see her--the latter joyfully recollected her skill in story-telling and singing; and Mrs. Temple, feeling most sensibly the want of her accustomed intercourse at Deane Hall, would have welcomed a much less agreeable guest, and therefore received her young friend with even greater pleasure than usual. The whole party walked long enough in a brisk blowing wind, to make them relish, on their return, a blazing fire, and a tea-table rather more substantially provided, than is commonly to be seen in more modish families.

When the children went to bed, Mr. Temple, saying he had letters to write for the next morning's post, retired to his study, in order to give Adelaide an opportunity of opening her heart to his wife. "Come, my dear Adele," said Mrs. Temple, "neither you nor I shall be comfortable, till we have had this conversation, that I see hangs so heavily on your mind. Tell me what it is that distresses you, my love, and, if possible, we will find a remedy for it."

Adelaide, with as much composure as she could command, informed Mrs.

Temple, that during the short period Mr. Sullivan survived her father, though he treated her with great kindness, yet he had taken no steps to fulfil the promise he had given of introducing her to her family.

Immediately on his death, Mr. Austin came to Webberly House, and expressing his regrets that circ.u.mstances rendered it impossible for him to receive her into his own family, as he was on the point of taking an invalide daughter to the Madeiras, advised her nominating Mrs. Sullivan her guardian in conjunction with himself. Adelaide, abhorring all clandestine proceedings, earnestly solicited Mr. Austin's permission, to inform Mrs. Sullivan for what purpose she was placed under her late husband's protection. To this he consented only in part, refusing his sanction to this lady's being acquainted with the name of Miss Wildenheim's n.o.ble relations; charging her, on the contrary, to conceal it carefully from all the world till she came of age, as he feared her claims would meet with decided opposition from part of her family, and little support from any; and informing her, that a premature disclosure might ruin her future prospects; and that law proceedings would be more costly, and less efficacious, while she was a minor, than when she could act directly for herself. In pursuance, therefore, of this advice, Adelaide, with the reservation of this one point, told Mrs. Sullivan all the particulars she knew of herself and her father; and in so doing, went through a series of interrogations of the most distressing nature, as Mrs. Sullivan, having little delicacy of feeling herself, was really almost unconscious of the wounds she inflicted on that of others. After deliberating a few days, she, as has been before mentioned, consented to accept the proposed guardianship; and Mr. Austin immediately proceeding to the Madeiras, his ward was therefore temporarily deprived of his protection or advice. After relating these particulars, Adelaide endeavoured to explain to Mrs. Temple her reasons for wishing to leave Webberly House; and in executing this unpleasant task, was much embarra.s.sed between the necessity of doing herself justice, by showing she was not actuated by any unreasonable whims or caprices, and her respect for the laws of hospitality, which made her regard as sacred the transactions of any family she domesticated with. But, indeed, she seldom _thought_, and never _said_, the worst the actions of those she a.s.sociated with would warrant. However, Mrs. Temple was one of those who could understand _a demi-mot_, without waiting for a hara.s.sing detail sufficient to satisfy a court of law, and often listened to rather from a love of _slander_ than of _justice_. "I am well aware," continued Adelaide, "that the reception I shall meet with from my relations very much depends on the respectability of the manner, in which I first present myself to their notice. The moment I am of age, Mrs. Sullivan may, and probably will, withdraw her protection from me; for she has lately hinted once or twice, that she much regretted having ever granted it. I therefore think the most advisable course for me to pursue is, to write her a polite letter, conveying my thanks for the asylum she has. .h.i.therto granted me, but expressing my doubts of its being agreeable to her longer to continue it: requesting, if my surmises are well founded, that she will have the goodness to seek an eligible home for me; or,"

continued she, looking mournfully at Mrs. Temple, "permit me to apply to my _only_ friend to aid me in the search: but that, if on mature deliberation she can satisfy her mind, that she really does _wish_ my continuing to reside with her, I shall prefer doing so to domesticating myself in another family, till I can ascertain whether my own will receive me; but that, when this point is once decided, either for or against me, I do not mean to trespa.s.s further on her hospitality. And now, my dear Mrs. Temple, this is the subject, on which I am so anxious to obtain your opinion and that of Mr. Temple. I know not what apology to make for having so long trespa.s.sed on your patience by this tedious recital." Mrs. Temple begged to consult her husband, before she expressed her own ideas, as she feared to trust to her una.s.sisted judgment on a point of so much importance. But before she left the room, she took up a volume of Patronage, and laughingly pointed out to Adelaide's notice the following pa.s.sage:--"You will never be a heroine--What a stupid uninteresting heroine you will make! You will never get into any _entanglements_, never have any adventures; or, if kind fate should, propitious to my prayer, bring you into some charming difficulties, even then we could not tremble for you, or enjoy all the luxury of pity, because we should always know, that you would be so well able to extricate yourself,--so certain to conquer, or,--not die--but endure."

Mrs. Temple, in the first spontaneous benevolence of her heart, had nearly been tempted to offer Adelaide an asylum at the Rectory, till her future line of life should be finally decided; but quickly recollecting what was due to Mr. Temple, repaired to his study, more for the purpose of suggesting it to him, than for that of stating her young friend's queries; which dispatching in as few words as possible, without further preparation, she proposed her own plan in the most abrupt manner possible; and as quickly read in his countenance his marked disapprobation of her inconsiderate project. "My dear Charlotte," said he, after a short pause, "the goodness of your heart makes you always so zealous to promote the happiness of others, that you quite forget your own. But, my love, you must respect the sanctuary of your domestic peace; it, like the Paradise of our first parents, admits of no intruder. I am inclined to believe Miss Wildenheim to be a most estimable young woman. The prudence and uprightness of her present proposition strengthens my former good opinion of her. As long as these impressions remain, I shall be happy to receive her occasionally as a visitor, and will most willingly do any thing to promote her welfare, short of domesticating her in this house. But, setting yourself out of the question, my dear Charlotte, do you think you would act justly towards your daughters (recollect Anna is now eleven years old), by introducing into the very bosom of your family a girl we have so superficial a knowledge of; and whose situation is so doubtful and extraordinary, and who may after all be but a foreign adventurer?" As Mr. Temple said this, his features wore an expression of unusual gravity. "Oh, James!" exclaimed his wife, "don't let your prudence make you unjust: go to her, and if you will impartially look on her ingenuous countenance, and observe her simple manners, you will never p.r.o.nounce her a foreign adventurer. Besides, after knowing Mr. Austin so many years, can you suppose him capable of being an accomplice in a fraud?"

"You are right, my dear Charlotte: I was most unjust," replied Mr.

Temple, his brow relaxing from the austerity that had overcast it a moment before. "And I," said she, extending her hand with a smile of conciliating sweetness, "was equally imprudent." In this confession she was perfectly sincere; she hardly wished to dissuade her husband from his sage resolution; for he had convinced her judgment, though perhaps her feelings were yet unsubdued.

It may here be remarked, that there is something in the ties of relationship, which acts as a sort of necessity, and makes us excuse the faults, which a domestic scene displays in the most perfect characters.

But it is far otherwise in friendship; and those who there court too great intimacy, resemble the man in the fable of the golden eggs, and often destroy in a day riches, that, by wise forbearance, might have lasted their lives.

Mr. Temple, on going up stairs to Adelaide, told her, that the line of conduct she had marked out for herself was the most proper she could adopt, giving it his unqualified approbation. He then proceeded to give her much sage advice, adding to it the most comforting a.s.surances of support and protection. Adelaide poured forth her grat.i.tude and her pleasure, with all the ardency of feelings long suppressed. Her spirits rose in proportion to their previous depression. She once more had the happiness of hearing a reverend voice address her in tones of approbation for her virtues, and of consolation for her distresses.

Perhaps the evening of this anxious day was one of the happiest of her life.

CHAPTER XI.

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 pa.s.sager, hors dans son seul Auteur.

Il est semblable au feu dont la douce chaleur, Dans chaque autre element en secret s' insinue, Descend dans les rochers, s' eleve dans la nue, Va rougir le corail dans le sable des mers, Et vit dans les glacons 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 G.o.d! 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 Parna.s.sian 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 a.s.sociating princ.i.p.ally 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 repet.i.tion 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 a.s.sistance 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 cla.s.ses, 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 circ.u.mstanced 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 s.e.x 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.