Page images
PDF
EPUB

starving himself for the purpose of acquiring a good appetite, becomes, on the contrary, sick, and can eat nothing; and he who takes an extra dose of wine with the hope of making a more brilliant speech to his audience, is very frequently found little better than stupid. It is not that fasting does not produce an appetite, or that wine does not exhilarate; but an overaction of the causes has produced a reaction of effects..

Again: Pleasure is by no means of a malleable nature; we all know it to be brittle enough. Pleasure, like content, cannot be beaten out to cover a space; for, as mercury, when it covers a space, it is no longer quick and though the substance itself is not annihilated, yet it is so changed as to have parted with its essential properties. The very existence of pleasure, for the most part, seems to consist in that which we lament as its defective quality namely, its transitory nature; as the blaze of a star would appear less brilliant were the light steady. Endeavour to arrest some pleasures, and the effect would be as lifeless as that of the painter, who attempts to represent a flying arrow by painting its actual form in his sky. Peace and content are alone made "for all time joy lives in surprises, and delights are heightened by doubt. Lady Teazle, who lamented that roses did not blow all the year round, would have been astonished, perhaps, to hear that she would like roses the less were her desires granted; and perpetuity is such an enemy to fruition, that we have heard of one who had been many years affluent, having positively a hankering after his old excitement of being once more in debt. Content, we may in fine, regard as a wholesome draught, but pleasure as a dram; the one may supply our daily sustenance, but the other must be dealt with sparingly.

Pleasure, "that reeling goddess with the zoneless waist," must also be as unexpected in its approach as flecting in its passage. No holiday is so sweet to a school-boy as that which is suddenly permitted him and he feels more delight by the unexpected discovery that he has half-a-crown in his pocket, than though he had been aware for a week together, he had five shillings locked up in his money box. Some pleasures, like certain trees, perish by change of climate; and the very things which confer delight in one situation, are not even open to our perceptions in another. The atom which dances in the sunbeam is not visible to the eye in the shade, though it equally exists there; and many things to be relished by the palate, like the muscatel, must be eaten or drunk in the country in which they grow. It is a great question whether a Turkish ottoman would give us the repose of a rustic seat, were we to meet with it in a wild and romantic valley, though it be constituted for the express purpose of luxurious ease. There must be a sympathy in all things; we would neither admire a Hercules formed in alabaster, nor a Titania cast in bronze; the delight of sentiment would June, 1845.-VOL. XLIII.—NO. CLXX.

R

be utterly destroyed. The observation almost equally applies to physical and mental gratification.

Premeditated pleasure also as frequently fails as premeditated wit. You wait an occasion which perhaps never arrives, or you force its fulfilment, which is utterly unproductive. The sowing time is its best harvest, for anticipation is all its yielding. Woe be to those in the journey of life who "promise to themselves a great deal of gratification." Not merely does the common uncertainty of mortal things wait on these airy pledges, but it seems that the fondled chances grow up more sickly under the strong nourishment of confidence.

"Checks and disasters

Grow in the veins of actions highest reared."

The promising boy turns out the dunce of the family; the promising lode yields not the payment of working the mine; the promising Christmas affords but a dull festivity; for all these matters having been too anxiously taken out of the common hands of chance for the fancied better security of special promises, the latter stop payment at the very moment we are counting our gains, and principal and interest are lost together.

One of the most elaborate schemes that ever entered into the mind of man, for the security of domestic beatitude, was adopted by a celebrated man, Mr. Thomas Day, but which utterly failed in its promised results. He selected a foundling girl, whose tender mind had as yet been unenlightened, and whose maiden heart had to receive its first impressions. He educated and instructed this being with the view of accomplishing that "divine perfection of woman," and making her his own wife. But what he had promised himself failed; his care, though not thrown away on one undeserving, fell ultimately to the profit of another, to whom she gave herself in marriage. Mr. Day had perhaps found himself a tolerably happy husband, had he left it for "chance to crown him.”

By these suggestions we do not mean that the best line of prudence should not be embraced in all things, but merely that what appears the most advised, should still be held unacquitted of mortal uncertainties, and be invested with no more than a portion of confidence; success will in this way become more triumphant, or failure lose much of its mortification.

Light and trivial examples will frequently prove unfamiliar propositions, as children's toys are fabricated on the principles of mathematical truth. As illustration, therefore, of one particular in our inquiry above, we offer a little domestic incident.

Emma Standish and Julia Perceval were what is called the best friends in the world; that is, they were not intimately acquainted, rarely met, and when they did, it was at some unpremeditated moment, which called into action the welcome exercise of cheerful conversation, in which each had a little manual of incidents to unfold. The principle of free trade was admirably carried out between them; they touched at periods at each other's territories, the interchange of commodities enriched each party, and no duties were demanded but smiles and good-humour.

Miss Standish was the only daughter of a widowed mother. They occupied a house in a fashionable quarter of the town, where Mrs. Standish was occasionally found "at home," receiving a troop of visitors who afforded her the means of gratifying much of her satirical ill nature for the expenses incurred. Her tongue, as John Hall expresses, was like the tails of Samson's foxes, bearing firebrands; but of this her friends were well aware, and repaid her, if not in the same commodity, at least with an equal good-will, by all declaring, if they hated any one person in the world it was Mrs. Standish. This lady once struck up a kind of intimacy with a dowager after her own heart; but it did not last long, for less pleasure was found in abusing a third person in each other's company, than abusing one another at a distance. But Emma was really a nice girl; so innocent her nature, that she durst tell even her dreams; endowed with quick perceptions, too, always excepting that filial blindness which made her quite unconscious of the frailties of her mother.

Julia Perceval, as we have observed was much of Emma's quality. She was also an only child. Her father, a retired general who had served many years in India, and whose fiery liver had made no inroads on his natural good humour, for he was reluctant in believing that that which agreed so perfectly with the latter could have any enmity with the former-namely, port wine, to which he freely conceded the term generous. He was perhaps a little too blunt with the men, and a little too lively with the women; and his religion very like that of the Portuguese-a nun and a bottle. He was, nevertheless, an agreeable companion, but like those whom Coleridge compares to musical glasses, if you would produce their finest effect you must keep them wet.

“Julia is certainly a charming girl," observed Emma Standish one morning to her mother. "How I wish I could see more of her; that we lived nearer; that we could be more frequently together; I should be so happy."

"I hope you are happy," replied her mother, a little reproachfully.

Oh yes, you know I am; but is not Julia agreeable? so very cheerful; has so much to tell us, and there is such an amusing variety in all she says."

"Variety!" repeated Mrs. Standish; "do you mean to say that, like some people, she is never twice in the same story?"

A fortnight had elapsed since the above remark, and the two young companions again met. The usual good humour prevailed, the same belles plaisanteries succeeded.

"You must now, my dear, dear Julia," said Emma at parting, fulfil a pleasure which I have long promised myself; I have thought of it so much-dreamt of it so often."

"Dreamt of it! I wonder if I may ask what it is."

66

Simply this. On Thursday next I shall be alone-all alone. Mamma has an engagement for the whole morning, and you must come to me early, Julia-to breakfast. Bring your work, and we will pass a long day together. Shan't we be happy?"

"What! a whole day! from breakfast to bedtime?" exclaimed her equally delighted friend.

"Yes, yes; and mind, early, quite early, you cannot come too soon. We shall have such a number of things to do; so much to say; but the jealous, envious time will pass too rapidly, I fear. We will "

"Walk? drive?"

"Oh no, no! I want you for a long day all to myself--all by

ourselves."

It was indeed fortunate for Emma that Thursday next was no distant date, for she absolutely slept not a wink in the intermediate time. Her long nights were passed in anticipation of her "long day," till she began to look as eagerly for it as a Mahomedan for the new moon and approaching Ramadan.

Thursday at length arrived, and Emma was "stirring with the lark." A drizzling rain ushered in the morning, but there was a day-spring within, which the external gloom could not invade. By nine o'clock the carriage of General Perceval drew up to the door of Mrs. Standish. Emma sprang forward to meet her friend. So warm was the welcome on one part, and so hearty the salutation on the other, as to give the appearance of a sudden recognition of bosom friends whom the chances of war had long kept asunder, or even of two lovers, who, from the depths of despair had been unexpectedly thrown into each other's arms.

66

My dear, dear Julia, this is indeed kind of you," exclaimed the enraptured Emma; "you are come so early, the day is all our own; mamma will not be seen till dinner-hour.'

66

Why, we shall be too happy," replied the sparkling companion, whilst she thought on Time with Dr. Young, "How much is to be done."

66

The ceremony of breakfast now proceeded. The Mocha berry and the Hyson leaf poured out their fragrance. The hissing urn" threw up its liberated vapour, which mingled the sublimation of busy thoughts, which burst from the lips of the two friends, as

though condensation were no longer a law of nature. The volubility of speech, the rattle of china-the talk, the toast—the mirth, the prawns-had already consumed an hour. It was past ten, and much past belief, when the service was removed, and the apartment free to the day's enjoyment.

"What shall we do first?" eagerly demanded the young hostess "You have brought your work? Your tambour frame?"

"No, Emma, indeed; I knew I should have no time for working it. Besides, I wouldn't have anything supply one moment of your society. Let's talk."

"And so we will," replied Emma, drawing her chair still nearer to her companion. "What a crowd last Tuesday at Lady Ellesmere's! Do tell me about this Mr. Harvey; he certainly likes you."

"Oh! I think he thinks so," replied Julia, laughing. “I don't hesitate to say I found him agreeable." Thereupon a very interesting narrative ensued, in which Julia took her turn as the principal speaker.

The history which she now entered upon, as it forms a chapter, with but slight variations, in the fortunes of most young ladies, we will spare our readers; suffice, that another hour was lost to these co-heiresses of time's estate, when they again turned to see how their account stood, mutually regretting their joint possession was sensibly diminishing.

Here Emma, by a kind of involuntary action, again poured out her expressions of delight at their present meeting, which being so abruptly parenthetical, snapped asunder the long thread of trifles, without taking up a new skein, so that for the first time, their tongues were brought to a halt; in fact, they had breathed their steeds so quickly over the favourable flat, that the bit of rising ground which now presented itself mat rially checked their pace, for,

"He who mounts him on the swiftest steed,

Will sooner bring his courser to a stand."

The pause continued; an embarass almost amounting to pain occupied the parties; cach expecting the other was on the very brink of saying something, both remained silent.

"My dear Emma," observed Julia, rather abruptly, "I half regret I did not bring my tambour frame, it might have amused you."

66

Oh! no, my love," responded the other, "it was for your sake I made the inquiry. I thought you might snatch five minutes for continuing it—but I see it is impossible."

Here, another fragmental chapter was brought to a close. Each lady caught the eye of the other-both smiled, but not a word was uttered.

« PreviousContinue »