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 "-'■: ; 
 
 .:
 
 U8RAHY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 TEMPER 
 
 AND 
 
 TEMPERAMENT; 
 
 OR, 
 
 VARIETIES OF CHARACTER, 
 
 BY MRS. ELLIS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND,' 
 
 FISHER, SON, & CO. 
 ANGEL STREET, ST. MARTIN'S -LE- GRAND, LONDON.
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 We shall never be able rightly to discharge the duty we 
 owe to our fellow-creatures, until we have made ourselves 
 intimately acquainted with the varieties of human cha- 
 racter, and with the peculiar requirements of different 
 dispositions. Anything, however trifling in other respects, 
 which throws light upon this subject, is of important 
 service to society ; and it is with the view of adding a 
 few simple lessons to this great and glorious study, that 
 the present work is offered to the attention of the 
 public. 
 
 HODDESDON, 
 
 February 1st, 1846.
 
 EMBELLISHMENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Birthday Queen frontispiece 42 
 
 Horace and the Sexton vignette 49 
 
 Hope's rosy Morn 36 
 
 The happy Travellers — Pyrenees . < 72 
 
 The Secret Told 86 
 
 My Father's Home 115 
 
 The tenderest links are thus suddenly broken 163 
 
 It was a glorious scene 222 
 
 They are safe — they are safe 237 
 
 A scene in Devonshire 265
 
 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY OBSERVATIONS. 
 
 There is no class of peculiarities more important to be 
 considered in the social intercourse of life, than those 
 which belong to temper and temperament. It is not 
 enough for intimate association, that two friends think 
 alike on some of the leading questions of public or private 
 interest. Reasoning from the same facts may bring 
 two or more minds to the same conclusion, and thus 
 persons are apt to imagine there must necessarily be 
 a similarity of character amongst those who are so agreed ; 
 but let the case under consideration be one of personal 
 feeling, and the same individuals will sometimes start off 
 to an immeasurable distance from each other, equally sur- 
 prised and disappointed that it has not been seen and felt 
 by others in the same manner with themselves. To them 
 it is so plain, so evident, so palpable, that a certain good 
 to be attained is the greatest good, that they feel indig- 
 nant at its desirableness being called in question by their 
 
 B
 
 2 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 friends ; while, on the other hand, the evil they wonld 
 shun, is so certainly an evil, that they are offended at the 
 mistaken individual who has inflicted it upon them as a 
 good. 
 
 We readily make allowance for the friend whose asthma 
 prevents his climbing with us to the summit of a hill, 
 and even for another whose natural constitution of body 
 renders him incapable of enjoying the heated atmosphere 
 of our favourite room. We wait patiently for the lame 
 guest who cannot keep pace with us in our garden walks, 
 nor do we think of grudging to the invalid visitor, those 
 indulgences which to ourselves would be more punishment 
 than pleasure. This kind of consideration we see prac- 
 tised every day, and we practise it ourselves, only with 
 this reserve — we take care not to set out upon a moun- 
 tainous journey with our asthmatic friend, nor to spend a 
 winter with him who cannot bear a heated room ; and so 
 on with the rest ; bearing, so far as it must be borne, with 
 their peculiarities of constitution, but avoiding, both for 
 their sakes and our own, that personal association which 
 is entirely a matter of choice. 
 
 Nothing is more various, or more difficult to explain, 
 than the origin of intimacies, both those which grow into 
 friendship, and those which kindle into love. Similarity 
 of taste or of opinion may perhaps be adduced as the most 
 general foundation of the one, and personal liking of the 
 other. Temper and temperament are amongst the last 
 things taken into consideration in both, except so far 
 as an irritable temper may spoil the harmony of a social 
 evening, or a mild one impart softness to an attractive 
 face. 
 
 It is true that peculiarities of temper and temperament 
 are seldom developed to any great extent under the
 
 INTRODUCTORY OBSERVATIONS. 3 
 
 smooth complacences of polished society ; but this is no 
 argument against their not being thought about, watched 
 for, and regarded as most important indications, when- 
 ever they do appear ; and still less is it an argument 
 against what these pages are written to illustrate — the 
 necessity of understanding them, and of treating them 
 rationally when circumstances have brought them to our 
 knowledge. 
 
 Temper is too generally considered only as either bad 
 or good ; while possibly no two individuals in the world 
 would agree in what was really a good or a bad temper as 
 it affected themselves • for as well might the physician 
 endeavour to simplify his treatment of disease, by refer- 
 ring it only to a good or a bad constitution of body, as 
 the moralist, judging only by degree, to pronounce 
 upon temper in this summary and unphilosophical man- 
 ner. And after all, the goodness or the badness of a 
 temper has little to do with its suitablity to our own, for 
 it is quite possible for the serenest of all tempers to pro- 
 voke almost to fury a temper the opposite to itself; and 
 however important it may therefore be to take into 
 account the temper and temperament of others, it is still 
 more so to examine and understand our own. 
 
 To the man who is open, frank, impetuous, and irri- 
 table, a sullen, sly, and suspicious temper will be the 
 worst ; while to the sullen, if he be at the same time deep- 
 feeling and revengeful, an irritable, bold, and impetuous 
 temper will be the most intolerable. Each of these indi- 
 viduals would, without doubt, and might with some justice, 
 complain of the bad temper of the other ; and it is not 
 difficult to see that the wider they could be separated, the 
 better it would be for their peace of mind. But temper 
 and temperament exist not alone. Each may be qualified 
 
 b 2
 
 4 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 by some other consideration, and both, whatever be their 
 nature or tendency, may be so cultivated and improved as 
 to harmonize with something that is good. 
 
 It is a mortifying discovery to find that we have set out 
 on a pedestrian tour with a companion who is lame ; but 
 it does not mend the matter to keep urging him on beyond 
 his speed, or reproaching him because he is unable to keep 
 pace with ourselves. There are diseases of mind as well 
 as body, and ebullitions of unamiable temper are often 
 nothing more than the natural indications of one or both. 
 When symptoms of fever are discovered in the pulse of a 
 sister or a brother, we do everything which affection can 
 suggest to calm and to soothe. When symptoms of irrita- 
 tion of temper appear, it is unnecessary to ask whether 
 the same precautions are resorted to. The irritated person, 
 who has the least power to reason correctly, or to act aright, 
 is always the party most blamed ; and never to have been 
 in a passion one's-self, is, according to general opinion, a far 
 higher merit than never to have provoked one in another. 
 
 That mismanagement of temper, however, w r hich is so 
 deeply to be regretted in the social and domestic inter- 
 course of life, arises much more from carelessness and 
 want of knowledge of the human mind, than from any 
 other cause ; and the farther the subject is examined — 
 the better it is understood, the more it will be brought 
 home to our sympathies, as requiring the interchange of 
 mutual forbearance between man and man, and the 
 exercise of that tenderness which arises out of a deep 
 sense of our own liability to offend. 
 
 The question very naturally arises — what is meant by tem- 
 per and temperament ? By the latter I would be understood 
 to mean, in the foundation of human character, something 
 equivalent to the soil of a garden or a field, which pro-
 
 INTRODUCTORY OBSERVATIONS. 5 
 
 duces some kinds of trees and plants with much greater 
 facility than others ; though it may, by careful and perse- 
 vering cultivation, be made to yield what it would never 
 yield spontaneously ; and by temper I would be under- 
 stood to mean, those occasional manifestations of peculiar 
 temperament, which may be compared to the results pro- 
 duced by atmospheric changes, climate, and culture, oper- 
 ating upon the soil above alluded to, which, though tran- 
 sient in their display, and arising out of accidental causes, 
 still bear a general and necessary analogy to the founda- 
 tion from whence they spring. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to say, in a work of this kind, 
 that my aim is to write popularly, rather than scientifically. 
 I would therefore endeavour farther to illustrate my view 
 of the subject of temper and temperament, by describing 
 the latter as denoting that habitual or constitutional ten- 
 dency of character which may be said to lean towards 
 hope or despondency, trust or suspicion, repose or action ; 
 and so on through all the different phases of human 
 existence ; while of the former I would speak as the occa- 
 sional development of such tendency, in a stronger and 
 more decided form, called forth by collision with other 
 natures, or by passing circumstances, whatever they may 
 happen to be. 
 
 But beyond this question, which relates merely to the 
 meaning of the writer, there naturally arises another of 
 far higher importance relating to the writer's design — a 
 question why the subject is taken up at all, and especially 
 when it is so intricate, so little understood, and so seldom 
 made the object of serious and impartial consideration by 
 the world at large. It is in reality these three reasons for not 
 taking it up, which operate with me in exactly the opposite 
 way. Because it is intricate, I would do my best to make
 
 (j TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 it clear, so far at least as relates to its mode of operation 
 upon individuals and society ; because it is little under- 
 stood, I would exhibit in one view some of the most stri- 
 king characters it is accustomed to assume ; and because 
 it is but little regarded by mankind in general, I would 
 endeavour to show how it frequently lies at the root of 
 happiness and of misery, through the whole course of 
 human life. 
 
 This important subject would be treated to very little 
 purpose, however, if it were not intended to illustrate the 
 importance of early and judicious culture, as relates both 
 to temper and temperament, the equal importance of 
 taking both into account in all the associations entered 
 into with our fellow-beings, and the still greater impor- 
 tance of exercising christian charity, where there is no 
 longer a possibility of amending what it is too late to 
 avoid.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 
 
 " There sung a sweet bird in the spring of the year, 
 It sung in the forest, it sung in the grove, 
 So gaily the young lambs they listened to hear; 
 And the song that was sweetest, was ever of love. 
 
 " It sung of the wild flowers, it sung of the dew, 
 It sung of the sweet-scented blossoms above, 
 It sung of its home, and away the bird flew ; 
 
 But the song the woods echoed the last, was of love." 
 
 The words of this simple song rung merrily over a thymy 
 common, as an idle loitering nursemaid strolled along one 
 bright May morning, sometimes placing her burden on 
 the ground, and sinking down herself amongst the soft 
 deep grass, and then again resuming, with every token of 
 endearment, the inert and shapeless bundle, which, but 
 that it was surmounted by a large head, and larger hat, 
 and feather corresponding to the size of both, might have 
 been mistaken for a mass of shawls and pelisses, without 
 any 
 
 " mortal mixture of earth's mould.' 
 
 And still that gay carol echoed sweetly from bank and 
 bush, and seemed as if it soothed into complacent silence 
 the dark and heavy boy, whose ruling principle was that 
 of never walking, when there was a possibility of being 
 carried.
 
 8 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 An addition of no great importance to this party, might 
 often be seen in the slight figure of a little girl about one 
 year older than the boy, skimming about, for her feet were 
 so small she scarcely seemed to run, after the gay butter- 
 flies, and not unfrequently losing herself amongst the 
 intricacies of some leafy dell, until the song of the nurse- 
 maid brought her back with her hands full of cowslips 
 to give to the brother, who was already taught by the 
 practical lessons of every day, that whatever was pretty, 
 or whatever was good, was his to demand and 
 to receive. 
 
 But happily for the community at large, the family of 
 the Grants had no power to appropriate either that fine 
 bold common, or the fresh pure breezes which blew over it ; 
 and other nurses, with other children, were accustomed 
 to resort there on clear May mornings, though none of 
 them sung so sweetly or so often as the nurse who carried 
 Horace Grant. Indeed she was a light-hearted, laughing, 
 silly sort of creature, as ignorant as the birds that echoed 
 her own melody, though at the same time there was 
 a touch of the romantic in many of the foolish tales she 
 told, which gave her as much importance in the eyes of 
 her juvenile companions, as if she had been cognizant of 
 principles, or mistress of learned tongues. 
 
 It was with feelings bordering upon contempt, that 
 Horace Grant and his sister regarded a very different 
 personage in the capacity of nurse, who often met them in 
 their walks — a sharp, business-like, matter-of-fact sort of 
 woman, who never sung a song, nor told a fairy tale, and 
 who could with difficulty be prevailed upon to sit down for 
 five minutes to gossip with a neighbour, when more im- 
 portant avocations awaited her at home. Her principal 
 charge, too, was extremely different from the Grants — a
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 9 
 
 rosy -faced girl, with quick hazel eyes, arid hair which 
 might be either red or auburn as time should decide. 
 
 With this little girl the two Grants were fond of playing, 
 while their older companions talked over the news of the 
 day ; and though Lucy Grant alone took an active part in 
 these amusements, the great heavy boy looked on with 
 evident satisfaction depicted in his countenance. On this 
 occasion he managed to mix himself up more than usual 
 in what was going on, and even ventured to demand of 
 the young stranger the same contribution of flowers and 
 feathers which his sister was accustomed with such un- 
 sparing generosity to place within his eager grasp. Lucy 
 Grant was, however, a very different sort of person to trans- 
 act business with, to the little red-haired girl, and no 
 sooner had the young heir-apparent of the Grant family 
 demanded his accustomed tribute from this quarter, than 
 an indignant exclamation burst from the little heroine, 
 and at the same moment seizing the proud plume which 
 hung in massive dignity from the broad hat of her 
 opponent, it was torn in an instant from its hold, and the 
 hat itself hurled down into the brook, beside which the 
 children had been playing. 
 
 In another moment the two nurses had pounced upon 
 their respective property, and the epithet u naughty !" 
 pronounced with extreme emphasis, was abundantly be- 
 stowed on every hand, though nobody knew exactly to 
 whom it belonged, only that Lucy Grant, being accustomed 
 on every occasion to more than her share of blame, burst 
 into tears of absolute terror, believing herself as usual to 
 be the greatest offender. 
 
 Had any one watched the countenance of the dark 
 heavy boy under the indignity which he yet wanted energy 
 to resent, they would have seen a brooding vengeance,
 
 10 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 almost terrific in the features of one so young. But no 
 one was near who understood enough of human nature 
 either to notice the indications of such a spirit, or to 
 know how it ought to be treated ; and the two parties 
 separated, the nursemaid of the Grants going muttering 
 home the whole way about the "naughty little girl," the 
 " naughty nurse," the " naughty people," and, if she could 
 have embodied the sentiment in words, she would have 
 added the " naughty world," that could allow her darling 
 boy to be injured in so tender a point as the beautiful 
 feather of his new hat. 
 
 Very different was the state of feeling in which the 
 offending party returned. Rather than take home her 
 charge in the vociferous and screaming condition in which 
 she was sometimes deposited in her mother's arms, the 
 nurse belonging to the establishment of Major Vining 
 endeavoured, and not without success, to soothe her little 
 charge into a state of self-complacency by no means 
 foreign to her nature ; for often when most conscious of 
 having done wrong, the fair and blooming Harriet would 
 wear the sweetest smiles, and talk and prattle in a manner 
 so winning, acting so entirely up to that standard which 
 in the nursery is called " good," that a stranger would 
 have suspected her to have been recently exhibiting in 
 her own person a pattern of all excellence, rather than 
 offending, as it must be confessed she often did, against 
 every feeling of kindness and of common respect. 
 
 In short, Harriet Vining was not inaptly denominated by 
 her father, a " perfect little vixen ;" but, unlike some of 
 the most distinguished individuals who have figured under 
 this head, she had not unfrequently a prudent regard for 
 consequences, so that the violence of her passion was no 
 sooner expended, than she began to think of her own
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. ] 1 
 
 position as a culprit, and how she might best be restored 
 to favour, and secured from punishment. There were two 
 methods by which this happy result was almost invariably 
 insured ; — by quietness as regarded her father, for not to 
 disturb him in his own person was the highest merit 
 Major Vining had ever imagined in his children ; and by 
 coaxing, and an excessive display of nursery goodness, 
 towards her mother ; for as Mrs. Vining lived almost 
 entirely in this department of her household, and was 
 naturally sickly and weak-spirited, very much younger than 
 her husband, and what the world calls one of the most 
 devoted of mothers, the good humour of her children 
 naturally went a long way with her — poor woman ! — and 
 their endearments still farther. 
 
 Major Vining was a hot-tempered, prompt, authoritative 
 man, who having spent the greatest portion of his life in 
 active service, with numbers under his command, and 
 having been accustomed to regulate his men as a master- 
 workman regulates machinery, had no other idea of good 
 government, than that of maintaining order ; and no 
 other idea of maintaining order, than by the word of 
 command. Thus, to despise his authority was to commit 
 the one unpardonable sin ; while to obey, and to be quiet, 
 constituted with him the highest merit. 
 
 It will readily be supposed, that the society of such a 
 father was more irksome than agreeable to his children, 
 and that the summons which released them from his 
 presence, to scamper upstairs to the nursery at the top of 
 the house, was sometimes hailed with a joy beyond the 
 power of prudence wholly to suppress, until the time 
 when it might be appropriately indulged. Still the 
 example of such a father, foreign as he was to all inti- 
 macy with his children, did not pass daily before their
 
 12 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 eyes, without its effect. They saw that to rule with undis- 
 puted authority, was to possess always the power of enjoy- 
 ing oneself in one's own way, without regard to others ; 
 and they some of them soon began to long for the time 
 when they also should possess authority. 
 
 Harriet Vining, the oldest, and the little red-haired 
 girl already described, was not slow to imbibe ideas of 
 this description. Inheriting along with her father's com- 
 plexion, his constitutional tendency to prompt and decisive 
 action, she was a quick recipient of all those ideas arising 
 out of the delights of domination ; and while, perhaps 
 from constitutional resemblance, she called forth more of 
 playful tenderness from her father than was exercised 
 towards any other person, she on her part looked up to 
 liim as the most honourable, and the most enviable of 
 human beings, and as such she freely rendered to him 
 the greatest amount of respect. 
 
 But it was not from her father alone, that Harriet 
 learned the lessons which were to influence her future life. 
 Up stairs in that high nursery, there sat a listless, feeble, 
 bending figure — feeble both in body and mind ; one who, 
 if she had been placed upon a throne, would inevitably 
 have fallen off, even though she had been bolstered up on 
 every side. Those who are too helpless to stand alone, 
 have always a sort of wounded feeling about them, owing 
 to the many slights, and bruises, and buffetings they 
 receive in mixing with the more active and important 
 elements of society; and therefore, especially to them, 
 any little passing kindness, from whatever source, is sure 
 to be acceptable, because it soothes for the time the 
 wounds under which, they continually suffer. 
 
 Towards such a mother, it was perfectly natural that 
 self-interest should dictate to Harriet Vining the expe-
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 13 
 
 diency of exhibiting all the coaxing, and all the fondness, 
 of which she was capable ; but while her mother was the 
 happy subject of her infant caresses, there was already 
 growing in her heart a secret contempt for one who could 
 allow herself to be so helpless, and inefficient, and con- 
 sequently so looked down upon by others; for children 
 are quick in their perceptions of the moral relations of 
 different members of a household, and eyes less discern- 
 ing than Harriet's, might have perceived that " poor Mrs. 
 Vining," as her best friends were apt to call her, was 
 nobody in her own house. 
 
 But already another party, much more important in 
 their own esteem, are awaiting the consideration of the 
 patient reader, and there sits Master Grant upon his 
 mother's knee, listening with lordly indignation to the 
 recital of his nurse, who details to the angry lady, every 
 particular of the story of the feather, with sundry addi- 
 tions of her own, such as would not be unlikely to occur 
 to one whose narrations to her little auditors had always 
 more of the false than the true ; and always, too, had some- 
 thing to stir up feeling of one kind or other, no matter 
 to her whether it was right or wrong, so long as she 
 amused herself and others by getting up something like 
 a scene. 
 
 i\nd now Mrs. Grant, who was a very important woman, 
 sat in judgment upon the little culprit, her neighbour's 
 child ; and w T hile the torn feather and the bent hat lay 
 silent witnesses upon the floor before her, and Lucy 
 looked up into her mother's face with an expression of 
 perfect awe depicted on her own, the heinousness of pas- 
 sion and sin of every kind was set forth by the offended 
 parent, who never felt the full force of either, so much as 
 when they happened to be exercised to the injury of her 
 or hers.
 
 14 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Mrs. Grant was a widow, and that might in some 
 decree account for the concentration of interest with 
 which she regarded her only son, the heir to considerable 
 property, and who, born a few weeks after the death of 
 his father, might very reasonably engage the tenderest 
 feelings of his sole remaining parent. But beyond this 
 circumstance, the affections of Mrs. Grant had naturally a 
 very limited range, though, like a pent-up stream, they 
 were strong in proportion. She had loved her husband 
 with a feeling bordering upon devotion, and she now 
 loved her fatherless boy in the same manner. Perhaps 
 she loved herself, too, and most persons would have called 
 her a selfish woman ; but since, in all personal consider- 
 ations, there was one being whose gratification was 
 regarded more than her own, there remained a redeeming 
 feature in her character, not always found to set against 
 the sins of the selfish. 
 
 A casual observer of Mrs. Grant in her widow's weeds, 
 contemplating that tall, dark, and somewhat hard-featured 
 woman, would scarcely have suspected her of loving any- 
 thing ; and certainly there was little of tenderness at any 
 time mingled with her fondest emotions. She had herself 
 been brought up in a stern, hard school, and even in early 
 life knew nothing of those gentle endearments which fur- 
 nish a natural and salutary outlet for the overflowing affec- 
 tions of youth ; and thus in later life, when she would 
 willingly have died to save, she was wholly ignorant how 
 to soothe, the being she most loved. 
 
 Her little daughter felt this more than any one, for the 
 cold answer, and the harsh rebuke, had so often chilled 
 the warm emotions of her young spirit, that already a 
 shadow seemed to have fallen over her dark-blue eyes ; 
 but it might be only from the long eyelashes, which, like
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE, 15 
 
 her hair, were "black as the raven's wing, and gave to her 
 countenance, in connection with an unusually pale com- 
 plexion, an expression of premature thoughtfulness, bor- 
 dering upon melancholy. It was strange indeed, that the 
 partial mother should turn away so often with compara- 
 tive indifference from this little meek appealing child, 
 whose eyes were so full of tenderness that they wept both 
 for joy and sorrow. And joy enough she had sometimes, 
 in her own humble way — joy in the bright sunshine, and 
 the gay flowers — joy in the wide common, the pure breeze, 
 and the green leaves, that cast their nickering shadows in 
 the woodland brook — joy in the cuckoo's song, and in all 
 the jocund melodies of spring — and joy in her own little 
 heart, already schooled in the deep wisdom of ministering 
 to others' joy. 
 
 It was strange, that neither the mother nor the nurse 
 thought much of this little tender- spirited child, always 
 ready as she was to fetch and carry, and do everything 
 required of her, but most ready to do what she thought 
 would please her brother, the all-important object of her 
 mother's partial love. To him, and to his good, she was 
 taught, as one of her first duties, to refer every action of 
 her life ; and, had not another voice been heard sometimes 
 to whisper in the secret of her heart, she might have grown 
 up with the idea that neither good nor evil were so of 
 themselves, and in their own nature, but only as they 
 affected the wishes and the well-being of Horace Grant. 
 It is not pretended that such a mode of reasoning was 
 actually taught through the medium of words. Mrs. 
 Grant was a woman of generally acknowledged talent, and 
 she knew better than to speak absurdities to any one. 
 She failed, however, sufficiently to consider that absurdi- 
 ties may be acted, as well as spoken — that those around
 
 1§ TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 us, and particularly the young, are often influenced by 
 what we do, in a manner diametrically opposite from what 
 they would be, were our words alone their guide. 
 
 But what could there be, the stranger naturally asks, 
 in that giant boy, to call forth so much devoted tenderness 
 — with his large sleepy eyes, his pouting lips, and his 
 limbs too massive for exertion ? The fact was, the poor 
 child was over-fed, over-nursed, over-petted. It was no 
 fault of his, that his appetite was pampered until he 
 scarcely knew what healthy hunger was. It was no fault 
 of his, that his wishes were consulted, until he scarcely 
 had a wish at all. It was no fault of his, that every- 
 thing was made easy to him, until he never felt himself 
 at ease. It was no fault of his, that his selfishness was 
 ministered unto, until he lost all pleasure in himself. The 
 three things he most wanted were, a little spare diet, 
 exercise, and wholesome discipline. Had Horace Grant 
 known these in early life, he might have been a noble and 
 a happy man ; for, even as it was, there were dawnings of 
 a better nature about him, and heart-warm smiles that 
 sometimes dimpled over his face, and bright beaming 
 looks so full of intelligence and truth, that the mother 
 who ruined such a boy ought to have taken shame to her- 
 self for her miscalculating indulgence. 
 
 If, however, the countenance of the boy was capable of 
 being thus enlivened, it was equally capable of a shade too 
 dark for expression — a something like absolute blackness, 
 which came over it for a moment, making him almost 
 terrific in his power to resist or to revenge; and Lucy 
 always quailed before this look in her brother, and crept 
 away from him, as if at such times his good angel had 
 deserted him and her. It was not passion which called 
 forth this expression of countenance in the boy, for he had
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 17 
 
 scarcely sufficient energy to be called passionate. It was 
 like the stirring of some deep and latent fire, that might 
 in after-life awaken into passion ; and once or twice, in his 
 short experience, it had already shown to what desperate 
 lengths he was capable of being impelled by its momentary 
 influence. Once, in particular, his sister's life was endan- 
 gered by his violence, but the next moment his better 
 feelings returned, and he kissed and hung about her so 
 fondly, that he was more than forgiven, and loved even 
 better than before. 
 
 Thus lived and grew the children of these two families. 
 Their lives, of course, were chequered by many circum- 
 stances, differing widely in nature and in consequence 
 from what are here recorded ; but, as these may be said to 
 have chiefly constituted the foundation of those peculiarities 
 of Temper and Temperament about to be traced out, it is 
 sufficient to have dwelt upon them alone, leaving others to 
 be supposed to have existed, according to the common 
 course of human affairs.
 
 18 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The glad season of the summer-holidays came not more 
 pleasantly to any of the thousands then set free from 
 school, than to Horace Grant and his sister, with whom 
 every half-year's separation seemed to increase their 
 delight in each other's society ; and now they wandered 
 together over the thymy common, where their infant feet 
 had strayed, and recalled the old familiar songs they used 
 to listen to in those seemingly far-off days. And often did 
 they laugh, to think that such songs had afforded them so 
 much delight, for Lucy was becoming skilled in the art of 
 music herself; and all the fashionable sayings and doings of 
 the boarding-school in town to which she had been sent, 
 were beginning to take effect upon her hitherto unsophis- 
 ticated mind, though she still thought the country, each 
 time of returning to it, as beautiful as ever, and her own 
 brother the very prince of all fine boys. 
 
 And Horace Grant was in reality a fine boy, though 
 cast in something of herculean mould, and not so agile 
 as he was muscular and powerful. His mind, too, partook 
 of the same character, slow in its operations, but deep- 
 thinking, and capable of indelible impressions. On first 
 mixing with other boys at school, he had narrowly escaped 
 obtaining the character of an intolerable dunce ; but ambi- 
 tion having fired the latent energies of his character, he 
 became more ardent and determined in his pursuit of
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 19 
 
 knowledge than any one of his companions. In fact, he 
 was a boy who needed only a sufficient motive, to have 
 made him anything he chose to be ; and, had not the free 
 exercise of his strong intellect been hindered by a host of 
 morbid sensibilities, Horace Grant might have been a 
 leading and an efficient man in whatever station he had 
 filled. 
 
 The brother and the sister, as they now roamed together, 
 their heads filled with ideas originating in associations so 
 different from those of their childhood, might well look 
 back with smiles to the bygone days, when to listen to a 
 nurse's ditty was one of their chief delights ; they might 
 well smile, for they neither of them knew how much the^ 
 wild sweet voice of this nurse, the liberty of that open 
 common, the flowers they gathered on its sloping sides, 
 the play of the young lambs in the broomy dells, the 
 warbling of the birds, and all the beautiful, the glad, and 
 harmonious associations which nature afforded them in 
 their summer rambles, had to do with originating trains 
 of thought and feeling, without which the whole aspect of 
 human life would have been to them both comparatively 
 barren, and devoid of interest. They might smile at those 
 old songs, but Lucy never sung with half so much effect 
 herself, as when she threw open her whole heart to these 
 early impressions, and, forgetting the piano, the music- 
 master, and the crowded school-room, went back in idea to 
 all the sweet influences of nature, as they had surrounded 
 the home of her infancy ; they might smile, too, at those 
 fairy tales, by which every drop of dew was accounted for, 
 as well as every flower and blade of grass ; but the young 
 scholar never felt his mind so refreshed and invigorated, 
 as when, rejecting this nursery lore, he still pursued a 
 similar train of thought, looking from the material to the 
 
 c 2
 
 20 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 spiritual — from the palpable and perishable, to the invisible 
 and eternal. 
 
 There was much, too, in the strong sense and intelligent 
 mind of their mother, which had produced in the little 
 Grants an intellectual tendency of character beyond what 
 many of their young friends evinced. It was in her moral 
 training alone, that Mrs. Grant was in fault ; and thus she 
 exhibited in her own character, what is not unfrequently 
 observed in clever women, a total incapacity for managing 
 her children ; while, on the other hand, there are many 
 women whose pretensions to talent are extremely limited, 
 possessing a degree of moral influence justly envied by 
 all who have the training of youth. 
 
 " And now," said Lucy to her brother on the day of 
 their first long ramble together, "you must tell me your 
 secret. This is the quietest spot in the whole valley. Let 
 us sit down together by the side of the brook." 
 
 It was indeed a secluded and delightful retreat which 
 Lucy had chosen; but Horace looked round not altogether 
 satisfied, for there was an idle loitering boy not far distant, 
 and Bruno, the great Newfoundland dog, his constant 
 companion, started every moment, and pricked his ears, as 
 if he too suspected some impertinent intrusion. 
 
 u Never mind him \" said Lucy, looking round; "it is 
 only that idle boy of old Dawson's. He is Climbing up 
 the side of the common, he will soon be out of sight." 
 
 u Let us wait until he is ?" replied her brother, and 
 they sauntered on towards a spot where the waters of the 
 brook, hemmed in by higher banks, were said to be deep 
 and dangerous. 
 
 " I know a place here," said Horace, " where nobody 
 can find us ;" and, pleased with the adventure, he led his 
 sister by the hand from stone to stone, sometimes crossing
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 21 
 
 the brook, and at other times clambering up amongst the 
 bushes, until at last they found themselves close by the 
 margin of a little lake or pool, where the water was so 
 deep as no longer to break into ripples as it flowed. 
 
 Lucy was delighted with the retreat, and Horace proud 
 to have conducted her with safety to such a place. So 
 they both sat down with extreme complacency, a little 
 interrupted on the weaker side, by the idea that there 
 must at least be a shadow of danger, where the stream 
 looked so deep, and the banks so high. This idea, how- 
 ever, she was prudent enough to keep to herself ; and when 
 her brother had brought her a large flat stone for her feet, 
 and spread his handerchief for her to sit down upon, she 
 felt too happy to allow any thought of danger to interfere 
 with her serenity. 
 
 The story now began. It was a long school history of 
 injury and wrong committed on the part of a certain young 
 Berkeley, who it seemed was the class and play rival of 
 Horace, equally able from his quickness and intelligence 
 to compete with him in the acquisition of learning, as, 
 from his activity and skill, to contest with him the palm of 
 victory in every boyish exercise. 
 
 " At first," said Horace, " I liked young Berkeley. He 
 seemed to be a frank open-hearted fellow, and if he would 
 but have kept his place, I believe I should have liked him 
 still. But, somehow or other, he seems to have got up a 
 party on his side, who back him in everything he does." 
 
 " And have not you a party on yours ?" asked Lucy, 
 with profound interest. 
 
 " To be sure I have," replied her brother ; " and fine 
 bovs thev are, too. But, let me see — there's one — two — 
 three — four, on my side, leaving this quarter. And that's 
 not all, either. I don't care to be equal. I must stand
 
 22 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 first — I must bring young Berkeley down, for I hate him, 
 Lucy — I hate him with all my heart." 
 
 As Horace Grant said this, his sister almost started 
 from his side, for there came over his countenance that 
 dark and fierce expression which it had occasionally worn 
 even in childhood. It passed away, however, in a moment, 
 and he would have resumed his story, but that the loosen- 
 ing of some earth on the top of the bank, and the rolling 
 of a few pebbles down into the bed of the stream, startled 
 both the narrator and the listener to their feet, not, how- 
 ever, so soon as Bruno had darted up the bank, where he 
 now growled in a manner which indicated to Horace the 
 certainty of some one being near. Heedless of the situa- 
 tion of poor Lucy, he too scrambled up amongst the 
 bushes, and she soon heard the loud voice of authority 
 from her brother threatening some one, whom she supposed 
 to be the boy they had before seen — to shoot if he dared. 
 It was a frightful and ominous threat, and Lucy was pre- 
 paring to escape as she could, when the discharge of a gun, 
 almost immediately overhead, arrested her progress. It 
 was followed by the loud howling of a dog, and immediately 
 afterwards a crackling amongst the bushes, and a heavy 
 plunge in the water below her feet. 
 
 " Bruno! poor Bruno, they have killed him!" exclaimed 
 Lucy in her terror. But, no. The dog was still howling 
 above. 
 
 " Lend me your shawl — bonnet-strings — anything," 
 said a voice beside her, and immediately she saw the 
 figure of the boy plunging in the stream. The next 
 moment it was rolling over and over, and the next gliding 
 rapidly onward with the head towards a place where the 
 water dashed down with violence into the course of a mill- 
 stream.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 23 
 
 " Fetch him, Bruno — fetch him!" was the next cry that 
 Lucy heard ; but Bruno was bleeding and lame, and slow 
 to obey his master's voice. 
 
 " I must save him myself V exclaimed Horace ; and 
 he sprang into the water, determined, if he could not 
 effect his purpose, to perish with the victim of his own 
 vengeance. 
 
 Lucy would have covered her face with her hands, but 
 she was already blinded by her intense agony. She knew 
 not which was uppermost, nor whether either or both were 
 likely to be saved. She heard only the splash of the 
 water, and saw nothing but a confusion of foam and spray; 
 into which the great dog was plunging eagerly enough, 
 now that he knew his master was there. 
 
 " Good Bruno ! cried Lucy, recovering her presence of 
 mind, and calling to the dog at the highest pitch of her 
 voice — " fetch him out — fetch him out." 
 
 In another minute the dog was actually on the bank 
 with his teeth so riveted in the thick folds of his master's 
 dress, that he was able to drag his heavy burden to the 
 side of the water. Here Horace soon recovered himself, 
 and as he had succeeded in clenching the arm of the boy, 
 they were both restored to safety before any very material 
 injury had been sustained. 
 
 It was some time, however, before the boy, who had 
 been longest in the water, was so far restored as to allay 
 the fears of Lucy and her brother. They were too far 
 from any house, to seek assistance from others j and their 
 own little store of knowledge and experience suggested 
 nothing very likely to be effectual in such a case. Lucy 
 trembled so violently, that she could scarcely hold her 
 handkerchief to wipe the wet hair away from the brow 
 and temples of the boy; and Horace, almost paralyzed
 
 24? TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 with horror, stood by, a helpless spectator of the scene. 
 At last nature proved more efficient than poor Lucy's 
 skill. The boy began to look about him, wondering where 
 he was, and in a few minutes was able to rise from the 
 ground by the assistance of his companions. 
 
 Supported between the brother and the sister, young 
 Dawson was carefully conducted to his father's cottage on 
 the side of the common, where, happily for them, the 
 mother and the younger children only were at home, for 
 everybody knew the father to be a man of stern and vin- 
 dictive temper, and the idea of meeting him, of all people 
 in the world, under such circumstances, was even more 
 alarming to Lucy than her mother's anticipated anger. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson, like her husband, was not much addicted 
 to the exercise either of meekness or charity ; but having 
 no idea on the present occasion of more than a common 
 accident having occurred to her son, her concern for his 
 welfare gave place to the favourable opportunity thus 
 afforded her of reprimanding him for those idle and 
 vagrant habits, which, as she not unfrequently reminded 
 him, would never come to any good. 
 
 " Let us leave them now," said Horace to his sister, for 
 he too began to feel the uncomfortable effects of his drip- 
 ping clothes ; and they set out accordingly to pursue 
 their way home, Lucy endeavouring by all the means she 
 could think of to support the drooping spirits of her 
 brother, and he receiving all she had to offer in unbroken 
 silence. 
 
 " You know you could not help it, Horace, dear. It 
 was no fault of yours," she repeated many times. 
 
 At last her brother stood still, and looking directly in 
 her face, " Lucy," said he, " I could have helped it. It 
 was my fault, and mine entirely,"
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 25 
 
 w I don't believe it," replied Lucy. " It is only the 
 May you have of thinking yourself always unlucky, that 
 makes you say so." 
 
 " I will tell you," continued Horace, " exactly how it 
 was. As soon as I had got to the top of the bank, I saw 
 that idle impudent fellow standing there pointing his gun 
 at Bruno, and the dog growling, as well he might. I called 
 to the boy instantly to put down his gun, and with that 
 Bruno growled more and more. You heard what hap- 
 pened next. He actually fired — fired at my dog j and 
 I sent him over the bank with one blow, for he was 
 laughing and grinning as if he thought he had done 
 a wonderfully clever thing." 
 
 " Then you did push him into the water on purpose," 
 exclaimed Lucy, turning very pale. 
 
 " I did," replied her brother. 
 
 " Let us go back and tell the truth," said Lucy. 
 
 " We have not told a he," observed her brother. 
 
 " No ; because we have not been asked," said Lucy. 
 Bat let us go now, dear Horace, and tell all." 
 
 " Perhaps we had better," said her brother. " But 
 I am so wet and cold, and I thought another time might 
 do just as well as now." 
 
 " In the mean time the story will all get out," said 
 Lucy. 
 
 This view of the subject seemed to bring it home to her 
 brother in a more forcible manner, and he turned back 
 with his sister, determined to tell not only the truth, but 
 the whole truth ; a resolution which he had no doubt he 
 should be more than rewarded for, by the generous for- 
 giveness of the whole family, and perhaps by the gratitude 
 of the injured party. Alas ! how the young miscalculate 
 the effect of their best efforts in relation to others ; and
 
 26 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 how important it becomes, to teach them in early life not 
 to look for reward in doing what is simply and clearly 
 their duty. 
 
 Horace Grant considered himself a great and magnani- 
 mous individual, as he retraced his steps to the cottage ; 
 and his sister imbibed somewhat of the same feeling, 
 walking, in her own idea, by the side of a hero. Arrived 
 at the open door, they heard loud and angry voices within ; 
 but they walked straight in notwithstanding, and Horace 
 commenced his speech. 
 
 "Mrs. Dawson," he said, "we have come back to tell 
 you "— 
 
 " Don't tell me ! n exclaimed the furious mother, to 
 whom her son had already related the whole history of his 
 disaster. " Don't come here with any of your fine stories. 
 You might have been the death of my poor boy, for any- 
 thing you cared — that you might. But I'll have it all 
 settled, gentleman as you think yourself." 
 
 Horace was confounded at this reception, but Lucy 
 stepped forward, her cheek alternately crimson, and then 
 pale as ashes j and while her eye flashed with a spirit 
 beyond what she had -ever exhibited before, she persisted 
 in asserting the claims of her brother at least to be heard, 
 stating again and again, what to her was the redeeming 
 feature of the case, that her brother had sprung into the 
 water, and risked his own life for that of the boy. 
 
 The eloquence of Mrs. Dawson, however, proved quite 
 too much for poor Lucy ; and, bursting into a flood of 
 tears, she turned away with her indignant brother, to 
 leave the house. 
 
 They had not proceeded many yards, before a low whis- 
 pering voice was heard beside them, saying, very softly — 
 " Don't mind mother. She doesn't mean any harm ; "
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 27 
 
 and, turning round, they saw a little girl who had been 
 present at their late interview, and whose heart had been 
 so melted by Lucy's heavy grief, that she could not resist 
 the natural impulse of endeavouring to soothe it by what 
 means she could. 
 
 "Don't mind mother," then she continued to say. 
 " She won't do anything to hurt you. Father is the 
 worst ; but I'll tell him all myself before he sees George. 
 I'll wait upon the common till he comes home, and pretend 
 I'm seeking daisies for little Jane. 
 
 u Oh ! thank you, and bless you a thousand times ! " 
 said Lucy, throwing her arms round the little girl, and 
 
 kissing her check. "My brother did not in , I don't 
 
 mean that either; for he did push George down the bank, 
 but he jumped into the water after him ; indeed he did, 
 the next minute, and but for the dog he would have been 
 drowned, there is no doubt. I am sure he would not hurt 
 a hair of his head. Would you, Horace dear ? " 
 
 Horace had not a word to say, so completely had he 
 been taken by surprise on his return to the cottage ; so 
 completely, too, did he now see the consequences of his 
 own ungoverned passion, for the angry mother had 
 threatened to have him called up before the magistrates, 
 and all sorts of horrible things, so that the little girl who 
 had stolen out to assure him there was no actual danger, 
 appeared in his eyes almost like an angel of mercy sent to 
 his rescue. Still he had no words at command, by which 
 he might have expressed his thanks ; and gazing intently 
 upon her, he took out a shilling from his pocket, and 
 would have put it into her hand, as she was turning 
 away. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " said the child, looking into his face. " I 
 did not want anything of that kind." But the shilling
 
 28 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 was very tempting, and already her little hand was opened 
 to receive it, when suddenly a grave look came over her 
 face, and, retreating a few steps, she said, in a tone of 
 voice which might have belonged to a much older person, 
 " Better not — better not now. I don't want father to say 
 you gave me a shilling to take your part." 
 
 " You are right/' said Horace, putting back the money ; 
 but while his heart was so full, that tears actually glistened 
 in his eyes, he found no other words to express his grati- 
 tude, but silently walked on, leaving his juvenile bene- 
 factress to manage her own and his affairs as she deemed 
 best for both. 
 
 " How I should like to do something for that little girl/' 
 said Lucy, when they had walked a considerable distance 
 without speaking. 
 
 " I should like to send her to school/' exclaimed Horace, 
 with unusual warmth; "to take her quite away from that 
 horrid family, into some distant country, and marry her 
 when she was old enough.'' 
 
 Lucy looked inquiringly into her brother's face. She 
 either had not heard, or did not quite understand him, 
 nor did he think it worth while explaining what he had 
 said, for he was busily pursuing his own meditations, 
 which were quite independent of her ; for it so happened 
 with this brother and sister, as it not unfrequently does 
 with others, that Horace was the one being in the world 
 to Lucy — associated with, if not the principal in, all her 
 visions of the future; while she on her part formed no 
 item in his calculations, whatever they might be ; — if of 
 travelling, for that was now his favourite idea, Lucy was 
 never imagined to be his companion ; and if of glory, 
 there was no illustrious part that Lucy would be likely to 
 act upon the great theatre of human life. She was neces-
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 29 
 
 sary — nay, even pleasant to him for the time being ; for 
 there was a soft and soothing influence about her, which 
 suited well his too often ruffled temper ; and when rivalry, 
 and jarring, and annoyance assailed him in the more public 
 walks of life, solitude and his sister Lucy were like thoughts 
 of balm that healed his wounded spirit.
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The family of the Vinings occupied a pleasant little villa, 
 within half a mile of the Grants ; their style of living was 
 very much the same, they breathed the same atmosphere, 
 traced the same walks, and associated in a great measure 
 with the same society. It has already been seen that the 
 children played together on the same common; and it 
 might therefore, with some reason, be supposed, that Harriet 
 Vining would possess the same deep thoughts and feelings 
 for which the Grants were so remarkable to those who 
 knew them intimately. 
 
 No one who looked into the face of Harriet Vining, 
 however, could suspect her of feelings too deep for her 
 peace of mind. She was growing extremely pretty, for 
 she had the loveliest complexion imaginable ; and her 
 father was particularly delighted with a sort of prompt, 
 pert manner, by which she made her own way, without 
 much regarding the feelings of others. He only regretted 
 she was not a boy, for in that case, he said, she would have 
 been the very counterpart of himself : and say what people 
 will against themselves, there is always a natural sort of 
 yearning tenderness and partiality for any living represen- 
 tation of themselves, especially when it appears in a 
 younger and more attractive form. 
 
 Her father's character and influence, however, were not
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 31 
 
 all from which Harriet received the bias of her own. If 
 the little Grants derived something of their imaginative 
 turn from an idle and indulgent nurse, gifted with no other 
 talent than that of telling fanciful stories, and singing so 
 sweetly that abler judges than themselves would often stop 
 to listen to her music ; their little neighbour, Miss Vining, 
 was perhaps equally influenced by a nurse of a widely 
 different character, an old favourite in the family, who, 
 from the natural inability of the lady of the house to take 
 any active part in its internal economy, had gradually 
 become a sort of general manager, not only of the inferior 
 servants, but of the mother and the children, and some- 
 times, it would seem, of Major Vining himself; for few even 
 were bold enough to oppose Rebecca's plans, though there 
 might have often been observed an under-current of dis- 
 satisfaction running through the household, exhibiting 
 itself in the pouting lip, and the frowning brow, and 
 making itself audible in the angry shutting of a door, and 
 the tones of a voice whose murmurs died away in the 
 distant hall. 
 
 It may readily be supposed there was no poetry in 
 Eebecca's nature, no time for music, no toleration of 
 fairy tales. All was business, promptitude, and despatch. 
 Indeed, Rebecca's idea of harmony of sound extended no 
 farther than the keeping time of culinary operations with 
 the stroke of the kitchen clock : and as to that of beauty, 
 it was pretty much confined to a red and white complexion, 
 clean stockings, close - fitting shoes, hats and bonnets 
 newly trimmed, and all the other items which usually fill 
 up the housewife's catalogue of smart and handsome 
 things. Motives and moral feelings were not only foreign 
 to Rebecca's understanding under their proper names, but 
 foreign in themselves, so far as they might have served for
 
 32 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 subjects of calculation in the exercise of her discipline in 
 the nursery department of Major Vining's house. " Do 
 as you are bid/' and " Don't dirty your frock/' might be 
 said to comprise nearly the whole of Rebecca's creed, as 
 laid down for the benefit of those under her care, amongst 
 whom the breaking of a bonnet string was treated as a 
 subject of far greater importance than the breaking of 
 a promise. 
 
 Nor was the influence of Major Vining in his own 
 household of a nature sufficiently different from that of 
 Rebecca, to counteract its peculiar tendency. With regard 
 to his portion of domestic discipline, the whole might be 
 summed up in his favourite expression — " A word, and a 
 blow /' which he believed to be a sovereign prescription in 
 all cases of disorder, rebellion, and delinquency of every 
 kind. He would have been very much surprised had he 
 been told that his system of government operated no 
 farther than the surface or appearance of things — to evade 
 the word, and escape the blow, being the only motives it 
 called into exercise ; for so long as his presence imposed 
 silence wherever he went, and each of those individual 
 rules were strictly observed, to the transgression of which 
 he had attached the penalty of flagellation, he did not see 
 how any man could govern a family better than he did, 
 or, in other words, how any father could be more pro- 
 foundly respected, or implicitly obeyed. 
 
 One thing, however, was wanting to his perfect satisfac- 
 tion, which even his good management had no power to 
 supply — sufficiency of means for the education and future 
 establishment of the numbers who sat around his table, 
 all hungry, healthy, eager to enjoy, and having little 
 thought or care for anything beyond what might be seen, 
 felt, eaten, or possessed by themselves.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 33 
 
 The family of Major Vining was by no means a sin- 
 gular one. The world is in a great measure made up of 
 such families — of children j ust fed and clothed, and taught 
 to spell and read, and left in all other things to take their 
 chance, though each having brought into the world some 
 peculiar temperament, is naturally predisposed to receive 
 from surrounding circumstances, a bias of character which 
 ends not with the present life. 
 
 The temperament of Harriet Vining was like her father's, 
 sanguine and fiery, but extremely volatile. She possessed 
 an open, frank, and what is generally called, good disposi- 
 tion ; and had her moral faculties been cultivated in early 
 life, had she been taught to examine her own motives, and 
 to study the feelings of others, she might have been rendered 
 in her own character, and without difficulty or pain, all 
 which it required the severe discipline of a lifetime to effect. 
 
 But now a great change had come over the prospects of 
 the Vinings, and all was bustle and excitement within 
 their establishment. It had been frequently recommended 
 to Mrs. Vining to try the effect of change of climate upon 
 her shattered and feeble constitution ; and the husband, 
 dismayed at the sight of his last Christmas bills, many of 
 them unpaid at the midsummer holidays, had determined 
 upon making the experiment of a cheaper mode of living 
 in the south of France. 
 
 With this journey before them, the Vinings became 
 objects of greater interest in their immediate neighbour- 
 hood, than they had ever been before ; and the young 
 people having prevailed upon their father to allow them to 
 give a juvenile party before the holidays were over, invita- 
 tions were sent out so liberally, that no single apartment 
 in the house was of dimensions commensurate with the 
 occasion. It was therefore agreed that the whole enter- 
 
 D
 
 S4- TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 tainment should be conducted upon a lawn near the house, 
 and the weather being unusually fine, all the different pre- 
 parations for this important event were conducted with 
 the utmost confidence of success. 
 
 r 'We shall all be so happy!" cried Harriet, clapping 
 her hands with exultation as she ran from one scene of 
 action to another, sometimes helping Rebecca, and some- 
 times contending with her brothers, until a word and a 
 blow from Major Vining settled the point in her favour. 
 " We shall be all so happy ! " she repeated, running down 
 into the valley, and across the stream, and up the garden 
 walk to Mrs. Grant's, to talk with Lucy about the adjust, 
 ment of her dress. " We shall all be so happy ! " she 
 exclaimed again. 
 
 " Yes," said Lucy, " if everybody can be kept in good 
 humour." 
 
 " Oh ! leave that to me," said Harriet, laughing. a I 
 have no fear of that. You know it is my birthday, and 
 I shall not allow anybody to look sad." 
 
 Lucy shook her head. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " continued Harriet. " Don't 
 you believe me, when I talk of making everybody be in a 
 good humour ? " 
 
 " I believe," replied Lucy, " that you will do your best, 
 and better, I dare say, than I should do myself; but some 
 peoplecan't be made to be in good humour, unless theylike." 
 
 " Leave that to me," said Harriet, again laughing, and 
 looking more sure than ever of her powers. 
 
 " Don't go just yet," said Lucy, seeing her rise to go 
 away. " There is one thing I want to say to you, but 
 I hardly know how. It is about dear Horace. I am so 
 afraid your brothers, or somebody should speak to him 
 about — about " —
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 35 
 
 * Ah ! I know what you mean," exclaimed Harriet — 
 "that awkward affair of young Dawson, which has got 
 abroad so much. You may leave that to me, too. I can 
 manage that, for I'll tell my brothers on no account to 
 mention it." 
 
 " Stay," said Lucy, recollecting that this might possibly 
 be the most effectual means of defeating her own ends. 
 u Stay, Harriet ! On second thoughts, it seems to me, 
 that you had better not mention the subject at all. The 
 sooner it is forgotten altogether, the better ; and charging 
 hem not to name it, might only bring it to their minds." 
 
 " Leave it to me — leave it to me," repeated Harriet, as 
 she ran hastily down the garden- walk again, while Lucy 
 looked after her, wishing from her heart she had never 
 mentioned so delicate a subject to one who evidently could 
 not enter into any of the deep and melancholy feelings 
 with which she had regarded it, ever since witnessing the 
 hold it had upon her brother's peace of mind. 
 
 Harriet Vining was true to her purpose. She had 
 undertaken to manage an awkward affair, and she set 
 about it in the following manner. 
 
 " Now, boys," she said, addressing her brothers, and 
 holding up her finger as a sign of the authority vested in 
 her own person — " Now, boys, mind what I say. We are 
 not going to have any nonsense talked this evening about 
 drowning young Dawson in the mill stream. You all 
 know what sort of temper Horace Grant has, and if you 
 mould dare to mention this subject in his hearing, I should 
 not wonder but he would drown you. So mind what 
 I say, and be good boys ! " 
 
 And with a solemn shake of the head, and a close knit- 
 ting of her fair brow, Harriet turned away, really believing 
 she had managed this point well. It so happened, how- 
 
 d 2
 
 36 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 ever, that she had revived in the recollection of her bro- 
 thers a subject they would in all probability never have 
 thought of again, but for her threat and caution ; and it 
 so happened, too, with all her authority, and all her good 
 management, there was nothing her brothers liked to do 
 half so well, as that precise thing she had told them not 
 to do. Thus, before her charge had been fully delivered, 
 they had already begun to pinch one another, and wink, 
 and whisper into the neighbouring ear — " Let's plague 
 him well." So that by the time their sister had turned 
 away to attend to the settlement of other business, they 
 were firmly united in a cordial and hearty resolve to make 
 all the mischief they could out of an affair in which they 
 had never taken any interest before ; and as to their 
 sister's threat, that Horace Grant would execute summary 
 justice upon them, they dared him to attempt it — that they 
 did ! and right valiant fellows they had all become before 
 Horace Grant appeared. 
 
 The weather still continued beautiful, and the day of 
 the party was most propitious. Harriet Yining, at the 
 suggestion of Lucy Grant, had dressed her hair with a 
 wreath of white roses, well suited to her complexion, and 
 the bright flashing of her hazel eyes, which sometimes 
 called for a softening accompaniment, and never more 
 so than now ; for the bustle of the preparation was to her 
 almost as delightful as the idea of her more perfect 
 triumph in being the queen of the festivities of the 
 evening. 
 
 " I had no idea Harriet was so pretty," said Horace to 
 his sister, when he first saw her flitting about amongst 
 her guests. 
 
 " I always thought her pretty," replied Lucy, " if she 
 would only be a little more gentle and quiet."
 
 // / / / '- ' 

 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 37 
 
 " She is just like some glad spirit, sent upon earth to 
 make everybody happy/' continued Horace, still gazing 
 with admiration — " Why should she be quiet ?" 
 
 " Why, indeed ! " replied Lucy, " if her errand is to 
 diffuse happiness j but, dear Horace, I don't think such 
 happiness is your's or mine." 
 
 There was not, perhaps, of all the merry party gathered 
 on that lovely green, any but the Grants who either 
 thought or spoke of happiness as an abstract idea. The 
 flowers, the cake, the dresses, and the dancing, filled every 
 other mind ; but the Grants had always a certain touch 
 of the romantic in their's, which gave a colouring to 
 everything they saw, and often a pathos to what others 
 scarcely felt. Thus they seldom blended easily or well 
 with ordinary society, and especially the brother was apt 
 to stand aloof, musing and sad, when he ought to have 
 been most cheerful, and at the same time feeling mortified 
 with himself that he was not so. 
 
 It could not be said of Lucy Grant that she was not 
 easy, for there was perfect grace, blended with simplicity, 
 in all her movements j but with her the very sensitiveness 
 of her nature, combined with the consciousness of infe- 
 riority instilled into her mind in early childhood, rendered 
 her rather shrinking than bashful, and rather humble- 
 minded than morbidly melancholy. There was, therefore, 
 a wide difference between her state of feeling and that of 
 her brother, in mixing with society. Encouraged by kind 
 attention, and not in the slightest degree mortified by 
 neglect, Lucy was always ready to make herself agreeable ; 
 while her brother, wanting that facility of adaptation 
 which belongs more properly to the female sex, and yet 
 possessed of a somewhat over-estimate of his own import- 
 ance, generally bore about with him a painful sense of
 
 38 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 not being properly appreciated, which excited a wounded 
 feeling against the world, not unfrequently vented in 
 poetical effusions, which his sister considered scarcely, if 
 at all, inferior to those of Byron himself. 
 
 On the present happy occasion, such was the general 
 gaiety and freedom from all restraint, and such the good 
 humour which prevailed, that even Horace caught the 
 infection, and Lucy forgot that she ought to be giving 
 place to more honourable guests. Nothing, it may well 
 be supposed, could exceed the triumph of Harriet Vining, 
 who believed that all this gaiety and delight was attribut- 
 able to her good management, and to the fact of her being 
 the queen of the entertainment. But as the vanity of 
 woman was never yet entirely satisfied by public triumph, 
 even this merry girl was more merry, because she found 
 that Horace Grant at last had fairly thrown aside his 
 reserve, and was mixing with the party, and making him- 
 self, as he could when perfectly at ease, both entertaining 
 and agreeable in the extreme. 
 
 " I had no idea he could be so pleasant \" was whis- 
 pered from one to another, as Horace, with his dark eyes 
 flashing animation, passed from one group to another, 
 until at last he became quite popular, and looked almost 
 as triumphant as Harriet herself. Indeed, so striking was 
 his whole appearance, so different from the dull gloomy 
 look he was accustomed to wear, when inactive and unin- 
 terested in what was passing around him, that no one 
 seemed to observe how he was dodged about by the little 
 boys of the Vining family, who every now and then — 
 valiant fellows as they were ! — pushed the youngest fairly 
 against him, and then ran away as fast as their legs could 
 carry them. 
 
 " Have you anything to say to me?" said Horace, on
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE, 39 
 
 one of these occasions, when the boy had been pushed so 
 as almost to throw him down. And the little fellow 
 looked so conscious, that Horace asked him again, for 
 there was a mischievous meaning in his eye, which very 
 naturally awakened a feeling of curiosity. Still the boy 
 hesitated, and still Horace felt sure there was something 
 — some fun, he had no doubt, " in the wind," as people 
 say. 
 
 " Out with it, my good fellow V* said he — " here's six- 
 pence for your thoughts." 
 
 The boy looked rather puzzled about the sixpence, but 
 he took it nevertheless ; and then pushing himself back 
 from Horace with the other hand, as if wishing to be 
 more at liberty for instantaneous escape, he called out 
 as he tore himself away, in a voice loud enough for 
 many of the party to hear — " Who drowned young 
 Dawson ?" 
 
 Had a thunder-peal at that moment resounded above 
 the head of Horace Grant, it could not have produced 
 in his mind so sudden a revulsion of feeling. His first 
 impulse was to hurl instant vengeance upon his little 
 tormentor ; but seeing, as the boy scampered away, that a 
 laughing and exulting group were awaiting him behind 
 the stem of an old tree, which grew on the side of the 
 lawn, he relinquished the idea of revenge, and silently 
 withdrew from the festive scene, in which he now felt as 
 if there was no place for him. 
 
 The little picturesque valley, or rather dell, already 
 alluded to as separating the garden of Mrs. Grant from 
 the residence of the Vinings which stood more imme- 
 diately on the edge of the common, was watered by one 
 of the purest and prettiest brooks that ever wound its way 
 between green banks embowered in woodland beauty, and
 
 40 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 made vocal by the song of summer birds. It was not, 
 rapid enough to be called tumultuous, nor yet slow and 
 equal enough to be called sluggish. Interrupted here 
 and there by the rough surface of a limestone rock, over 
 which the feathery birch hung drooping, it formed itself 
 into innumerable cascades, with edges and wreaths of 
 foam as white as the winter's snow. Yet were these 
 interruptions only like the crest of some glassy wave broken 
 by the breath of the passing wind; for in another moment, 
 following the course of the little stream, you saw it sleep- 
 ing in crystal beauty at the base of some moss- covered 
 stone, whose bold mass threw a dark shadow across to the 
 opposite bank. And scarcely less lovely than the stream 
 itself, was the wild grouping of all the plants and trees 
 which grew along its fertile course, from the topmost 
 bough of the leafy ash, to the broad ferns that sprang into 
 life between the fissures of the rocks, contending with the 
 wild rose, the foxglove, and even the hoary lichen, for the 
 sovereignty of that sylvan scene. 
 
 Of all the sweet influences of nature, and they are 
 many, perhaps there is nothing so invariably soothing to 
 a weary or a wounded spirit, as a clear and swift-gliding 
 woodland or mountain stream. Away — away — in its 
 freshness and beauty — away goes the cheerful wanderer, 
 ever and ever rejoicing as it goes. Not carelessly, like 
 those who rejoice with human gladness, for its bosom is 
 open to receive the tears of the mourner ; and while it 
 murmurs an answering echo to his sigh, it still hurries on 
 — on, through the shadow of the dark old elm — on, through 
 the sunlight glancing on its foam — on, through the air that 
 is scented with wild flowers — on, through the mingled 
 melodies of spring — on — on, and for ever. And still it 
 goes rejoicingly, for gladness sparkles on its wave; and
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 41 
 
 still it seems to pity, and to soothe, as the lull of its soft 
 music falls upon the sorrowing heart. 
 
 It is thus that the mourner seeks the wandering stream. 
 The bird, with its song of gladness, may charm his ear, 
 but he startles it from the bough, and it is gone. The 
 sun in the heavens may look glorious — too glorious for 
 him. The flowers in their beauty may be soft and fair, 
 but the galled and wounded spirit has a craving after 
 that which passes on — on — and away. Even the gazing 
 upon it brings some relief ; and never did human 
 language convey more expressively, or more beautifully, 
 this natural impulse, than in wishing for the wings of a 
 dove, to fly away and be at rest. 
 
 The music, the dancing, and the joy of the birthday 
 party were at their height, and Horace Grant was seated 
 at the foot of a tall tree, with his head leaning on his 
 hand, and his eyes intently fixed upon the gliding waters 
 of this stream. He had shrunk away, as he believed, 
 unobserved, and had hid himself in a spot of favourite 
 resort, where he fancied he was screened from all possi- 
 bility of intrusion, yet not so distant but that he could 
 distinctly hear the music and the laughter of the party, 
 whose gaiety was not in the slightest degree lessened by 
 his loss. Perhaps there is no human being so entirely 
 philanthropic as to desire that this should be the case, 
 notwithstanding what poets say to the contrary — 
 
 " But let me silent sink to earth, 
 With no officious mourner near, 
 I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
 Xor startle friendship with a tear." 
 
 How much soever the feelings of Horace Grant might 
 have accorded with these lines in rhyme, they were so far 
 opposed to them in reality, that the mere sound of enjoy-
 
 42 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 ment which he was unable to share, tended greatly to 
 increase the morbid and irritated state of his mind. 
 
 " It makes no difference/' said he, murmuring to him- 
 self, as he bent over the stream, " whether I am dead or 
 alive. It makes no difference to any human being, only 
 they seem to be happier without me than with me." 
 
 He had scarcely uttered these words, when a shower 
 of sweet blossoms fell around him, as if from the boughs 
 beneath which he was seated; and suddenly looking 
 round, he saw the laughing face of Harriet Vining peep- 
 ing from behind the stem of a tree, while she threw 
 another handful of flowers upon his head. It was a sight 
 to have charmed away despair itself; nor was Horace 
 insensible to the flattery of having been sought out by the 
 queen of the party, and invited back again by lips so rosy, 
 and smiles so winning, that it would have been high 
 treason against beauty to have refused. 
 
 Horace rose, however, somewhat slowly from his 
 dejected position, and before he had fully emerged from 
 the shade of that leafy and secluded little dell, he thought 
 he heard whispering and laughing somewhere not very 
 distant. 
 
 " I knew I could make him come ! " exclaimed 
 a triumphant voice, breaking out beyond the bounds of 
 the whisper in which it began — " Lucy tells me he is 
 difficult to manage, but I don't find him so. I knew he 
 would come back with half a word from mc !" 
 
 These words were uttered in almost breathless haste to 
 a group of laughing girls, who had been waiting in a 
 place of supposed concealment the result of Harriet's 
 experiment ; and all now ran together back to the lawn, 
 where refreshments were being handed round, secure in 
 the belief that Horace would immediately join them.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 43 
 
 But Horace had again plunged deeper into the solitude 
 of that shadowy dell, and though less sentimental in his 
 melancholy than before, it was because sadness had given 
 place to indignation j and the idea of being managed — 
 managed by a word, and reported as easily managed to 
 congratulating friends, burned like a coal of fire upon his 
 heart, making him inwardly resolve, that of all human 
 beings in the world, the one he would last be managed by, 
 was Harriet Vining herself. 
 
 Horace was startled in the midst of these meditations 
 by the soft step of his sister Lucy, who had tracked him 
 from his first hiding-place ; and now deeming it best to 
 accompany him home in his own way without alluding to 
 what had passed, she drew her arm within his, and asked 
 him if they had not better be returning towards their own 
 house, as they had been charged not to be out late ; " and 
 as we are the first to go," continued Lucy, " I think it 
 would be best just to escape without being noticed, and 
 without saying good-night." 
 
 The first impulse Horace felt was to shake off his 
 sister's arm, but it lay so gently and unobtrusively in his, 
 and there was so little too of management in her voice 
 and manner, that insensibly his better feelings gained 
 ascendancy over the bad ; and while Lucy spoke with rap- 
 ture of the stream, the shadows, the calm of the dewy 
 evening, and all the sweet and balmy influences of nature 
 — while she spoke of all these too, as if nothing had 
 occurred to disturb her brother's equanimity of mind, 
 judiciously leaving out all allusion to the party, and the 
 events of the evening, she succeeded at last in effecting 
 the object ever nearest to her heart, for her brother spoke 
 to her in his kindest tones, and even placed his arm around 
 her slender waist, as he stopped, with one foot upon a
 
 44 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 rock by which they had to cross the stream, and bade her 
 look at the moon as it rose behind the hills, and sent a 
 softened radiance down into that silent valley, making the 
 deep shadows of the trees more dark and mysterions than 
 before. 
 
 "Lucy, dear Lucy," said Horace, and he actually 
 pressed a kiss upon his sister's brow, " what can it be 
 that makes me more unhappy than every one else ? " 
 
 " You are too sensitive," replied Lucy. " You should 
 not mind so much what people say and think of you." 
 
 " / mind what people say and think of me ! " exclaimed 
 Horace. " I despise them all. I would rather they 
 should hate than love me \" 
 
 " Ah, never mind them any way," said Lucy, quite ter- 
 rified to see the eifect of her ill-chosen words. " Let us 
 keep more together, dear Horace, and come out when the 
 moon shines, to wander in such sweet spots as this, and 
 think only of the great and good Being who placed us 
 here, never intending that life should be miserable to 
 those who love him. Look up again at yon beautiful 
 moon, Horace. See how lovely she makes everything 
 appear in her light. Nothing can be clearer than the 
 feathery branches of yon tall ash, nothing can be brighter 
 than the ripple of the brook at our feet. There is nothing 
 deceptive in all this, and yet all is so beautiful. Must it 
 not be that the ugly alone is concealed, and the pure and 
 the lovely alone discovered ? Ah, Horace ! how delightful 
 it would be, if we could live always in a sort of moonlight. 
 Do you not think it would ?" 
 
 " I do," replied Horace, and he spoke as if the senti- 
 ment was echoed by his whole soul. 
 
 11 Suppose we were to try," continued his sister, encou- 
 raged by the tone of his voice — " Suppose we were to
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 45 
 
 resolve from this hour that we would live only to see and 
 contemplate what is lovely, and good, and worthy to be 
 admired, and leave all the rest as not fit to occupy our 
 attention." 
 
 " I wonder if that would help me at all in the case of 
 young Dawson," said Horace, very earnestly. 
 
 " I feel certain it would," replied Lucy, on her part 
 equally earnest. " You have nothing but kindness in 
 your heart towards the whole family. You never did 
 intend to do them any harm. Why should you not make 
 them understand that kindness, and overcome their evil 
 with your good ?" 
 
 " I will go to-morrow," exclaimed Horace, " and con- 
 vince them that I could not wish to injure them or any 
 one. You shall go with me, Lucy ; and perhaps we shall 
 be able to come over that old father of their's, who 
 always looks as if he would like to be digging one's 
 grave." 
 
 Could any one have looked into the hearts of the 
 brother and the sister, as they stood on the brink of the 
 stream that calm summer's evening, while the moonlight 
 flickered through the shadowy boughs, glancing here and 
 there with silvery beams upon the softly murmuring water 
 at their feet — could any one have looked deep into their 
 young hearts, and have seen the reality of their intentions, 
 and the unsophisticated confidence they were placing in 
 the simple power of good to elicit and produce its like, 
 they might well have regretted that such good was of a 
 nature which rendered it more fit to be breathed in gentle 
 whispers to the summer wind, than to be applied to the 
 stern and sturdy purposes of ordinary life. 
 
 The next morning, however, found the brother and the 
 sister true to their purpose, and not the less so because
 
 46 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 they had prayed by mutual agreement the night before, 
 that their endeavours to conciliate might be attended with 
 success. The sky was bright and clear as on the preceding 
 day, and there was everything in nature to encourage the 
 kind and gentle feelings with which they both set out. 
 It seemed to Lucy that she had never been so happy in 
 all her life ; and when they came in sight of the sexton's 
 cottage, the picture of little Mary, sitting on a low bench 
 at her father's door, with the younger children playing at 
 her feet, was altogether so accordant with the glad aspect 
 of nature around, and with the tone of their own 
 thoughts and feelings, that Lucy could not help running 
 on before her brother, and catching the youngest infant 
 in her arms. 
 
 " Is your mother at home ?" asked Lucy, after she had 
 satisfied herself with kissing the little rosy cheek, which 
 looked as fresh as the flowers the child had been 
 gathering. 
 
 "No," replied Mary, "I am left all alone with the 
 children. Mother has gone to the town, and father is 
 never at home before noon." 
 
 "Where is your father?" asked Horace, who had now 
 come up. 
 
 " He sweeps out the church always on these mornings," 
 replied Mary, " and as there is to be a funeral this after- 
 noon, I dare say he'll be busy there all day. Did you want 
 my father for anything ?" 
 
 It was very difficult to explain to the simple-hearted 
 girl what her father was wanted for — more difficult than 
 either Horace or his sister had anticipated, for a purpose 
 which appears the very perfection of reasonableness to a 
 romantic boy and girl by moonlight, in a woodland dell, 
 may sometimes in the broad light of day assume a sudden
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 47 
 
 aspect of impracticability, especially when confronted by 
 the homely simplicity of one who is an utter stranger to 
 romance. 
 
 It was thus on the present occasion. Horace had not 
 a word to utter, and even Lucy felt herself wholly at a 
 loss. At last, however, her strong feelings overcame her 
 choice of language, and she told the simple-hearted girl 
 that their only object in coming was to make peace, and 
 to convince the whole family that they were their friends. 
 
 "Oh! don't think anything about that!" replied the 
 little girl, well schooled in the knowledge that to keep 
 peace is easier than to make it. " The less is said about 
 what is past the better. Mother and I never talk about 
 it now ; and when father and brother begin, we take no 
 notice. Father must have something, and we like his 
 troubles to be out of the house better than in it." 
 
 There was a tone and look of deep experience about the 
 poor girl as she said this, only to be accounted for at her 
 tender age, by the fact of her being the oldest of a poor 
 and often ill-used family, whose father had bitterness 
 enough in his own nature to diffuse into the lives of all 
 his children ; for he was a man who never looked upon 
 the bright side of anything, if there was but so much as a 
 dark spot to be found. It might have damped the enthu- 
 siasm of minds less ardent than those of Horace and his 
 sister were that day, to mark in the countenance and 
 manner of the child a character so much resembling that 
 of early blight j but they were too full of their own pur- 
 pose, and too happy in themselves and each other, to 
 dwell deeply upon the little care-worn being before them, 
 already acting a mother's part to those who were not 
 many degrees more feeble and helpless than herself; and 
 with a few kind and courteous expressions, and a few
 
 48 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 sweetmeats bestowed upon the children, the visitors took 
 their leave,, to retrace their pleasant path across the com- 
 mon, towards a group of trees, amongst which the village 
 spire was seen gleaming out in the bright sunshine. 
 
 It is possible that as the brother and sister walked 
 along, a sort of faint-heartedness came over the latter, at 
 the near prospect of encountering a man like Dawson, the 
 parish sexton ; for without being conscious of anything 
 like a wish to desert her brother in his hour of need, Lucy- 
 ventured to suggest, that in all probability one would be 
 better than two on the present occasion ; and Horace 
 being of the same opinion, she very willingly left him to 
 the proposed interview, and bounding down the side of 
 the common, was soon beyond his sight. 
 
 Calling up his dog Bruno, as soon as he felt himself 
 alone, Horace now walked on with a firm step, until he 
 entered the churchyard, where the sight of a half-made 
 grave reminded him of what the sexton's daughter had 
 said, that her father would be sure to be there all day. 
 He was not busy with his earthy labours, however, but 
 just locking the door of the church, when Horace first 
 caught sight of his never very attractive figure, and he 
 waited until he should approach, before offering the salu- 
 tations of the morning. All attempts at the expression 
 of mere courtesy, old Dawson was in the habit of passing 
 wholly unregarded, and therefore Horace had to bethink 
 himself again what advances to make. The more he 
 thought, however, the greater his difficulty became ; so he 
 busied himself in reading the inscriptions on the tomb- 
 stones near, until the sexton, resuming his spade, began 
 again to deepen the narrow house he was preparing for 
 the dead. 
 
 At last Horace ventured to ask, for whom the sexton
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 49 
 
 was making that grave, when a short and sullen answer 
 left him more at a loss than ever how to proceed. He 
 was not remarkable for patience, and a feeling of irrita- 
 tion was already beginning to blend with his better reso- 
 lutions. 
 
 " There is no need to speak so shortly/' said he, " for 
 I came intending to be very civil to you." 
 
 " Civil V* said the man, looking up from his work with 
 a sneer that might have provoked a milder temper than 
 that of Horace Grant's — " I say civil, indeed. People can 
 always be civil for their own ends." 
 
 "What end can I have to answer in being civil to you ?" 
 Horace condescended to ask ; but he did so with a flash- 
 ing fury in his eye which betokened no very amicable con- 
 clusion to the interview. 
 
 The sexton looked up again, and now resting with both 
 hands on the top of his spade, he put on a look of 
 defiance, as he said through teeth that were almost 
 clenched, and with lips hard and withered, though always 
 ready to relax with a sneer — " What end, do you say ? 
 why you're a fine young fellow to come here, and ask me 
 that question. Haven't I the power to bring you to justice 
 — to blast your reputation — to ruin you ? — just as easily 
 as I throw this clay about your feet ?" and he actually 
 sent a spadeful in the direction of the spot where Horace 
 stood. 
 
 To kick back again the largest piece of mould would 
 have been but a natural impulse with any boy thus 
 treated ; and Horace did so, with a vengeance peculiarly 
 his own, so that the broken fragments hit both the eyes 
 and ears of the old man, whose head, from his position, 
 happened to be almost on a level with the mound of earth 
 he had raised up ; and after this act of singular magna- 
 
 E
 
 53 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 nimity, he walked with, great dignity from the churchyard, 
 leaving his enemy tenfold more imbittered against him 
 than before. 
 
 It was not difficult for Lucy to discover, by the first 
 glimpse she caught of her brother's countenance, as he 
 entered the garden, where she awaited impatiently his 
 return, that all had not gone well with him since they 
 parted, and that the events of the morning had indeed 
 terminated in a manner very different from the pleasing 
 anticipations with which they had set out. 
 
 A good resolution, thrown back upon the bosom where 
 it has existed as a rarity, seems as if, by the inevitable 
 course of nature, it must be converted into evil. A tender 
 and judicious mother, seeing and knowing this, will care- 
 fully protect her child in its first efforts of this kind from 
 such fatal and lamentable consequences. Over no one 
 thing in the whole experience of infancy will she watch 
 with such solicitude, as over the forming of good resolu- 
 tions, lest they should return upon the former worse than 
 void ; and not until they have become habitual — not until 
 they have become a joy and a delight in themselves to the 
 young heart in which they are cherished, will she willingly 
 permit them to be exposed to that cruel contact with harsh 
 and ungenerous natures, which they are sure to meet with 
 soon or late in associating with the world. Not that the 
 mother need practise any flattering deception with her 
 child, by representing human life under the pleasing 
 aspect of a scene productive invariably of such results ; 
 but surely out of the deep treasures of her own love, she 
 might supply a sufficient fund for the encouragement of 
 good, until, under higher and brighter auspices — under 
 the sanction of the Divine word and will — it comes to be 
 the habitual aspiration of the mind, valued because it is
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 53 
 
 mind as well as body, that no description can convey a 
 distinct idea of what such effect really is, to those who 
 have never experienced it for themsehes. But to those 
 who have waudered in such a climate amidst mountain- 
 scenery, who have watched the sun go down encircled by 
 the glories of an Italian sky, touch but one cord of these 
 associations, describe but one isolated spot in that region 
 of beauty, and the magnificence of the whole scene revives 
 in the memory, imparting a truth and a reality to that 
 single spot, whether merely described in words, or repre- 
 sented under the lovelier aspect of a picture, and viewed 
 through the dense medium of an English fog. 
 
 To speak of any separate or isolated valley, cradled 
 amidst the mountains which separate France from Spain, 
 or even to describe in detail all the various points of 
 attraction it may offer to the traveller's eye, would be to 
 produce but a very faint impression of the real enjoyment 
 to be derived from a familiar acquaintance with the scenery 
 in which the very soul luxuriates there. It is easy to say 
 that the atmosphere is often so clear as to reveal the sharp 
 outlines of objects, at a distance almost incredible to those 
 who have not seen it for themselves. It is easy to say 
 that the colouring of the mountain-sides, the rocks, and 
 the chasms through which the torrents flow, is so various, 
 so brilliant and so rich, that as it glows beneath that excess 
 of light, one might almost fancy there were gems and pre- 
 cious stones embedded in the hills. It is easy to tell of 
 those torrents as they swell from the fields of glittering 
 snow, far up in the lone heights where never human foot 
 has dared to tread. It is easy to say how the peasant of 
 the Pyrenees, with his herds of sheep and goats, imparts 
 a pastoral and poetic character to the scene. But it is far 
 from easy to say what are the sensations of the lover of
 
 54 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 freedom and of nature, as the buoyant step traces out the 
 wild path of the mountain, or turns at the close of day 
 towards the glimmering light of the peaceful auberge, 
 situated deep in the valley, where the roar of the torrent 
 is the only sound that is heard all night. No, it is not 
 easy to say with what sensations the young and healthy 
 traveller, who has scaled the height of some lofty moun- 
 tain — who has gazed from its highest summit upon what 
 seemed to be a nation at his feet — who has tracked the 
 lone wilderness, and the pine-forest, and held sharp col- 
 loquy with the keen and hungry air — who has quenched i 
 his thirst in the foaming cataract, and eaten his humble 
 meal upon the grey rock where the eagle spread its broad 
 wings, like a cloud above his head — it is not easy to 
 describe with what mental or even bodily sensations such 
 a traveller will draw towards the evening fire, where the 
 pine log is burning, or the green box crackling on the 
 hearth, and sending a pleasant odour through the room. 
 How his eager appetite will give a zest to the meal that 
 is spread with ready and skilful hands, all may under- 
 stand; but the combination of healthy, exhilarating, and 
 joyous sensations — the whole of that fresh, free, wandering 
 life amongst the mountains — is what must be felt to be 
 appreciated, and what ought to be felt at least once in the 
 experience of every human being. 
 
 " But who is that English traveller just arrived ?" said 
 a young lady to her father, as they sat down to a late 
 dinner after a fatiguing day. 
 
 " Let me dine first," said the gentleman, " and then 
 I will endeavour to gratify your curiosity, and if I find 
 him pleasant, and his way is the same as our's, I dare say 
 one guide can be made to serve us all." 
 
 " Hark \" said the lady. " He is bargaining with the
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 55 
 
 people of the house for a horse to Gavarnie. I do wish 
 you would step out aud see who it is." 
 
 " What I" exclaimed the gentleman, u with that dish of 
 trout on the table ! Xo, no. You may make your own 
 discoveries in that line, My business lies here." 
 
 In introducing Major Yiiiing again to the reader, after 
 the lapse of five years spent away from his native land, it 
 is scarcely necessary to say, that that space of time had 
 placed him considerably lower in the down-hill of life, 
 than when he used to cudgel his boys into silence and 
 submission. People accustomed to look only on the soft 
 side of human nature, attributed the change to the loss of 
 his wife, while others not less rationally surmised, that it 
 might possibly arise out of the fact of his being many 
 years her senior. However this might be, his daughter 
 Harriet appeared to have gained as much as her father 
 had lost, in health, and life, and beauty ; and a younger 
 sister, scarcely noticeable before their leaving England, 
 was now smiling by her side, with no small pretensions to 
 the loveliness of a woman. The boys of the Vining family, 
 that troop of little rebels whom even Harriet's skill in 
 good management had failed to tame, were left behind in 
 a Swiss seminary, thus affording to their father something 
 like repose from the strife and the turbulence with which 
 their actual presence was invariably attended. 
 
 For some persons, however, there is no repose, 
 Major Yining hated the French, and, ignorant of their 
 language, in condescending to seek the benefit of the 
 celebrated waters of the Pyrenees, found almost as much 
 to annoy and irritate him, as when surrounded by his own 
 family in England. Perhaps he found more, for the worcl- 
 and-blow system, which effected wonders in his own par- 
 lour and nursery, was wholly inapplicable to the annoy-
 
 .00 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 ttnces which now assailed his peace. A casual looker-on, 
 especially a young and gallant gentleman, like the tra- 
 veller already alluded to in the adjoining apartment of the 
 auberge, might have wondered how any one in his right 
 senses, situated like Major Vining between two such fair 
 and gentle handmaids, could have found anything but 
 enjoyment to speak or think of; but it does not always 
 happen, as a matter of course, that the fair are the gentle, 
 and that fact in the philosophy of human nature Horace 
 Grant had yet to find out. 
 
 Yes, it was Horace Grant himself who sat in the adjoin- 
 ing apartment, musing over the glowing embers of his 
 wood-fire, and listening to the rush of the mountain-tor- 
 rent, as it dashed along a precipitous ravine, immediately 
 below a balcony which ran along the side of the house. 
 It was Horace Grant himself; but how changed since he 
 shrank away from the festivities of that birthday party, 
 to hide himself and his morbid feelings beneath the 
 shadow of the dark trees which hung around that little 
 woodland brook ! Horace was now no longer the dark and 
 gloomy-looking youth which all beheld him then. His 
 step had grown elastic, his complexion clear, though 
 always dark, and his eye had a glance of flashing beauty, 
 almost magnificent in its splendour and its depth. In 
 boyhood his frame resembled a powerful but inert mass. 
 It was now more spare and light, but at the same time 
 animated by an energy which none of the common diffi- 
 culties of a mountain-traveller were sufficient to subdue or 
 enfeeble. So far from this, it seemed rather to increase 
 in spite of difficulties, to grow by opposition, and to feed 
 upon that which formerly it would only have been exerted 
 to avoid. 
 
 As a boy, Horace Grant had never known what to do
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 57 
 
 with his herculean limbs. Discontent had always thrown 
 them in the way of others, and indolence had made them 
 a burden to himself. Such was the change which a few 
 years of vigorous exercise had wrought, with plenty to do, 
 plenty to think about, and plenty to admire, that the same 
 limbs appeared now as if gathered into use and beauty, as 
 parts of a perfect whole ; and Horace Grant could stand 
 on the brink of the cataract, or the edge of the mountain- 
 precipice, as noble a specimen of active and vigorous man- 
 hood, as ever was represented in the schools of art. 
 
 Nor was the general tone of his mind less changed than 
 his appearance. He had the same deep feelings, but they 
 were no longer the bane of his existence. The constant 
 exercise, and the frequently spare and simple diet of a 
 hasty traveller, had given health to his constitution, both 
 of body and mind ; thus revealing the great secret of his 
 nature, that a worthy object to live for, and effort in attaining 
 it, were all he required to render him a happy and an esti- 
 mable man. He had not yet thought deeply enough, to 
 question whether his present object, that of seeing all 
 which could be seen, and admiring all which could be 
 admired, would last him through life ; or whether in short 
 it was really sufficient for the present hour. It had served 
 his purpose thus far, for he was a new being both to him- 
 self and others; and so eager was his pursuit of the 
 enjoyment and the enterprise of each succeeding day, that 
 he had almost forgotten his former self, except sometimes 
 when a letter from home, or the sound of English voices, 
 as on the present occasion, reminded him, that there was 
 somewhere in the world a green and thymy common, and 
 a leafy dell, where the spring - flowers, though late in 
 coming, were sweeter than any he had found elsewhere.
 
 58 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Horace Grant fell very naturally into a fit of deep and 
 pleasant musing, while old feelings and associations 
 rushed back upon his heart, like a long pent-up stream, 
 let loose to freshen and to fertilize wherever it may flow. 
 He listened more intently. Every tone of those cheerful 
 voices reminded him of home, of the days of his childhood, 
 of his sister Lucy, and of a thousand dear remembrances, 
 perhaps more dear because the facts with which they were 
 connected had grown distant, and were divested of the 
 many humiliations, and other circumstances of painful 
 trial, by which their actual existence had been marked. 
 It was, in fact, a moonlight view of his past life which 
 he now beheld ; and while he gazed in mental abstraction 
 upon the bright, the soft, and the tender, it seemed as if 
 some sister-spirit was echoing the very tone of his reflec- 
 tions, for there fell upon his ear the following strain, so 
 sweetly sung, and yet so near, that he caught distinctly 
 every word : — 
 
 " I hear the light hells sounding, 
 
 Of the mountain -muleteer ; 
 I see the chamois bounding, 
 
 And the foaming torrent near ; 
 But I sigh for the evening shadows, 
 
 And the cheeiful fireside smile, 
 And I pine for the deep, deep shadows 
 
 Of my own sweet native isle. 
 
 *' Thou art lovely in thy coldness, 
 
 Sweet island-home, to me, 
 Where thy rocks of rugged boldness 
 
 Frown o'er the dark blue sea. 
 And I'd give all the splendour, 
 
 Where southern sunbeams smile 
 For thy welcome, true and tender, 
 
 Mv own sweet native isle ! "
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 59 
 
 There was do conviction more firmly implanted in the 
 mind of Horace Grant, than that he was capable of loving 
 one human being better than himself. And perhaps he 
 was right, for he was capable of almost any amount of 
 feeling, from causes incident to human nature, and from 
 these it would be absurd to exclude the universal tendency 
 of mankind to love. 
 
 And now if one should ask, " what is it to love, or to 
 be loved V 3 there are disciplinarians, for they cannot be 
 called moralists, who, on opening this page, would pro- 
 nounce it unfit to be unfolded to the eye of youth ; while 
 a strict injunction against uttering that magic word, a 
 finger uplifted, a whisper, or a meaning look, are the 
 methods they make use of for conquering a power, which, 
 ever since the world began, has proved scarcely less univer- 
 sally triumphant than that of death. 
 
 And is not this one great reason why love so often 
 becomes an evil agent, instead of an instrument of good? 
 ■ — a master instead of a servant ? Those who yield, at once, 
 entirely, and without reserve, to its control, have for the 
 most part never looked it fairly in the face, nor made it 
 the subject of their serious calculations. It has been put 
 down and smuggled out of sight and hearing, like some 
 forbidden thing, or as if it held no place by nature and 
 necessity in the great creation. But the world speaks a 
 different language — a language echoed by the heart of 
 youth j and therefore we do well to speak of love, since it 
 is there and everywhere, and will be there until crea- 
 tion itself shall cease. Because of this artificial and 
 most injurious mystery in which the name of love is 
 involved, men act less wisely under its influence than 
 under any other. In arranging for a long journey 
 with a single companion all the way, what inquiries are
 
 60 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 generally made respecting the temper, obliging disposition, 
 habits, and general suitability of that individual. In 
 entering into any public engagement in which deep inte- 
 rests are at stake, how solicitous are most men to ascer- 
 tain the true position as regards integrity and principle, 
 which those with whom they propose to associate them- 
 selves maintain. In agreeing with one whose office is 
 that of conducting their household affairs, how strict is 
 their investigation into the economy, the experience, and 
 the general competency of the person who is to occupy 
 a place of such important trust. In selecting a care-taker 
 and instructor of their children, how careful is the inquiry 
 after health and private habits, how anxious the scrutiny 
 of character, and how keen the perception of all that 
 belongs to the development of motive and feeling, as con- 
 nected with the welfare of the young. All these, and 
 innumerable other points of important investigation, are 
 sought after every day, in the familiar transactions of life, 
 mankind having rightly agreed to consider it a proof of 
 the absence of common sense, to say nothing of prudence 
 and propriety, to leave them uncalculated upon in any 
 prospective view of human happiness. 
 
 There is one transaction, however, which comprehends 
 in its important bearings upon the welfare of each indi- 
 vidual engaged in it, all the relations here specified, and 
 many more — more even than it would be possible to name. 
 And strange, most strange is the phenomenon exhibited 
 before the world, of the manner in which this transaction 
 is for the most part conducted ! It is in fact as if mankind 
 had no interests at stake, as if there were no such things 
 as happiness or misery in the world, or as if man was a 
 being so generous and disinterested in his own nature, 
 that he forgot himself, and his own welfare, at that par-
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 6i 
 
 ticular crisis of his existence, when everything on one 
 side most abhorred, and everything on the other most 
 valued, was hanging upon the utterance of a single 
 word. 
 
 But let us not libel mankind in general for a greater 
 absence of prudent calculation than they really exhibit. 
 Let us not presume to suppose that man in particular is 
 ignorant or regardless of what he is about. No. He is 
 setting out upon a long journey indeed — upon the journey 
 of life, and with one single companion for the whole ot 
 the way; but he has ascertained — that his companion 
 has a fair hand, and perhaps a graceful contour of head 
 and face. He is entering into a public engagement, in 
 which the interests, not of this life only, but of eternity, 
 are at stake, and he asks — if the name to be associated 
 with his own has any relative connection with that of a 
 small tradesman in an adjoining street. He is agreeing 
 with one who, for months and years, in poverty and 
 riches, in sickness and health, is to take the entire super- 
 intendence of his household affairs, of the management 
 of his servants, the economy of his means, the distribution 
 of his expenditure, and the responsibility of his social and 
 domestic position, and he asks — of what master she has 
 learned to sing ! He is selecting a care-taker and 
 instructor of his children, to whom they are to be com- 
 mitted from their earliest birth, and not only one who 
 is to teach and to train them, but whose very nature and 
 constitution is to be their's ; and he observes — that the 
 individual in question looks with admiring eyes upon 
 himself, and he is satisfied ! Let us then refrain, in 
 justice to man, from charging him with want of prudent 
 calculation in the most important transaction of his 
 whole life.
 
 G2 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 " But what is to be done," asks the curious inquirer, 
 u if he should happen to fall in love before any calcula- 
 tions have been made V Precisely the same as he would 
 do if the idea of making some particular purchase should 
 enter his mind before he had ascertained its real value. 
 He should set about obtaining the necessary information 
 without delay. And he would do this in a mere money 
 transaction, in justice to himself and others. There is 
 scarcely a man to be found who would commit himself by 
 a single look to the seller, so as to convey an idea of what 
 were his intentions, until he had discovered how far his 
 interests were likely to be served by completing the con- 
 templated purchase. 
 
 And love, notwithstanding all that poets say to the 
 contrary, is, in the first germ of its existence, nothing more 
 than an idea, just as easily put an end to as any other 
 which may have originated upon a false or insecure foun- 
 dation. Instances are occurring every day, in which the 
 idea in this stage of its existence is utterly extinguished 
 by the merest trifles in the world — by an averted look, 
 or an unbecoming dress. It may be a bold assertion to 
 make in the face of youth, but it is a true one not the 
 less, that love does not come at once, and with overwhelm- 
 ing force, upon man or woman either. There is at least 
 time to think — time to calculate — time to resolve. It is 
 the later growth of love, its full maturity of strength, 
 with all its accessories of habitual thought and action, 
 which masters human nature, and bows it down, both in 
 its strength and its weakness, as the pine of the forest, 
 and the flower of the valley, are alike subdued by the 
 force of the scathing wind. It is when love, like a sove- 
 reign, sits enthroned, with an army, and a court, and a 
 vast array of ministers and powers, all accessory to the same
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 63 
 
 arbitrary rule, that the difficulty of resistance and escape 
 is equally felt. And thus it is that the old are ever 
 preaching to the young to beware, and ever calling upon 
 them to stop before it shall be too late. They, in all pro- 
 bability, can recall the time when, in such a wild career, 
 they could have stopped ; and having learned that in all 
 other transactions of life, not only common sense, but 
 conscience, have had to be called in before it was prudent 
 to act, they are at a loss to imagine why in this alone the 
 eye is to be dazzled, or the ear to be charmed, without 
 one serious thought being entertained in reference to the 
 deep responsibilities involved in the contraction of a bond 
 which is to endure for life. 
 
 But to return to our story. Horace Grant had strong 
 feelings to throw into any cause which might happen to 
 awaken them j unfortunately, they were wholly ungo- 
 verned ; but, sensible of their power, he had no hesitation 
 in believing himself capable of making any woman happy 
 who might trust her future lot with him. He would have 
 been scarcely human, if at the present era of his life, he 
 had not begun to calculate upon who this happy woman 
 might be ; and the old home-associations which rushed, 
 back upon his heart, as he sat musing over his wood-fire, 
 after listening to that sweet melody, sent him farther 
 than usual that night into the land of dreams, where the 
 beautiful is always the real. 
 
 Eight joyous was the greeting of the English travellers, 
 as they met at early sunrise on the following morning, to 
 pursue their journey to Gavarnie, in company with others 
 whom the cunning guide had collected together into one 
 picturesque cavalcade, under the assurance that he alone 
 was competent to explain the wonders of the scene through 
 which they were to pass.
 
 64 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 " Is he not handsome V* exclaimed Harriet to her more 
 silent sister, as Horace passed on to take the lead round 
 a point of danger. And well did the epithet apply to him 
 who was not altogether unconsciously its object, for to his 
 features was especially becoming the broad brown Eearnais 
 bonnet worn by the peasants of the Pyrenees, and the 
 scarlet sash tied in their peculiar fashion around his waist. 
 He had not yet imbibed the taste, or adopted the fashion, 
 of so many youthful travellers of his own sex, who appear 
 to class amongst the fine arts that of personal disfigure- 
 ment. Horace knew better how to dispose the glossy curls 
 of his raven hair, as well as the whole of his costume, 
 so well adapted to set off to the best advantage a face 
 and figure, of which it is saying much, to admit that 
 they were scarcely inferior to those of the young shep- 
 herds who feed their flocks amongst those mountain- 
 heights. 
 
 " Is he not handsome ?" exclaimed Harriet again; and 
 her sister turned her softer eyes towards where Horace 
 stood guarding the difficult pass, but still she spoke not.
 
 05 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 
 
 The influence of association, powerful in all the actions 
 and relations of our lives, is never more so than in what is 
 commonly denominated falling in love. "Whenever the 
 animal spirits are exhilarated, and the mind set free from 
 care ; whenever taste is gratified, admiration excited, and 
 social feeling unrestrained — there the heart is disposed to 
 love. It is in fact compelled to love, for the fruition of 
 enjoyment has no other outlet or expression. It is as 
 natural as necessary for youth in its freedom and buoyancy 
 to love what is lovely ; and, while gazing with ecstasy 
 upon the unrivalled beauties of nature, while breathing 
 the fresh pure air of the mountain, or listening with rap- 
 ture to the flow of the silvery torrent in the solitudes of 
 alpine scenery, it is equally natural to love the bright 
 and joyous beings by whom it is surrounded, for no other 
 reason than because they have gazed upon the same scenes, 
 breathed the same air, rambled over the same mountains, 
 listened to the same stream, and will remember through 
 life the sensations then experienced together. 
 
 Vainly may the political economist warn, vainly may 
 the moralist advise, and vainly too may the preacher 
 exhort two beings thus situated, against the danger of 
 forming an alliance which is to last for life, upon no surer
 
 66 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 and more substantial foundation. The crystal stream 
 flows on, and never tires — the lofty mountains remain the 
 same, changing only with the gold and purple tinting of 
 the sun and clouds — the air is fresh and pure, even at 
 sultry noon, and when the herds are driven home at 
 evening, and vesper-bells are echoing from hill to hill — 
 ah ! then it is that young hearts draw trustingly together, 
 and fearlessly throw the whole burden of a lifetime upon 
 the frail fabric of an hour ! 
 
 Horace Grant was perhaps never happier in his whole 
 life, than when conducting the little party already described 
 along that richly varied route which leads from the valley 
 of Luz to the celebrated amphitheatre of Gavarnie. It is 
 true the travellers, were mounted upon animals more gro- 
 tesque than graceful. It is true, the path was often more 
 perilous than English ladies are accustomed to trace ; but 
 the merry laughter which the various costumes and equip- 
 ments of the party called forth, and the frequent occasions 
 for displaying, not only his gallantry, but his real kind- 
 ness, which Horace enjoyed, rendered him at once as 
 happy in himself, as he appeared to be indispensable to 
 others. 
 
 It sometimes happens that what is called a high spirit 
 is accompanied with very little real courage, and this was 
 remarkably the case with Harriet Vining. Her sister, 
 always calmer than herself, excelled her as much in this 
 latter quality, as she was inferior in readiness of retort, and 
 in the impetuosity of momentary impulse. Thus she rode 
 on comparatively disengaged, and at liberty to admire the 
 vast variety of rock and precipice, of snowy peak and ver- 
 dant meadow, of foaming cataract and deep ravine, which 
 every turn of the road presented to their view. 
 
 Nor was it unfrequently that Horace found himself by
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 67 
 
 her side, explaining the structure of the rocks and moun- 
 tains, the after-course of those quick arrowy streams, 
 which leapt from precipice to precipice, and sometimes the 
 old legends and superstitious histories of 'the place, with 
 which he had made himself intimately acquainted. To all 
 this Alice Yining listened attentively, for she was alive to 
 intelligence of almost every kind ; but she rode on without 
 evincing the slightest symptom of fear, and therefore 
 Horace was at liberty to leave her whenever he desired to 
 bestow his kind attentions elsewhere. 
 
 With Harriet Vining the case was widely different. Her 
 business in life was that of an actor, not a listener ; and 
 now that her fears obtained the mastery over her resolu- 
 tion, she made perpetual demands upon the kindness of 
 Horace to preserve her from the horrors of some yawning 
 abyss, or to direct her pony up the slippery crags, which 
 it seemed impossible for any horse to climb. Nor was 
 Harriet Vining in this respect quite so absurd as the 
 mere English traveller would suppose, for nothing can 
 exceed the apparent impracticability of some of those 
 Pyrenean roads, for the slippery feet of horses shod in the 
 usual manner — sometimes being nothing less than a con- 
 tinuation of bare slabs of rock for a considerable extent. 
 Horses accustomed to this footing, however, pass for the 
 most part safely along, provided only they are unchecked 
 by the rider, and may with loose and easy rein be left 
 entirely at liberty to choose their own way. Alice Yining 
 soon discovered this, and therefore, even when Horace 
 offered to assist her, she quietly declined his help, declar- 
 ing that she felt safer when left alone. 
 
 Harriet declared no such thing. Flushed with the 
 excitement of her fears, her hat thrown back, her hair 
 left free in its natural curls to float around her face, she 
 
 f2
 
 68 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 never looked more beautiful than with her fair and bril- 
 liant complexion, contrasted with the hoary rocks around 
 her; and when her white hand involuntarily and uncon- 
 sciously to herself was resting upon the shoulder of Horace, 
 as he walked by her side to hold her bridle-rein, her entire 
 dependence upon him, her unaccustomed helplessness, 
 and perhaps a little something in the touch of that exqui- 
 site white hand, converted her at once into the most 
 attractive and loveable of human beings. It is remarkable 
 that from that time her hair became, not red, but the 
 most beautiful auburn, in the eyes of Horace Grant, and 
 remained so — how long ? 
 
 There is a singular part of the route to Gavarnie, known 
 by the name of Chaos, and here the guide never fails to 
 point out the marks of the horse-hoofs of that redoubtable 
 warrior, who cleft his name in the distant Breche de Rol- 
 land rising on the frontier of Spain, from whence he leapt, 
 according to the legends of the place, at one bound, from 
 that yawning crevice in the barrier of the mountain many 
 leagues off, alighting on his war-horse upon the stones of 
 Chaos, where something like the shape of a giant-hoof is 
 seen. 
 
 But puerile and meagre is the interest derived from 
 these childish fables in such a place, compared with the 
 impression made upon the mind by the stupendous and 
 mysterious character of the scene itself. It needs no 
 giant warrior leaping from the mountain-barrier of a 
 hostile country to set the imagination afloat upon a sea 
 of wonders, in that plain of granite rocks which have 
 evidently rolled from the summits of the surrounding 
 mountains, filling up the solitary and silent space with 
 their majestic forms, and frowning upon the pigmy traveller 
 as he passes over or below them, with a black and threaten-
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 69 
 
 ing aspect, as if to warn him from treacling with audacious 
 foot within the precincts of their solemn and unpeopled 
 realm. 
 
 Across the whole valley in its length and breadth, no 
 human habitation nor living form is seen, except that 
 sometimes the Spanish muleteer winds stealthily along the 
 ridges of the mountains, hoping to evade the scrutiny 
 which everywhere besets his lawless path. " And here," 
 thought Horace, " that daring girl will surely need my 
 help/'' for the path is sometimes almost lost beneath the 
 blocks of granite, where a wild stream rushes with boiling 
 fury along its thundering way. But, no ! Alice rode safely 
 on, apparently as disengaged as if she had been seated in 
 a summer-bower, for she was singing as she went, in low 
 sweet tones, the last words of the simple melody, to which 
 Horace had listened so attentively on the previous night — 
 
 " But I'd give all the splendour 
 
 Where southern sunbeams smile, 
 For thy welcome true and tender, 
 My own sweet native Isle." 
 
 "Is it really so?" said Horace, looking up into the 
 clear earnest face of the almost unconscious songstress. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Alice, smiling. u I am delighted — 
 enchanted — perfectly wild with admiration of what I see. 
 But I had just then gone back to a certain green hill-side, 
 where we used to play in our childhood. You have for- 
 gotten it, I dare say?" 
 
 " Forgotten it ? " exclaimed Horace, " never ! while 
 I have an eye for beauty, or a heart to feel." And they 
 fell into a long earnest talk, of that particular description 
 which, to a stranger unacquainted with the circumstances 
 of local interest attached to every house, and tree, and 
 cottage, and child, is apt to sound like nothing but an
 
 /U TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 enumeration of mere names of things and people. And 
 perhaps it is in reality little more. Yet what more is 
 needed, especially in a foreign land, where those familiar 
 names are unknown, and never spoken ? 
 
 But this earnest conversation, which was rapidly draw- 
 ing the parties into close intimacy, had not continued 
 many minutes, before Harriet Vining declared it impos- 
 sible for her to venture one step further without a guiding 
 hand upon her bridle. Twice she had repelled the 
 advances of the guide to her assistance, and Horace heard 
 her cries of distress, without knowing whether he could, 
 or ought, to leave one sister in order to take care of the 
 other. 
 
 Alice saw his hesitation, and observed, with the utmost 
 indifference, that he had better leave her pony's head, as 
 she preferred riding without assistance. 
 
 "Then you may ride without assistance, for me \" mur- 
 mured Horace to himself, but so low as not to be heard, 
 yet with that dark expression of countenance, which those 
 who knew him best could too easily interpret. 
 
 The reception he met with on rejoining Harriet, more 
 than repaid him for his momentary chagrin ; and they 
 journeyed on without further interruption, until reaching 
 that point of view from whence the astonishing spectacle 
 of the amphitheatre of Gavernie first bursts upon the 
 sight. 
 
 This immense basin or hollow, in the very bosom of 
 snow-clad mountains, is said very much to resemble the 
 crater of a volcano. It is surrounded by precipitous 
 rock on all sides but one, where a comparatively nar- 
 row opening admits the traveller within the circle, in 
 which he stands, amazed and enchanted, in the midst of 
 a scene, scarcely rivalled in its curious and majestic
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 71 
 
 features by any in the world. It is perhaps not generally 
 known, that the highest waterfall in Europe pours over 
 the edge of a mountain-height, with a fall of thirteen 
 hundred feet, broken only by one projecting mass, into 
 the hollow of this circle ; while many others, scarcely less 
 in apparent magnitude, and certainly not inferior in 
 beauty, stream down the dark marble walls by which the 
 circle is enclosed, with thousands of silvery channels, 
 some scarcely discernible amongst the far heights, where 
 the sunshine glitters on the snow, with a brilliance 
 strongly contrasted with the deep solemnity of the scene 
 below. 
 
 But those far heights ! — what a spirit-stirring spectacle 
 they present, on looking up to the giant towers of Marbore, 
 crested with their dome of everlasting snow, and, as it seems 
 from below, supported by the most exquisite columns of 
 many-coloured marble, reflecting all the rich and gorgeous 
 colours of that delicious climate. Beyond these towers 
 arise, height above height of trackless snow, glittering in 
 clear outline against the dark-blue sky ; and almost in a 
 line with the towers, though sloping downwards towards 
 the right, is that monstrous gash in a vast wall of solid 
 rock, said to have been cut by one sword-stroke of the 
 champion Roland, and now remaining a curious land- 
 mark, to' which the traveller is directed as a point of 
 entrance into Spain; 
 
 Below the towers of Marbore, already described, lie 
 fields of snow, from whence, in the distance, small creamy- 
 looking cascades are stealing ; while from the lower fields, 
 for they are many, the torrents swell and grow, until at 
 last, over the dark wall which terminates in the abyss, 
 they fall in crystal and varied beauty, each assuming some 
 form of grace and softness, on which the eye might dwell
 
 72 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 for hours. It is impossible, however, to give any general 
 description of this astonishing scene, for with the changes 
 of the atmosphere and the melting of the snows, it 
 assumes a different aspect to each successive group of 
 travellers. Sometimes, when the mountain-mists roll 
 heavily along the higher ridges of the amphitheatre, a 
 blackness, like the shadow of death, dwells in the deep 
 hollow where the cascades are heard hissing and boiling 
 in their foamy beds ; and sometimes, too, while all this 
 blackness and mystery fills the surrounding space with 
 solemnity and gloom, up high in purer air, and towering 
 above the grey sullen mists, may be seen the domes and 
 pinnacles of snow, glittering in cloudless sunshine, and 
 holding out the promise of a loftier and more glorious 
 world beyond that dark abyss. 
 
 It was altogether a scene to fill the mind of Horace 
 Grant with sensations of admiration and awe, too deep 
 for language to express. He wanted no utterance for his 
 feelings, and he found none; but wandering on alone, 
 where his companions dared not tread, he lost all thought 
 or need of sympathy, in the incommunicable enjoyment 
 of his own sentiments. 
 
 The return from their day's excursion was if possible 
 more pleasant to the travellers than their morning's ride. 
 It was at the time of the milking of the goats, and here 
 and there, in the more frequented spots, groups of peasant 
 men and women were gathered together, with their lovely 
 children, dressed in those picturesque costumes which, 
 amidst such scenery, have a beauty in themselves ; like the 
 gay flowers in a sunny hedge-row, gorgeous, deep, and 
 glowing, yet in perfect keeping with the rank luxuriance 
 amongst which they live and bloom. 
 
 Harriet was less timid than on her first attempt to
 
 T, 
 
 B 
 
 
 ?/s . "%>' 
 
 t"\
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 73 
 
 trace that perilous path along the deep ravines ; and not, 
 except when crossing, by a loose bridge of unhewn pines, 
 over v he bed of a foaming torrent, was it necessary for 
 He race to dismount in order to guide her horse. They, 
 therefore, rode leisurely on together, leaving Alice to her 
 own uninterrupted musings ; and they found time for 
 recollections of England, for recurrence to pleasant hours 
 of childish pastime spent together, and for the commence- 
 ment of an intimacy, at least as substantially and rationally 
 founded, as one half of those by which the happiness of 
 married life is supposed to be secured. 
 
 Nor are the evening hours spent after such a day as 
 our travellers had experienced, less congenial to minds 
 exhausted by excitement, than the livelier anticipations of 
 the morning. Seated around a plentiful board, with 
 Major Vining in high good humour at the prospect of 
 having found an able and willing assistant to share with 
 him the onerous duty of pleasing as well as protecting the 
 female members of his family, of speaking French for him 
 whenever it was necessary, and above all — capable of 
 relieving him from the annoyance of constant imposition ; 
 Horace Grant, without much reluctance on his part, was 
 pressed into the party, so far at least as their route was 
 likely to be the same. 
 
 This prospect, equally enchanting to all concerned, 
 appeared not likely to extend farther than the crossing of 
 a mountain-pass into an adjoining valley. So far, however, 
 it was good, and young and old resigned themselves to the 
 easy and familiar enjoyment of a late French dinner at the 
 close of an adventurous and fatiguing day. 
 
 The following morning dawned with unusual brilliance 
 upon the little town of Luz, cradled in its own sweet 
 valley, and surrounded by innumerable mountain-peaks
 
 74 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 which glittered in the sunshine, or threw back their dark 
 shadows into the deep ravines, where the thousand 
 torrents which water that sequestered spot, steal glancing 
 forth, or plunge into their hollow beds of rock with a 
 threatening and mysterious rush, as if the place was 
 animated by some living principle, now here — now there 
 — stealing in silent beauty over the distant crag — rushing 
 and tearing through the shadowy woods — sleeping in the 
 bosom of the soft meadow, like a serpent in the sun — or 
 thundering loud and deep, down in the hollow caverns 
 where the mountain-pine is dashed into splinters that 
 mingle with the foam, and go heaving and blackening 
 along their rugged and precipitous course. 
 
 Had the hollow or basin of Luz been chosen hy the Great 
 Moralist as the scene of his Happy Valley, surely discon- 
 tent would scarcely have entered into the hearts of its 
 inhabitants ! 
 
 Such were the thoughts of Horace Grant and his com- 
 panions, as they traced one of the sweetest of the many 
 paths which wind along the sides of the mountains sur- 
 rounding Luz ; sometimes passing along a bowery and 
 sheltering glade, with the sunlight glancing through upon 
 the greensward, and glittering on the surface of some 
 rippling stream — sometimes emerging from the shade into 
 the full splendour of a glorious day, to stand upon some 
 commanding height, and gaze in almost silent admiration 
 on the scene below. 
 
 There are many strong sympathies existing in the world, 
 by which characters, not otherwise harmonious, may be 
 brought into close and lasting intimacy; and perhaps not 
 the least amongst these, is that which arises out of having 
 felt together and in silence some strong emotion — too 
 strong in fact for words. Horace and his friends
 
 TUE MANAGING WIFE. 7o 
 
 experienced all this to its fullest extent, for the fatigues of 
 the previous day had induced a sort of languor which led 
 them dreamily along from one point of interest to another, 
 sometimes lingering upon a rustic bridge, to watch the 
 ripple of the crystal stream, where it wandered, broad and 
 shallow, over its pebbly bed, and sometimes seating them- 
 selves upon the summit of one of those green knolls which 
 abound so frequently in the Pyrenees, and, springing up 
 from the valleys like mimic mountains, present a surface 
 rocky and precipitous on one side, while the other is 
 clothed with the richest verdure, and most brilliant green. 
 These verdant hills are sprinkled, too, with flocks of sheep 
 and goats, whose many tinkling bells seem to lull the 
 noonday slumbers of the shepherd reclining under the 
 shadow of some hoary crag, with that noble animal 
 the Pyrenean sheep-dog watching by his side. Within 
 the precincts of one of those little primitive and patri- 
 archal farms, whose white gables, glancing out from little 
 knolls of orchard foliage, spot the sides of the moun- 
 tains with beauty and vegetation, up to a height almost in- 
 credible to English agriculturists ; or, tracing the circuitous 
 path hemmed in with rock and fringed with boxwood along 
 the deep ravine, or up the difficult ascent by which these 
 little gardens of a short summer's produce are attained, 
 our travellers watched the young peasant-women at their 
 cheerful haymaking, laughing and chattering with all the 
 vehemence of southern animation, and making the hills 
 echo with that unintelligible patois, in which the English 
 traveller so often longs to share with the merry moun- 
 taineer. 
 
 Though varied and beautiful in the extreme, and com- 
 prehending even the loftier features of sublimity, the 
 scenery of the Pyrenees is but little adapted to harmonize
 
 76 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 with the deep movements of a morbidly imaginative mind, 
 All is too clear, too bright, too joyous, to admit sensations 
 either of overwhelming awe, or misanthropic gloom, to 
 take possession of the soul. In the heart of the moun- 
 tains, too, the summer is so short, comprising little more 
 than four months between the seasons of frost and snow, 
 that a world of work has to be accomplished in that limited 
 period; and thus in the more populous valleys, the in- 
 habitants flock out like bees from their winter hive, as 
 busy in their occupations, and as intent upon the accumu- 
 lation of their winter store. Thus, in a space of time 
 which to an English farmer would appear miraculous, the 
 produce of that teeming climate is ripened and gathered 
 in, and the soil prepared again for a second harvest, by 
 hands unaccustomed to any but the simplest tools; by 
 labourers with unshod feet ; and by all those rude and 
 primitive usages, which, where every man is his own 
 master, cultivating his own little patch of ground, are 
 handed down from father to son, and carried on from year 
 to year, without question as to their capability of im- 
 provement. 
 
 Here then the busy haymaker, unencumbered by more 
 than one or two loose garments, and screened from the 
 rays of that cloudless sun by a straw hat with expansive 
 brim, gathers the hay, sometimes of an entire field, into 
 a sheet of home-spun linen, which is spread upon the 
 ground ; after securing the four corners of which, she raises 
 the whole upon her head, and thus traversing the steep 
 acclivities, skimming along the brow of the precipice, or 
 diving into the shady hollows where the torrent runs 
 gurgling on its way, the harvest is safely housed within 
 a little stone building, scarcely worthy the name of 
 barn.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 77 
 
 Indeed, the whole arrangement of a Pyrenean farm and 
 homested, is such as might well excite a smile upon lips 
 conversant with the modern improvements in agriculture 
 elsewhere, far as they still remain behind the improve- 
 ments which have taken place in other branches of civili- 
 zation throughout the world ; the whole range of operation 
 enjoyed by some of these landed proprietors, being little 
 more in extent than a common-sized garden. Within this 
 little boundary, which has no fence to separate it from 
 the neighbouring property, lie distinct plots of every 
 kind of produce cultivated in that region, forming 
 a sort of mosaic work, which adds in no small measure to 
 the general gaiety of the scene. Indeed it is not easy, 
 without having been a spectator one's self, to form an 
 idea of the liveliness of effect presented by these many- 
 tinted plots of ground, sometimes occupying the fertile 
 bed of a flat valley between two majestic hills, and some- 
 times ascending, on the southern side, almost to the summit 
 of a lofty mountain. 
 
 This gay parterre, however, would be robbed of its most 
 brilliant tints, without those living specks of burning 
 scarlet which glow in the costumes of the inhabitants 
 themselves, when the red hoods and petticoats of the 
 women, with the sash of the same colour tied round the 
 waists of the men, and often a red jacket of the same 
 splendid dye, flash in the bright sunshine, or sparkle on 
 the velvet green, denoting the lively movements of a busy 
 multitude intent upon the cheerful toil of gathering in the 
 abundant produce of what the same industrious hands have 
 sown. 
 
 Scarcely less delighted with the animated scene around 
 them, than with themselves, and each other, our travellers 
 spent together one of those indolently happy days, which
 
 78 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 sometimes live longer amongst our pleasant recollections, 
 than seasons of more active or more definite enjoyment. 
 Nor was it simply upon the scenery around them, that 
 they were thrown, for the amusement of the passing hour. 
 Their early life had been shared together. They had 
 been accustomed to attend the same country church, and 
 all the simple annals of the neighbouring village were fami- 
 liar to each. Thus it was scarcely so much what they beheld, 
 as what they called to mind, which gave rise to a quiet 
 cheerfulness, conducive alike to refreshment and repose. 
 
 The mind of Horace Grant was rich in associations. 
 He felt too strongly ever to forget, what had interested 
 him deeply. Thus his conversation was never more 
 amusing, than when it abounded in allusions to absent, or 
 long-known subjects of familiar acquaintance, revived by 
 a kind of analogy which connected them somewhat fan- 
 tastically with present things; and on this occasion, es- 
 pecially, he displayed to great advantage, a talent which 
 some have considered as the very soul of wit. 
 
 Yes, it was a happy day — that spent in the sweet valley 
 of Luz, with its thousand streams dancing on as if the 
 whole course of human life was nothing but a dream. It 
 was a bright and happy day, as ever the sun shone upon ; 
 for there was health, and youth, and freedom from anxiety, 
 and beauty, and clear skies, and balmy air — " and are not 
 these enough ?" said Horace, more than once as he 
 resigned himself to those delicious influences which per- 
 vaded earth and sky. They were enough, unquestionably, 
 for that moment, for the full bosom had no room for 
 more ; but for a whole lifetime — that was the question to 
 be asked? 
 
 The course of the travellers after leaving Luz, lay over 
 the mountain-pass called the great Tourmalet, and they
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 79 
 
 had to track the rugged bed of the furious Bastau, a 
 torrent whose swollen tide carries terror and destruction 
 to the hamlets placed within its reach. It may easily be 
 supposed, that a journey, generally considered so difficult 
 as only to be undertaken in fine and settled weather, was 
 not without its numerous difficulties to a rider afflicted 
 with the terrors of Harriet Vining. Scarcely, however, 
 could these terrors be the subject of regret, as they 
 afforded so many opportunities for the exercise of that 
 kindness which few persons could experience without being 
 won by its peculiar efficiency, and natural grace. Happily 
 for the party, no difficulties occurred beyond what this 
 kindness enabled the ladies to overcome ; and even the 
 worst portion of the route — the descent into the valley of 
 Campan, was accomplished without any calamity more 
 serious, than the indignation of Major Yining, on dis- 
 covering that he was mounted on a lame horse, with a 
 saddle, which, according to the fashion of the Pyrenees, 
 stood up a good half-yard above the back of the animal, 
 having never been made to fit an angle less acute than 
 the ridge of a slated roof. 
 
 If Horace Grant had felt that his enjoyment of the 
 valley of Luz was sufficient, that of the valley of Campan 
 was if possible greater to his companions ; just in propor- 
 tion as it was more richly cultivated, more soft, and 
 arcadian, blending all the majestic character of the one, 
 with an increased degree of fertility in the other. But 
 we must leave the happy party to the murmuring of the 
 silvery A dour as it wanders through that enchanted scene — 
 to the waving of the Indian corn-leaves, freshening there, 
 with green and living swell, as the slight breeze sweeps 
 over them — and to the beatings of their own young hearts, 
 scarcelv less filled with beautv, than with love.
 
 80 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Exactly one year after that portion of his Pyrenean 
 tour which has just been described, Horace Grant was 
 seated with his sister in the library of his mother's house, 
 situated in the beautiful English valley which had been 
 the scene of his boyish joys and sorrows. He was now 
 of age, and had returned to his native land, the possessor 
 of ample fortune, of a more than usual share of manly 
 attainments, and of what he had never known before the 
 commencement of his travels, of bodily as well as mental 
 health. 
 
 Had Horace Grant returned to take part in the 
 management of his own or other men's affairs ; had he 
 returned even to guide the plough, or wield the axe ; he 
 would have been a better and a happier man. But he 
 had what is called no turn for business, and his mother 
 had; and, consequently, his own affairs were managed 
 for him, with a degree of method and skill which left him 
 no wish to interfere on his own behalf. A wise mother, 
 or rather a mother with more of moral sense, would have 
 seen that the conduct of his affairs was of comparatively 
 little importance compared with the conduct of himself; 
 that indolence, and its natural consequence, a want of 
 interest in life, was the great enemy of his peace and his 
 good, which it was worth every sacrifice to overcome ;
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 81 
 
 and that even if his temporal affairs had been mismanaged, 
 if his property had been diminished, and his worldly 
 position undermined, the probability of such disasters 
 keeping him in activity and health, would have been pre- 
 ferable to the greater probability of what he was likely to 
 suffer from having no necessity for exertion, and no 
 motive sufficient to rouse him into that state of energy 
 and usefulness which alone deserves the name of life. 
 
 It was not yet, however, that Horace felt within him- 
 self, or exhibited in his looks and manner, any of the 
 disadvantages under which he laboured. His travels 
 abroad had worked wonders upon his constitution both of 
 mind and body ; and he was living luxuriously, but expen- 
 sively, upon the good which had been gained — luxuriously, 
 for as yet there was delight enough in his recur- 
 rence to former pleasures and associations, and in the 
 prospects which glowed so brightly before him — and 
 expensively, for he was drawing deeply upon past good, 
 without any attempt to lay in a store for future need. 
 
 It is thus that the indolent and morbid are often said 
 to be benefited by change of place and scene. The very 
 effort to make that change is the thing which does them 
 good. The chain of old associations is broken, and the 
 new friends and fresh objects by which they are sur- 
 rounded assist in prolonging the pleasurable sensations 
 under which they first arrived. But let them stay long- 
 enough for these friends and these scenes to have ceased 
 to excite, let the effect of past effort die away without any 
 new attempt being made to continue healthy and vigorous 
 action, and melancholy sensations soon return, with all 
 that host of horrors to which the victims of indolence sub- 
 ject themselves in willing slavery. 
 
 Horace Grant had not come to this. Full of animation, 
 
 G
 
 82 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 life, and hope, he entertained not the least idea that he 
 ever should — full of animation, life, and hope, he hurried 
 from one object of interest to another, doing nothing all 
 the while — full of animation, life, and hope, he formed a 
 thousand schemes for the future, no single one of which 
 he did so much as think about commencing to put in 
 practice — full of animation, life, and hope, he abounded 
 with good-will and charity towards every human being, 
 without actually performing a single act of usefulness for 
 any — full of animation, life, and hope, he rejoiced in the 
 change which a few years had wrought in the aspect and 
 character of his existence, nor dreamed that it rested with 
 himself to prolong the cheerful satisfaction he now expe- 
 rienced, to the end of time. 
 
 Not less happy than her brother was Lucy Grant, the 
 same devoted creature she had ever been, exulting in his 
 triumph over melancholy feeling, and rejoicing in his joy. 
 To her he had returned the most beautiful and noble of 
 all human beings ; and if not exactly the most dear, it was 
 because Lucy, like all other women, had a secret and pre- 
 cious corner of her heart, which it was impossible that any 
 brother should fill. That it was filled, and filled to over- 
 flowing, there needed no other evidence than the blush 
 which flitted across her cheek, and the flutter of her breath 
 whenever she attempted to speak to her brother on a sub- 
 ject which he had not yet begun to suspect. Not that 
 Lucy was disposed to simper and evade where confidence 
 was so necessary, and so in unison with her own feelings j 
 but she had good reasons for fearing the effect of a full 
 disclosure of her secret, having hitherto met with nothing 
 but discouragement from her mother, on the plea that 
 Horace would never be brought to sanction her union 
 with the object of her choice. Lucy had good cause,
 
 THE MANAGING Wiry. 83 
 
 therefore, to tremble, whenever an opportunity occurred 
 for laying bare her heart before her brother. She had 
 good cause to wish, as many have done under similar 
 circumstances, that thought could be made to answer the 
 purpose of words, and that she could absolutely transmit 
 to her brother's miud the secret which lay deepest in her 
 own, without the medium of language having to be 
 used. 
 
 " We have a long morning before us," said Horace 
 one day to his sister, as they sat together in his favourite 
 study, which Lucy in his absence had occupied with her 
 music, her drawing, and her books — " "We have a long 
 morning before us without any prospect of interruption, 
 and I want to talk with you on a subject which I have 
 not yet mentioned to my mother, but which is of infinite 
 importance to my future happiness." 
 
 Lucy drew nearer to her brother. She was never so 
 happy as when seated at his feet ; and placing beside him 
 a low ottoman, she rested with one arm over his knee, 
 gazing up into his face with a look of such intense inte- 
 rest, that even Horace, bold and gallant man as he was, 
 fairly blushed to feel himself so watched. 
 
 " Go on," said Lucy, seeing her brother smile and 
 hesitate. 
 
 " I will," replied he, " for such a listener deserves that 
 I should make the most of my story. You remember 
 I told you in my letters, the Yinings and I had met." 
 
 " Oh yes !" exclaimed Lucy, " and I wanted to ask 
 whether Harriet had grown more poetical — more deep 
 feeling — more — I scarcely know what to call it. But 
 I thought at the time, if she had not, that family would 
 scarcely be the companions you would like to associate 
 with very intimately." 
 
 g2
 
 84 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 A cloud was spreading rapidly over the brow of Horace 
 Grant as his sister said this. She perceived it, and urged 
 him to go on, adding, with the utmost simplicity, " Let 
 us leave the Vinings for the present, for they never were, 
 and never could be, very much to us." 
 
 To her surprise the cloud grew darker, and Lucy knew 
 not what to say. 
 
 " I find you are entirely mistaken in the character of 
 Harriet Vining," observed her brother. " I always thought 
 her beautiful, whether you did or not; and, moreover, 
 she is engaged to be my wife.'* 
 
 " Wife ! " exclaimed Lucy, and the exclamation was 
 almost like a scream. But she checked herself the next 
 moment, and bending her head upon her brother's knee, 
 pressed out the burning tears which could not be pre- 
 vented finding their way to her eyes. 
 
 A long silence followed this unfortunate commence- 
 ment. The first indignant impulse of Horace had been 
 to shake off his sister from clinging to his knee ; but he 
 was candid enough to look at the subject on both sides ; 
 and remembering a little too well how he himself had 
 formerly regarded the Vinings, his better feelings at last 
 obtained the mastery, until fairly subdued into that gen- 
 tleness which had ever been so irresistible to his sister, 
 and to all who loved and understood him, he gently drew 
 his hand across her dark and silken hair, saying at the 
 same time, in his kindest and gentlest tones, " Look up, 
 Lucy, dearest — you must look up and smile, for the thing 
 is done, and I believe, — I feel sure, I shall be happier than 
 you think." 
 
 " If I believed you would be happy," — said Lucy, looking 
 up, but again bursting into tears. 
 
 " Yes, if you believed I should be happy," continued
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 85 
 
 her brother, " you would be so too. I shall be happy, 
 Lucy — I know I shall. At all events, the wife I have 
 chosen must be a sister to you." 
 
 u A sister I" exclaimed Lucy, " Oh, yes, more than a 
 sister a thousand times. You could not in your senses, 
 and of your own free choice, select that being for your 
 wife, to whom I would not be a sister." 
 
 Horace was touched to the heart by this generous 
 confession, and stooping down, he pressed a kiss upon 
 the burning forehead which owed its aching throb to the 
 struggle of contending feelings his disclosure had called 
 forth. It was indeed a fearful conflict which took place 
 in Lucy's mind, but she mastered it by one strong and 
 powerful effort, and then the brother and the sister talked 
 together, until at last they both could smile. They talked 
 even of the future with interest and animation, for Lucy 
 possessed a fund of sympathy which never failed her 
 when the happiness of her brother was the subject of cal- 
 culation. She therefore promised — cordially and frankly 
 promised — to use all her influence with her mother in 
 eradicating the impression that Harriet Yining was not, 
 either in herself or in her family, a suitable connection 
 for Horace. Indeed, so earnest was Lucy in her desire 
 to vindicate her brother's cause, against the well- 
 known prejudices of Mrs. Grant, that already she began 
 to think differently of Harriet from what she had ever 
 done before, to see in some degree with her brother's 
 eyes, and to hope — nay, almost to believe, that in her 
 girlish ignorance she had judged erroneously of one whom 
 it was now her first object to endeavour to esteem and 
 love. 
 
 With all Lucy's warmth and earnestness, there was 
 still an occasional hesitation when she spoke, a fluttering
 
 86 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 at her heart, and sometimes a momentary absence of 
 thought, which to one less absorbed than Horace, would 
 have led to the suspicion that she, in her turn, had some- 
 thing to communicate as intimately connected with her 
 happiness as her brother's secret had been with his. 
 
 At last she spoke, but it was in a voice that seemed 
 hardly like her own — " I have long been wishing to tell 
 you, Horace, dear," she began — but we spare the expo- 
 sure of what a delicate and trusting girl would say on 
 such an occasion, and perhaps the more delicate the less 
 likelv it would be for such expressions to be used as might 
 sound appropriate to an indifferent or critical ear. Suffice 
 it, that Lucy's simple story was one of deep and faithful 
 love — of the first love too of an unsophisticated heart, and 
 that is saying something for its purity and devotedness ; 
 but even more might be said for her's, that it was a love 
 entirely sanctioned by her own high estimate of all that 
 was noble and worthy in the character of man, and 
 returned with a degree of truth and tenderness not infe- 
 rior to her own. 
 
 Horace listened to her artless story not quite so atten- 
 tively as she could have wished, for he was turning over 
 the leaves of an album all the while ; but when she went 
 on to ask the kindness he had asked of her, that he would 
 use his interest with her mother on her behalf, he looked 
 up from the book, and made the asked-for promise without 
 a moment's hesitation. 
 
 One thing very naturally troubled Lucy, however, and 
 that was, her brother had not taken the pains to inquire 
 who was the object of her choice. This was the most 
 difficult point of all to overcome, and Lucy sat for some 
 time listening to the beamings of her own heart, before she 
 could venture to pronounce the dreaded name. At last
 
 -*y& f . &t 
 
 I 1 

 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 87 
 
 she endeavoured to soften the shock which she could not 
 but apprehend, by assurances that of all human beings, he 
 to whom she hoped to commit her happiness for life, was 
 exactly the character for her brother to esteem and love, 
 if once they could be made intimately acquainted with 
 each other. 
 
 "That is just what I feel about Harriet," observed 
 Horace. " I see some ground for my mother's objections 
 and even for your's, yet I am convinced that nothing is 
 wanting but a more intimate acquaintance, and therefore 
 it is that I ask you to take to your heart upon trust, one 
 whom I know so much better than you do." 
 
 Much as Lucy shrunk secretly from this comparison, 
 it gave her encouragement to go on. " I shall be the wife 
 of a clergyman," she continued, i( in a little country vil- 
 lage ; and though I tremble at the responsibility of such a 
 situation for one like me, I have seen the sweet place, 
 Horace, and I know how his people love him, and how 
 he deserves to be loved by them all. There is not an old 
 man or woman in the parish who does not feel him to be 
 the prop of their age, not a child who does not look up to 
 him as a father, not a young couple just commencing life, 
 to whom he is not a friend as well as an adviser." 
 
 " And pray who may this paragon be ? " asked Horace. 
 " A second Sir Charles Grandison, I suppose, in holy 
 orders." 
 
 " It is Charles Berkeley !" answered Lucy. 
 
 " Charles Berkeley !" exclaimed Horace, and all that 
 was dark and threatening in his nature rushed to his brow 
 and eyes. " Never," he added, " repeat that name to me ! 
 Never expect that I will do anything but prevent your 
 connection with Charles Berkeley by every means within 
 my power !"
 
 88 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 " But you will not work against him with my mother ?" 
 pleaded Lucy, so meekly and sorrowfully that the tones 
 of her voice might have melted a heart of stone. 
 
 " I will \" exclaimed Horace. " You shall never be 
 the wife of Charles Berkeley, if it rests with me to avert 
 that calamity \" 
 
 Lucy looked earnestly and imploringly into her bro- 
 ther's face. There was no relenting there. Silently her 
 head drooped, and her eyes were deeply shadowed by 
 those long dark lashes which gave her countenance so 
 often an air of sadness, but no tears came to her relief; 
 and while in her deep agony it seemed to her as if the 
 foundation of her life, as if the very earth was vanishing 
 beneath her, and no human stay was left, her brother, 
 like one who has just dismissed a matter of pure business, 
 broken off a bargain, or closed a conference on ordinary 
 affairs, took up a newspaper which had been thrown aside, 
 and soon buried himself in parliamentary affairs. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no sensation incident to human 
 nature, so much like utter desolation, as that occasioned 
 by a total want of sympathy in those we love, on the one 
 subject nearest and dearest to our hearts. Not the tender 
 flower of the valley, cut down in a moment by the sharp 
 hail-shower, could be more stricken than poor Lucy, as 
 she gradually drew back from that close contact with her 
 brother, which, but a few moments before, had seemed to 
 strengthen and support her. Had he condescended to 
 reason with her — had he even upbraided and reproached 
 her, his violence would have been more bearable than the 
 icy indifference with which he had dismissed the subject 
 altogether ; and almost for the first time in her life, Lucy's 
 self-love was wounded too deeply for her patient endurance. 
 She spoke not, however, but, rising from her lowly posi-
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 89 
 
 tion, took up her work, without knowing what she did ; 
 while an unusual flush spread over her cheek and brow, 
 and a burning light seemed to flash before her eyes, 
 scorching up the tears which might otherwise have come 
 to her relief. 
 
 A long silence followed. Horace had never looked away 
 from the paper he held in his hand, and at last he spoke. 
 It was on the subject of schools — schools for the people, 
 too — not schools for the discipline of young hearts which 
 unkindness might break, but schools for village children ; 
 for he was thinking, and very laudably too, how, in his 
 capacity of a married man, and as the proprietor of ample 
 means, he could benefit the poor in his neighbourhood, 
 and raise the moral condition of the people around him. 
 
 " Naturally, and constitutionally, I hate all schools," he 
 continued, still thinking aloud, and thinking for himself. 
 " I don't want to make myself ridiculous, either, by carry- 
 ing a spelling-book in my pocket; but I fancy this sort of 
 thing gives one influence amongst the people : and if it 
 could be once set agoing, there would be plenty of old 
 maids and retired tradesmen to keep it up." 
 
 Lucy thought she could have told him of a better prin- 
 ciple for the establishment of schools, as well as a better 
 plan for their support ; for it was a source of deep interest 
 between herself and Charles Berkeley, to study the 
 improvement of the poor, and to regard, as an imperative 
 duty, the promotion of their true welfare ; but on all such 
 topics her lips were now effectually sealed, and she could 
 only wonder whether it was not absolute ignorance of the 
 human heart, which led her brother to suppose it possible 
 she could be at liberty to enter into conversation with him 
 upon comparatively indifferent subjects, so soon after he 
 had struck a fatal blow to her dearest earthly hopes.
 
 90 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 It had been long a favourite thought with Lucy, how 
 she would introduce to her brother's notice, the admirable 
 character of his old school-rival ; how she had first become 
 acquainted with him, while on a visit to a relative of her 
 mother's; and especially how he had at first won her heart, 
 by the full and cordial testimony he had borne to the 
 talents and good feeling of one from whom he had received 
 but little of the treatment, either of a gentleman or a 
 friend. Indeed, it had been on this subject that their 
 intimacy first began ; and while listening to school anec- 
 dotes, in which delicacy prevented the slightest allusion to 
 her brother's faults, Lucy forgot that she was conversing 
 with a stranger, and threw open her heart with almost 
 childlike confidence, to one who was incapable of abus- 
 ing it. 
 
 It was perhaps a fault in Lucy, that she was too 
 confiding, and that where she had no suspicion, she had 
 no reserve. Trusting to the high testimony borne by all 
 who knew him, to the irreproachable character of Charles 
 Berkeley; trusting, also, as was quite natural in a girl of 
 enthusiastic and deep feelings, to the open countenance 
 and noble bearing of the young student, who never mingled 
 in society but to adorn and to improve it ; she had been 
 so artless and sincere, as to allow him to perceive that 
 his attentions were not unwelcome. On returning to her 
 mother's house, however, the pleasant dream was dispelled, 
 and the flattering hope that all who heard the truth about 
 Charles Berkeley would believe it, gave place to the stern 
 injunction of Mrs. Grant, that the name of one who had 
 been a bitter enemy to her son, should never more be 
 mentioned in. her presence. Lucy felt after this that she 
 had but one alternative — to appeal to the best feelings of 
 that brother; and, finding him so changed — so full of
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 91 
 
 cheerfulness, and healthy feeling, she had begun to hope, 
 from the first hour of his return, that he might be brought 
 to look favourably upon her choice. 
 
 She had never hoped this more fondly, than on the 
 morning already described. On her part she had made 
 one of the greatest efforts of which she was capable, purely 
 to meet her brother's views, and to identify his interests 
 with her own ; and what was the result ? Crushed, and 
 repelled, she felt herself shut out of the sympathies of 
 family and kindred, alone, and suffering, yet unpitied; 
 and what again was the result ? The hardest struggle 
 Lucy ever had endured, brought her back to a degree of 
 cheerfulness, which warded off unwelcome observation, 
 and enabled her to go through with a duty scarcely less 
 hard — that of breaking to her mother the subject of 
 Horace Grant's connection with the Vinings, of bearing in 
 her own person the first outbreak of the indignation which 
 followed — nay, of sustaining the actual blame, as having 
 been accessory in her girlish friendship with Harriet ; and 
 actually of pleading in favour of a character she had 
 never much admired, as well as building a prospect of 
 happiness upon a foundation which she felt to be far from 
 sure. 
 
 All this Lucy persevered in with the strictest fidelity, 
 and even rejoiced that the storm should expend itself upon 
 her own head : for she knew that her mother would not 
 repeat half the bitter things she was sometimes capable 
 of saying ; and, once uttered, it was apart of her nature to 
 forgive and forget them all. In fact, she had been accus- 
 tomed to this kind of treatment from her childhood, for 
 Mrs. Grant was naturally of a violent and vindictive 
 temper, restrained only by her high sense of personal dig- 
 nity, and especially subdued by that excessive fondness for
 
 92 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 her son, which had gradually converted him into a being 
 almost as much feared as beloved. 
 
 It is thus that a mother's doating fondness, undisciplined 
 by any higher principle, is almost sure to make a slave of 
 her at last — a slave to the very being it has been the 
 study of her life to please ; and such, or worse than such, 
 is the revenge which nature takes upon those who go 
 blindly on, regarding the gratification of the moment 
 more than the preparation which is absolutely necessary 
 for rendering the after-moments of existence anything but 
 worthless and unhappy. 
 
 Horace Grant was constituted in mind and body to 
 have been one of the most admirable of men. Excessive 
 indulgence in childhood had impaired the health of the 
 latter, and laid the foundation of that morbid tendency 
 of mind, which nothing but strict self-discipline could 
 afterwards eradicate. His natural indolence rendered 
 this almost impossible — indolence induced by the rapid 
 overgrowth of an otherwise fine bodily frame, and by the 
 constant reference in childhood to mere selfish and animal 
 gratification, to supply the craving of what might have 
 been a noble and energetic nature. Still his case was by 
 no means hopeless. He had gained much in every sense 
 by his travels abroad, and it now remained with his 
 friends, and the connections he might form, to assist or to 
 hinder the farther development of the finer points of his 
 character. 
 
 Occupation, and the cherishing of high motives for 
 action, were the two medicines he needed most. His 
 circumstances were such as to place him bej^ond the 
 necessity of exertion for his own sake, nor indeed was he 
 of that tendency of mind to regard mere worldly advantage 
 of sufficient importance to be pursued with avidity. As
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 93 
 
 the frame of Lis body, so was his mental conformation — 
 calculated for great designs, and great efforts, rather than 
 for being put in action by the common trifles which 
 occupy one half of the human race. In nothing were the 
 pursuits or the passions of Horace Grant either trivial or 
 moderate. In his selfishness, as well as in his capability 
 of suffering, he was extreme ; but then that very selfish- 
 ness might have been made to admit one other, or two, 
 or perhaps three, or even the whole human race, within 
 the circle of its interests. The principle commonly called 
 selfishness, is no bad instrument to work with, under the 
 guidance of nobler faculties. But then it must work, and 
 work in conjunction with others. It must not be left to 
 brood, and feed upon itself, for of all the miseries of life, 
 those which proceed from wounded self-love, without the 
 relief of active benevolence, are the most depressing, and 
 the most difficult to bear. 
 
 It was now the turning, or the fixing point, in the life 
 of Horace Grant. He had still youth and pliancy enough 
 to enable him to overcome established habits. He had 
 not yet sunk irrecoverably either into melancholy, or sel- 
 fishness. Nay, he had gained an immense advantage 
 during the last few years of his life. They were golden 
 treasures he now possessed, in cheerfulness, activity, and 
 health. He felt all the blessings of this happy change. 
 Whether he inquired into their cause — whether he cher- 
 ished and built up their foundation — whether his friends 
 assisted him to overcome the evil, and establish the good, 
 remains to be developed in the after-portion of his 
 history.
 
 9i 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 For the one great event in the life of Horace Grant, to 
 which every one looked as that which should be either 
 the making, or the ruin of him, all parties were now pre- 
 paring ; and bright and busy were the scenes which passed 
 before the eye of the bride elect, who with her sister had 
 returned to England, for the purpose of celebrating this 
 joyful event. 
 
 Whatever might be thought by parties less implicated, 
 as to the wisdom, suitability, and probable results of the 
 alliance, there was no misgiving in the mind of Harriet 
 Vining. Marriage was simply marriage to her — the one 
 great business of life, to be accomplished by the ringing 
 of bells, the hiring of carriages, and the preparation of a 
 house. It was an event too to be dressed for, and in that 
 one consideration lies much of the gratification it affords 
 to the common order of minds. It was an event for white 
 flowers, and these Harriet knew to be becoming to her 
 complexion, for the choicest and most fashionable cos- 
 tume, and this she was able to procure in Paris — for the 
 presentation of gifts, and these flowed in abundantly — 
 for the deference and the flattery of friends, and these 
 were always acceptable — for the exercise of power, and 
 this was Harriet's ruling propensity. 
 
 How was it possible, then, that Harriet Vining should 
 be otherwise than happy ? Her sister, who was compara- 
 tively a calm spectator, looked on and wondered in her
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 95 
 
 heart, that she could risk the happiness of her life upon 
 such a venture, without one dubious thought, or one 
 secret apprehension as to the results of the daring step 
 she was about to take ; and she dreamed, in her simpli- 
 city, that love must be even deeper and more absorbing 
 than she had supposed, to lift any one in such circum- 
 stances entirely over all fears, and all misgivings. 
 
 "While pondering these thoughts in her mind, she was 
 suddenly asked one day by her sister, which colour she 
 thought most becoming — a pearl white, or the faintest 
 possible tint of peach bloom. 
 
 Alice could not help smiling, the question was so very 
 foreign to her own thoughts, which had been at that 
 moment more than usually busied in her sister's future 
 welfare, as connected with the welfare of another, and he 
 a character by no means accounted easy to make happy. 
 
 "Why do you smile ?" asked Harriet sharply. " I 
 suppose you think my complexion has colour enough 
 without the addition of peach bloom." 
 
 " I was not thinking of your complexion f replied 
 Alice. " I only wondered how you could be so pro- 
 foundly interested in a ribbon, when you have before you 
 a prospect of such importance as that of being married." 
 
 u I don't see anything particularly alarming in that," 
 replied Harriet ; " unless I was about to consign myself to 
 poverty and disgrace for the rest of my life. I have been 
 very comfortable hitherto ; and I cannot imagine how 
 I should be less so, as the wife of Horace Grant, and the 
 mistress of his beautiful house. I am sure he is sparing 
 neither pains nor expense. The new drawing-room is 
 acknowledged to be the most splendid in all the neigh- 
 bourhood, and he has been at least ten times to London 
 about furniture and plate."
 
 96 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 "But furniture and plate/' observed Alice, "do not 
 keep people in good humour, and make them happy." 
 
 " No, certainly," said Harriet ; " but they help to 
 make one pleased with one's own house ; and as. to being 
 happy, it never enters into my mind to be anything else." 
 
 "You speak entirely of yourself;" observed Alice. 
 " Marriage, in my opinion is a double compact, and there 
 lies the great responsibility. I have seen few men more 
 interesting than Horace Grant ; but I have seen none who 
 did not appear to me more easily pleased." 
 
 "To the mere act of pleasing," replied Harriet, "one 
 may attach a great deal too much importance. People 
 are always pleased when they are well managed — at least 
 they ought to be." 
 
 " I do not think," Alice ventured to observe, " that 
 Horace Grant will ever be much pleased to be managed." 
 
 " I don't think him difficult to manage, though," said 
 Harriet, with a confident shake of the head, which 
 implied a great deal. " I never found him so. But you 
 must bear in mind, that upon good management alone 
 I build my hopes. That has always been my forte. You 
 remember the boys at home ?" 
 
 " Perfectly ;" replied Alice, with a slight inclination to 
 smile. 
 
 "With regard to them," continued Harriet, "I was 
 always interfered with, and often defeated. Thus they 
 became a little troublesome. Had they been left en- 
 tirely to me, the case would have been widely different ; 
 for good management can only be efficiently conducted 
 by one." 
 
 " I should like to know what you call good manage- 
 ment ;" said Alice. 
 
 " You shall see ;" replied her sister.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 97 
 
 It was not on the lady's side alone, that the business of 
 preparation for coming happiness was conducted with con- 
 fidence in that happiness being realized to the full extent, 
 or rather somewhat beyond the bounds, of reasonable 
 expectation. Perhaps there never yet existed in the 
 human mind a feeling of love without a consciousness of 
 what that feeling was capable of doing and suffering for 
 another. Hence that which is called presumption, in 
 affairs of this nature, is often nothing more than a simple 
 trusting faith in the power and the depth of human 
 affection. 
 
 It might be thus with Horace Grant, for he never 
 asked himself what were his capabilities for bearing the 
 burdens, or smoothing the path, of any other being; and 
 he busied himself not the less cheerfully in all the necessary 
 preparations, because he made no philosophical inquiries 
 into the nature or the fitness of the connection he was 
 about to form. 
 
 " She must be happy \" said an old housekeeper of 
 Mrs. Grant's, who was permitted to take greater liberties 
 with her young master than any other member of the 
 family. " She must be happy," the woman murmured to 
 herself, as she went wandering on from room to room, for 
 neither trouble nor expense had been spared j and Horace, 
 when he chose to exercise it, had admirable taste in all 
 things connected with the comforts and embelhshments of 
 life. " She must be happy/' said the woman again, — 
 " the pity is"— 
 
 But here Lucy signed to her to stop, for the opinion of 
 the housekeeper was but an echo of that of her mistress, 
 that Horace might more wisely and more worthily have 
 bestowed his affections. It is possible that Lucy thought 
 the same, but she faithfully kept the promise made to her 
 
 H
 
 98 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 brother, that by every means in her power she would 
 endeavour to overcome her mother's prejudices against the 
 Vinings. And they were so far overcome, that Mrs. Grant 
 betrayed no outward sign of disapprobation to her son, 
 but reserved the expression of her real feelings for the ear 
 of Lucy, and that of her favoured domestic. 
 
 And thus the matrimonial preparations went on, fair 
 and nattering on the surface, with a strong under-current 
 of different feeling ready to burst forth, on every occasion 
 where it might be indulged with safety. 
 
 The preparations went on, and all things were nearly in 
 readiness, when Horace was struck with a new idea. He 
 had never thought of a greenhouse, for he himself had no 
 taste for fancy plants ; but having one day heard an 
 expression from Harriet, of her excessive fondness for a 
 greenhouse, he set about with the utmost impetuosity and 
 despatch, to have a wall broken down in a drawing-room 
 already furnished with the most perfect taste, in order that 
 his bride, on entering her future home, might have 
 nothing left to wish for. 
 
 " Happy thought \" said Horace to himself a thousand 
 times, as he hastened the operations of the work-people, 
 " and happier still that it occurred in time." 
 
 In fact, the preparation of his house and grounds had 
 now become the grand object of his life. For himself alone 
 he would never have undertaken one hundreth part of the 
 trouble and attention it required. For himself alone he 
 would never have projected, calculated, and looked forward 
 to effect, with one hundreth part the pains he now took 
 for another. There was a secret too in all he was doing. 
 He told nothing of it to Harriet, though whisperers were 
 not wanting who conveyed to her ear the gratifying intel- 
 ligence. Her delighted surprise on first becoming a witness
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 99 
 
 of the enchanted scene, where she was to reign the future 
 queen, was all the reward he placed before him; but it 
 was a reward upon which he calculated to the minutest 
 item, with an avarice far surpassing that of the miser, 
 who risks all his hoarded treasure upon one venture, and 
 eagerly awaits the result. 
 
 In this case, however, there could be no doubt of the 
 result. Young love is a nattering painter of home-scenes, 
 even when the means of imparting pleasure are of the 
 most humble description. Even when little is perceptible 
 beyond the study and the disposition to please, how deeply 
 is that disposition appreciated, where there is a generous 
 heart to understand its value ! 
 
 The happy couple, — and in this instance, as usual, the 
 church-bells, the public papers, and the private para- 
 graphs of friendly letters, announced that they were so, — 
 the happy couple, having no companions on their wedding 
 tour, we refrain from entering upon any details connected 
 with that journey, which terminated with the end of what 
 is called the honeymoon. It had been an inauspicious 
 season for lake-scenery, and the travellers hastened home 
 a full week earlier than had at first been expected. Per- 
 haps they had suffered from the chill damp atmosphere of 
 the mountains, for the impatience with which Horace 
 Giant ordered post-horses at every inn on their route, 
 indicated something more of anticipated pleasure on 
 reaching his own home, than immediate gratification in 
 present things. 
 
 In that home all was eager activity to be ready at the 
 appointed time. The day of the bridal party's return, 
 was ushered in with showers. The ground was moist, the 
 roads heavy, and it was calculated that the travellers could 
 not reach home before the close of day. Alice Vnring 
 
 h 2
 
 100 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 was there to welcome them, and Lucy, like the presiding 
 spirit of the scene, glided from room to room, secure in 
 the happiness she thought the bride must necessarily 
 derive from an arrangement throughout, which indicated, 
 not only the purest taste, but the most delicate and assi- 
 duous care to accommodate and please. It had been 
 apprehended by many, that the green-house would look 
 too new, and in those steeping rains it certainly had a sort 
 of chilly aspect, as all green-houses have in such weather 
 as induces a longing for deep curtains and warm fires. 
 The neighbouring gardens, however, had contributed their 
 stores, and many a bright geranium, and full camelia, 
 spread forth their delicate petals to give the bride a wel- 
 come to her home. 
 
 But chiefly the fine taste of Horace had been expended 
 upon a little library or boudoir, fitted up for the especial 
 gratification of the lady of the mansion. If nothing else 
 should please her, he knew that this would — in fact, it 
 must. No woman with a spark of enthusiasm for the 
 beautiful in art or nature, could feel herself the mistress 
 of this bower without a thrill of ecstasy ; and some there 
 are, who would have wept for very joy and gratitude on 
 entering such a scene of almost sacred seclusion. Every 
 human being, however fond, however happy, needs some 
 place in which to be alone — some place for the folding in 
 of wandering thought ; but chiefly for the concentration 
 of mind upon durable — upon eternal things. A woman 
 of finely-toned feeling could not have entered the apart- 
 ment alluded to, without being struck with the language 
 of the place expressed in innumerable delicate appeals to 
 the noblest faculties of human nature. Its language was 
 that of welcome, for it possessed everything to invite, but 
 it also seemed to say, " When I am absent from thee,
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 101 
 
 let no mean thoughts usurp my place. All the roughness 
 and anxiety of life I will share with thee, but here thou 
 shalt find rest and be alone." 
 
 And Horace understood all this. He understood what 
 belonged to the finest tone of feeling, when connected 
 with himself. " Unfortunately," thought Lucy, " he does 
 not know when other minds ar.e, or are not, affected like 
 his own." And Lucy was in some measure right. He did 
 not know, because it had never been his wish or his study 
 to know, how other minds were constituted or moved. He 
 had been educated to think only of himself; and all his 
 feelings, however they were sent forth, grew back again to 
 that deep centre, until it had no vigorous or healthy life. 
 
 "But, hush !" said the expectant party loitering through 
 the hall — " hush \" echoed Lucy, with her finger on her 
 lip. " Hush !" — the wheels of a carriage are distinctly 
 heard hissing through the deep wet gravel. The tramp of 
 horses' feet comes nearer. The great hall-door is thrown 
 wide open, and Horace, standing unconscious of the 
 steeping rain, is about to hand his bride from the car- 
 riage j when, in tones by no means the softest ever heard, 
 she demands an umbrella ! 
 
 It so happened, an umbrella was the precise thing which 
 Horace hated. What was the rain to him, or to her? 
 What ought it to be to those who were entering for the 
 first time together the home from which death alone could 
 ever send them forth ? Well, an umbrella was obtained, 
 and after a world of care-taking, and tucking up, the 
 bride ventured to put forth her little foot upon the step ; 
 and then, as if wholly unconscious that Horace was by 
 her side, she rushed into the hall, more intent upon the 
 preservation of her bonnet, than the pleasant temper of 
 her husband's mind.
 
 102 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Poor Horace ! From the days of his boyhood, it had 
 been one of his romantic visions — that of returning to his 
 ancestral home with his young bride upon his arm ; and 
 there was this very bride, shaking the rain-drops from 
 her dress, adjusting her shawl, and looking precisely as 
 if she had just come in from an accustomed morning 
 call. 
 
 " Ah, well V said the old housekeeper, as she turned 
 away from being a distant spectator of the scene : " It 's 
 a pleasant sort of thing when people can make them- 
 selves so much at home — a very pleasant sort of thing, 
 indeed \» 
 
 " Allow me ;" said Lucy to the bride, endeavouring to 
 disencumber her of some of her sprinkled drapery. — 
 " Allow me," said Alice, eager in the same cause, and 
 between them they induced her to proceed to the drawing- 
 room, where Horace still hoped that his triumph would 
 be complete ; and where, elated with this hope, he stood 
 erect, and looked around him with an expression of satis- 
 faction, which invited others to do the same. His sister 
 and Alice instinctively followed him in this very reason- 
 able exultation, each listening in silence for the outburst 
 of delight which all anticipated from the bride. 
 
 " I thought the room looked cold," at last she exclaimed, 
 like one petrified with the sight of an iceberg. " It is that 
 frightful green-house opposite the fire ; I never saw a green- 
 house in that situation in my life before \ n 
 
 " I believe," said Lucy very modestly, " there was no 
 other situation for it." 
 
 " Then why have a green-house at all ?" inquired the 
 bride, Lady Charlotte Chatterton's green-house is just 
 here. This is the only place in the room where a green- 
 house would have been tolerable."
 
 THK MANAGING WIFE. 103 
 
 " That happens to be the wall of the dining-room ?" 
 said Horace, with a look of thunder, and he left the 
 room. It was well that lie did so, for his sister and Alice 
 Vining obtained, in his absence, an opportunity of hinting 
 to the bride, that some little consideration was due to the 
 studious care which had been bestowed upon every part of 
 the house and grounds, in reference to her wishes. 
 
 " Oh dear ! yes ;" said Harriet, as soon as she began to 
 comprehend their meaning. " It is all very handsome — 
 all very nice, to be sure. I never saw anything to exceed 
 the drapery of those windows — and the carpet — I wonder 
 what the carpet cost. Lady Charlotte's, you know, were 
 all manufactured on purpose for her. But where is 
 Horace ? I am afraid I have made a shocking mistake 
 about the green-house. Well ! these sort of things are 
 soon set right again. Where is my maid ? Do you think 
 all my things are taken up stairs ?" 
 
 And the lady of the house actually went lightly up to 
 her own room, exploring as she went, praising somethings, 
 and condemning others, yet upon the whole, well pleased 
 to feel herself the mistress of such a home. 
 
 Upon the stairs the party were met by Horace Grant, 
 who had a key in his hand. It was the key of the little 
 boudoir. Why had he locked it ? Perhaps some persons 
 may understand how he could not bear to have the sacred- 
 ness of that particular apartment intruded upon, by the 
 spirit which had already broken the charm of his return. 
 
 Early on the first morning after his arrival at home, 
 Horace Grant was seen pacing alone through a secluded 
 plot of garden-ground, which he had imagined would be 
 the scene of Harriet's peculiar delight. Lucy was the first 
 to discover that he was there ; and while he stood still as 
 a statue, gazing at the unfortunate green-house, she gently
 
 104 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 drew her arm within his, and bid him good morning, in 
 her kindest, sweetest manner. 
 
 " How beautiful the garden looks this morning !" said 
 Lucy, " after the rain j" and she might well say so, for 
 a sparkling freshness was upon the green grass, and the 
 glittering leaves still wet with the recent showers, while 
 the mists of summer's sweetest morning were rolling away 
 from the valleys and the distant woods. 
 
 And Horace felt at that moment all the sweet influences 
 of nature. He felt the exhilarating effect of bright sun- 
 shine after long-continued rain. He felt the return to 
 his ancestral home, and to such a home as left no wish 
 ungratified. He felt too — but why sum up the different 
 items which crowd into some moments of existence the 
 experience of years. Perhaps he felt too tenderly the touch 
 of that soft hand, and the tones of that sweet voice, which 
 never to his ear had uttered one harsh or unkind word. 
 There are such moments in human life, when the most 
 ardent wishes are all gratified, the fondest dreams fulfilled, 
 the brightest pictures realized ; and the strong heart, filled 
 to overflowing, becomes softened to the tenderness of 
 a child. Happy then are they whose prayer it has long 
 been, to pour sweet influences into such a heart, for that 
 is their season for sowing the precious seed. 
 
 Was it thus with Horace, and the companion he had 
 chosen for his wife ? No ; she was far from the reach of 
 those gentle influences. She knew not and asked not 
 what he felt. In her busy mind there was no room for 
 calculations, except in relation to visible, tangible, and 
 practical things. She was examining drapery, contending 
 with bandboxes, and arranging the means of accommoda- 
 tion for herself and her property, with an assiduity which 
 baffled the efforts of the wondering domestics to keep pace
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 105 
 
 with her. Nor was the new mistress of the mansion to be 
 blamed for this assiduity. It was just, and right, and 
 praiseworthy, to find a proper place for everything, and to 
 put everything in its proper place. Only the mind has 
 its seasons of right adjustment, as well as the body, and 
 there are feelings that require their proper place, as well 
 as articles of comfort and clothing. There are feelings, 
 and precious feelings too, utterly lost from want of that 
 careful husbanding, which many self-styled good managers 
 bestow upon material things ; and then they look around 
 upon the moral desert they have made, and wonder, with 
 all their digging, and harrowing, and tearing up of weeds, 
 that no one delights to dwell within the turbulent and 
 dusty atmosphere, by which they are perpetually sur- 
 rounded. 
 
 With all our inventions for the supply of mere animal 
 wants, with all our solicitude about bodily comfort and 
 convenience, with all our manufactures and arts — all our 
 patents and premiums — all the vast array of talent and 
 of genius, enlisted in the one great cause of physical 
 improvement, how few, and how pitiful, in comparison, are 
 the efforts now making on behalf of mind. Of mind in 
 its subservience to matter, we hear indeed no little ; of mind 
 so far as it can be taught to invent, to calculate, or to 
 work in any other way, towards the one great object of 
 turning labour into gold. But of mind in its endless and 
 inextinguishable nature, of mind as an attribute of Deity, 
 of mind, as that which is to live when power-looms and 
 steam-engines are no more — this aspect of mind is what 
 we need to have presented more and more to our view, 
 and what we must make our study, before we can add 
 anything of importance to the aggregate of human happi- 
 ness.
 
 106 TEMPEJt AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 It was no part of Harriet's good management to adapt 
 herself to the nature of the human mind as regarded in 
 this light. To manage well, according to her notions, 
 was to obtain power; and this she effected, at least in 
 her own department, almost to the extent of her heart's 
 desire. 
 
 Horace Grant was not very popular amongst his ser- 
 vants, simply because he was not understood, his distant 
 and reserved manners being very naturally construed into 
 haughtiness or pride. Harriet, on the contrary, by a more 
 frank and familiar manner, soon won them over to her 
 interests ; and scrupling not to make them parties to her 
 wishes when opposed to those of her husband, the servants 
 soon learned that to serve the purposes of their mistress, 
 was the surest method of serving their own. 
 
 The old gardener was at once the most difficult and the 
 most important to win over, but he was won at last, chiefly 
 by the praises of his mistress bestowed upon his favourite 
 flowers, and then the whole garden underwent a thorough 
 reform. Not that the interference of Horace was ever 
 openly resisted. He could not complain that his orders 
 were ever decidedly opposed ; yet he must have been 
 blind, indeed, not to have perceived the under-working of 
 a different influence, which in the long-run always proved 
 effectual in his defeat. Where could be the pleasure 
 then to him of pacing the dull round of his garden-walks, 
 and wondering what his work-people would be ordered to 
 do next. Indolence was his constitutional disease, and half 
 pleased with a plea for indulging it, half piqued at the 
 frequent neglect of his wishes, he gave up his garden and 
 grounds altogether to what Harriet considered her superior 
 management. 
 
 Alice Vining, who saw farther than her sister into the
 
 THE MANAGING WIFi".. 107 
 
 nature and requirements of the human mind, grew seriously- 
 disturbed at the manner in which one source of interest 
 after another was withdrawn from Horace. She knew 
 that he wanted nothing so much as objects to aim at, and 
 motives for exertion. In his situation as a country 
 gentleman these were difficult to obtain, and therefore she 
 wisely concluded that the worst possible management for 
 him, was that which, depriving him of any source of 
 interest, had a tendency to shut him up within himself. 
 In this state she observed that he was always morbid, 
 useless, and miserable ; while with his noblest faculties 
 drawn out, and exercised, he was an efficient, energetic, 
 and not unfrequently a happy man. 
 
 In vain, however, did Alice reason with her sister on 
 this subject. Harriet was one of those well-meaning 
 persons, who, having sense enough of other kinds, are 
 almost wholly destitute of moral sense. Tiius when Alice 
 pleaded in favour of the adoption of some plan which 
 Horace had suggested, her sister indignantly exclaimed — 
 " What ! and spoil all the melons V* 
 
 In fact it was impossible to make Harriet understand 
 what was meant by keeping up a healthy tone of mind. 
 Her mind was always healthy. "What was there to make 
 it otherwise ? And if the argument ever turned upon the 
 desirableness of making material good subservient to 
 moral good, the first illustration used was sure to throw 
 her upon the opposing fact of some hothouse-stove, some 
 vine, or some cucumber having succeeded better under 
 her management than under her husband's ; and to do 
 her justice, in the statement of such facts, she was usually 
 right. How then was she to know that a still greater 
 good might be obtained by neglecting her green-house, 
 and keeping her husband occupied and happy ?
 
 108 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 And the little boudoir, so carefully fitted up for his wife, 
 what had become of that ? Horace had thrown away the 
 key, and made it a sort of public sitting-room, after 
 replacing in his own study all the choicest ornaments, 
 which, in his vain attempts to give pleasure, he had at first 
 so gladly spared. And to Alice this apartment was often 
 a place of delightful seclusion from the bustle of her 
 sister's household, for though active herself, she was never 
 bustling ; and when Harriet, fired with the ambition of 
 having everything instantly set in order, had succeeded in 
 disordering the tempers of every one around her, Alice 
 frequently felt that her only safe resource was in the 
 retirement of that little room, where she was sometimes 
 joined by Horace. 
 
 On these occasions Alice scarcely knew whether she 
 most feared, or enjoyed, his company ; for sometimes he 
 was oppressed with a yawning kind of listlessness, which 
 made him anything but an agreeable companion; while 
 at others, he would take up a favourite book, and charm 
 her at once by his admirable skill in reading, and by his 
 just appreciation of some distinguished writer. How did 
 she long at such times that Harriet would come and sit 
 quietly beside them, to share their enjoyment. But, no : 
 it would have been all waste time to one who lived only 
 for the active purposes of a material existence. Books 
 were very well, and she herself dipped into them now and 
 then ; but it was only when there was nothing else which 
 needed her superintendence and her care. Books would 
 keep safely in their cells. She could not trust to the 
 same extent her preserves, her pickles, and her servants. 
 
 " Oh ! for a moment's peace !" exclaimed Horace one 
 day, throwing himself upon a couch which commanded 
 a view of one of the open windows at which Alice was
 
 THE MANAGING WIPE. 109 
 
 sitting with her work. " I would willingly change places 
 with yon peasant man, if he was going home to live in 
 peace." 
 
 " And yet/ 3 replied Alice, " I doubt whether peace is 
 exactly what you mean." 
 
 u Will you make me acquainted with my own meaning 
 then," said Horace, smiling. 
 
 u Will you hear me with patience, if I do?" 
 
 " I give you my promise that I will." 
 
 " Then it seems to me, that you want exactly what 
 that peasant man enjoys — you want alternate effort and 
 repose." 
 
 "Nay, you must not talk to me of effort, for I am 
 already weary of myself — of my life — of everything. 
 Rest is the only thing I ask for, and that is what I cannot 
 find." 
 
 " There is no rest without exertion." 
 
 " And how am I to exert myself? am I to take the 
 tools out of my workman's hand, and the bread out of 
 his mouth ?" 
 
 " There is mental, as well as bodily effort." 
 
 " Ah ! you mean that I should write a book, or take up 
 a study, or give myself to a science. No, no ; one needs 
 an object for that sort of thing." 
 
 " You have mistaken my meaning after all." 
 
 " Come then, you shall be my sibyl, but you must help 
 me to decipher the mystic leaves." 
 
 "Perhaps it is moral effort that I mean. At least 
 I mean something that will do good to others. I am 
 sure you would be happier if you could feel that you were 
 of use, and your position in the world affords you the 
 means of extensive influence."
 
 110 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 " What can you be aiming at, Alice ? I do not catch 
 your idea." 
 
 " I thought my idea was a very simple one, and yet it 
 does not seem easy to put into words." 
 
 "It does not indeed, unless you propose for me the 
 honourable office of itinerant preacher." 
 
 " Why, that would be infinitely better than doing 
 nothing. There are different gifts, and different callings — 
 or, if you like not the expression, say different talents, 
 and different duties portioned out to mankind. All that 
 tends onward towards a noble end is so far good ; and if 
 one man in the simplicity of his exalted faith goes directly 
 to the great end at once, we who occupy ourselves with 
 intermediate things, must not regard our place in the 
 creation as superior to his." 
 
 " Then you appoint me my portion as an itinerant 
 preacher ?" 
 
 " By no means. Yet I do not say that his lot in life is 
 not a useful and a happy one, when compared with yours." 
 
 " Alice, what would you have me do ? You see the 
 miserable figure I make here, where the very cabbages 
 that grow in my garden are not my own. I thought to 
 have planted and improved, and to have made a sort of 
 paradise around me. But already, in the vigour of youth, 
 I am laid aside — not consulted — not wanted, in fact." 
 
 "There are wider and nobler fields for improvement 
 than your garden." 
 
 " You mean my estate. Already I find orders have 
 been issued for the cultivation of a plot of ground, which 
 I intended for a preserve." 
 
 " I allude to the people on your estate. Is there nothing 
 to be done towards creating a moral garden around you ?
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. Ill 
 
 Little enough has been done for these poor people 
 hitherto." 
 
 "Now I understand you. Your imagination is filled 
 with the beauty of roasting an ox, and giving petticoats 
 away on the lawn. How glorious, to hear them drinking 
 my health in mugs of ale ! — " 
 
 " Nay, Horace, do be serious. I have had many earnest, 
 anxious thoughts about you, and do not like to have them 
 all trifled away." 
 
 "Alice, I am serious — too serious in the secret of my 
 heart on subjects such as these. You little know the need 
 I have of some object to render life endurable. Perhaps 
 you will scarcely believe me, when I tell you that I have 
 had my — 
 
 " Noble aspirations in my youth ;" 
 
 that I have even longed to do good amongst my fellow- 
 creatures, to fill a place in creation ; and to be something 
 else than a burden to the earth on which I tread. But 
 what can I do ? Everything is against me. I have no 
 friend, to share my counsels. In all attempts to improve 
 the moral condition of the poor, I should be a laughing- 
 stock to the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. Our good 
 friend, the rector, might possibly have been on my side, 
 but the poor have just lost in him their best friend." 
 
 " I can scarcely think these circumstances against you, 
 for I am very much inclined to think you would work 
 better alone, than in concert with any one. The objections 
 you have raised, however, need weigh no longer on your 
 mind, for the clergyman we are likely to have, is one whose 
 endeavours to do good have been attended with the hap- 
 piest consequences. I hear nothing can equal the esteem 
 in which he is held, except the regret of his people at 
 his leaving them."
 
 112 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 H And pray who is this paragon of excellence ? M 
 
 " A Mr. Berkeley, of " 
 
 Horace Grant started up from the couch on which he 
 had been reclining. He was on the point of betraying 
 himself by a burst of indignation j but recollecting that 
 Alice Vining was no party to the cause of his deeply- 
 rooted prejudice, he pleaded the excuse of some forgotten 
 engagement, for hastily leaving the room.
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Twelve months had now passed over the heads of the 
 married couple, and they were preparing for a dinner 
 party at Lady Chatterton' s, where Harriet was particularly 
 fond of going, because she was sure to hear of some new 
 style of conducting herself or her household, so as to be 
 more in unison with the customs of the world. In one 
 respect, however, Lady Chatterton had the advantage as 
 to her sphere of operation. She had been married a much 
 greater length of time, and had children to manage. And 
 every body said they were managed to perfection, for 
 never were seen such little upright, well-dressed, and pro- 
 perly behaved children, as the Chattertons, whose deport- 
 ment when in company, did good to the hearts of all the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Lady Chatterton was therefore in all respects the oracle 
 of Mrs. Horace Grant. Lucy thought her flat, and Alice 
 Vining had the bad taste to yawn during some of her 
 long recitals, of which herself and her own management 
 always formed the subject ; but Harriet delighted in 
 nothing so much as talking and telling with this lady of 
 servants, parties, dinners, dresses, and all those intensely 
 interesting themes of conversation, which generally occupy 
 the attention, and the half-whisperings, of two or three 
 congenial female friends, while music or rational amuse- 
 ments engage the rest of the company. 
 
 i
 
 114 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 At the house of Lady Chatterton, there was little else 
 than music to entertain her guests, but this generally 
 proved sufficient, especially when Horace Grant and his 
 sister Lucy were of the party. 
 
 Regularly as evening came to the Chattertons, a tall 
 slight figure was ushered into the drawing-room, about 
 the time of taking coffee ; and when guests were present, 
 the coming in of this figure was generally, but not 
 always, attended with the faint utterance of a name, 
 which sounded almost like Bartlet, though few people 
 knew exactly what it was, and fewer still thought it of 
 consequence enough to ask. 
 
 Lucy had often wondered who that tall and gentle- 
 looking person was, until at last informed she was the 
 governess ; but Horace did something more than wonder, 
 for the governess touched the harp with such consummate 
 skill, that he often stood listening to her music like one 
 enchanted by a syren's song. 
 
 In the Chatterton family, as in many others who think 
 the habit engaging, it was the custom to call each other 
 by some endearing nickname. It would have been a pity 
 to deprive them of this channel for the overflow of their 
 tenderness, since it was almost the only one they enjoyed. 
 Thus, in their excessive fondness, the governess had 
 obtained the flattering name of Lily, or Miss Lily, as 
 the servants generally called her, and all day long there 
 was some reference or other made to Lily, as if it had 
 been a real name, but chiefly as a useful blame-bearer ; for 
 the governess was the only person in the house who seldom 
 condescended to defend herself from injurious suspicion. 
 
 On the occasion alluded to, as that of the visit of the 
 Grants to Lady Chatterton, there were several other 
 guests invited, and consequently more appearance than
 
 :-■■
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 THI MANAGING WIFE. 115 
 
 usual of people getting the time over in a tolerable sort 
 of manner. There was more noise, at least, than parties 
 in that house could generally congratulate themselves 
 upon making ; but still Horace and two or three others 
 longed for the relief which Lily's harp and voice were 
 accustomed to afford. It was late in the evening — so late 
 that Harriet had begun to think of returning home, and 
 still Horace lingered about that part of the drawing-room 
 where a window, opening out upon a balcony, clothed with 
 jessamine and clematis, let in the scented air of a balmy 
 summer's night. 
 
 Horace lingered about this spot, unconscious that the 
 rest of the guests were gathered into groups in a different 
 part of the room, all the listeners to the music except 
 himself, having dropped away, to enjoy the higher grati- 
 fication of hearing themselves talk. It seemed as if 
 the governess, observant only of the fact that she was 
 left, neglected to ascertain whether she was left alone ; 
 for she resigned herself to a fit of deep abstraction ; and 
 knowing that the chief reason why her musical powers 
 were called into exercise, was to relieve the company from 
 the irksomeness of silence, she carelessly drew her fingers 
 across the chords of her instrument, and with abstracted 
 look, as if her eyes were seeing visions of far-off things, 
 she sung the following simple lay — 
 
 MY FATHER'S HOME. 
 
 Green leaves are ^Towing 
 
 In the shady grove ; 
 Soft winds are blowing 
 
 Through the fields I love ', 
 Blithe birds are singing 
 
 O'er the verdant lea ; 
 Purple violets spring iigj 
 
 Where I long to be. 
 
 i 2
 
 116 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Old friends are meeting 
 
 Round my father's hearth ; 
 Fond hearts are greeting ; 
 
 Who will share their mirth ? 
 Bright eyes are beaming, 
 
 Eyes I used to know 
 My tears are streaming 
 
 Long will they flow. 
 
 The two last lines of this song were repeated again and 
 again with a mournful pathos ; and though the voice of the 
 minstrel had fallen so low as scarcely to be heard beyond 
 the recess of the window where she was seated, its tones 
 of sadness grew deeper and deeper, like those of one whose 
 thoughts are passing away from present things into some 
 melancholy dream of by-gone days. At last it ceased 
 altogether, and a cloud of heavy tears fell over the drooping 
 eyes of that sad and desolate creature, whose burden of 
 sorrow no one sought to bear. 
 
 Horace Grant had been listening with his deep soul in 
 his looks, to the dying fall of that soft melody. Leaning 
 in thoughtful attitude against one of the pilastres which 
 separated the recess of the window from the wider space of 
 the drawing-room, he folded his arms across his breast, 
 and gazed upon the poor governess with an intent and 
 searching look, which might have proved extremely 
 embarrassing, had not she herself been equally intent upon 
 subjects far removed from the present scene. 
 
 It was not long, however, before her fit of musing 
 passed over ; and, starting as if she had been neglecting 
 her duty, she struck the chords of her harp to a wild 
 and animated lay. At the same time glancing round the 
 room to see whether her neglect had been observed, she 
 saw for the first time that Horace was near, and apparently 
 watching her movements. Resuming her accustomed air
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 117 
 
 of indifference, the governess played on ; but still Horace 
 remained in the same attitude, as if fixed to that spot for 
 ever. He was lost to all around him, yet not gone, like 
 his musing companion, far away, for his thoughts were 
 deeply occupied within that inner self, which it is some- 
 times dangerous to appeal to under circumstances of 
 strong emotion j and Horace felt it to be so in the present 
 instance, for he was asking himself what he might have 
 been — how much, in short, he was capable of doing and of 
 feeling, had the choice of his heart fallen upon a more 
 congenial companion. He was thinking of many things 
 it was too late to think of then ; and amongst the rest, he 
 was thinking what a solace it would be to have Lily and 
 her harp to soothe him every evening. 
 
 " You are fond of music, I think, sir," said the 
 governess, at last ; for she would gladly have done any- 
 thing to turn away that look of fixed attention from her- 
 self. " Is there anything you wish for particularly V 
 
 Horace looked around him like one who suddenly 
 awakes from a deep dream. Harriet was advancing from 
 a distant part of the room, to say how long she had been 
 waiting for him, the carriage having been ordered an hour 
 before. 
 
 " It is a thousand pities you should wait for me," said 
 Horace. " The moon will rise in half an hour, and 
 I have all along intended to walk." 
 
 " So late as this ?" asked Harriet. 
 
 " Yes," replied her husband, " you know my taste for 
 moonlight walking. Only remember one thing : let the 
 little gate at the end of the terrace be left open, for I don't 
 wish to trouble the people at the lodge." 
 
 Whatever Harriet might think of this arrangement, she 
 was wise enough for once to be silent, and, turning away
 
 118 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 quietly, because she was really tired, Horace felt himself 
 at liberty to ask for as many songs as he liked. 
 
 " I play so seldom," said the governess, " for any other 
 purpose than to make a noise, that I scarcely know what 
 music to select." 
 
 " And you sing for the same purpose, do you ?" asked 
 Horace. 
 
 " No •" replied Lily, " I sing for my own pleasure. 
 I am scarcely ever asked to sing, nor do I venture upon 
 so daring an experiment, except when the company are 
 too much occupied to hear me." 
 
 " What a desecration of music [" exclaimed Horace, 
 " What an insult to the soul that has music in itself V 
 
 " Ah ! we should not regard it so ;" said the governess 
 smiling. " We all have our peculiarities, some of us our 
 peculiar passions. It would not be difficult to point out 
 an individual whose passion is for railway speculations. 
 Should that individual address himself to me on his 
 favourite subject, I am afraid I should prefer my harp, or 
 even the tones of my own voice ; and in such a case, 
 might not he complain, as justly as I at no one listening 
 to my song ?" 
 
 " You are wonderfully philosophical ;" observed Horace, 
 " on a subject which belongs exclusively to feeling. Who 
 would have thought, to hear you half an hour ago, that 
 your fine taste in music was accompanied by such calcu- 
 lating indifference." 
 
 " Indifference !" exclaimed the governess, and she 
 looked up almost for the first time full into the face of 
 her companion. " Do not mistake me," she added ; u If 
 I care not to mingle with mean or vulgar minds in that 
 which is to me a sort of second life — if I care not to hear 
 them trifle about that which, is to me an almost sacred
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 119 
 
 theme, mixed up with, all sweet memories of the past, and 
 household tones, and treasures hoarded up from early 
 childhood, it is because I would keep for more intense 
 enjoyment with the few, that which the many cannot 
 feel/' 
 
 " You are right," said Horace. " That is ever the truest 
 philosophy, which is most allied to poetry, and that is 
 yours. " 
 
 "Pardon my egotism," continued the governess, "if 
 I ask you also to remember my situation. My skill in 
 music, and my voice, are regarded as nothing more than 
 instruments to be called for, and made to play at the good 
 pleasure of others. I am content that it should be so, 
 because for such purposes I engaged myself; but none 
 can wonder if sometimes I plead a cold, or do not exactly 
 know the air, or the part assigned me, when called upon 
 in this manner merely to fill a place with those who, 
 entertaining a too high estimate of their own performance, 
 want only a second or a third. Seldom, however, have 
 I given way to this kind of selfishness, without after- 
 reproach, as a necessary consequence. It ought not to 
 be anything to me that I throw my voice into the general 
 amusement of an evening, without being valued for any- 
 thing beyond ; and it may be much to an indifferent 
 performer to lose an opportunity of playing or singing to 
 the best advantage." 
 
 " Is it possible \" said Horace, " that you can really 
 feel so good-natured under such inflictions? Is it consist- 
 ent with a highly cultivated taste for art, to be satisfied 
 with the subjection of the good to the inferior." 
 
 " If art was the great end of life, it would not. But 
 art itself, highly as some of us esteem it, must, in the 
 aggregate of human affairs, be made subservient to duty.
 
 120 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 It has been a hard task for me to learn this important 
 lesson, but once learned, it is not likely to be forgotten, 
 for it enables me more clearly to see the true harmony 
 and beauty of the Divine government throughout the 
 moral world. When we see but a little, and fix our atten- 
 tion too minutely upon particular things, we are apt to 
 question the wisdom which permits the blight of spring- 
 blossoms, and the mercy which does not interfere to 
 prevent individual suffering and death. But when we 
 see farther, and especially when we outlive the first vivid 
 impressions of ardent youth, and become satisfied to look 
 beyond ourselves, we are more easily persuaded that our 
 own little sorrows and privations may ultimately prove 
 to have been the hidden means of ensuring to us the 
 greatest blessings." 
 
 " But I must again solicit your pardon. 1 see the 
 guests are dispersing. The moon has already risen. 
 You will have a delightful walk home." 
 
 And so far as moonlight, and soft air, and shady 
 groves, could make it so, the walk was delightful to 
 Horace, for it led along a lovely valley, through rich 
 pastures, and plantations, and over a wandering brook 
 which formed the boundary of his own grounds. Here 
 it was that he paused to think. Here it was that many 
 of the pleasant hours of his boyhood had been spent ; and 
 here it was that he had passed some of the saddest, too. 
 Both recollections tended to endear the spot, and he 
 seldom crossed the little rustic bridge which spanned the 
 stream, without leaning over the low parapet, where 
 festoons of ivy hung more than half way down to the water 
 which hurried on beneath. 
 
 Horace Grant, like most persons of morbid tempera- 
 ment, who dwell much upon themselves, had not a healthy
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 121 
 
 conscience, or, in other words, a justly balanced sense of 
 right and wrong ; for he sometimes palliated his worst 
 offences, and at others reproached himself severely for 
 a trifling fault. On the present occasion, he had probably 
 sinned more in thought than others were aware of, for his 
 imagination construed into a sort of unfaithfulness to his 
 wife, the fascination under which he had lingered, while 
 charmed by the sweetness of a stranger's voice. He had 
 been struck by her weary and exhausted look, but 
 especially by the quiet manner in which she had turned 
 away to return home alone. All these considerations 
 affected him deeply, for his heart was formed to be 
 touched by tender influences ; and he inwardly resolved 
 that this, the first time he had willingly and openly 
 neglected his wife, should be the last. 
 
 Dreaming over these good intentions, for the operations 
 of his mind could scarcely be called anything more, 
 Horace proceeded leisurely along the path which led to 
 the private door into his own garden, and communicated 
 by a terrace with the house. On approaching this door, 
 Horace was startled to see a white figure gliding hastily 
 along the terrace. 
 
 " It is Harriet herself," said he, with delighted exulta- 
 tion ; while, full of kind thoughts towards her, he con- 
 celaed himself beneath the shadow of a chestnut tree, 
 enjoying the prospect of an interview so sudden and so 
 unexpected on the part of his wife. 
 
 " She is a kind creature, after all," Horace murmured 
 to himself, for he heard the turning of a key in the gar- 
 den-door. " She has come herself, in preference to send- 
 ing one of the servants, for she knows how little I like 
 their espionage upon what I choose to do." And saying 
 this, he advanced, at the same time stealthily, to be ready
 
 122 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 with the joyful greeting which his own gratitude had pre- 
 pared him for. With eager expectation he listened to the 
 turning of the key. It seemed to be wrenched round 
 with some violence, but that the old lock might require. 
 It seemed — was it possible his senses could deceive him ? 
 No; he distinctly heard these words, uttered in a tone 
 and manner which he knew too well— "There ! you will 
 know better than to stay out until midnight again \" 
 
 And the door was actually locked instead of being left 
 open, and Horace was standing alone under the midnight 
 sky, having been wilfully excluded by his wife from 
 entrance to his own home. Not that he was shut out 
 from entering that home at all. There was the lodge- 
 gate, where he could ring a great bell, which sounded all 
 over the neighbourhood, and there was a man at the 
 lodge to let him in — a man whom he had so often repri- 
 manded for staying late from home, that it was anything 
 but agreeable to appear before him in his own person at 
 that hour, and on foot, like some common vagrant wan- 
 dering on the road. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to say, that the darkest passions 
 of which Horace Grant was capable burned in his bosom 
 as he stood beside this gate, or that he rung the great 
 bell as if a host a thousand strong were demanding 
 entrance. Majestically, too, he strode along to his own 
 door, where he knocked with a violence which startled the 
 slumbering domestics, and roused a whole chorus of dogs 
 into the mingled melody of barks and howls. 
 
 What transpired in the interior of the mansion on that 
 eventful night remains untold. Suffice it that on the 
 following morning the lady of the house appeared with 
 the trace of tears upon her cheek. 
 
 Yes, Harriet could weep. She was capable of feeling in
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 123 
 
 a certain way; and when lier husband, mounting his 
 horse earlier than usual that morning, rode out of the 
 courtyard without once bidding her good-by, it was 
 observed that she stood at the window watching him 
 depart, and that she sometimes pressed her handkerchief 
 to her eyes. 
 
 Horace Grant had not mentioned to any one his object 
 in going out that day. Perhaps he did not know himself, 
 for there are states of mind in which to escape from one 
 place affords a stronger inducement than to arrive at 
 another ; and the vague wanderings of a discontented 
 spirit afford little data for certain calculation.
 
 124 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The state of mind in which Horace Grant rode forth on 
 the morning already described, might not inaptly be com- 
 pared to a sort of mental knight-errantry. History and 
 poetry connected with the days of chivalry, alike abound 
 in representations of these heroic wanderings in search of 
 adventures, in which the knight, clad in complete armour, 
 and mounted on his impatient steed, took with him all 
 the appliances for instant combat, in any cause which 
 chance might happen to throw before him. It would 
 have been ill suited to the lordly and impetuous tempera- 
 ment of such a hero, to enter minutely into the merits of 
 the cause to be espoused ; still less to await the tedious 
 and more humiliating process of appealing to the judg- 
 ment and opinion of others. He was there ready for 
 action — ready both to judge, and to do battle, in his own 
 right ; and so far as he maintained his character as a true 
 and valiant knight, it was his privilege to throw dignity 
 and weight on that side of the quarrel which he made 
 his own. 
 
 Not certainly with helm and plume, nor covered with 
 a coat of mail, did Horace Grant ride forth that day ; 
 but he was mounted on a steed that would not have 
 dishonoured the memorable " Field of the Cloth of Gold •" 
 and if he bore no glittering lance, nor shield in battle
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 125 
 
 tried, he had more than their equivalent in the tempestuous 
 elements struggling for mastery within his own breast. 
 
 Horace Grant had mounted his horse, and gone out 
 that day with an indefinite impression of being driven on 
 by the violence of passions, which had nothing within 
 the sphere of his home on which to vent their fury, or 
 exercise their power. Riding, especially on a high-spirited 
 horse, is an excellent resource on occasions such as had 
 occurred to him ; but riding, to those who are accustomed 
 to it, is not enough. Riding exercises only the bodily 
 functions, and this brings only partial relief. The mind 
 is in arms, and must do something ; it burns for conflict, 
 and must fight, if not with foes, at least with difficulties, 
 and these are not always to be found of the description 
 which a proud and impassioned spirit would desire to 
 encounter. Well is it for those whose difficulties have 
 not to be sought purely for the sake of relieving the 
 lassitude and satiety of life — well is it for those, who in 
 this irritated state of conscious power, and readiness for 
 conflict, find their difficulties pressed upon them in the 
 form of actual duties, which they can cheerfully undertake, 
 and thus by working off, in a healthy and useful channel, 
 the superabundance of their mental energy, turn to good 
 account what might otherwise have destroyed their own 
 happiness, and the peace of all around them. 
 
 That state in which Lord Byron set about learning 
 a difficult language, because, as he said in his own 
 memorable language, his " mind wanted something craggy 
 to break upon," is exactly what belongs to the irritation 
 of strong feeling without an object on which to spetul 
 itself; and not of feeling merely, but of the faculty 
 of resistance without anything to oppose, or, in other 
 words, of combativeness without anything to fight.
 
 12G TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 The great bane to the happiness of Horace Grant — 
 the poisoning drop in the current of his life, had been 
 that he had never had anything to do. Constitutionally 
 indolent, he required at all times strong motives to rouse 
 him into action. Thus he had few chances of being 
 employed, compared with the generality of men; and 
 these few were again reduced almost to nothing, by his 
 constitutional pride, which interdicted all that were not 
 sufficiently honourable and distinguished. 
 
 A wife, and especially a wife whom he loved, might 
 have done much to help him. She might have withheld 
 all active interference in the proper sphere of his depart- 
 ment ; at the same time keeping up his interest by her 
 own, and gratifying his lawful pride by constant reference 
 to his opinions. The fact of her knowing better than he 
 did about some trifling item in the economy of house or 
 garden, had nothing whatever to do with the great 
 task the managing wife had undertaken in marrying 
 a man of morbid temperament, and defective education- 
 In that solemn hour when she stood by his side at the 
 altar, " and spoke the fitting vow/' she did not promise 
 to look after his green-house, or to direct his labourers 
 how to cultivate his fields ; she did not stipulate, either, 
 that in all cases where her knowledge and experience 
 were more than his, she was to have direct and entire 
 mastery. The vaulted roof of the ancient edifice under 
 which they stood, sacred only to vows which could be 
 registered in heaven, would scarcely have echoed the words 
 of such a compact as this. And yet such was the prin- 
 ciple upon which Harriet had commenced her married 
 life — such W as the principle she seemed determined to 
 carry out, whether right or wrong. 
 
 In justice to the managing wife, however, it must be
 
 TFIE MANAGING WIFE. 127 
 
 granted, that she knew not the mischief she was doing ; 
 and from such ignorance arises the extreme danger of 
 choosing a companion for life, merely from the fancy of a 
 moment, or the agreeable impression of a pleasant journey. 
 
 It is quite possible for two beings to live happily together 
 in this close intercourse, whose former lives have been 
 spent in widely different circumstances, even so much so, 
 that scarcely any single fact occurring to one, has occurred 
 in the same way to the other. It is quite possible for such 
 individuals to live harmoniously, when the faculties of 
 their minds are such, as that they receive .similar impres- 
 sions, and draw similar conclusions, from such facts as 
 they do observe or experience together. In this lies the 
 great secret of conjugal felicity; and the lover who excites 
 a smile of ridicule from the intense interest with which 
 he dwells upon those trifles, so unimportant to others, 
 which indicate this similarity of mind between himself 
 and the object of his regard, is in this instance more 
 philosophical than the world in general is willing to give 
 him credit for. 
 
 On the other hand, that man is called extremely 
 prudent, who in choosing the companion of his future 
 life, selects one whose circumstances, parentage, and 
 education, in a worldly point of view, resemble his own ; 
 and unquestionably this is one step towards a prudent 
 choice. But this is not all, unless a mere worldly kind of 
 satisfaction is the object sought. This is not all — for 
 unless the same early associations have afforded sufficient 
 opportunity for testing individual character, it will be 
 found possible for two beings to be exquisitely miserable 
 together, who have always attended the same parish 
 church, dined off the same dinner-service, and paid the 
 same amount of yearly rent.
 
 1;28 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 But to return to our story. Horace Grant rode 
 on — scarcely knowing where lie went. The morning w r as 
 peculiarly exhilarating, for though unclouded sunshine 
 glowed through the firmament, a heavy dew yet lay 
 on the thick grass beneath the trees, while a brisk and 
 freshening gale waved the long branches of the beech- 
 woods through which he passed, and lifted the heavy 
 mane of his fiery charger, which snorted, and trod the 
 ground, impatient of the tightened rein. Horse and rider 
 seemed alike to be feeling the influence of the scene — to 
 be panting for exercise and burning for action, yet con- 
 demned to repose, which had no rest for either. 
 
 It was a morning to have awakened hope within the 
 most weary and depressed of human hearts ; and, touched 
 by the invigorating influence of the scene, Horace 
 directed his course along the brow of a bold hill, from 
 whence he saw, in glimpses between the stems of the 
 beech-trees, a wide expanse of fertile country sleeping 
 in noontide beauty far below. In the distance was 
 a navigable river winding its serpent course towards 
 the sea, and bearing on its shining bosom many a light 
 skiff, and deeply-laden barge. Along the richly wooded 
 banks of this river, towns and villages were scattered 
 with their thickly peopled habitations, and all the land 
 looked full of life, activity, and teeming plenty. 
 
 " It is a glorious world \" said Horace reining in his 
 horse upon the brow of a bold hill, from whence he could 
 look down without the intervention of bush or branch, 
 over the wide-stretching valley, with its well-tilled fields, 
 and many cottages, and orchards waving with their golden 
 fruit. "It is a glorious world!" he repeated, "if one 
 had but a place amongst its busy thousands, and could be 
 doing something worthy of a name."
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 129 
 
 Yielding to his habitual practice of allowing every 
 thought which flitted across his mind to resolve itself 
 into a kind of indefinite and unprofitable musing, Horace 
 Grant suffered his horse, as well as his thoughts, to take 
 what course they would ; and he consequently soon found 
 himself where he would scarcely have chosen to be, for it 
 was in the middle of a long dull village, composed of one 
 dirty street, and occupied almost entirely by the families 
 of weavers, who worked in a kind of manufacture carried 
 on to a great extent in that particular neighbourhood. 
 
 Horace had never passed through this village before 
 without being annoyed by the click of its machinery, so 
 discordant to his well-tuned ear ; and he was wholly at 
 a loss how to account for the present state of things, for 
 on this day not a single shuttle was to be heard. The 
 houses appeared to be empty, and, what was most remark- 
 able, none but women and children were to be seen in 
 the street, or upon the road. Amongst these, there was 
 evidently some cause of strong excitement prevailing, for 
 nearly all had left their work, either to stretch their necks 
 out of the high attic-windows, or to gather in groups about 
 the outskirts of the village ; some shading off the sunshine 
 with their hands, while they strained their sight to the 
 extreme distance; others delivering eloquent harangues, 
 accompanied with gestures of menace and defiance, and 
 others turning hastily into their neglected homes, to soothe 
 some fretful infant, or to stand for a moment by the bed- 
 side of a suffering neighbour. 
 
 Wholly unaccustomed to trouble himself about the 
 affairs of this class of people, Horace was still disposed to 
 indulge his curiosity so far as to inquire what could be 
 the cause of such an unusual state of things. A sweet 
 voice, singing a strange kind of ditty, attracted him 
 
 K
 
 130 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 towards one particular cottage, standing on the outskirts 
 of the village, so close to the road, that it was not difficult 
 for the passing traveller to see and hear a great deal of 
 what might be going on within. There seemed to be 
 nothing, however, on the present occasion, beyond the 
 ordinary routine of cottage life, for a woman sat near the 
 door rocking her baby to sleep, and at the same time 
 singing the following words with a peculiar cadence, and 
 repeating the last lines again and again. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The plough in the fallow stands idle at noon, 
 The sheep-dog at midnight is watching the moon, 
 The flocks are all scattered, the shepherds are gone, 
 
 Gone — gone — 
 
 Every one. 
 The flocks ai*e all scattered, the shepherds are gone. 
 
 The apples are ripening untouched on the tree, 
 The cows are all feeding unmilked on the lea, 
 The, harvest is ready, the reapers are gone, 
 
 Gone — gone — 
 
 Every one, 
 The harvest is ready, the reapers are gone. 
 
 " Where did you learn that song, my good woman ?" 
 asked Horace, drawing up his horse beside the cottage- 
 door. 
 
 " Nowhere, that I know of," said the woman, changing 
 her tone to one of sullenness. 
 
 (i But why do you sing such a strange ditty as that V 
 continued Horace. 
 
 " I don't know," replied the woman, with the same 
 look of obstinate indifference. 
 
 " Have you a husband ?" Horace asked, 
 
 " No," replied the woman.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 131 
 
 " Is that child yours ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 a Where are its parents ?" 
 
 " It has none.'' 
 
 " Who provides for it ?" 
 
 " Nobody." 
 
 " Rather a negative state of things here," murmured 
 Horace, as he turned away to question a group of gossips 
 who stood upon a ridge of rising ground, from whence 
 they overlooked the road along a valley, leading to one of 
 the principal towns in the neighbourhood, beside which 
 were stationed several large mills or factories, with their 
 teeming population around them. 
 
 From this group of women, Horace received neither 
 more satisfactoiy information, nor answers much more 
 civilly expressed; and concluding that some prize-fight, 
 or other source of popular interest of the same low grade, 
 had drawn forth the whole of the male population, he 
 again rode leisurely along, troubling himself no more 
 about the matter. 
 
 Soon, however, a loud and unanimous cry from the 
 women of the village assailed his ear, and looking round, 
 he beheld a number of them running in a tumultuous 
 troop, to a particular point of the high ground overlooking 
 the road, where a herd of cattle, or some other moving 
 mass, of men or beasts, sent up such a cloud of dust, that 
 nothing definite could be distinguished by the distant 
 observer. 
 
 " Surely," exclaimed Horace, " they must be men, for 
 I can see flags waving to and fro; and now they are 
 shouting to the women, who scream like a band of witches 
 from above." 
 
 The truth flashed upon the mind of Horace at once. 
 k 2
 
 132 
 
 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 He heard the people yelling and thundering at the gates 
 of an immense manufactory, which stood immediately below 
 the brow of the hill. He heard the crash of the gates as 
 they burst open. The shouting grew louder. He knew thai 
 the same mad work of destruction had been transacted by 
 bands of this description, in parts of the country not fai 
 distant. The owner of this manufactory was a man ot 
 the highest respectability, well known to Horace. Was 
 he to stand there inactive, watching his property des- 
 troyed? 
 
 It was the question of a moment. In the next it was 
 answered. Slackening the rein of his impatient horse, he 
 dashed with the speed of lightning down the side of the 
 hill, and was soon upon the spot, where the crash of 
 machinery, and the exulting shouts of an infuriated mob, 
 rendered it utterly hopeless for any single individual even 
 to obtain a moment's attention, and still less to stem the 
 tide of popular feeling. 
 
 Besides which, Horace Grant had no influence. He 
 was merely known in the neighbourhood as a gentleman 
 of independent property ; and his habits of reserve, blended 
 with a degree of natural haughtiness, rendered him one 
 whose society was rather shunned, than sought, by all 
 who felt themselves in the class of his inferiors. 
 
 If it be true, that there are deeds which we must dare, 
 
 " And execute ere thought be half aware," 
 it is certainly no less true, that there are moments, in 
 which to pause and calculate results is to lose for ever 
 the golden opportunity of useful action. The present 
 moment was an opportunity of this kind to Horace Grant. 
 Had he staid to think, his mind would have revolted from 
 the prospect of mixing himself up with a confused rabble, 
 with whose vulgar interests he had nothing in common ;
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 133 
 
 but, strange to say, his foaming steed had dashed down 
 into the very midst of the throng, and the exulting mob, 
 whose boldest defiance would have been raised against the 
 interference of a mere country gentleman in his own 
 person, made way, and stood aloof from that majestic 
 stranger, seated so firmly on his scarcely less majestic- 
 looking steed ; so strong is the momentary impression 
 produced upon excited minds, by that which bears 
 a character of power, though merely in its physical 
 proportions. 
 
 Quickly alive to the effect which his sudden and unex- 
 pected appearance had produced upon the tumultuous 
 rabble, Horace seized the propitious moment to turn it 
 to account; and drawing himself up in a commanding 
 position, he addressed the people immediately around him 
 in a voice, whose clear and manly tones were well calcu- 
 lated to demand attention from whatever assembly it 
 might address. 
 
 Clear and earnest speaking from a fine commanding 
 voice, has at all times an indescribable power over the 
 minds of men, and still greater over those of women. 
 Perhaps it was well for Horace that the mob in which he 
 found himself was composed, as almost all mobs are, of 
 a considerable proportion of the female sex. The attention 
 of these was sure to be attracted by the sight of so fine 
 a figure, seated on so noble a horse ; and when Horace 
 began to speak, the women pressed around him, determined 
 at least to hear what he had to say. So long as his voice 
 was to be heard, all went well ; but no sooner had the 
 few sentences he uttered died away, than the rabble 
 closed around him, hooting and shouting with redoubled 
 violence, until a cry of " hear him, hear him V was got 
 up amongst a partial few, and that blending with the
 
 134 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 general uproar, the scene grew tenfold more distracting 
 than before. 
 
 " Hear him, hear him \" was still loudly vociferated 
 amongst the throng; and with the hope of enjoying 
 a little variety in their day's frolic, a rapidly increasing 
 party insisted upon Horace making a speech. It was 
 a thing he had never done in his whole life, and, more 
 than that, he had nothing definite to say. He knew little 
 about the people by whom he was surrounded, and he 
 cared still less. He saw only that they were bent upon 
 a work of destruction, which, while it injured others, could 
 profit nothing to them ; and as they had given him the 
 opportunity of appealing to their reason, he was deter- 
 mined not to reject it. Under such circumstances then, 
 Horace Grant delivered his maiden speech — under such 
 circumstances, he discovered the great secret that he had 
 power. 
 
 It would be absurd to suppose that in his first oration, 
 Horace Grant acquitted himself with perfect mastery over 
 his own, or other minds. Indeed, his eloquence that day 
 was more like the first outburst of some pent-up stream, 
 bearing along with it a mass of heterogeneous matter. 
 But that was of very little consequence to such an 
 audience as now gathered around him. It is not to be 
 supposed, either, that the thoughts of the speaker were 
 much in unison with theirs. But even that seemed not 
 to stand in the way of their determination to hear him ; 
 more especially as it afforded them many gratifying 
 opportunities of interruption, contradiction, and personal 
 interference ; to all which Horace listened with a degree of 
 patience and forbearance, altogether foreign to the habits 
 of his previous life. 
 
 Once or twice he ventured a little too far, in assuming
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 133 
 
 some of the prerogatives of wealth and station, when 
 suddenly the rustling of bricks and stones in the hedge 
 beside him, conveyed a hint, not easily misunderstood, 
 that his head would be in danger, if he continued upon 
 that tack. At any other time of his life, Horace would 
 have set these threats at defiance, and perhaps sacrificed 
 his life for the sake of maintaining his dignity; but a new 
 feeling had sprung up within his breast on this memorable 
 day — a feeling which was more gratified by discovering 
 that he could turn the hearts and minds of men to his 
 purposes, than it would have been by any satisfaction 
 derived from mere personal security. What he said to 
 them was perhaps after all of less consequence to the 
 hearers, than his manner of saying it. He appealed to 
 their pride, to their reason, to their practical common 
 sense. He endeavoured to make them ashamed of the 
 mischief they had done, and were doing ; and having with 
 some difficulty succeeded thus far, he found himself wholly 
 at a loss how to meet the questions pressed upon him by 
 the people on every hand — What then were they to do ? 
 Were they to submit to a decrease of their wages ? No, 
 never ! And gaunt faces, and hollow glaring eyes, and 
 thin pale lips drawn back from hungry teeth, attested the 
 truth, that the speakers had suffered, and would suffer 
 again, rather than submit. 
 
 Yes, it is a fearful thing, that keen evidence of human 
 want. It is a fearful thing, to look into the ghastly face, 
 and to know that the tongue is cleaving to the mouth, and 
 the heart sinking in the bosom, for lack of food. It is 
 a fearful thing, because the great agony of hunger still is 
 less, than the palpable injustice which at the same time 
 loads the table of the rich epicure with sickening indul- 
 gence j and we wonder how far the craving of absolute
 
 ]36 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 hunger, not on the part of one, but of many— not on the 
 part of the idle and the wasteful, but on that of the indus- 
 trious — not on the part of the guilty, but on that of the 
 innocent and the helpless — may not justify the tiger's 
 fierce pursuit after anything that may alleviate this gnaw- 
 ing and unutterable anguish. 
 
 It is a fearful thing, and Horace Grant felt it to be so 
 on that eventful day, to look around upon the strong and 
 well-wrought forms of men and women, whose wasted arms 
 were hanging in listless indolence, or raised to execute 
 a momentary vengeance, which seemed to die away for 
 want of power. But worse even than this, was the dis- 
 tortion of that faint and fitful inebriation, purchased at 
 a fearful cost, to supply an instant and transient alleviation. 
 And this, in its thousand hideous forms, was there, height- 
 ening the passions of the moment, and supplying a con- 
 vulsive power for effecting any desperate purpose, in which 
 neither calculation nor perseverance were required. 
 
 Of such, with a slight admixture of more determined 
 spirits, was that strange multitude composed. And Horace 
 Grant was in the midst of them, a clear space being left 
 for the proud pawing of his noble steed. He was there, 
 his cheek flushed, his eye flashing fire, his hat sometimes 
 waved in the air, and his black hair floating in the w r ind — 
 he was there like the master-spirit of some mighty storm ; 
 but, unfortunately for him, it was a storm, to whose jarring 
 elements he was unable to say " be still" So long as he 
 kept the people excited and interested, he could turn 
 them this way, and that ; but he was powerless to send 
 them quietly back to their empty homes, and still less to 
 induce them to submit to what they had determined to 
 resist to the death. 
 
 At this difficult crisis, it was no little relief to Horace
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 137 
 
 Grant, to hear the tramp of horses' feet in the distance, 
 and to recognize the approach of an armed force, by the 
 waving of flags, and the glitter of polished arms in the 
 sunshine. Once more he availed himself of a happy 
 moment. There was yet time peacefully to disperse, and 
 he called upon the people, by all they loved and valued, 
 not to attempt a resistance, which must inevitably end in 
 bloodshed and defeat. 
 
 " Come with me," he shouted, waving his hat high in 
 the air, " all those who are absolutely hungry. You shall 
 have one dinner at least this week. You know the way. 
 Go quietly by the road, and I will meet you in half an 
 hour; but remember, that man who strikes a blow, or 
 throws a stone, is no guest of mine." 
 
 " Does he mean what he says ?" cried several voices 
 from the throng. 
 
 " I do," shouted Horace again ; — " Come with me," 
 and so saying, he set spurs to his horse, and, bounding 
 over the fence which separated the road from the fields, 
 was soon seen galloping with the speed of a hunter along 
 the brow of the hill. 
 
 It seems to be a rule universally established, that the 
 one unpardonable sin betwixt husband and wife, is to 
 bring home an unexpected guest to dinner ; and especially 
 a guest who is neither welcome, nor congenial to the 
 unexpecting party. What then shall be said of that 
 husband who brings home a hundred ! 
 
 Words are inadequate to the occasion. At least Mrs. 
 Grant found them so, particularly as the party began to 
 arrive before her husband, who was busily arranging for 
 provisions to be sent from the nearest town. It is true 
 the whole multitude had not heard the invitation so 
 liberally given, nor indeed one half of it ; and of the other
 
 138 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 half, but a small proportion placed sufficient confidence in 
 Horace Grant, to think it worth their while risking the 
 experiment; for it was very naturally supposed by some, 
 and whispered amongst others, that the strange gentleman 
 intended by this pretence, to entrap them into the hands 
 of the police. The troop who found their way to the 
 residence of Horace Grant, might therefore be composed 
 of seventy or eighty persons, making, with odd stragglers 
 gathered by the way, about a hundred; and amongst 
 these, the prevailing idea was, that of seeing what the fun 
 would be, rather than of reaping any substantial benefit 
 to themselves. 
 
 We have already said that Harriet had been seen in 
 tears on that particular morning ; but her grief being 
 never of the sentimental kind, was very apt to find its 
 alleviation, if not its cure, in some fresh application of 
 force and spirit applied to her domestic arrangements. 
 Thus, if anything occurred to depress her spirits, she was 
 in the habit of calling in her gardener, and setting 
 labourers of other descriptions to work ; or if the " tide of 
 her grief" ran unusually high, she had recourse to paper- 
 ing, and painting. On the present occasion, the papering 
 and painting having but recently been completed, she 
 was obliged to turn her attention to some other means of 
 assuaging grief, and was busily employed with two or 
 three of her servants in the upper apartments of the man- 
 sion, when, happening to look out of the window, it might 
 be with a faint hope of anticipating her lord's return, she 
 saw a number of people leaping over the fence upon the 
 lawn, before the house, having been, as she justly sup- 
 posed, refused admittance at the gate. 
 
 " Charlotte ! — Betsy ! —Jane ! look here !" exclaimed 
 the lady of the house.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 139 
 
 " Good gracious me \" exclaimed the maids. 
 
 " What can the people be about V s said the mistress. 
 
 " I never did I" responded the maids. 
 
 " Call Thomas f % cried the mistress. 
 
 " Call James f cried the maids. 
 
 " They are tearing up the park fence V* raved the 
 mistress. 
 
 " Did I ever V* shrieked the maids. 
 
 Things grew worse and worse. Confusion thickened 
 on the lawn. 
 
 " Fasten all the doors f* cried the mistress. 
 
 " And the shutters V 3 echoed the maids. 
 
 " Nonsense V exclaimed the lady of the house. " Obey 
 my orders, and don't make simpletons of yourselves. 
 You have nothing else to do than obey me. I know how 
 to manage these kind of people. I understand what it 
 means, perfectly well. They have been at this kind of 
 work all through the neighbourhood. I can manage 
 them, never fear \" 
 
 In fact, Harriet felt herself quite equal to the occasion, 
 great as it was j though how to set about this wonderful 
 management, which she professed so well to understand, 
 was not quite clear, even to her own mind. The first 
 thing she did, and unquestionably it was the best, was to 
 secure all the doors. She then placed herself at a high 
 window commanding a view of the lawn, and seeing the 
 people preparing to approach nearer, she thought it time 
 to pour upon them the thunders of her authority, which 
 was effected by throwing open the window, stretching 
 forth her head, and commanding them to leave the 
 place. 
 
 This was not exactly the kind of reception which one 
 half of the people expected, and the suspicious began to look
 
 140 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 at the confiding with very expressive faces, which seemed 
 to say, " This is exactly what we warned you of. You see 
 he was only making game of us all." 
 
 In fact, the tide of popular feeling was beginning to take 
 a very uncomfortable turn. Dark scowling looks were 
 directed to the open window, and threatening menaces 
 were used, to indicate that the company considered them- 
 selves ill treated ; more especially when Thomas and 
 James, the officiating house-servants, were sent out to 
 insist upon their immediate retirement from the place, 
 and to threaten all sorts of vengeance if not instantly 
 obeyed. 
 
 Seeing her two emissaries defied in so barefaced 
 a manner, Harriet felt herself once more thrown upon 
 the resources of her good management, and, screaming 
 violently from the window, she insisted upon the rabble 
 immediately going away. 
 
 " Go away !" screamed fifty voices at once, mimicking 
 the peculiar tone in which this command was given. 
 
 " Go away instantly ! I insist upon it ;" she repeated 
 yet more angrily. 
 
 " I insist upon it !" echoed the fifty voices again. 
 
 " We have guns to fire upon you ;" screamed the lady. 
 
 " We have guns to fire !" echoed the mob, and a simul- 
 taneous laugh burst forth from the whole multitude, who 
 drawing together in a closer phalanx, so as to command 
 a more direct view of the window, absolutely rocked to 
 and fro with the convulsive movement of this hoarse and 
 frantic merriment. 
 
 For once in her life, Harriet found her good manage- 
 ment at fault ; and, fairly overcome with terror and 
 confusion, she drew back from the window, and threw 
 herself upon the support of her already helpless maids,
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 141 
 
 A fit of hysterical weeping very naturally followed, and 
 well might such weakness be excused to helpless women, 
 situated as they were at that moment. Nor were their 
 terrors alleviated by any abatement of the tumult without. 
 At length, however, one universal shout was heard from 
 the multitude. Whether it arose for life, or for death, 
 those within the house were at a loss to imagine. 
 
 " Look out, Charlotte, just once more f said the 
 mistress of the mansion, in a voice exceedingly unlike 
 her own. 
 
 "Look out Betsy;" said Charlotte, "you are nearest 
 to the window." 
 
 " Look out, Jane ? said Charlotte, instantly retreating. 
 " Don't you see I am farther off than any of you ?'* 
 
 Jane, however, excused herself on some such plea as the 
 others had used ; and Charlotte, whose curiosity was the 
 greatest, at last ventured to steal a hasty glance, not, 
 however, before another of those tremendous and appall- 
 ing shouts had rent the air. 
 
 " Oh — ma'am \" said the maid, " it is the leader himself 
 come amongst them — a great furious-looking fellow on 
 a black horse \" 
 
 " Gracious, what a man \" exclaimed Betsy, who in her 
 turn had begun to peep. " I am sure he will murder us 
 all. I never saw anything look so savage and bloodthirsty 
 as he does. And see how they gather about him — the 
 cannibals [" 
 
 " Look yonder, too \" cried Jane, who also had ventured 
 to become a spectator — " yonder comes a cart-load of 
 cannon-balls. See ! he is giving them each one into 
 their hands. Now it is all over with us, indeed ! Oh dear ! 
 Oh dear I" and the terrified girl went off into another 
 hysteric fit, without delay
 
 142 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 In spite of her fears, Harriet felt it impossible to resist 
 the impulse of her curiosity, to ascertain what was really- 
 going on, and, stretching her face over the shoulder of one 
 of her maids, she also looked forth into the field of action. 
 
 It was not many minutes before the figure of Harriet 
 rose to its full height, as she placed herself with apparent 
 confidence once more before the window, looking and 
 speaking in her accustomed manner, and by no means 
 forgetting to chide her foolish maidens, for their ill-grounded 
 fears, and especially for their childish folly in having mis- 
 taken their own master for a bandit -chief, and a baker's 
 cart laden with bread-loaves, for a cart-load of cannon- 
 balls ! 
 
 The particulars of what transpired upon the lawn that 
 day, Harriet never knew. It was sufficient for her, that 
 her husband, her house, and her property, were safe. She 
 wondered, and expressed her wonder in no measured 
 terms, that he should be guilty of identifying himself with 
 such a rabble — that he should waste his money in supply- 
 ing such idle vagrants with food — and perhaps, most of 
 all, that he should willingly allow them to trample down 
 the grass on his lawn : but she had been too well satisfied 
 to see them disperse, quietly, and apparently in good 
 humour, to wish at the moment to interfere by the 
 exercise of her personal authority ; and perhaps she retained 
 too vivid a recollection of her signal defeat, ever again to 
 boast of her good management in the control of a riotous 
 mob.
 
 143 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Action is the natural impulse of a powerful and energetic 
 frame. This impulse may be checked by absence of the 
 means of exercise, or it may be diverted by wrong training, 
 into channels which are neither healthy nor beneficial; but 
 still the impulse remains as a natural and necessary accom- 
 paniment of power; and if it exhibits itself in no other way, 
 it may always be recognized under the characteristics of 
 discontent and uneasiness while forcibly repressed, of 
 cheerfulness and satisfaction when called into exercise. 
 
 It does not follow that a powerful and energetic frame 
 shall be always in action. There is often, from defective 
 education, as well as from constitutional causes, great 
 indolence connected with such a conformation ; but along 
 with that indolence there is also great dissatisfaction, 
 which indicates that muscular relaxation may be a widely 
 different sort of thing from bodily enjoyment or repose. 
 To cast the heavy limbs at full length upon a couch, is 
 not always to find ease in that position. Oh ! no ; there 
 must first have been the long ride, or the vigorous walk, 
 the free play of every muscle, the extended arm, the 
 laborious action of the foot, the quick circulation of 
 the warm blood, and, with all this, the meeting of the pure 
 fresh breeze — nature's own breath upon the brow and 
 temples, under the waves of the hair, and about the glow- 
 ing wrists ; and then comes the sweet repose, the refreshing 
 sleep, and the luxury of perfect rest.
 
 144 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Beyond this, however, there is a grand secret in the 
 book of nature, which it behoves the discontented to look 
 into, and to prove for themselves, once at least, before they 
 give up the world to destruction, and themselves to irre- 
 mediable despondency. Let them try whether the mind 
 is not in these respects constituted like the body ; whether 
 the exercise of all its different faculties is not the great 
 end for which such faculties weie bestowed; and whether 
 to direct their exercise aright, is not a more certain means 
 of obtaining happiness, than to settle down into a state 
 of useless inactivity, wondering that happiness does not 
 come of itself. 
 
 The use of language as a medium of thought, is quite 
 as natural an impulse to a powerful and energetic mind, 
 as action is to the body. Mind cannot exist alone, it 
 must converse either with books or men. Some minds 
 are satisfied with holding imaginary intercourse with 
 nature, but these are comparatively few, unless, indeed, 
 such imaginary converse is combined with the after satis- 
 faction of revealing the secrets of nature to the ear of 
 man. Something in the form of language there must 
 be, either written, spoken, or conveyed by different means 
 to other minds ; and the more copious the outlet, and the 
 stronger the impression it produces, the more it is adapted 
 to the wants, nay, to the absolute necessities, of a vigorous 
 and overflowing mind. 
 
 Horace Grant had never in his whole life, before the 
 occasion just described, known what it was to produce 
 any very powerful impression upon others. He had 
 sometimes, when in company, in good spirits, and free 
 from all restraint, found himself the centre of attraction, 
 and even then had known the enjoyment of pouring forth 
 the full free tide of his own thoughts and feelings into
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 145 
 
 other minds. From all the great and stirring occasions 
 of public life, however, he had held himself so far aloof, 
 that he seemed to have nothing in common with the mass 
 of human kind, and especially with the ignorant, the 
 laborious, and the poor. On many occasions he had felt 
 disposed to be personally kind, and his generosity had 
 extended far in advance of his justice ; but even in the 
 exercise of this generosity, some personal pique had too 
 frequently interfered, or some instance of personal ingra- 
 titude had too often converted his kindly feelings into 
 emotions of disappointment and disgust. Thus he had 
 not unwillingly allowed himself to adopt the phraseology 
 of a certain class, who excuse themselves from any great 
 excess of charity, by saying, " It is of no use endeavouring 
 to help the poor, they are so ungrateful" As if charity 
 itself was nothing but a kind of purchase-money, by 
 which the incense of gratitude towards ourselves might 
 be bought. 
 
 Perhaps it would scarcely be intelligible language to 
 such persons, should any one state to them, that the 
 more ungrateful poor people are, the more need there is 
 for doing them good — moral good, as well as physical ; for 
 to do something for their real and lasting benefit, and 
 to teach them the value of what is done, is certainly one 
 important step towards doing them the highest good. 
 
 With this progressive kind of work, Horace Grant was 
 not yet acquainted. He had plunged, as it were acci- 
 dentally, and at once, into the warm heart of a suffering 
 people. It is true they were suffering in a great measure 
 from their own obstinacy, and misguided passions, but 
 hunger is hunger not the less; and many a famishing 
 mother, and wild frantic youth, believed themselves to 
 be the helpless victims of oppression, enduring a public 
 
 L
 
 146 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 scourge which selfish and rapacious rulers had laid upon 
 the land. That such was the case, their most eloquent 
 leaders told them, and they believed it. They believed it, 
 because they were hungry, and had no food j and with 
 this strong argument on their side, who should stay their 
 vengeance against their oppressors, or, in other words, 
 against those who had bread enough and to spare, and 
 yet refused to give to them ? 
 
 Powerful as was the eloquence of Horace Grant, when 
 he sat on his proud charger in the midst of the tumult, 
 and lifted his hat from his brow, and spoke in those clear 
 and spirit-stirring tones which arrested the fury of the peo- 
 ple by a counter-impulse stronger than their own, it is more 
 than probable that the impression would have died away 
 with the occasion, had it not been promptly followed up 
 by the distribution of food upon the grounds. Yes, of 
 actual food, there was no mistake in that. It was an 
 argument which appealed at once to what was just then 
 the most sensitive and suffering part of their nature, and 
 those who were at a loss to understand, how returning 
 peaceably to their homes should be the most likely means 
 of restoring plenty and prosperity, could without any 
 difficulty comprehend how the circumstance of eating and 
 being satisfied, was one important step towards the con- 
 summation of their wishes. 
 
 For a short time, then, Horace Grant was their man — 
 their oracle — their hero. That he could have led them 
 to battle, there was no doubt whatever. It was not quite 
 so easy to lead them to work, and be quiet, and destroy 
 no more machines. 
 
 Such, however, was the purpose to which Horace 
 determined to direct his lately acquired influence ; and 
 with this end in view, he became one of the most active
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 147 
 
 men in the whole neighbourhood. Not indeed in riding 
 about the country with an armed force to rush upon the 
 people wherever they might be congregated, but in con- 
 sulting with different authorities, with men who had 
 influence and property at their disposal, and the prosperity 
 of the people at their hearts. "With these he entered 
 into close and earnest consultations about what measures 
 were best to be adopted ; and while he had the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing that some efficient means were in progress, 
 he still found himself called upon repeatedly to exercise 
 over the people that eloquence which had operated so 
 powerfully, and in the first instance so much to his own 
 surprise. 
 
 Indeed, it was altogether to his own surprise that he 
 found himself where he was, and what he had become, 
 lie, a leader of the people ! the captain of a company of 
 weavers, whose equipment, conduct, and general appear- 
 ance, would have done honour to FalstafTs own ! He, 
 a village demagogue, spouting to a filthy and unwashed 
 audience ! It was beyond belief, and Horace would have 
 supposed himself the subject of some wild tumultuous 
 dream, but that the necessity of action, now that he had 
 once plunged into the great ocean of popular tumult, 
 left him no time to question the reality of what he was 
 about. 
 
 By the combined efforts of several intelligent and in- 
 fluential gentlemen in the neighbourhood, much was 
 effected in the course of a week, towards bringing about 
 a more peaceful and satisfactory state of things ; and late 
 on the Saturday evening, Horace returned to his own 
 home, with many assurances that the people would resume 
 their accustomed occupations on the following Monday. 
 With Horace it had been a week so strangely passed, as 
 
 l 2
 
 148 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 to seem at least a month in duration, and he prepared 
 himself for a day of rest with more real satisfaction than 
 he had ever done in his whole life before. But for an 
 extraordiuary degree of bodily fatigue, the excitement of 
 his mind would probably have precluded the possibility 
 of rest j and even as it was, he sunk into a sound and 
 refreshing sleep in the midst of confused images of men 
 and things, which flitted before his mental vision in rapid 
 succession, to be renewed with his waking hours, notwith- 
 standing the morning dawned upon a day appointed for 
 different thoughts. 
 
 Horace was unusually silent on that morning, for it 
 would have been impossible for him to have spoken of the 
 deep and stirring emotions of the past week to one who 
 understood only the outward aspect of a mob, and the 
 physical mischief likely to ensue from a vast concourse of 
 vulgar and dirty people gathered tumultuously together. 
 He might, it is true, have spoken of the sufferings of the 
 people ; — and his wife would have asked why they did not 
 wash their faces, and mend their clothes. He might have 
 described the fearful energy which grows up amongst a 
 hungry multitude ; — and his wife would have asked if they 
 were likely to throw any stones so far as to reach the 
 plate-glass windows of her drawing-room. He might have 
 dwelt upon the deep responsibility of those who turn a deaf 
 ear to the cry of the people ; — and his wife would have 
 asked if the shouting could be heard from the factory to 
 the gate of the lower garden. No ; there was no talking 
 on such subjects with such a woman. So Horace went 
 quietly to church that day, as if nothing more than usual 
 had transpired during the week. 
 
 Under this quiet aspect, however, the mind of Horace 
 Grant was more than usually occupied, so much so, indeed,
 
 T1IE MANAGING WIFE. 149 
 
 that he never looked up to the pulpit, nor had once thought 
 who was to be there, until startled by the sound of a voice 
 which reminded him in an instant of the important change 
 which had deprived the congregation of their long-accus- 
 tomed pastor and friend. 
 
 But a week ago, and Horace Grant would scarcely have 
 felt capable of an effort so great as would have been 
 necessaiy to take him to his accustomed place in that 
 church, where the voice of one whom a long-cherished 
 prejudice had converted into an object of antipathy, and 
 almost of hatred, was already sounding through the aisle. 
 But a week ago, and every current of imbittered feeling 
 would have been stirred from its inmost source, at the 
 bare thought of meeting as a friend and neighbour — and 
 in his present capacity he must be both — a man whom he 
 had once regarded in his boyish jealousy as his most 
 malignant foe. But a week ago, and his soul would have 
 been torn by a thousand contending emotions at the pros- 
 pect of such an interview — by the pride of persisting in 
 an early -formed opinion on one side, and the pride of not 
 condescending to be moved on the other. Now, however, 
 it seemed, and most unaccountably to himself, as if all old 
 prejudices had been stripped off like a waste garment. 
 What was it to him that Charles Berkeley, the pastor of 
 that village congregation, had accepted the living of the 
 parish church to which he belonged ? What was it to him, 
 that the man who read the service there, and preached to 
 the people, had been his old schoolfellow, and sometime 
 rival, in their pursuit of learning and of fame ? It was as 
 if he had stood since then upon the shore of the great 
 ocean of life, and let its actual waves wash over him ; so 
 completely was he stripped of those superfluities of feeling, 
 which had overgrown and threatened to destroy his better
 
 150 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 nature. Like a man possessing perfect mastery over him- 
 self, he stood up there with uncovered head amongst that 
 attentive congregation ; nor were his responses to the 
 solemn service less earnest and sincere, because the 
 prayers were offered in a voice which he had once believed 
 incapable of uttering anything but discord to his ear. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that Horace was prepared to 
 welcome as a friend, in his private capacity, the man 
 whose fervent eloquence he had listened to without repul- 
 sion. Human nature is not thus wrought upon, except 
 by miracle, and Horace Grant was the subject of the 
 common laws by which all mankind are governed. He 
 therefore prepared himself to walk directly from the church, 
 having decided, very wisely, that whatever pride might 
 dictate, dignity was on the side of not appearing to be in 
 the slightest degree disturbed by the presence of any 
 human being, and by that of Charles Berkeley least 
 of all. 
 
 Passing from his accustomed seat with this air of 
 dignified composure, Horace Grant was startled by the 
 apparition of Lady Chatterton's governess, the tall pale 
 figure which he had so seldom thought of, except as 
 associated with her harp, that he was almost as much 
 surprised, as the spectator of that wonderful scene in the 
 Castle of Otranto, where a portrait, sliding down from the 
 frame in which it had hung for ages, assumes the voice 
 and character of a living man. 
 
 Affected as he always had been by the desolate situation 
 of this lady, Horace was endeavouring to make his wife 
 comprehend how much he wished the governess to be 
 invited home with them to spend the day ; and Harriet 
 was as earnestly labouring to make it clear, that her cook 
 being from home, an invitation of this kind was out of the
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 151 
 
 range of possibility ; when the governess, with a cheerful 
 expression of countenance, bade them good morning, and 
 taking the offered arm of Charles Berkeley, who bowed 
 slightly as he passed, they both walked together apparently 
 in excellent spirits, and conversing pleasantly as they went 
 towards the parsonage, a pretty secluded residence situated 
 within a short distance of the church. 
 
 " Rather a cool way of doing things," said Horace, 
 as he watched them walk away ; and Harriet indulged 
 herself by expatiating in no gentle terms upon the eccen- 
 tricities of that class of persons, and of Lady Chatterton's 
 governess in particular. 
 
 In the course of a few days the mystery was explained ; 
 and the character of one governess at least rescued from 
 one cause of suspicion as well as blame. To the great 
 surprise of Horace Grant, as he sat alone in his study 
 one morning, a gentleman was announced as having 
 called, at the same time that the card of the Rev. Charles 
 Berkeley was placed in his hand. There was no time to 
 hesitate — no reason why Mr. Berkeley should not be admit- 
 ted as well as any one else who might have business to 
 transact. Horace therefore received his guest without 
 betraying the slightest indication of interest, either in his 
 name or character, and consequently without any trace of 
 recognition. It was a little too much, he thought, for 
 his enemy to beset him there, in his peaceful retirement ; 
 but since he had come, he should find him prepared. 
 
 Very different were the feelings of the two men who 
 met on this occasion; and it is more than probable that, 
 could those of the more majestic party have been fully 
 revealed, they would have appeared very ridiculous to 
 him who had almost outlived the recollection of their 
 boyish folly, or rather had had too much of serious import
 
 152 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 to think about, to have room for the childish antipathies 
 of a schoolboy's life. On the part of Charles Berkeley, 
 it was clearly understood that a strong prejudice against 
 his union with Lucy Grant existed in her family ; but 
 wholly unable to comprehend how this objection should 
 arise out of anything beyond his worldly position, and 
 having long considered the family fully justified on that 
 ground, he now came with an honest heart, and a clear 
 brow, to state, in a fearless and straightforward manner, 
 all necessary particulars relating to that important change 
 in his circumstances, which he considered as sufficiently 
 entitling him to be considered a fit connection for the 
 family of the Grants. 
 
 Indeed, as to the consideration of family, it could 
 not be denied that the Berkeleys had the advantage ; 
 but they had early been left orphans, and at the time 
 when Lucy Grant first ventured to divulge the secret of 
 her heart to her brother, Charles Berkeley was filling, 
 it is true, an honourable position in society, but with 
 such slender means at his command, that he himself had 
 never felt justified in urging his proposals. On the most 
 delicate of all subjects, however, he could now speak and 
 act like a man of independence. He knew of nothing 
 which he had to fear, and he addressed the brother of 
 his betrothed bride, as if he felt himself in all respects 
 his equal. 
 
 " I should have thought," observed Horace Grant, 
 before the conversation had proceeded very far, and 
 with an expression of countenance by no means con- 
 ciliating, " that the intimacy, so gratifying an instance of 
 which we all observed on Sunday, might have precluded 
 the necessity of all further reference to Miss Grant." 
 
 " 1 beg your pardon," said Charles Berkeley, wholly
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 153 
 
 at a loss to understand his meaning. " Perhaps you 
 will do me the favour to explain yourself more fully." 
 
 " I should have thought," continued Horace with the 
 same look and manner, " that one intimacy of that kind 
 had been sufficient." 
 
 " You astonish me !" exclaimed Charles Berkeley. " Is 
 it possible ? Why, the lady to whom I suppose you allude, 
 is my own — my only sister !" 
 
 ' Indeed !" said Horace, still betraying no outward 
 symptom of surprise. " Your sister," he continued, " and 
 occupying the situation of governess, if I am not 
 mistaken." 
 
 " You are not mistaken," replied Charles Berkeley, and 
 a glow of indignation passed across his fine open counte- 
 nance, for he felt that in the cool sarcasm of his companion, 
 there was an insult, at least intended, to one who of all 
 human beings he esteemed it his privilege to defend. If 
 his sacred office protected him from exhibiting that open 
 and avowed resentment which it was natural to feel, his 
 principles more effectually preserved him from yielding to 
 the momentary impulse, strong though it unquestionably 
 was, for Charles Berkeley was no more than human, and 
 he had his share of pride as well as others. Long-cherished 
 habits of strict mental discipline, however, had done much 
 to aid his better feelings ; and he had but to think a 
 moment, to be convinced of the folly and the fruitlessness 
 of an angry or a bitter reply. He was therefore able to 
 explain, so far as was necessary, the circumstances under 
 which his sister had adopted a line of conduct, which few 
 had been found to commend, but many — very many, to 
 condemn. 
 
 " My sister," he resumed, " has been a governess. You 
 have seen her, and I feel no doubt have esteemed her even
 
 134 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 in that capacity ; but it is just to her, as well as to our 
 family connections, that you should clearly understand 
 her motives in adopting a line of conduct, which in the 
 opinion of the world must bear a somewhat questionable 
 character. My sister and myself were early left orphans, 
 the sole representatives of a family, whose claims to con- 
 sideration I need not represent to you. It is equally 
 unnecessary to tell you we were poor, and yet, perhaps, 
 a little too proud to become willing dependents upon any 
 of our distant connections. How we struggled on, is 
 nothing to my purpose now. Heaven knows, we had our 
 share of difficulties, but we bore them together ; and that, 
 in our isolated circumstances, so strengthened the tie 
 which existed between us, that the world has now, for 
 both, or for either, but one other connection more tender 
 and enduring. 
 
 " It was in the prospect of my forming this connection, 
 that my sister, acting upon her own strong determination, 
 assumed that unaccustomed position which has called 
 forth the sarcasm and contempt of many, and yours 
 amongst the rest. She knew that it was impossible for 
 me to marry, and maintain my household honourably 
 before the world, while she remained with me ; and not- 
 withstanding all my remonstrances, her plans were formed, 
 and acted upon, before I had time to take any effectual 
 measures for their prevention. You do not know my 
 sister, sir. She is no common character : this sacrifice on 
 her part has proved it. And if I am now more happy 
 than words can describe — more happy some would say 
 than a wise man ought to be, it is because I am permitted 
 to enjoy the blessings of a home more than sufficient 
 for myself, and for those who are dearest to me on 
 earth.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 155 
 
 " Pardon me this long history of my persona] affairs. 
 It is just to my sister, that you should understand her — it 
 is just to yours, that you should understand us both." 
 
 Horace Grant had the good sense to feel, that sarcasm 
 and insult would be alike misplaced in communicating 
 with a man of Charles Berkeley's temperament. He had 
 indeed little disposition to offer either ; but to say that 
 he was reconciled to the connection which would have 
 reduced him to the necessity of calling Charles Berkeley 
 his brother, would be doing little justice to his feelings. 
 He treated him with civility, however, though at the same 
 time with the extreme of coldness ; and when the question 
 came at last, whether he would give his sanction to an 
 union, upon which hung the happiness of two human 
 beings, whom it could add nothing to his satisfaction to 
 render miserable for life, he answered, deliberately and 
 sternly — " never !"
 
 ]56 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 How far the decision, which Horace Grant had so 
 decidedly pronounced, added to his cheerfulness, and 
 secret satisfaction, must be left for those to imagine, who 
 have ever made the experiment of choosing the gratifi- 
 cation of their own wrong tempers, in preference to the 
 making two or more unoffending individuals reasonably 
 and rightly happy. 
 
 It might easily have been inferred on the following day, 
 that he was not quite at ease with himself, from the haste 
 with which he prepared to leave home, and the eagerness 
 with which he plunged into one scene of tumult, and 
 then another ; for the country was again in a state of 
 disturbance, and his presence was required alike by rich 
 and poor — by the peaceful, as well as the tumultuous — 
 by the lovers of order and good government, as well as 
 the haters of law, and contemners of rightful authority. 
 The fact was, all seemed equally at a loss what to do, or 
 what to recommend ; and Horace Grant having obtained 
 a transient influence over the minds of the people, had 
 at least the happy art of sometimes diverting them from 
 a desperate and determined purpose. 
 
 Before this era in his existence, Horace Grant had 
 never given his mind to the political state, even of his 
 own country. But he now buried himself when at
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 157 
 
 home in works relating to the government and policy of 
 different nations ; while the manufactures and commerce 
 of his own, subjects which he had hitherto regarded as 
 beneath the attention of a scholar and a gentleman, now 
 began to unfold to him new, and profoundly interesting 
 views, of the internal organization of a rapidly increasing 
 and industrious population. 
 
 AVith these fresh, and sometimes startling glimpses 
 of human nature, bursting upon him like visions of 
 another world revealed through a densely surrounding 
 mist, Horace very naturally sought intercourse with a 
 different class of men from those to whose society he 
 had been most habituated. He now found that those 
 who dwell amongst the stirring scenes of life, provided 
 they bear about with them the capacity of thinking, and 
 of looking beyond the mere physical means of accom- 
 plishing what they are engaged in, are in reality the 
 men of intelligence — the men of knowledge; for their 
 information is not bounded by the narrow limits of class 
 or party, nor are their sympathies, like those of the idle 
 and exclusive, misplaced, or allowed to run to waste from 
 ignorance of what lies in the deep heart of a nation — 
 of active life — and of man as a social and progressive 
 being. 
 
 With a man of this class, raised by wealth of his own 
 acquiring to an honourable and independent position, 
 Horace Grant had formed an intimacy, extending so 
 far as to furnish him with a vast fund of information 
 relating to the actual state of the people amongst whom 
 he lived, and whom he now felt, with all their sufferings 
 and their necessities, their capabilities and their claims, 
 with their strong energies, and even with their obstinacy 
 and perverseness, to be daily and hourly growing nearer
 
 158 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 to his heart. It is true that his tastes were still frequently 
 offended, and his sympathies repelled, by close contact 
 with the people themselves, so far as their physical nature 
 was concerned ; but the great discovery recently made, 
 that there is a region of moral feeling, and of moral 
 influence, in which the rich and the poor may hold com- 
 munion in language that is common to all, had placed 
 him on a totally different footing with regard to the 
 people, or rather had placed the people on a different 
 footing with regard to him. 
 
 Returning one day from an interview with this gentle- 
 man, and musing deeply as he rode leisurely along, 
 Horace Grant was startled by the approach of a horseman 
 at full speed — and still more so, by the discovery that it 
 was his own servant, and that he was himself the object 
 of his search. 
 
 Evil tidings are almost invariably anticipated on such 
 occasions, but in the present instance the messenger was 
 one of joy ; for he announced the important intelligence 
 that Horace was the father of a fine and hopeful child — 
 an heir to his home, his property, and the best affections 
 of his heart. 
 
 To attempt to describe what Horace felt on this occa- 
 sion, would be a fruitless task, or to tell how that heart, 
 so desolate and companionless in its married lot, seemed 
 at once to be planted in the midst of a garden, abundant 
 in fruits and flowers — a garden in which streams of 
 refreshment burst forth, and sunshine and melody were 
 once more seen and heard. It was but a common event, 
 and Horace would have blushed to betray his emotion. 
 It was but a trifling affair to rejoice about, at least an 
 indifferent party would have called it so, and Horace 
 knew that perfectly well ; but it was much to him
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 159 
 
 nevertheless, and therefore he set spurs to his horse, 
 and soon left the astonished messenger far in the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 What would human life be, if one might not build 
 castles in the air ? Already Horace Grant imagined a pony 
 trotting by his side, and his son, a fine handsome fellow, 
 riding like an Arab, as bold and as free as if the whole 
 land was his own. Already he was directing his studies, 
 and preparing him for the bar, or the senate — already — 
 But who is yon desperate rider thundering down the 
 hill? 
 
 Horace drew his horse to one side of the road, without 
 slackening his pace, for who should dare to interrupt 
 him now ? 
 
 "Sir!" said the man, holding in his foaming steed : 
 but Horace shot past him ; not, however, without looking 
 back, for he saw that the man was one of his own people, 
 and he doubted not the stirring interest excited within his 
 home, which had deemed one messenger insufficient for 
 such joyful news. 
 
 The man wheeled round, as soon as the speed with 
 which he had been travelling would allow ; and Horace too 
 drew up, for the purpose of enjoying a repetition of good 
 tidings. 
 
 " Have you anything to tell me ?" he inquired. 
 " Why, yes, sir," said the man, but he spoke too slowly 
 for the patience of his master. 
 
 " Oh ! I know what you mean. I have heard all about 
 it," said Horace. 
 
 " Indeed \" exclaimed the man, still looking very grave. 
 " They are all expecting you," he added. " If the horse 
 is jaded, had you not better take mine ?" 
 
 " There is no need to ride my horse to death " said
 
 1G0 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Horace; and the man looked at him with a wondering 
 vacant stare. 
 
 His master passed on, and in another moment was 
 again bounding over the ground, taking the nearest 
 route over bridge and fence, and all the while rejoicing 
 as he went, with that kind of gladness which the lark, of 
 all created nature, seems alone to understand, so as to give 
 it utterance in its song. 
 
 Away— away flew Horace, on that sun -bright day; for 
 he knew a path over the bare common, where neither 
 bush nor briar was growing ; and the tramp of his foam- 
 ing steed sounded hollow under its bounding tread — 
 away — away — the blue skies were above him, without 
 a single cloud — why should he not be glad? Away — 
 away ! What speed is like that of hope, when the heart 
 of the rider goes home to its secret joy ? Away — The 
 foot of care is heavy, and grief lags behind, and fear of 
 the future was never mounted on a charger bold and 
 swift. Away flew Horace, and all nature seemed to 
 smile as he went. The leaves in the beech-wood fluttered 
 gaily as he passed ; the stream from the hills rushed 
 wildly along, as he leapt from the green turf on its shady 
 banks, once more into the glorious sun-light, and scouring 
 along the valley, startled the flocks from their pasture, 
 and the shepherd from his noonday sleep. 
 
 No time now had Horace to muse, as was his wont, 
 upon the loveliness of wood or dell. Each familiar spot, 
 each shady nook, and ivy-tufted stem — each velvet 
 slope, and white cottage gable peeping out from the 
 orchard green — each wilder scene, and rugged opening 
 amongst the hills, was now passed unheeded. It was 
 enough that he was happy, and was going — to be happier 
 still.
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 161 
 
 Rapidly as flew the steed of Horace Grant when there 
 was no eye to observe his movements, no sooner did he 
 find himself within the precincts of his own domain, than 
 he tightened his rein, and passed deliberately along, as if 
 nothing had occurred, or indeed could occur, to ruffle the 
 even tenour of his thoughts j for it was a habit with him, 
 and would seem almost to be a spontaneous impulse with 
 minds constituted like his, to hide their secret workings, 
 and restrain their strongest emotions, before the eyes of 
 indifferent observers. It would have been nothing less 
 than hateful to Horace Grant, had he seen the inhabitants 
 of the village nearest to his house looking out of their 
 doors to see with what speed he galloped home, rejoicing 
 in the birth of a child. So frequent and so vulgar an 
 occurrence was not to be supposed of importance enough 
 to move him ; far from it. He was calm — very calm, as 
 he waited for the opening of the gate at the entrance of 
 his grounds, only the woman would speak to him — the 
 gossip. What could she have to say at such a time ? 
 
 " Stand off ! you frighten my horse," said Horace, as 
 the woman advanced towards him ; and bounding past 
 her, so as to escape from her congratulations, he again 
 drew up into a sober pace, and even rode leisurely round 
 to the stable-yard, in order to enter the house by a private 
 door. 
 
 A long time was Horace Grant that day in disposing of 
 his hat, his whip, and his gloves. He seemed to have no 
 place to put them in, and the servants flew past him with 
 a speed which provoked him into lengthened delay. 
 
 " Won't you walk up stairs, sir ? " said one ; and he 
 wondered they should invite him to do so natural a thing. 
 
 " The doctors are here," said another ; and she too 
 passed on. 
 
 M
 
 16.2 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 "I will send Miss Vining in an instant," said the 
 housekeeper, rushing past ; but by this time Horace had 
 reached the stairs, and was soon at the door of his wife's 
 apartment. 
 
 For one single hushed and silent moment he stood 
 there, but that time was enough for every warm and 
 generous feeling, of which his heart was capable, to gush 
 forth, and having no other language, to speak in burning 
 tears, which he dashed off from his cheek as soon as they 
 were formed. Yes, all that the fondest heart could 
 promise in its first thrill of ecstasy was there — all, and 
 perhaps more ; for he had days and weeks of coldness and 
 neglect to atone for, and now he was ready to offer up his 
 life for a pledge that the future should be happier than 
 the past. 
 
 In one bright flash of golden promise, these fond 
 thoughts had just passed across the soul of the husband 
 and the father, when his presence became known to some 
 of the silent attendants in that darkened room, and 
 expressive looks were exchanged, and signs were made for 
 him to advance nearer, though at the same time the hand 
 of his sister was laid upon his arm, as if to restrain him. 
 
 There was no need for such caution. Horace, under all 
 deep emotion, whether of pain or pleasure, was apt to be 
 still ; and he was never more self-sustained than now, 
 even when the truth — the awful truth fell upon him, like 
 a hot coal burning into his breast. 
 
 Within the deep shadow of that richly-curtained bed 
 was laid the pale and ghastly form of her, whose quick 
 spirit had been the life- spring of all the visible action 
 within the sphere of her influence. She was laid there in 
 utter helplessness, and all-unconscious of those accustomed 
 requirements of surrounding things, to which her attention
 

 
 Of HE 
 UNIVERSITY OF IUNO*
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 163 
 
 had ever been so vividly awake ; and now not a finger was 
 pointed to direct, nor an eye was raised to see, nor a lip 
 was moved to speak. She was living, if that may be 
 called life which hangs upon the mere flutter of a breath, 
 growing fainter and fainter every moment, without the 
 remotest possibility of ever being revived. She was still 
 living, but so entirely had the hope of restoration passed 
 away, that one was kneeling by the bed with folded hands 
 as if in prayer, another had turned aside to weep, and 
 another had sunk down overwhelmed with the conviction 
 that all human help was vain, while some had even left 
 the room intent on subjects of less solemn interest. 
 
 Yes, she was still living ; and there was one, a pale and 
 horror-stricken man, who, had the wealth of worlds been 
 his, would have given it at that moment in exchange for 
 one little word of affection, or forgiveness — one pressure of 
 that already marble hand — one conscious glance of those 
 fixed eyes, which looked as if on vacancy, and observed 
 not that he was near. 
 
 "When the tenderest links of all which can bind two 
 human beings together, are thus suddenly broken, when 
 not one word intentionally unkind can be recalled, nor 
 even one unpitying moment of neglect, there is still enough 
 to be forgiven — enough, in the mere short- comings of a 
 selfish and faulty nature. Or, when the season of unbroken 
 intercourse has been one of mutual improvement — of 
 heart-searching before the All-seeing eye, and of sweet 
 way-side communion on the upward path towards heaven, 
 there is still enough to regret, in opportunities neglected, 
 means abused, and hours filled up with worse than 
 nothingness. But to look back upon an intercourse the 
 closest and most sacred ordained for the happiness of man, 
 and to see neither the sweetness which belongs to earth, 
 
 m 2
 
 164 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 nor the blessedness which might have made it a foretaste 
 of a holier and a happier life — to look back upon this, and 
 to hear the closing of those eternal gates through which no 
 promise of amendment, or pledge of pardon, ever passed — ■ 
 to know that we stand alone — cut off, and separate for 
 ever from that familiar, and, in such awful moments, that 
 beloved one, whose every day of life had dawned upon our 
 better hopes, found every evening unfilled — to watch 
 the breath of life still fluttering, yet all its conscious- 
 ness so gone, that not the thunder-burst, nor crash of 
 falling ruin, nor cry of drowning multitude, could wake one 
 single start ; nay, more — so gone, that not the softest word 
 for which the vacant ear has pined in vain, nor tenderest 
 touch of loving hand for which the brow has ached, nor 
 pitying tear upon the cheek — that dew, for want of which 
 the unloved mourner faints and dies — to know that not 
 one of these, so potent once, can call again a blush of joy 
 to the pale cheek, or quicken the fast-failing throb of the 
 low pulse ; and to stand by, the living and the strong, 
 with all the power, the impulse, and the potency of life for 
 everything but this? Oh let the thought of such dark 
 moments be a warning to the young, to keep them back 
 from light unthinking utterance of the marriage-vow ! 
 
 Perhaps we never realize the full meaning of the word 
 impossible, until we have stood with sensations similar to 
 these beside the bed of death — until we have felt that the 
 wealth of a kingdom, or the labour of a life, would be 
 poor to offer in exchange for one precious hour of sweet 
 communion with the spirit just departed — one holy sab- 
 bath evening spent alone together — one walk in the deep 
 woods — one sail upon the summer sea — one moonlight 
 gaze from the familiar window, even without the utterance 
 of a single word. And so powerful is imagination in build-
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE, 165 
 
 ing up again these broken fabrics of the past, that the 
 very voice seems with us. in its well-known tones ; only 
 that when we ask, out of the hollow want of our great 
 desolation, some trivial question as in former times, there 
 is no answer : and we look about, amazed and wondering, 
 and almost blind with the excess of that deep solitude 
 which no other human form can fill. 
 
 It was indeed an awful truth which flashed upon the 
 mind of Horace Grant, that she whom he had scarcely 
 ever in idea associated with anything but actual busy life, 
 was gone to render up her great account alone. For so it 
 wa-s ; and that low breathing sunk away as quietly, as if 
 to die had been to sleep ; and she was gone, and he was 
 left to meditate upon the past, and to number the few 
 short months in which he had been to her — a friend! Ah ! 
 no ; he dared not think he had been that ; and yet there 
 were many seasons in his past existence, when he would 
 willingly have been that, and more. 
 
 How many of the bitterest moments of regret we might 
 be spared, by thinking wisely, and in time. Without 
 justifying either Horace Grant or his wife in every act 
 and word by which their married lot had been chequered, 
 it is but fair to say, that the fault was not so much in this 
 portion of their experience, as in the fatal moment when 
 they agreed to be companions for life. Under no circum- 
 stances, and with no amount of care, could two such 
 temperaments have been happy so intimately united. 
 Even supposing each to have done their best, that very 
 best would often have been abhorrent to the tastes and 
 feelings of the other; and now the one most capable of 
 feeling was left to fill his morbid mind with vain imaginings 
 of what he might have been as a husband and a friend, 
 and to reproach himself with all the bitterness of remorse,
 
 166 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 for not having acted out what was morally and physically 
 impossible for him so circumstanced. 
 
 And is it not thus through life, as regards at least one 
 half of the community ? Without the slightest knowledge 
 of the nature or requirements of the human mind, they place 
 themselves in situations pointed out by chance, by worldly 
 interest, or more frequently by inclination, and finding 
 themselves unequal to their duties thus self-imposed, as 
 well as exquisitely miserable, how often do they throw the 
 blame upon their fate, their friends ! or, when a gloomy 
 view of religion gives the tone to their intellectual exist- 
 ence, how often do they spend their strength in attributing, 
 what the exercise of a little common sense might have pre- 
 vented, entirely to their own depravity of heart ! 
 
 It is time that mankind should begin to call things by 
 their proper names in the philosophy of mind, as well as 
 science. The merest workman in the chemist's laboratory 
 would blush to own that he had rashly mingled different 
 compounds, judging only of the inherent properties of 
 each by the colours which were agreeable to his eye, or 
 the flavour which his palate might approve. He would 
 know that properties so blended, and so judged of, would 
 in some cases antipathize, and in others neutralize each 
 other, while instances would not be wanting in which the 
 production even of deadly poison might be the necessary 
 result. And yet, where human happiness is concerned, 
 and the usefulness of a whole life-time is at stake, affinity 
 of mind and character is no more taken into account, 
 than if it was a thing of every-day experience, for the 
 elements of human nature to be so changed, that what 
 was one hour most repugnant, could be invested with 
 every attraction the next. 
 
 But to return to the solitary mourner, for solitary he
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 167 
 
 was, in all his deep emotions, and a mourner in the most 
 agonizing sense of the word, perhaps deeper and more 
 sincere, than some of whom it may be said, that the 
 delight of their eves has been taken away. He was a 
 mourner utterly inconsolable, because he knew he had 
 not done the best he could to render happy and useful 
 the life which had been bound up with his ; and he was 
 a mourner too, because it was no longer possible to derive 
 consolation from thinking that she in her turn had been 
 to blame, and consequently that the whole fault did not 
 rest with him. No, this is too poor — too mean a source of 
 satisfaction to find a place in the chamber of death ; and 
 Horace Grant stood aghast, like one stricken by some 
 great horror, which he feels, without being able entirely 
 to understand. By degrees, however, the deep truth 
 revealed itself, and he saw and knew that it was too late 
 to call back one unkind or careless word, or to fill up one 
 past hour with holier thoughts. By degrees the thought 
 of his position as the father of a motherless child, unclosed 
 the secrets of his " folded heart," mingling sweet and 
 tender emotions with thrills of unutterable pain. By 
 degrees a consciousness of the past, and present, with 
 the strange and untried future, swept over him like a 
 flood, melting what was hard in his nature, and dis- 
 placing what was firm ; and bending beneath the stroke, 
 which, had he seen from whence it came, might have 
 been known to be in mercy more than vengeance, he 
 bowed his head above that fair unconscious figure, and 
 absolutely wept aloud with all the undisguised and genuine 
 weakness of a child. 
 
 To Horace Grant, it was indeed one of those " strong 
 hours which conquer us ;" and it was well for him that 
 his feelings could be thus poured forth in the presence
 
 ]68 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 of those to whom they were most sacred. He had not 
 observed who were the occupants of that still chamber, 
 except that there was one whose sacred and appropriate 
 duty it had been to care for the interests of the departing 
 spirit. He knew also that his sister's gentle hand was 
 clasped in his, and it was welcome at such a time. He 
 heard too, or he thought he heard, the heavy sobs of that 
 other sister, scarcely less intimate or dear, and now it 
 mingled with a feeble cry which reminded him that life 
 must no more be to him a gift appropriated to self; and 
 for the first time in his experience, he felt that he was 
 sharing with others, and with those whom he could love, 
 the strongest, the deepest, and the most sacred emotions 
 of which his heart was capable. 
 
 And is it not worth all the wealth of the material 
 world to feel this, if only once in a long life ? To 
 experience that there is something in the human soul 
 which cannot die, and something in the mutual sympathies 
 of mind with mind firmer than adamant — endurable — 
 eternal — something — and oh ! how beautifully may this 
 be inwrought with the Christian's hope — something 
 which calamity alone can fully prove, which the grave 
 reveals, and which destruction brings to light. Many 
 are the mortal ties which have been bound amidst the 
 flutter of enjoyment, and sweet is the communion of 
 young hearts that have scarcely known the shadow of 
 a grief; but there is no bond like that of grief, which 
 alike unites and purifies, while it subdues — no fellowship 
 like that of tears, which the sorely stricken, the humbled, 
 and the penitent, have shed together. 
 
 There are moments — no matter whether of joy or 
 sorrow, for they are the brightest in existence — which 
 seem to be given us especially as starting-points from
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 1G9 
 
 whence to begin a better course of life. No matter 
 whether they are found in the bower of peace, or in the 
 field of conflict — beside the infant's cradle, or the parent's 
 death-bed — no matter, so long as they are ours. 
 
 Was it possible that most awful scene in the whole 
 life of Horace Grant should prove to have been such 
 a moment ? It was. And that great and sudden stroke 
 which fell upon him like a thunder-bolt, leaving him 
 scarcely conscious of his own existence, seemed to purify 
 and soften the moral atmosphere he breathed. It might 
 be that the change would pass away and leave him as 
 he was before, that the impression would be effaced by 
 others of inferior importance, and of less solemnity and 
 weight; but so long as it lasted, that moment was his 
 own, to fill with holier thoughts, and better purposes, 
 and hopes of pardon for the past. 
 
 Perhaps no greater proof of his sincerity in this fresh 
 outset, could have been given by Horace Grant, than the 
 genuine cordiality, and even gratitude, with which he 
 acknowledged the preser.ce of Charles Berkeley, upon 
 whom had devolved the duty of attendance, as a Christian 
 friend and pastor, during that solemn scene. It would 
 have been an effort beyond nature, had Horace attempted 
 to find in him an intimate and familiar friend ; but the 
 feelings of that moment had been such, that they could 
 not blend with malignant or unworthy thoughts ; and he 
 who had once been regarded with prejudice almost 
 amounting to abhorrence, now became a sort of sacred 
 person, simply because he had been there. 
 
 The change which had been wrought in the feelings 
 as well as the circumstances of Horace Grant, was not 
 without its happy influence upon others, for he now knew 
 better than he had ever known before, the value of that
 
 170 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 happiness, which, while he had so wantonly trifled with it 
 himself, he had so wilfully withheld from others. His 
 first wish was now to make up to his sister the justice he 
 had refused ; and, happily for all parties, his ungenerous 
 conduct was easily atoned for, by the free expression 
 of his cordial approbation of her union with Charles 
 Berkeley, an event which he was studious to have cele- 
 brated with all the respect which the character and 
 position of the parties claimed. It was, however, a quiet, 
 unpretending, sort of marriage, after all, well suited to 
 the tastes of Lucy Grant, and the companion whose 
 lot she was about to share; the happiness of the day 
 consisting chiefly in the sincerity and good-will with 
 which both Horace and his mother laid aside their long- 
 cherished prejudices — on that occasion, and for ever. 
 
 And Horace Grant was now alone, except that the sister 
 of his wife, who from the first had been to him a more 
 congenial companion, took charge of his domestic affairs, 
 and managed them in so quiet and efficient a manner, that 
 Horace found peace at least within his home ; and having 
 known the want of it, he was the better prepared to 
 appreciate the blessing when it came. His child, too, 
 became a source of deep and lively interest, increasing day 
 by day, and ripening into a love almost surpassing that of 
 a mother — a love which often overcame the pride of his 
 sterner and more selfish nature, and softened and 
 humanized his mind and manners, making him, in moments 
 of playful and unbending fondness, what he was apt to 
 call a fool, though at the same time a " wiser and a better 
 man." 
 
 Nor were the interests of Horace Grant by any means 
 confined within his own domestic sphere. He had 
 become a citizen of the world — a man amongst his fellow-
 
 THE MANAGING WIFE. 171 
 
 men. He saw no longer the privileged exclusiveness of 
 his peculiar lot, nor believed in his own exemption from 
 the common duties of a social being. It is not important 
 to this record of his early experience, to state what party 
 he espoused, either in his religious, or his political career. 
 That he became an active, useful, energetic man, is 
 sufficient to be understood. That he regarded with peculiar 
 attention, the true interests of the people, may perhaps be 
 inferred ; for he was born not to follow, but to lead ; and 
 with all who make the great discovery that they have 
 power, and that, in the exercise of such faculties as they 
 possess, lies the great secret of health and cheerfulness of 
 mind, the next great discovery — the golden secret of a 
 well-spent life — is how to use that power aright.
 
 172 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 
 
 Those who have always enjoyed the privilege of a 
 country life, and know little about the metropolis, or 
 indeed about any large town, beyond an occasional visit 
 for the purposes of business, or sight-seeing, are apt to 
 associate the idea of London life with all that is gratifying 
 to the senses, exciting to the feelings, and expansive to 
 the mind. 
 
 London life, however, admits of qualifications. It is 
 not all high life, neither is it all gay or amusing life — 
 witness those long dull streets of regularly built houses, 
 each with its steps, and area, drawing-room window, and 
 doorway, so like its neighbour's, that but for the number, 
 the oldest occupant would never know his own — witness 
 the class of persons who come regularly home from busi- 
 ness every day, knocking at these dull doors at certain 
 hours, and off again in the morning by one particular 
 omnibus passing the end of their street — and so on to the 
 end of their lives. 
 
 The solitude of an American prairie is luxury compared 
 with that of these streets, where, teeming with population, 
 no man knows his neighbour, nor cares whether the bride 
 steps lightly into the coach which is to convey her to her 
 new and distant home -, or whether the hearse with its 
 sable plumes stands waiting for its heavy load, at the 
 neighbouring door. " The man in the moon," with whose
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 173 
 
 name neither good report nor evil has ever been known 
 to associate a second, is a social being, a good fellow, 
 a boon companion, compared with the bachelor who pos- 
 sesses a house to himself in one of these streets ; and as 
 for the married couples, they have scarcely the opportunity 
 of being better acquainted than the members of a Dutch 
 barometer. 
 
 The servant girls appear to have the best of it, so far 
 as amusement is concerned ; for they can manage, by 
 looking up from the cellar kitchens, to catch a glimse of 
 the legs of the milkman as he passes, of the baker, and 
 greengrocer, so as to anticipate a moment's gossip at the 
 door. They see the beggars too, that multitudinous host, 
 by whom such streets are perambulated ; and they run 
 out sometimes to the nearest shop, to make small purchases 
 of things intentionally forgotten ; so that, upon the whole, 
 they may contrive to extract a little interest from what 
 is passing, or doing, or even standing still, in the world. 
 They may leave their situations too, a thing of by no 
 means rare occurrence. But with the masters and mis- 
 tresses of these houses, life is a very different sort of thing, 
 and it is with them we have to do. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Garnet lived — no matter in w r hat street, 
 except that it was in one of this description, or at what 
 number, for it did not suit their circumstances to have 
 much company ; and very few people were interested in 
 finding them out. And yet they were a highly respectable 
 couple, and went out to church every Sunday morning as 
 punctually as the half-hour, and again in the evening as 
 soon as they had had tea, taking care that the maid-ser- 
 vant — they had but one — went to church in the afternoon, 
 about which she was always regularly questioned, even to 
 the text, so that they did their duty as Christians, these
 
 174 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 worthy people — who could lay any charge of a contrary 
 nature at their door ? 
 
 Oh ! no ; they were very worthy people— very upright, 
 and living, as they often said, "in such a wicked world/' 
 it was almost a wonder they had been able to keep them- 
 selves so immaculate, and all that belonged to them so 
 free from contamination. But so it was ; and Mr. Garnet 
 returned home every day so pleased with his own steps — 
 his own scraper — his own entrance — his own dining-room 
 — we had almost said his own wife, but that would have 
 been a source of satisfaction too delicate and too personal 
 for Mr. Garnet to specify. It was therefore left to be 
 inferred by all his household, that the wife of his bosom 
 was in every respect, if not his first, at least his second 
 self, and as such the nearest possible approach to per- 
 fection. 
 
 They had indeed a little world of their own, within the 
 walls of their house, which afforded them infinite gratifi- 
 cation j simply from the fact, that no sooner was any 
 article of property stamped with their name, than a sense 
 of identity with self invested it with charms unspeakable. 
 Thus their furniture, their carpets, the very papering of 
 their rooms, were such as the queen might envy : and as 
 for their dinners ! — you should have seen Mr. Garnet sit 
 down to his beefsteak, with a glass of foaming porter 
 beside his plate ! 
 
 The satisfaction of Mrs. Garnet was of a nature less 
 obtrusive to the outward eye. It might be a little kept 
 under by a sense of due respect to the presence of her 
 rightful lord. Some had even gone so far as to question 
 whether it was there at all, so deep were the wrinkles on 
 her little narrow brow, very partially shaded, except on 
 Sundays, by her second - best supply of shining black
 
 IMPRISOXED MIND. 175 
 
 haii'_, a little the worse for having been taken into every- 
 day use. 
 
 Mrs. Garnet was a small dark woman, of exceedingly 
 spare frame, with eyes deep -set, and mouth so little 
 accustomed to opening, that it scarcely knew what to 
 do with itself when this event took place ; but unfolded, 
 and drew up again, with a look of hidden meaning, 
 which, however, never came to light. It was a great 
 recommendation to Mrs. Garnet, for many reasons, 
 that she talked so little : — in the first place, she talked 
 badly; and in the next, Mr. Garnet liked to do all the 
 talking himself. Indeed, he would have liked to do 
 everything if he could, but his bodily frame being 
 unusually large — almost as large as his mind — he was 
 compelled to do many things by proxy; and in this mode 
 of exercise, Mrs. Garnet was perhaps the best helpmeet 
 he could have found, being always quick to fetch and 
 carry, and having seldom a wish, still less a will, at 
 variance with his own. There was one who used to say 
 of them, that he was the full round period, and she the 
 little dot at the end. But she was a very naughty idle 
 girl who said this ; and more of her anon. 
 
 It happened one day, that the good man of the house 
 was more than usually communicative with his wife ; and 
 the servant, who was always extremely curious when they 
 did converse together — curious even to the verge of 
 listening — made so many excuses to go into the parlour, 
 that she discovered there was about to be some new mem- 
 ber of the household admitted, besides master Samson ; 
 for Mr. and Mrs. Garnet had had a son yclept thus, and 
 whenever the holidays came round, there had been cause 
 to know that master Samson was at home — in the kitchen 
 at least. Now, however, the servant was quite sure there
 
 176 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 was a talk of somebody else ; but who this somebody 
 was, not even her sagacity could divine. The Garnets 
 had no relations, at least they seemed to have none. 
 She had never heard either of niece or nephew, and yet 
 something led her to believe, that the new-comer would be 
 young — there could be no doubt of that, so very small a 
 bed-room, and so very small a bed, were in preparation. 
 
 Yes j and very busy little mistress Garnet was with 
 these preparations ; not busy making purchases, as some 
 would have supposed; but busy ekeing out from other 
 rooms, none of them previously overstocked, such things 
 as she thought would do — just barely do ; and to see 
 whether they would do or not, Mrs. Garnet sometimes 
 walked backwards to a little distance, looking this way 
 and that, with her head first on one side, and then on 
 the other, as an artist looks at his half-finished painting ; 
 and perhaps with almost as earnest a desire to make the 
 best of a bad subject. 
 
 It was, indeed, a very little room, half-way up the 
 stairs, jutting out from the outer wall like a sort of after- 
 thought of the builder's, as if he had felt sure the inha- 
 bitants, whoever they might be, would have some poor 
 relation, or other appendage to the family, to accommodate. 
 Yet the expected addition to the family was not a relation, 
 though there were strong reasons for supposing she might 
 be poor ; for no single article in that little room had been 
 really purchased for the occasion, but all ingeniously 
 stripped from other rooms, and most of all from Master 
 Samson's, because one of his periodical visits having just 
 taken place, it would consequently be some time before 
 the things could be wanted again. 
 
 But, oh ! the pitifulness of that little room, even at 
 the best, and with all its borrowed furniture — the glueing
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 177 
 
 together of broken legs — the patching of torn carpets, 
 and the turning the best side outward of things faded 
 and forlorn ! You could not say the room was bare. It 
 looked rather full, than otherwise ; and so busy was Mrs. 
 Garnet and her maid, for a whole week, that it actually 
 contained a pretence to everything ; for, to use an expres- 
 sion she was so unguarded as to let fall before her maid 
 one day — " the child had been used to things rather in 
 a genteel sort of way." 
 
 "I am sure," said the maid, brightening up at the 
 idea of having at last caught hold of a clue, " there will 
 be no reason for complaint here. A prettier little bed- 
 room I never saw in my life." 
 
 " I don't call it so very small, for one of her age ;" 
 responded the mistress. 
 
 "Small? no, certainly!" exclaimed the maid, " not 
 small in the least, for a child." 
 
 u I only wish she was a child !" said Mrs. Garnet, 
 " I should know what to do with her then." 
 
 The servant was again at sea with her surmises, but 
 a few more busy days put an end to her speculations. 
 There had been symptoms of expectation throughout 
 the house the whole of one long morning, and about the 
 usual hour of dinner, a carriage actually stopped at the 
 door. So unusual an event produced its accustomed 
 results in that peaceful family. The " slip-shoes " of 
 the servant flew off as she ran upstairs to tell her mis- 
 tress, after answering the coachman's knock ; and Mrs. 
 Garnet arranged her raven ringlets with one-half nearly 
 in front, and the other as nearly behind. 
 
 A very pleasant-looking gentleman by this time was 
 standing on the steps ; and taking in his arms the figure 
 of a young girl, dressed in deep mourning, she sprung 
 
 N
 
 178 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 with one bound from the carriage to the front door, laugh- 
 ing heartily at her exploit, and the more so that she had 
 knocked off the gentleman's hat, and torn away the crape 
 from her own frock, besides alighting amongst trunks and 
 carpet-bags, which afforded her an excuse for tumbling in 
 amongst them, and laughing more and more. 
 
 Very pleasant was it to the servant in that house to 
 hear somebody laugh, so pleasant that she too joined in 
 the merriment, promising " little Miss " in a side-whisper, 
 that they two would have many a bit of fun together. 
 
 It did not appear that " little Miss" was so pleased 
 with this promise as might have been expected, for she 
 drew up her head rather haughtily, and did not even offer 
 to assist in conveying her own property to a more suitable 
 place. 
 
 A place for so large an amount of property it would 
 have been difficult to find in the small apartment already 
 described, and " Leave the luggage on the landing " was 
 heard from the lips of Mrs. Garnet, vociferated in a man- 
 ner unusually loud and energetic for her. " See to the 
 dinner," was a sequel which followed quickly upon this 
 antecedent j and Mr. Garnet having at the same juncture 
 arrived, all smiles and satisfaction, the guests were ushered 
 into a kind of side-room, called the breakfast-room, to be 
 entertained by the master of the house until dinner should 
 be announced. 
 
 All smiles and satisfaction as Mr. Garnet was on his 
 first appearance, he became doubly bland and captivating 
 every time he addressed himself particularly to the young 
 girl, who stood close beside the gentleman with whom 
 she had come, grasping the skirts of his frock-coat, and 
 looking as if she would creep into the pockets rather than 
 be left behind.
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 179 
 
 In truth, he -was a very pleasant gentleman, and exactly 
 such as an orphan girl might have taken upon trust for 
 her adopted father. He was not old either, for he could 
 barely have seen forty years j and if there was a slight 
 silvering of the soft hair which curled about his temples, 
 it was evident that in other respects time had dealt very 
 gently with him, for his brow was as smooth as that of 
 youth, and his clear blue eyes had all the appearance of 
 never having looked upon what was evil or repulsive. His 
 figure was of middle stature, of good proportions, and in 
 all respects Mr. Middleton was one of those happily con- 
 stituted beings who occupy a middle place between all 
 extremes, except indeed that the natural tendency of his 
 disposition was towards the extreme of trustingness and 
 good faith. It might be a fault in Mr. Middleton — many 
 people thought it so. But at all events this disposition 
 made him very happy, and was the means of his escaping 
 all those troublesome suspicions which haunt the minds 
 of other men, and which make up at least one-half of the 
 sum of human miseries. 
 
 Mr. Middleton had been a friend of the orphan's 
 mother, the most intimate friend she had. Some persons 
 believed he had been more in their early years. However 
 that might have been, she was towards the last years of 
 her life a widow indeed, for she had much to mourn — the 
 loss of a husband whom she had loved a little too fondly 
 to be able to counteract the effects of his imprudence, the 
 loss of property, and along with that, the loss of friends. 
 But there was one who had remained faithful through 
 every change, who, in the character of a respectful and 
 disinterested adviser, had transacted all her difficult and 
 intricate affairs, and who had finally promised on her 
 death-bed that he would never forsake her child. 
 
 n 2
 
 180 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 This promise Mr. Middleton was well able to keep, for 
 though not a wealthy man, he was alone, with none to 
 care for but himself, and with a heart a little better cal- 
 culated for caring for two, than one. In the first out- 
 burst of his kindly feelings, he therefore took the child 
 to his own house, and, as might have been expected, 
 attached himself to her in no common manner. She 
 became, in fact, even young as she was, a something to 
 come home to — something to beguile the weariness of 
 business — to make his hearth merry with her cheerful 
 laugh; and more than all, she was something to love 
 him. It was strange that the question of education did 
 not occur to him sooner ; but so it was, that several 
 months had passed over, without his seeing the necessity 
 of anything more being done for the child, than good 
 clothing, and wholesome food provided for her, a basin of 
 unadulterated milk bought every day for her use, her 
 little chair placed close beside his own, and her light feet 
 appointed to scamper to the door whenever he could make 
 it quite certain that the knock was his own. For the 
 long hours of his absence no provision whatever was 
 made, and the consequence of this appeared in broken 
 chimney ornaments, which had been too carelessly 
 examined; in furniture displaced, to make coaches in 
 which my lady might ride, or thrones in which her 
 majesty might sit ; in pictures torn down, and huge piles 
 of books built up; and, indeed, in all which the old 
 housekeeper said, the child could invent to vex and put 
 her out. 
 
 Indeed, the complaints of the housekeeper were perhaps 
 the ground of the first idea entertained by Mr. Middleton, 
 that some change might be required. He next bethought 
 liim of a school. Mr. Garnet's maiden sister had an
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 181 
 
 establishment for a " limited number of young ladies," 
 in which every accomplishment which could possibly be 
 thought of, was taught, upon extremely moderate terms. 
 Indeed, it was edifying almost to an " enlargement of 
 existence," only to read the circulars describing what 
 was taught in Miss Garnet's establishment for young 
 ladies; especially, when having gone through more than 
 any common mind could form a bare notion of, there 
 came at the bottom of the catalogue, " Morals strictly 
 attended to" and " washing on the usual terms." 
 
 Mr. Middleton had looked very little into these things. 
 It is quite probable, that the construction and capabilities 
 of a ladies' school had never been presented to his atten- 
 tion before. Mr. Garnet had long been his partner in 
 business — regular, methodical, and in every way efficient. 
 Mr. Garnet was an excellent man too, most likely his 
 sister was an excellent woman. It was his duty to do 
 all he could for them both. He had therefore taken 
 the circular, and read it attentively, long before the orphan 
 child of his early friend had become his particular charge ; 
 and the conclusion he arrived at after reading the paper — 
 he had never read any other — was, very naturally, that of 
 all systems of education, this must be the best ; for to 
 learn all specified in those papers, must, he thought, be 
 the making any young person who should fall under 
 Miss Garnet's notice. The pity was, that her pupils 
 should be few, and that she lived in rather an obscure 
 kind of street. Why did she not take a mansion — why 
 not a whole town, and people it with a community thus 
 taught? He really thought — good man that he was — 
 the whole world must be blind to its own interests, to 
 permit Miss Garnet to have only a limited number of 
 pupils.
 
 182 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 So zealous and persevering was the advocacy of Mr. 
 Middleton in favour of this school, that he had succeeded 
 in obtaining for Miss Garnet two or three pupils, and 
 most probably some other of her influential friends had 
 obtained her two or three more ; for on applying, after 
 due consideration, for the admission of his orphan charge, 
 he was informed there was no vacant room except as a day- 
 boarder, but that Mr. and Mrs. Garnet, out of pure good 
 will, and an extreme desire to accommodate, were willing 
 to receive the young lady, stipulating only for a very 
 trifling sum, towards the fitting up of an additional bed- 
 room for her use. 
 
 This sum Mr. Middleton had been extremely willing to 
 pay, thinking that, upon the whole, such an arrangement 
 might be made more comfortable to the dear child; and 
 now on the eventful day of her arrival, the dinner being 
 ended, he prepared to take leave, by asking to step into 
 the little room again with his charge. 
 
 Mr. Middleton had observed, during the dinner, that 
 the child ate scarcely anything, and his heart melted at 
 the spectacle; but his consternation was still greater, when, 
 on leading her into this little room, she looked wildly 
 round to see that the door was closed, and then dropping 
 like a dead weight upon the floor, actually grovelled on 
 the carpet, biting its dingy threads with her teeth, and 
 exhibiting something like the frenzy of a wild animal, 
 which has been caught, and imprisoned in a cage. 
 
 Nor was Louisa Temple in some other respects unlike 
 such animal suddenly brought in from the woods, for thus 
 far her existence had passed almost as entirely without 
 restraint, as that of the antelope that skims the desert 
 sands. Her mother's residence had been a secluded 
 situation in the country, rarely visited by persons in her
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 183 
 
 own sphere of life, and here the law of indulgence had 
 been almost the only one acknowledged ; for Mrs. Temple 
 was a feeble invalid, suffering both in mind and body, 
 and having once let loose the reins of government, she 
 had felt herself wholly incapable of coping with a temper 
 and temperament like those of her wilful child. 
 
 Mr. Middleton, Louisa's next protector, had been little 
 more prudent in his discipline, only that she had learned 
 some degree of self-government in his presence during her 
 mother's lifetime, simply from the fact of having seen him 
 only as a guest. In his own house too, which was situated 
 a little way out of London, she saw him so seldom, that 
 her worst tempers, and wildest habits, were not exhibited 
 before him ; but now she was so entirely thrown off her 
 guard by the great agony of the moment, as to behave in 
 a manner which led her kind-hearted guardian to entertain 
 serious apprehensions about the sanity of her mind. 
 
 " Stand up, child ;" said he, lifting her repeatedly from 
 the ground, to which she as often dropped down like 
 a weight of lead — " Stand up, Louisa, and tell me what is 
 the matter. I cannot leave you in this state. Is it your 
 head, child?" said he, laying his gentle hand upon her 
 brow. 
 
 Louisa Temple was what most people would have called 
 a very plain-looking child. The summer's sun appeared 
 to have a peculiar affinity for her complexion, besides 
 which she was bony almost to leanness, and took no plea- 
 sure in her dress, unless it was to tear and spoil it, so as 
 never to look like that of a gentlewoman's child. But 
 about her hair she was the most perverse and obstinate, 
 persisting in having it cut close over her eyes, and often 
 close behind too ; and this being accomplished by her own 
 hands, a few straggling locks were generally left, which,
 
 184 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 without any disposition to curl, hung down in tails of 
 no very dignified distinction. Beyond this, Louisa was 
 awkward in the extreme, throwing herself down more fre- 
 quently than there was the least occasion for, and kicking 
 with her large feet whatever came in her way. 
 
 After this description, it may reasonably be asked what 
 were the redeeming features in her character ? or, in other 
 words, what was there either to love or to admire ? To 
 admire, there certainly was something in her large dark 
 eyes, which flashed almost with living fire ; in a finely 
 shaped and firmly closing mouth, which, when it opened, 
 displayed teeth of the most pearly whiteness ; in a wild 
 and musical laugh, that was apt to ring to the very 
 heart of the hearer ; and in a high commanding look and 
 carriage whenever her mind was filled by any strong 
 determination — so high indeed, and so commanding, that 
 even in her childhood, this proud look had been the terror 
 of her mother, who dreaded nothing so much as the rousing 
 of those angry passions, which had been the bane of her 
 happiness in her short married life. 
 
 What there was to love in Louisa Temple as a child, 
 would be more difficult to define. Perhaps there was 
 nothing. Perhaps the affection, and that was not a little, 
 which she had managed to call forth, had been bestowed 
 upon her simply because she was there, and it had no other 
 object ; for there are hearts that must love, and woe betide 
 them if they seek only to love what is nearest, and for no 
 other cause ! 
 
 But to return to that little breakfast-room at Mr. Gar- 
 net's. The kind-hearted gentleman had succeeded, after 
 some trouble, in drawing the orphan girl upon his knee, 
 where a full tide of tears, shed without restraint upon his 
 bosom, had as usual rendered her more patient, gentle, and
 
 IMPRISONED MIXD. 185 
 
 confiding; and now she clung with her arms so tightly- 
 round his neck, and pressed her cheek so closely to his 
 own, that he feared it would be necessary to shake her off 
 with violence, in order to accomplish his escape. 
 
 " Louisa," he said many times, very earnestly ; but each 
 time the orphan kissed his mouth, and held him in her 
 arms more closely, as if determined he should use no 
 argument against her. 
 
 " Hear me !" he said, in a voice more stern than she 
 had ever known him use before ; and gradually her arms 
 relaxed their hold, and she sunk down almost to the 
 ground. 
 
 " I must talk to you/' Mr. Middleton continued. " You 
 are old enough to see the reasonableness of my sending 
 you to school." 
 
 " But not to these odious people 'f the child said 
 sharply. 
 
 " Do you think them odious, Louisa V 
 
 " Yes; everything that is odious to me." 
 
 " How so V 
 
 11 Look at that little pinched- up woman, with her mouth 
 set up in this way •" and the child pursed up her own 
 pretty lips into as close an imitation of Mrs. Garnet's as 
 nature would permit. 
 
 " But the gentleman, Louisa, he is so kind. I have 
 known him long, and entertain for him the highest 
 respect." 
 
 "The gentleman, as you call him, is worse than all 
 to me \" exclaimed Louisa. " Did you notice his great 
 soft hands— Ugh !" 
 
 "It is very wrong of you, Louisa, to set yourself 
 against people for such trifles. I tell you, I have known 
 him long."
 
 186 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 " But what have you known him for ? You have not 
 lived with him. I heard them say to-day, it was twelve 
 months since you had dined with them." 
 
 " I have known him for an excellent man, Louisa — ■ 
 a very excellent man." 
 
 " In what way ?" 
 
 " In every way." 
 
 " Not in my way." 
 
 il What is your way ?" 
 
 " Just as you are excellent. I don't want any body 
 better to live with than you. Have I ever complained 
 of you, or said you were old, or growing stout, or any 
 one thing that was not agreeable ? I will stay quietly with 
 any people but these. All over London there is nobody 
 half so disagreeable as Mr. Garnet. Do you think he 
 will ever take me upon his knee ?" 
 
 " Most likely he will sometimes." 
 
 Louisa shook her head. She felt as if her doom was 
 so far sealed, that to stipulate for any abatement of single 
 items in the great catalogue of misery before her, would 
 be a mere waste of words; and without another tear, 
 she suffered her guardian to leave her — not, however, with- 
 out falling again upon the floor, her last resource, and 
 tearing a large hole in the carpet with her teeth. 
 
 A few polite speeches were made at the door by the 
 host and hostess, when Mr. Middleton took leave ; and 
 Louisa could hear him say distinctly — " By the way, you 
 have attended to the bed-room, I suppose," to which the 
 lady of the house very modestly replied, that a few things 
 which she had not yet been able to meet with, remained 
 unsupplied, but that all would be made very comfortable 
 in a day or two ; upon which the visitor, wishing them 
 good afternoon, went out, and the door was closed.
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 187 
 
 The next thing Louisa heard, was a heavy step coming 
 towards the little parlour ; and starting from the floor, she 
 began to tread down the torn carpet with her foot. 
 
 It was Mr. Garnet, who entered with a smooth and 
 smiling face. He was always good-natured after dinner, 
 and disposed to joke into the bargain. So without more 
 to do, he began to tickle his little visitor, proposing at 
 the same time, a game of romps. 
 
 "Romp with you!" exclaimed Louisa, her dark spirit 
 flashing from her eyes. But Mr. Garnet, stooping down, 
 was about to take her in his arms, when an instant slap 
 upon his large cheek — a slap so loud and violent, that it 
 brought sharp tears into his eyes, seemed at once to 
 change the whole nature of the man ; while Louisa, half 
 frightened and half pleased with what she had done, 
 burst forth into that wild ringing laugh of hers, whicli 
 echoed through the house, and sent the servant peeping 
 to the door, to see if there was not some merriment going 
 on in which she might join. 
 
 Thus commenced the London life of Louisa Temple, 
 the orphan girl, of whom no one seemed yet to have 
 discovered that she had a mind to cultivate, faculties to 
 employ, or a character to form.
 
 188 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 That Mr. and Mrs. Garnet had very little idea what 
 difficulties they were encountering in wishing to engage 
 Louisa Temple as their lodger, is more than probable. 
 It seems to be a very reasonable and natural thing, to 
 imagine of an orphan girl, left with few friends and no 
 property, that she must of necessity be meek, and mild, 
 and likely to conduct herself in a manner suited to h ^r 
 circumstances ; and loud is the outcry sometimes against 
 individuals thus situated, when they evince even a common 
 share of self-will, but more especially of pride, as if these 
 qualities were not the gift of nature, rather than the sub- 
 jects of choice. 
 
 If Mr. and Mrs. Garnet had acted upon the supposition 
 that they could do as they liked with their young charge, 
 and that anything was good enough for a friendless girl 
 like Louisa Temple, they had egregiously miscalculated the 
 means and the subject of their experiment. Scarcely a 
 week had passed over before they began to suspect as 
 much themselves ; and, but that they hit upon the 
 resource of making out a considerable bill for breakages, 
 they believed they should have been reduced to the painful 
 necessity of informing Mr. Middleton that he must look 
 elsewhere for lodgings for the orphan girl. 
 
 Her behaviour, too, "it was nothing less than audacious," 
 said little Mrs. Garnet, describing to her husband, on his
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 189 
 
 return home one day, what had occurred during his absence, 
 " Only think — that fine roomy washstand I was a whole 
 week making myself — glueing, and pasting, with the 
 greatest care, so that when it stood so, you know, there 
 was no danger whatever ; and I tol<J her so — I told her 
 to keep the front leg upon the piece of wood ; and what 
 do you think ? I had just sent Betsy out for another 
 half-pint of milk — there is no end to the milk we consume 
 now ! — when down goes the washstand, basin, and jug, 
 with a crash that shook the whole house ; — and see here ! 
 the water has actually come down into the breakfast-room, 
 all over the ceiling, and that only whitewashed a month 
 ago!" 
 
 It was a most unusual thing for Mrs. Garnet to deliver 
 an oration of this length, and it produced a proportionate 
 effect upon her nobler self, who folded and unfolded his 
 hands, and looked up and down, evidently not knowing 
 what to do in such an emergency. 
 
 " In one sense, I rejoice that she has gone so far," said 
 he, "because she will now feel it, and until she does 
 feel"— 
 
 " Feel it !" interrupted Mrs. Garnet, " not a bit !" 
 
 " What ! did she express no contrition ?" 
 
 " Not the least in the world !" 
 
 "What did she do, then?" 
 
 " She laughed, as she always does — laughed until the 
 house rang again j and when I went upstairs, and found 
 her sitting upon the floor amongst all the broken frag- 
 ments, what do you think she was profane enough to 
 say?" 
 
 " It is impossible for me to conceive." 
 
 a She compared herself to Job in his humiliation — that 
 she did, without a blush !"
 
 190 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 " We must cure this ! " said Mr. Garnet ; and walking 
 straight up into the little room, where Louisa happened to 
 be at that moment, he seized her by the arm with such 
 an iron grasp, that she flinched under his power, at the 
 same time that her spirit would not stoop to complain. 
 
 " What have you done, you wicked girl ?" said he, with 
 a voice of thunder. 
 
 " Broken an old crazy washstand," said Louisa, looking 
 him full in the face with her great black eyes. 
 
 "You shall pay for it, you naughty girl, you shall !" 
 
 " I have no money, or I would have bought a better 
 one than that long since." 
 
 " I shall tell Mr. Middleton of all that has transpired. 
 How sorry he will be, dear kind-hearted man !" 
 
 " You dare not tell him !" exclaimed Louisa, her eyes 
 growing wilder and brighter every moment, and her cheek 
 more crimson. 
 
 "Why not? He is my partner and my friend. Why 
 should I fear him ?" 
 
 " He is too good for any one to fear, and yet you dare 
 not tell him what a wretched miserable room you have 
 made me sleep in. 1 know you dare not." 
 
 "You mean to tell him that yourself, then, I sup- 
 pose !" 
 
 " Indeed I do. And how unhappy I am here, and how 
 I dislike you all." 
 
 " But why do you dislike us V 3 
 
 " I don't know exactly, except that you make me very, 
 very miserable, and I would rather die than live here." 
 
 " Perhaps it is your own wicked heart that makes you 
 miserable — perhaps you would be miserable wherever 
 you might be." 
 
 This was an awful view of the subject, which Louisa
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 191 
 
 had never taken before. In an instant her memory ran 
 back through the few years of her short life, and she 
 could recall many a past moment, in which she had been 
 miserable even with her kind and gentle mother. They 
 were but moments — those dark stains upon the past — 
 moments repented of as sincerely as she knew how to 
 repent, for their misery had always arisen out of her own 
 violent and unchecked temper, warring as it were against 
 her better nature, and wounding and grieving the very 
 being she loved best ; but they were sad and melancholy 
 to look back upon now, when that kind and forgiving one 
 was gone for ever; and Louisa stood silent and unresist- 
 ing, as if her great spirit had suddenly become subdued, 
 though she was more horror-struck, than softened — more 
 terrified, than humbled. 
 
 Mr. Garnet saw the impression he had made, and 
 believing it his duty to lay hold of what appeared to him 
 so favourable a change, he sat down upon the tiny bed, 
 and drawing the child as near to him as he could, he 
 entered into a description of the state of a sinful heart, 
 just so far as to place before the mind of that passionate 
 and imaginative creature every thing that is revolting in 
 human nature, without disclosing those bright and 
 cheering hopes with which such descriptions ought ever 
 to be accompanied. 
 
 And day closed in, and the little chamber grew darker 
 as he talked ; and poor Louisa shuddered as she stood 
 there listening, and yet she had no gentle bosom to lean 
 upon, and no kind heart in which she might take shelter 
 from the horrors of her own. 
 
 " The great thing you have to learn/' said Mr. Garnet, 
 all-unconscious that he was enforcing a manifest impos- 
 sibility, i( is, respect for those under whose care you have
 
 192 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 been placed. We expect this from you ; and we demand 
 it as a riglit. The next thing is gratitude. You eat of 
 our bread, and you sit at our table — and — " 
 
 " I thought you were paid for it !" exclaimed Louisa. 
 If you are not, I will not stay here another day. But 
 you are paid, T am sure \" 
 
 « Why, so we are, in a certain sense f replied the 
 gentleman. 
 
 " Then why do you talk to me about gratitude ?" 
 asked Louisa. 
 
 " Because it is due to us f repeated Mr. Garnet, and 
 because there is a great deal of trouble taken by us, 
 and a great deal of anxiety incurred, beyond what we 
 are paid for." 
 
 " But why don't you ask for more pay, then ?" inter- 
 rupted Louisa. " I will write to my guardian immediately, 
 and tell him, that you do not think yourself sufficiently 
 remunerated." 
 
 " By no manner of means f said Mr. Garnet, taking 
 alarm. " Your kind guardian does everything that is 
 right, and fair. And I should be ashamed to ask him for 
 more." 
 
 " But you ask more of me ;" said Louisa. 
 
 " You are quite mistaken there f* said Mr. Garnet. 
 " I ask respect and gratitude ; and I am determined to 
 have both, because it is right and fair that I should, and 
 for no other reason." 
 
 This was a mode of reasoning, however, which did not 
 commend itself very much either to the understanding 
 or the prejudices of Louisa, and she was left that night 
 to the meditations of her own heart, more puzzled than 
 ever before in her life, to comprehend the nature of her 
 own personal duties.
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 193 
 
 One event connected with the Garnet family yet remained, 
 from which the joyless orphan extracted hope. She had 
 never seen Master Samson, of whom the servant talked so 
 much, and the master and mistress so little; and this 
 latter circumstance was construed by Louisa into a favour- 
 able omen, because everything they did talk of, but more 
 especially everything about which they boasted, and prided 
 themselves, she was so unfortunate as to see in a very 
 different light. It was therefore reasonable to suppose 
 that their son Samson, being seldom mentioned, would 
 turn out, when he did appear, to be more agreeable than 
 other items of their property had been, to her taste at 
 least. 
 
 At last then, master Samson came to spend one of his 
 days of leisure, rather sparingly allowed him, for he was 
 a clerk in a large wholesale business in the city, and in 
 a fair way, as his father confessed, for providing for him- 
 self at an earlier age than young men generally do — all, 
 he was apt to observe, attributable to his judicious bring- 
 ing up, and the careful business-like principles early 
 instilled into his mind. So far all was well, at least it 
 appeared so; but it was evident that the satisfaction of 
 the parents did not extend much farther, or rather that 
 there were counter-influences at work which rendered son 
 Samson a source of considerable anxiety, notwithstanding 
 his business-like habits. 
 
 Often did Louisa think, if she could but find in the son 
 what was so pitifully wanting in the parents, her lot might 
 yet be endured. " I could do with the little pinched-up 
 mind and person of the one," she sometimes said to 
 herself, "and the huge swelling majesty of the other, 
 if I had but one feeling in common with them, or they 
 with me. But something there surely will be in the son, 
 
 o
 
 191 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 because he too is young." And thus the orphan consoled 
 herself until the son arrived ; and a very large and surly 
 sort of fellow he appeared to be, inheriting from one 
 parent an unusual amount of bodily size, and from the 
 other an acidulated temperament, not by any means 
 improved by the manner in which it had been kept under, 
 and prevented from enjoying any natural and healthy 
 overflow for such feelings as belonged to it. 
 
 Samson Garnet had been, what is commonly called 
 well brought up. He had been sent early to school, and 
 to a good school too ; for, being an only child, his parents 
 thought their money well bestowed in making him a 
 gentleman. He had therefore learned the usual amount 
 of Latin, and a little Greek into the bargain, nor was he 
 by any means deficient in mathematical knowledge. In 
 fact, he was a youth of no mean parts, for his deficiences 
 did not lie in the intellectual region of his brain. His 
 affections were the faulty part, having never extended 
 farther than himself. His mother thought it wonderful — 
 very wonderful, that having waited upon him like a slave, 
 — having done everything to please him that a mother 
 could — having lived, as one might say, " for him, and 
 him alone" — having given him the best of everything, 
 served him always before herself, and shown him on every 
 occasion how much she studied his gratification — she 
 thought it wonderful that he should grow * up selfish 
 after all. 
 
 And then his childhood had been so pleasant — how 
 could the boy have changed so much ! It must have been 
 the work of bad companionship at school; for his child- 
 hood had been marked by such pretty cunning ways — such 
 knowing tricks, and hopeful indications of precocious un- 
 derstanding as related to his own preservation and enjoy-
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 
 
 195 
 
 merit, that the hearts of the parents had warmed towards 
 him in no common measure ; and often had they clapped 
 his broad back, and called him a fine fellow, on the dis- 
 covery of some sly scheme by which he had succeeded in 
 the accomplishment of his own ends, and in defeating 
 those of his young companions. 
 
 When Samson Garnet grew old enough to defeat the 
 ends of his parents in the same manner, the case assumed 
 a very different aspect, Not even Mr. Garnet, with all 
 his sagacity, could assign a reason for the fact ; yet so it 
 was. And therefore the reins of discipline were drawn 
 tighter, and many harmless pleasures were forbidden ; 
 and altogether the boy was such a very naughty boy 
 towards his parents, and so determined to leave their 
 society for that of others, that his parents thought it right 
 to treat him with coldness, and repulsion, seldom to laugh 
 when he laughed, or to take any part in his amusements, 
 in order that he might be brought to a proper sense of 
 what he owed them, and altogether to a better performance 
 of his duties as a son and a Christian. Were they not 
 prudent and right-minded people — these worthy Garnets ? 
 And are there not many other worthy people walking in 
 precisely the same path ? 
 
 One single glimpse of the face and figure of Samson 
 Garnet was sufficient for Louisa Temple. If ever two 
 natures were constituted so as necessarily to antipathize, 
 this was the case with theirs ; nor was the behaviour of 
 the son and heir of the house of Garnet, such as to con- 
 ciliate where he had previously repelled* In the present 
 instance, conciliation was far from being any part of his 
 desire, for on first discovering that the furniture of his 
 bed-room had not only been displaced, but actually 
 reduced below an average supply, for the purpose of 
 
 o2
 
 196 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 accommodating a stranger, he insisted upon the instant 
 restoration of every article, inveighing in no measured 
 terms against the presumption and impertinence of an 
 interloper, whom nobody knew, coming there to take 
 possession of his property. 
 
 " Hush ! hush !" said Mrs. Garnet, lifting up her 
 finger, and pointing to where she supposed Louisa to 
 be. " Don't speak so loud. She will tell her guardian 
 everything you say." 
 
 "Let her tell \" exclaimed the exasperated youth. 
 "Whoever may be her 'guardian, he ought to provide 
 what he thinks necessary for her himself, and not leave 
 her to purloin other people's things." 
 
 " Hush !" said the mother again. " It is Mr. Middleton, 
 your father's partner, who befriends her, and you know 
 it would be very inconvenient for us to have any differ- 
 ence with him." 
 
 " Mr. Middleton, is it ?" said the youth. " Who were 
 her parents ? Do you think she has a fortune ?" 
 
 " Not a penny, that I hear of !" replied the mother. 
 
 "Mr. Middleton pays her a good deal of attention; 
 does he ?" asked the son. 
 
 " A great deal more than she deserves. But people say 
 he was very much attached to her family, at least to her 
 mother." 
 
 "Depend upon it, he means to adopt her, and leave 
 her all his property !" exclaimed the son, striking the 
 table with his clenched hand. " Treat her well, mother — 
 treat her well — that's the advice I give you." 
 
 "Why, so I do, of course," replied Mrs. Garnet, 
 drawing up ; " I hope you will do the same, and not make 
 a disturbance about accommodating her with a spare 
 chair, or so."
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 197 
 
 "I tell you it is not a spare chair/' exclaimed the 
 young lion, once more roused j I never had a spare chair, 
 or anything else to spare, in my bed-room. You know 
 I never had; and I won't put up with being stripped of 
 the little furniture I had." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Garnet on this, as well as on many other 
 occasions, after trying every course of action, except such 
 as was straightforward and right, was at last compelled 
 to give way to her son's imperative demands j and after 
 restoring everything he absolutely claimed, she found 
 herself reduced to the painful necessity of expending 
 some portion of the money placed in her hands by Mr. 
 Middleton for that purpose, in the purchase of a few 
 items of comfort and convenience, for the use of the 
 orphan girl. She did this, however, not at all as an act of 
 justice which ought to have been rendered before; but 
 with the air of doing an act of generosity emanating 
 from pure kindness on her part, and claiming an over- 
 flow of gratitude on the part of the obliged. 
 
 And yet Mrs. Garnet would not have told a direct 
 untruth. Oh, no ! she was incapable of anything so 
 shocking. Indeed, she eschewed evil in every palpable 
 and decided form, and nobody spake of actual vice with 
 less toleration than Mrs. Garnet. 
 
 The fresh spring of animal spirits which Louisa Temple 
 naturally possessed, and which hitherto had never failed 
 her, was perhaps more tried in her present situation than 
 it could have been in one of more apparent wretchedness. 
 Still she had health and youth in her favour, and an 
 uncontrollable love of laughter and fun enabled her some- 
 times to extract a little amusement from the extremely 
 barren materials which composed her present world. 
 Samson Garnet was not long in discovering this propensity
 
 198 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 in Louisa, and he too loved fun ; and thus they managed 
 once or twice to laugh together, quite unexpectedly to the 
 orphan, who, had she been asked on their first meeting, 
 would have declared it impossible. 
 
 To have made her own parents the subject of merri- 
 ment, or to have done anything calculated to throw over 
 them the shadow of disrespect, would have been the last 
 thing Louisa would have thought of; but she saw no 
 moral cause why the parents of Samson Garnet should be 
 treated with the same consideration, and therefore a 
 double quantity of mischief was transacted, and a double 
 amount of fun extracted from this source, during every 
 sojourn of the son and heir, whose periodical visitations 
 had always been marked by quite sufficient of both. 
 
 A considerable proportion of the amusement enjoyed 
 by these hopeful companions, arose rather paradoxically 
 out of their mutual and avowed dislike of each other, and 
 the endless quarrellings of a boisterous and violent 
 nature, for which their dislike afforded a sufficient plea. 
 In these explosions of antipathy and passion, Louisa was 
 ever the most reckless and uncalculating, so that her 
 offences against the property and peace of the household 
 increased to an alarming degree, and even Samson began 
 to think with his mother, that " the girl wasted more than 
 she was worth/' Still, he liked to see her in a fury. He 
 liked to see her black eyes and her white teeth shining; 
 and more than all, he liked to make her cry, which he 
 sometimes did, by pure violence and bodily hurt, never 
 by any capability he had of reaching her deeper feelings. 
 
 Mr. Garnet, annoyed as he was, and well might be, by 
 the state of misrule to which his domestic economy was 
 subjected, knew there would be no use in remonstrating 
 so long as his son remained. He therefore waited for his
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 199 
 
 ever-welcome departure, and then repeating the scene in 
 Louisa's little darkened chamber, at a time when her 
 animal spirits were exhausted, he set before her again, in 
 so revolting a point of view, the heinous wickedness of her 
 heart, from whence originated the countless bad motives 
 to which he attributed her past misconduct — and all this 
 so entirely without any bright or consoling hope held out 
 to allure, that Louisa shuddered again, and almost 
 crouched under the appalling idea that if her heart was 
 the dwelling-place of demons, her little joyless chamber 
 would necessarily become peopled by evil and malignant 
 spirits. 
 
 Had Mr. Garnet been informed that he had to do with 
 a creature of strong passions and quick imagination, with 
 whom a single word was sometimes enough to set on 
 fire a train, which neither he nor anv other earthly being: 
 could extinguish, he would probably have understood 
 very little more of the real state of the case than he 
 gathered as a mere looker-on. Of one thing he was 
 certain — that he had to do with a very naughty girl, 
 that when he succeeded in frightening her she was quiet; 
 but that he never could succeed in frightening her by the 
 mere exercise of his own authority — therefore — reasoned 
 Mr. Garnet, he was fully justified in using other means. 
 
 To be quiet, however, is not always to be good. Mr. 
 Garnet would have made this discovery, could he have 
 looked into the palpitating heart which it was possible 
 for him to torture — not to mould to his purpose. More 
 especially could the dark secrets of that heart have been 
 revealed, through the long sleepless hours which almost 
 invariably followed one of his awful lectures. It was 
 then, while tossing on her narrow bed, that the orphan 
 realized how capable is youth, notwithstanding all its
 
 200 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 buoyancy, of true and poignant suffering. It was then 
 that she wished herself beside her mother in the deep 
 cold grave — it was then that her mind became a chaos of 
 strange and horrible imaginings, amongst which wild 
 thoughts of self-destruction often found a place. And 
 there was no one at such times — no, not a dog to steal 
 gently in, and lick the hand of the desolate orphan for 
 very love — there was no one to sit down beside her bed, 
 and scare away the frightful phantoms which seemed to 
 gather round it — but worse than all, there was no one 
 to kiss her feverish cheek, to talk to her of holier things, 
 and to lead her spirit into prayer. 
 
 The system of moral discipline adopted by Mr. Garnet 
 in the government of his household, might be fully 
 described by these potent words — a Let everything wrong 
 be put down — extinguished — beaten out, if the case 
 requires it." Louisa Temple was safe under his roof 
 from the infliction of bodily punishment, because he 
 felt that he had no right to do that, and he only wished, 
 as he often said, "to do what was right." But unfor- 
 tuuately for her, he had hit upon an expedient far more 
 destructive to her happiness than the severest bodily 
 pain, and far more productive of that sort of quiet which 
 he misconstrued into goodness. He was deeply pained, 
 he often repeated, and there is every reason to suppose 
 he was really sorry, that Louisa was so naughty and 
 rebellious a child — sorry for his friend, more than for him- 
 self ; and sorry to think what such an amount of juvenile 
 depravity must come to. One thing especially pained 
 him. It was her ingratitude ! And here, having arrived 
 at this climax, Louisa was in the habit of looking full 
 into his face with a fixed and determined gaze, which 
 seemed to ask, for what she was expected to be grateful ;
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 201 
 
 but she had ceased almost entirely to parley with him, 
 and therefore he was never tried by so puzzling a ques- 
 tion conveyed in the form of words. 
 
 And all this while Louisa Temple had no books, no 
 companions, no pleasant work, and scarcely any exercise. 
 She had never seen a growing plant for three months, 
 the date of her dull residence with the Garnets, nor a 
 flying bird, nor a running stream, nor a blue sky, nor 
 a drop of dew. Her guardian had gone into the country 
 for the autumn months, and wrote to her very seldom, 
 and when he did, such dry business-like letters, that she 
 scarcely could believe them his ; and in order to call up 
 all his past kindness, she had to think of his blue eyes, 
 and smooth forehead, and the soft voice in which he used 
 to speak to her mother, even more than to herself. So 
 the orphan was left almost entirely to herself, very much, 
 as she told her guardian, like one of those caged birds 
 which hang upon the sides of the houses in some of the 
 dullest, darkest, streets of London, only that she could 
 not sing, and was vexed with the little birds that even 
 they should attempt it. 
 
 Nor was the school-life of Louisa Temple any very 
 great improvement upon her life at home. It filled up her 
 time, and that was something ; and it brought her into 
 contact with juvenile companions, which perhaps was more. 
 It amused her, too, to walk twice every day the whole 
 length of that dull street, to peep in at the windows of 
 the cellar-kitchens as she passed, to meet the milkman 
 every morning in precisely the same place, to count how 
 many cabbages the greengrocer had sold in the course of 
 the day, to talk with the woman who swept the crossings, 
 and sometimes to compassionate a stray cat. It amused 
 her, too, to see the people putting out their goods in the
 
 202 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 shop-windows every morning, and often did she muse, 
 and speculate, and wonder, as to the hope of profit attach- 
 ing itself to some, and the taste or the wants of such cus- 
 tomers as might be induced to buy. 
 
 All this, so far as it went, was curious enough to Louisa 
 Temple, for she had a busy mind, always at work; and the 
 world in which she lived must have been a leaden world 
 indeed, not to have afforded her some amusement. She 
 was therefore alive to every change which took place in 
 the few streets through which she had to pass. Scarcely 
 a servant left her place, but Louisa found it out ; a new 
 print in a shop-window was a spectacle to make her 
 unpardonably late at school; and a van loaded with 
 furniture, standing at an open door, was a feast for her 
 imagination for a week. 
 
 In the school itself there was indeed but little amuse- 
 ment to be found. It was all one great desert to a mind 
 like hers — all one monotonous routine of lessons without 
 learning, words without ideas. To get through with each 
 day, was the chief business of every one concerned in that 
 establishment; and truly it might be said of each day, 
 that sufficient was the evil thereof. The whole affair was 
 like some great magnified headache. There was work 
 enough to weary, variety enough to confuse, but no other 
 result ; and Louisa always went bounding out at the door, 
 so soon as the liberty of departure was allowed, as pleased 
 as a factory girl escaping from her loom, and not a whit 
 more edified by the labour of the day. 
 
 And yet Louisa Temple was one to whom the attainment 
 of knowledge might have afforded exquisite enjoyment; 
 but somehow or other she had not yet learned to identify 
 the lessons she repeated so studiously by rote, with any- 
 thing like knowledge. She neither knew nor cared what
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 203 
 
 was the meaning of the different lessons appointed her, 
 nor was she ever asked. They were repeated when it was 
 her turn to repeat, though generally in a very bungling 
 manner; but those who heard her being quite as well 
 pleased as she was, to get rid of the business altogether, 
 she was assisted a little by the beginnings of all the 
 sentences being told her, and thus allowed to pass. 
 
 Amongst the teachers, who were always such as their 
 friends advertise for, stating " that salary is of little 
 importance, provided a comfortable home is obtained," 
 there was one a little more dull, and a little more con- 
 stantly afflicted with head-ache, than her predecessors had 
 been. Nobody liked this teacher, and nobody cared for 
 her. She had a flushed face, and heavy eyes, and often 
 looked as if she had been weeping; but nobody asked 
 whether she had or not, and she slept in a close room, in 
 a bed without curtains, surrounded by half the school, 
 which consisted altogether of ten young ladies. Every 
 night, when the business of the day was done, the temples 
 of this poor teacher throbbed so that she could scarcely 
 see, and flashes of fire seemed to dance before her eyes; 
 yet then it was that she had to get up the lessons for the 
 next day, for she was placed in that most uncomfortable 
 position, of being a little behind some of the pupils in her 
 attainments. 
 
 Louisa Temple, of the same opinion with the rest of her 
 schoolfellows, that this teacher was a " poor dull thing," 
 happened one day to be standing beside her, looking over 
 the same book, and hammering out some difficult words, 
 which neither of them understood, when, to her great 
 surprise, she saw first one large tear, and then another, 
 falling upon the soiled page, but all wiped away as 
 quickly as they fell.
 
 204 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Louisa sunk silently into a seat beside the teacher, and 
 looked up into her face. It was evident she did not wish 
 to be observed, by the manner in which she turned her 
 moistened cheek away ; and Louisa stood up again, taking 
 care no more to place herself in a position from whence 
 she could see the teacher's face. Still she could not leave 
 her, and still her imagination clung around that " poor 
 dull thing," whose heavy but unobtrusive tears had sud- 
 denly converted her into a heroine in the opinion of the 
 orphan girl. 
 
 Oh ! how did Louisa wish that she could speak kindly 
 to this poor desolate creature ! but, wholly unaccustomed 
 as she was to the language of sympathy or soothing, she 
 could only make excuses to keep near her, hanging over 
 the back of her chair, reaching her any little things she 
 wanted, and at last even gathering up a stray lock of hair 
 which had escaped from its confinement. 
 
 " You have very pretty hair," said Louisa, quite invo- 
 luntarily. 
 
 The teacher looked into her face, supposing this remark 
 to have been made in jest ; but the language of those 
 large dark eyes was not to be mistaken, and it opened the 
 sealed heart of " the poor dull thing." 
 
 " They used to think it pretty when I was at home," 
 said she, and her tears fell faster than before. 
 
 " Miss Williams," cried an authoritative voice, " have 
 you looked over Miss Temple's French exercise ?" 
 
 The teacher started, and immediately applied herself to 
 her duty, though neither she nor her pupil knew whether 
 the exercises were right or wrong. 
 
 " Don't mind about it," said Louisa, so soon as Miss 
 Garnet had occupied herself about other matters. " Only
 
 IMPRISONED MIND, 205 
 
 tell me what makes you weep. I cannot bear to see you 
 look so wretched." 
 
 The teacher, as might have been expected, was com- 
 pletely overcome by this unprecedented interest on her 
 behalf; and after doing all she could to regain her self- 
 possession, she uttered these, to Louisa, memorable words 
 — " I am going away." 
 
 u I don't understand you," said Louisa. 
 
 " I am going to lose my situation," repeated the 
 teacher. 
 
 Louisa was quite at a loss how to extend her sympathy, 
 freely offered as it was, to such a case ; for had she been 
 that teacher, she thought there could have been nothing 
 so delightful to her as to lose her situation. 
 
 " But you don't like being here, surely ?" she ventured 
 at last to say. 
 
 " Oh ! no ;" said the teacher. " I am very uncom- 
 fortable, and often very ill with these dreadful headaches, 
 but I have no home now, and nowhere else to go, except 
 to my friends ; and they will be so angry with me, for 
 I did not suit in the last situation, and was obliged to 
 leave it." 
 
 Louisa pondered for some minutes upon what kind of 
 friends these could be ; and yet there are such friends in 
 the world, as everybody knows. 
 
 " Is there anything I can do to help you ?" she asked, 
 at last. 
 
 " Nothing, that I know of;" replied the teacher, " unless 
 you could help me to another situation. I shall never 
 know a moment's peace until I hear of something, and 
 I don't know who to ask." 
 
 " Oh ! 1 have just thought of something !" exclaimed
 
 206 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Louisa. " I have a friend — a real friend. I will write to 
 him, and I am sure he will help you !" 
 
 The teacher brightened up a little, and it was finally 
 agreed upon between them, that Louisa should write to 
 Mr. Middleton on her behalf; though of all men living, 
 he was perhaps the least likely to assist one of that class, 
 above all others the most difficult to assist — the inefficient, 
 and the friendless — who have not been educated to provide 
 for themselves. 
 
 Animated by this cheering hope, and bound as she 
 thought on a mission of good to a suffering fellow-creature, 
 Louisa skipped lightly along the streets that day, more 
 pleased than usual with every object on the way, more 
 disposed to befriend the distressed, and altogether much 
 inclined to take an active part in whatever wore the cha- 
 racter of generosity and kindness. 
 
 Well was it for Louisa's pocket that day, that it was 
 new, or nearly new, so perseveringly was it searched into 
 for pennies, or half-pennies, or anything that could be 
 given away — so often were its contents dislodged, and 
 even the pocket itself turned inside- out, in a sort of for- 
 lorn hope that something might be found, at least for the 
 woman who swept the crossings. 
 
 Feeling herself upon this noble mission, without any- 
 thing to give, was rather a tantalizing situation for Louisa. 
 There is, however, sometimes a sort of generosity in acting, 
 as well as giving ; and Louisa was quite as ready for one, 
 as for the other. In this state of mind, she was just turn- 
 ing round the corner of the street in which the Garnets 
 lived, and glancing in as usual at the window of a pastry 
 cook's shop, when her attention was attracted by two 
 squalid and miserable-looking children hanging about the
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 207 
 
 door, the younger of whom was crying bitterly, and hold- 
 ing out its little hand, for one of the many tempting 
 cakes set forth to view. 
 
 Oh ! how did Louisa wish just then, that she had but 
 one penny left to purchase something for the poor hungry 
 child. It seemed as if the good woman of the shop had 
 anticipated her wishes, for, taking up a cake — it was 
 a very old and dry one — she gave it to the child, and bid 
 them both begone instantly from her door. 
 
 To see the delighted countenance of the child, was 
 almost happiness enough to have lasted Louisa for a week 
 to come ; but just at the very moment the cake was held 
 out in triumph — the one only moment it could be spared 
 from those hungry craving lips, there rushed past a great 
 rude boy, who, partly in fun, and partly in greediness, 
 snatched at the little cake, and had well nigh borne it off 
 in spite of the cries of the children, the elder of whom 
 was only just strong enough to detain him, by grasping 
 tightly at his apron. 
 
 A hard struggle ensued, for there was hunger on one 
 side, and a love of power on the other. Was it possible 
 for Louisa to look on unmoved, more especially when the 
 whole transaction was close by her side? The little girl 
 was losing her hold — the great boy was victorious ! No ; 
 Louisa had pounced upon him like a fury, and though 
 her hand was clenching the cake, by this time squeezed 
 to a powder, she herself was rolled over and over in the 
 thick mud of the street, and the boy was off, and peeping 
 past a corner to laugh at her hapless plight, and then 
 away again, before the policeman, who was coming up, 
 had found time to secure him. 
 
 Alas i for poor Louisa ; her bonnet was broken, her 
 frock was torn, she was rapidly becoming a public spec-
 
 208 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 tacle, and, worse than all, the cake had entirely disap- 
 peared, the two children were crying on the steps, and 
 she had not a penny to give them ! 
 
 Perhaps there was a worse consideration still connected 
 with her situation, for with the figure she made, no one 
 supposed for a moment that she had any claim to respect- 
 ability ; and before she had time to collect her scattered 
 senses, she felt herself roughly dragged away by the 
 policeman, who took the precaution of inquiring her name 
 and place of abode. 
 
 Her name was about all that Louisa could recollect, 
 and she told it in so broken and indistinct a manner, as 
 to confirm the suspicion of its being an assumed one. 
 She was therefore dragged along to a considerable distance 
 before being fully sensible that she was not going home, 
 and she then demanded earnestly to be taken to Mr. 
 Garnet's. 
 
 " Mr. Garnet's, of where ?" asked the policeman. 
 
 " I can run there in a moment ;" said Louisa, trying 
 to extricate her arm, " if you will but let me go." 
 
 " I don't doubt it ;" said the man, very coolly. " I dare 
 say you are very nimble ; but you must walk my pace this 
 time, if you please." 
 
 At this unhappy moment, a very large and portly 
 figure came swelling up the street, and Louisa, who 
 never had been so pleased to behold that figure before, 
 exclaimed at once — " There he is !— that is Mr. Garnet. 
 You will let me go now." 
 
 The policeman, however, walked very deliberately up 
 to the large gentleman, never doubting but the girl was 
 practising upon him some trick to serve her own ends ; 
 and with them followed in close contact that multitudi- 
 nous rabble always gathering about a delinquent dragged
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 209 
 
 along the streets of London, of whatever description the 
 unfortunate offender may be. 
 
 It was a time for Mr. Garnet to hold up his head 
 rather higher than usual, and to quicken his pace, so as 
 to escape if possible from that disorderly and dirty-looking 
 throng, which appeared to be crossing over to his side ; 
 and he knew not how to believe his senses, when he heard 
 his own name called out several times, and saw a hand 
 stretched out towards him, so eagerly that he scarcely 
 could avoid its grasp. 
 
 "Take care — take care V said he, pushing through the 
 crowd — " Don't touch me, you dirty creature ! Policeman, 
 attend to your business. Take that girl away." 
 
 It was a narrow escape for Louisa. A moment more, 
 and she would have been dragged onward, and mingled 
 altogether with that heterogeneous multitude ; but with 
 such temperaments as that of the orphan girl, there is 
 often an impetuosity, a decision, and a power, available in 
 great emergencies ; and thus, before Mr. Garnet had time 
 to sail away in the dignified manner which was his wont, 
 her hand was clenched in the skirts of his coat, with a 
 grasp that could not be unloosed without rending off a 
 considerable portion of his dress. 
 
 "Is it possible?" exclaimed Mr. Garnet, for those 
 large bright eyes had glared up into his face, while he 
 was endeavouring to extricate himself. "Policeman, 
 follow me. This girl is a disgrace to her connections. 
 She is no child of mine, but she must be taken to my 
 house. Be so good as to follow at a little distance." 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to say that the character of the 
 orphan girl fell still lower than before in the estimation 
 of her protectors, after this " disgraceful exposure," as
 
 210 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 they were pleased to call the affair of the cake ; and that, 
 but for the charitable belief that they should effect a last- 
 ing good by their system of keeping under, and thus benefit 
 both her guardian and herself in the most effectual man- 
 ner, they would, for the sake of their domestic peace, as 
 well as for that of their respectability before the eyes of 
 the world, most gladly have dismissed her from the shelter 
 and protection of their roof.
 
 211 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Before Louisa Temple had been twelve months at school,, 
 her guardian had the good fortune to come into the pos- 
 session of a considerable amount of property, bequeathed 
 him by a distant relation; but having always been accus- 
 tomed to habits of business, and wedded to the routine 
 of a city life, he did not at once withdraw either his 
 name or his personal attention from the firm in which 
 that of Garnet was now allowed to figure at full length, 
 but indulged himself now and then with a trip into the 
 country, to the sea-side, or to some of those inland places 
 of public resort, whose chief recommendation to their 
 numerous town-visitors, is, that they present an aspect 
 of human life as little different as possible from that to 
 which they are most accustomed. Just upon the same 
 principle, that the tastes of the metropolis are carried 
 into the remotest districts of a neighbouring nation, and 
 maintained with so much perseverance and enthusiasm, 
 that the humblest possible imitation of the salons of 
 Paris, is looked upon as one of the greatest charms 
 attaching to the many little coteries of the fashionable 
 and the gay, assembling amongst the sublime and beautiful 
 region of the Pyrenees. 
 
 Mr. Middleton was wise enough not to settle himself 
 all at once in the country, as so many men of business 
 have done to their cost, having neither taste nor know- 
 
 p2
 
 212 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 ledge to carry along with them of a nature at all adapted 
 to that description of life. Fearing to trust himself 
 altogether upon such a sea of wide uncertainty, he first 
 dipped a little into the neighbourhood of London, and had 
 even staid a whole month at Tonbridge Wells, before he 
 dared to think of Devonshire ; but having formed the 
 acquaintance of a very intelligent spinster lady, whose 
 married sister lived in that county, and hearing much 
 of the climate, and of health — two subjects he had seldom 
 thought of during his daily and regular attendance in 
 his counting-house — he was led on from one stage to 
 another in this adventurous career, until at last he found 
 himself in the unprecedented situation of having hired 
 a picturesque cottage on the sea-coast, with the intention 
 of making so bold an experiment as that of wintering in 
 Devonshire. 
 
 Being no great correspondent under any circumstances, 
 and almost entirely occupied with the many items of his 
 important change of life and circumstance, Mr. Middleton 
 had written, as has already been stated, but seldom to his 
 young friend in London. Indeed, it is no very easy thing 
 for a bachelor of forty to correspond at any length with a 
 mere child ; and by degrees his letters to Louisa dwindled 
 down into mere common-place, consisting chiefly of hopes 
 expressed that she was a good girl, and attended to her 
 books, with hints that she would do well to use a little 
 more care in spelling, and write a neater hand ; all which 
 was very tame sort of reading to Louisa ; and the more so, 
 because it scarcely kept alive the one glowing idea which 
 had been wont to warm her heart towards her guardian — 
 the idea that he loved her. 
 
 Yet all this while Louisa was far from being forgotten ; 
 and often when the pleasant spinster sat beside him, did
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 213 
 
 Mr. Middleton dilate upon her character and her circum- 
 stances, and upon everything in short which he regarded 
 as constituting her claims to his protection, except only 
 that he never named her mother ; and the spinster, whose 
 only idea of a child to he pleased with, was of a young lady 
 exceedingly well dressed, remarkably well behaved, and 
 always good, succeeded in working herself up to a very 
 high degree of sympathy with the feelings of her friend, 
 whenever he spoke of Louisa Temple. 
 
 " You will have the dear young lady come down to see 
 you some of these days, will you not?" asked Miss Tri- 
 plett, for that was the spinster's name ; and " a very 
 pretty name her brother-in-law told her it was, quite too 
 pretty to be exchanged for another ; *'■ at which Miss 
 Triplett always laughed and blushed exceedingly, and said 
 she was quite of the same opinion. 
 
 " Of course Louisa will come to see me," replied Mr. 
 Middleton, " at Midsummer. I am making everything 
 ready for her." 
 
 " It must be a great pleasure," observed Miss Triplett, 
 iC to have so sweet and good a child always near you. 
 There are many little things in a household which a girl 
 of that age can do, so as to set the servants more at 
 liberty, and really our's have no time for anything. I am 
 absolutely under the necessity of attending to my canary 
 myself, and one of my sister's turtle-doves died last week 
 from nothing but want of care." 
 
 "lam a little afraid," observed Mr. Middleton, " that 
 my poor dear Louisa makes more work than she does. 
 But let us hope better things of her. She will soon have 
 been at school twelve months — and at such a school ! My 
 dear madam, if you have friends at a loss how to dispose 
 of their daughters, you never heard of such a school !"
 
 214 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 " All ! yes," replied Miss Triplett, with some indiffe- 
 rence. " There are many excellent schools in the present 
 day. I always read the advertisements, and it is really 
 wonderful to see what advantages are offered to the rising 
 generation. And yet all this, as my sister says, only 
 increases people's ingratitude. Such a state of things ! 
 One wonders what it is all to come to." 
 
 " Why, my dear Madam, it must come to good. It is 
 impossible it should be otherwise, with such a school as 
 this once set a-going — only think ! — But I have forgotten 
 half. I will go for the advertisement, for I see you have 
 never met with it." 
 
 It so happened that the said advertisement had been 
 cut out of the page in which it was inserted, in order to 
 be presented by Mr. Garnet to his partner ; otherwise 
 the good man would have observed that it was by no 
 means singular in the high claims it offered to distinction. 
 He quickly returned with the scrap of paper in his hand, 
 and began to read aloud — 
 
 " ( Home education ; or the school which many want/ 
 That's the school for me !" he exclaimed, pausing to take 
 breath, and to direct a glance of triumph towards his 
 auditor — " Only think of combining the comforts of 
 home with the benefits of school, in one establishment ! 
 But you shall hear more" — 
 
 Mr. Middleton then read on through all the usual 
 items of learning, and accomplishments, his eyes opening 
 with wonder and admiration, wider and wider at every 
 one ; until again he paused to breathe, and, placing his 
 finger upon the paper, begged to call Miss Triplett's 
 especial attention to a course of weekly lectures, of which 
 the pupils were to enjoy the benefit without any increased 
 expense : u Lectures — ' Mechanics, Hydrostatics, Optics,
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 215 
 
 Pneumatics, Electricity, Galvanism, Magnetism, Chemistry, 
 and Astronomy/ " 
 
 " Now, mark all that ! Miss Triplett ;" said the worthy 
 gentleman, absolutely fatigued with the stretch of his own 
 mind necessary for taking in so many and such expansive 
 ideas in quick succession — " mark all that ! — But we are 
 not at the end yet — All this is for the extremely moderate 
 sum of thirty guineas per annum; and a French lady 
 residing in the house, too ! Stay one moment — I beg your 
 pardon, but there is more yet to come. ' The situation 
 of the establishment is perfectly rural, and within four 
 miles of the Bank P " 
 
 " I should scarcely have thought that possible ;" obser- 
 ved Miss Triplett. 
 
 " More yet \" observed her friend, with some degree of 
 impatience ; and he read aloud with infinite satisfaction, 
 that crowning merit of the whole, " ' food unlimited. ' " 
 
 " Xow tell me," exclaimed Mr. Middleton ; w if persons 
 establishing such schools as these, are not the benefactors 
 of their race, who are V* 
 
 " Why, certainly," observed Miss Triplett, " such ad- 
 vertisements do promise a great deal, and I dare say the 
 people are very good sort of people." 
 
 " You seem indifferent, nia'ani f 3 said Mr. Middleton, 
 with more sharpness than was natural to him. " Perhaps 
 you don't know the general expensiveness of living in a 
 liberal way in London. Why, a single lecture on any one 
 of these subjects costs more than I could ever afford, except 
 as an amusement now and then. And as for a garden, 
 and a paddock no doubt, and perhaps a cow, and all the 
 sort of thing that one calls rural, within four miles of 
 the Bank! — Why it must cost a fortune; and all for 
 thirty guineas per annum, besides * food unlimited?
 
 216 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 which, for half a hundred healthy girls — and healthy they 
 would be, no doubt, in so rural a situation ; — why, the food 
 itself would be no trifle." 
 
 u Not if it was good food, and such as they liked f 
 observed Miss Triplett. 
 
 " Ah ! there you are right," replied her friend ; " for 
 I have seen Louisa pick what would not satisfy a robin, 
 when she did not like her dinner." 
 
 It is a painful duty, in describing so worthy a character 
 as that of Mr. Middleton, to deviate from the general 
 rule adopted in writing stories, of making good people 
 good altogether, and not only good, but great, generous, 
 noble, and enlightened ; so that when young story-readers 
 mix in society, and study life as it is, they are disappointed 
 to find the good so often possessing faults like others, and 
 sometimes even a little approaching to mean in some points 
 of their characters. 
 
 Of Mr. Middleton it must be confessed — kind-hearted 
 man as he was — that his mind was not the most expan- 
 sive ; and that the scale of his ideas with regard to money 
 matters, was far from being a liberal one. The best part 
 of his character was that which belonged to the region of 
 his affections. In benevolence he was far from deficient, 
 for he believed, as well as wished, all the good he could 
 in relation to every body; but yet his benevolence was ex- 
 hibited more in general good-will towards all the human 
 race, than in acts of positive benefit to any. Perhaps the 
 chief reason why his feelings overflowed almost exclu- 
 sively in these channels, was, that he had never been 
 habituated to the claims of any other human being upon 
 his persona] kindness or generosity. He was a man who 
 had few near connections; and when the orphan child, 
 Louisa Temple, was placed by her mother's dying prayer
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 217 
 
 immediately under his protection, he was perhaps of all 
 men most ignorant of the real nature and requirements 
 of such a charge. To feed and clothe her, he believed to be 
 his first great duty ; to send her to school, had been the 
 next. Both these he had discharged, and his mind was 
 at rest as regarded her ; except only, that he took a little 
 extra credit to himself, for having gone so far beyond his 
 duty as to pay an additional sum of money to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Garnet, for making her even more comfortable than 
 she would have been, if placed entirely at the school of 
 which so " many were in want." 
 
 In many respects Miss Triplett and Mr. Middleton 
 were extremely congenial companions. They both lived 
 by rule, read little, arid were profoundly interested in the 
 price of salmon. But they were not equally capable of 
 loving : Miss Triplett thought the deficiency was on the 
 part of the gentleman : he felt it was on her's. 
 
 But now the midsummer holidays had arrived, and 
 there was a strange impatient creature making her way 
 by coach and steamer towards that pleasant coast — a 
 young lady, or a girl, as Louisa was more frequently 
 called, so badly dressed, so without manners and 
 forlorn, that countless were the insults she endured 
 by the way, only that she was not in a disposition to 
 regard them. 
 
 And in the pretty parlour of that sweet cottage, where 
 all was picturesque gentility, sat the two friends, talking 
 about the indications of the weather, and the sailing of 
 packets, and the passing by of coaches; for the spinster 
 had deemed it only kind and neighbourly to show such 
 a delicate piece of attention as that of being present at 
 the arrival of the interesting orphan ; though it is 
 possible that the orphan's guardian had certain misgivings
 
 218 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 in his mind, as to whether the presence of Miss Triplett 
 would not have been more welcome at some other time. 
 He made the best of it, however, and said it was extremely 
 kind, and just what he should never have thought of 
 himself, nor indeed have ventured to request, seeing that 
 Miss Triplett was a perfect stranger to Louisa Temple. 
 So the two sat together as usual, keeping up a sort of 
 hum-drum talk, which, like all talk of this description, 
 possessed the great advantage of not being too interesting 
 to preclude the possibility of carrying on an under-current 
 of wholly different thoughts at the same time. 
 
 At last a loud horn was heard in the distance, and, 
 springing from his chair, Mr. Middleton rushed out at the 
 door, to see, as he said, whether his man was there to 
 meet the coach. In his haste he forgot his hat, and 
 therefore could not proceed beyond the garden gate, 
 to which he was speedily followed by Miss Triplett, from 
 whom he strove in vain to edge himself away, as he shaded 
 the sun from his eyes with his hand, and looked earnestly 
 down the road, half in the mind to go out yet farther 
 without his hat, and not liking to spare the time to go 
 back into the house to fetch it. 
 
 " Ah ! there she comes \" he exclaimed. " I see James 
 carrying her portmanteau. How she is running — the 
 silly child ! and kicking up the dust like a cloud/'' 
 
 Everybody knows what it is, sometime or other in their 
 lives, to have been suddenly taken back by a counter- 
 emotion, just at some moment of strong excitement. It 
 was thus with Mr. Middleton. He would not have cared, 
 had Miss Triplett not been near him ; but there she stood, 
 with her rich silks and laces, and pure white gloves, and 
 rings, and spotless shining parasol, all expectation, smiling, 
 and ready to curtsy to a regular introduction — and to
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 219 
 
 what ? to that dark and dusty-looking creature, with her 
 bonnet broken, her stockings soiled, and everything about 
 her looking unfit to come within a mile of that fair 
 spinster, or indeed to occupy the " same hemisphere." 
 
 Miss Triplett instinctively drew back. She asked no 
 farther introduction j but silently retreated towards the 
 house. And was he too repelled — that man of kindness, 
 the orphan's only friend ? Perhaps he might have been, 
 for Louisa had grown taller, and with that more awkward. 
 She had travelled outside the coach too, both in dust and 
 rain, for it was showery weather. Her mourning was 
 in its last stage of service; and altogether she had never 
 appeared to greater disadvantage in her whole life. But 
 then she was so pleased, and so happy, and her dark eyes 
 flashed with such intense delight, and her pretty mouth 
 laughed out so with that wild musical laugh which had 
 always gone to the heart of the bachelor, that she could 
 not but be welcome ; and snatching her in his arms, he 
 held her there with a welcome as warm and as genuine 
 as ever returning school-girl could desire. 
 
 Mr. Middleton did so wish Miss Triplett would go 
 away, only for that one evening, and leave them to them- 
 selves ; but she was already seated by the silver tea-pot, 
 pouring out the grateful beverage into rich china cups, 
 and looking altogether in her proper element as the pre- 
 siding genius of that scene, so sacred to all that was 
 delicate and pure, and so consistent with order and good 
 breeding, that even Louisa drew back with an instinctive 
 feeling, that that elegant and beautifully arranged parlour 
 was not a place for her. 
 
 " You had better go up stairs, child f said Mr. Mid- 
 dleton, perfectly understanding her dilemma, and quite
 
 220 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 aware that a little attention to her toilet was necessary. 
 He therefore rang the bell, and a good-natured servant 
 kindly assisted in making Lonisa more fit to take her 
 place at the tea-table with Miss Triplett. 
 
 It was still evident, however, that the spinster felt 
 greatly disappointed in the appearance of the " young 
 lady," as she persisted in calling her, and perhaps equally 
 so in her manners. Indeed, Mr. Middleton, with all his 
 partiality, was a little disappointed himself, that one 
 entire year at such a school should have done no more 
 towards making the girl what she ought to be in outward 
 things. With regard to her mental improvement, he 
 was still most sanguine, and indeed inclined to think that 
 a little over attention to mental cultivation, might have 
 occasioned a degree of negligence as to matters of inferior 
 moment. 
 
 Louisa was too happy to be otherwise than like herself, 
 though a little stiffened-up by the presence of Miss Tri- 
 plett ; and before the tea equipage was dismissed, she had 
 burst forth into so many wild expressions of genuine feel- 
 ing, that the worthy spinster was quite startled, and the 
 equally worthy bachelor quite amused. 
 
 Indeed, it is a somewhat remarkable feature in human 
 character, that dull people are often so weary of their own 
 and each other's flatness, as to be enchanted with the 
 spirit and the life of those who can extract amusement 
 from surrounding things. At least there is a degree of 
 dullness, by no means the worst degree, which, though it 
 cannot awaken anything like fun itself, is delighted to 
 partake in that which is originated by others. Mr. Mid- 
 dleton's dullness was of this description. Though highly 
 approving of Miss Triplett, he was apt to grow very much
 
 IMPRISONED MIXD. 2.21 
 
 tired o£ her society, and learned to suspect in time, that, 
 as Louisa observed, it was because she never said anything 
 which they could not have said themselves. 
 
 With Louisa Temple the case was widely different. She 
 was seldom witty, though humorous in the extreme ; but 
 she looked upon human life with such eager interest, and 
 beheld everything around her in such new lights — striking 
 off ideas at random, often extremely appropriate, and 
 sometimes the reverse, but always true and warm from her 
 heart, and wholly destitute of affectation — that there was 
 a perpetual freshness about her, like that of some fine 
 breezy morning; and a rejoicing healthiness of mind 
 under favourable circumstances, which seemed to impart 
 something of its own nature to the few, the very few, who 
 had ever loved or even understood her. 
 
 " I am so glad she is gone V* exclaimed Louisa, clapping 
 her hands, when the door had closed upon the departing 
 steps of Miss Triplett. u We are all alone now, and we 
 can talk together." And so saying, she drew a low otto- 
 man beside the chair of her guardian, and placing one arm 
 on his knee, looked up into his face with an expression of 
 trusting and perfect happiness. 
 
 " I had a little scheme," said Mr. Middleton, speaking 
 in a half whisper, as if afraid of being overheard, "in 
 warning that excellent lady against the evening air. 
 I believe she is very delicate, and so valuable a life should 
 be well cared for; but I had, as I said before, a little 
 scheme to prosecute. The moon rises at eight this evening, 
 and I thought you and I would just take one turn on the 
 sea-shore together." 
 
 " Oh ! exquisite ! delightful ! " exclaimed Louisa, 
 springing from her low seat. "I shall be too happy! 
 I thought I was never to know happiness again, and here
 
 222 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 I am, perfectly wild with delight. Ah, you are too good 
 to me ! I have no right, with such a wicked heart as 
 I have, to laugh or be glad about anything." 
 
 "What do you mean, child?" said Mr. Middleton, 
 quite shocked to hear Louisa speak in this manner. 
 " I hope you have not been doing anything wrong." 
 
 "Yes, I have," said Louisa, "but not one thing in 
 particular. I am always doing wrong. But let us talk 
 on the sea-shore ; I see the moon is up. How glorious it 
 looks ! I wish I could see the moon in London !" 
 
 u You can see it, you silly child, if you would but look 
 for it in the right direction. You can see the dome of 
 St. Paul's ?" 
 
 "Not from my window." 
 
 " What do you see, then ?" 
 
 " I see the back windows of a row of houses — so black 
 and ugly — and nobody ever looks out of them, except 
 that from one a great way to the left, a housemaid does 
 sometimes shake her duster; and there is a chimney 
 where a couple of sparrows built their nest this spring* 
 and a prowling cat, a tabby with a short thick tail, 
 devoured all the young ones ; and — " 
 
 " Look there !" interrupted Mr. Middleton, and well 
 he might ; for the full round moon was just rising above 
 the light feathery branches of an acacia tree which grew 
 on the eastern slope of his garden; and in a few more 
 moments he was walking with his young friend, hand in 
 hand, along the shining sands of the smooth sea. 
 
 It was a glorious scene which opened, on that soft 
 summer's evening, upon the long imprisoned mind of the 
 orphan girl. A fine bold cliff broken into irregular 
 masses, formed a noble outline of background, through 
 which a low valley with its wooded nests and sheltered
 
 
 &
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 223 
 
 nooks stretched out towards the be<s;ch; and all before 
 them, extending to the dim horizon, was smooth, and 
 deep, and broad, without a wave or ripple, except that 
 fleecy and ever shifting border which ran up beside their 
 feet, with a rushing and yet gentle flow, like the whisper 
 of earnest love. 
 
 " Do you think," said Louisa, grasping the hand of her 
 guardian, and speaking in a voice as earnest as the waves, 
 " that my heart is as wicked as they say ?' ; 
 
 " We have all wicked hearts, child;" replied her 
 guardian, u until we ask our Heavenly Father to purify 
 them, and make them better." 
 
 " But how are we to ask this ?" said Louisa. 
 " In prayer f replied her friend. 
 
 " And those who have such wicked hearts — may they, 
 too, pray ?" 
 
 " Yes ; all may pray. How else can they expect to be 
 made better ?" 
 
 " But the great God is so pure — so holy — so high 
 above us." 
 
 " Have you not read your Bible, where it tells us that 
 he sent his Son to save poor sinners — to mix with guilty 
 men, and to suffer an ignominious death, that, believing 
 upon him, we might have life ?" 
 
 Louisa said she had, but perhaps it was not with any 
 very clear conviction of the great truths which her guardian 
 attempted to explain — in a manner not altogether satis- 
 factory to her, whatever it might be to himself; and 
 they walked on together For a long time in silence, the 
 orphan pondering, though probably with some degree of 
 vagueness, on those deep things of everlasting moment, 
 which, more than all the researches of philosophy or science, 
 are calculated to expand and elevate the mind.
 
 224 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 It was not so with her guardian. He had settled all 
 these points in his mind with the most perfect complacency. 
 To him it would have been the commission of a deadly- 
 sin, as well as the uprooting of his spiritual existence, to 
 have entertained but a momentary doubt. And inquiry, 
 he had been told, might lead to doubt; the last thing 
 therefore he would have done himself, or encouraged in 
 another, would have been to inquire. " Why should 
 anybody inquire ?" he would often say. " They have 
 their bibles ; and there is the church." An argument 
 which he always enforced by pointing to some veritable 
 building of brick or stone, taking care at the same time 
 that it boasted the ornament of a steeple or a spire. 
 
 With such limitations was the idea of religion first 
 introduced to the mind of Louisa Temple, and yet she 
 saw even now bright glimpses of some great reality too 
 vast for her to comprehend, which sometimes poured 
 upon her like a flood when she endeavoured to attach 
 a definite idea to what those around her called religion. 
 But chiefly amid such scenes as that upon the shining sands 
 of the deep sea by moonlight, her young spirit seemed 
 let loose to fill itself with joy and admiration. And the 
 danger was of calling this religion ; for to minds pent-up 
 like hers, and narrowed most in that which ought to give 
 them most enlargement, such danger ever is, and must 
 be, great. 
 
 And is it not a deep injustice to the cause for 
 which so many holy men have prayed and suffered, when 
 we narrow up religious faith, and make it a thing of form 
 and compass, to be measured out by priests, or carried 
 on men's foreheads like the phylacteries of old — to be shut 
 up within the iron walls of sect, and denominated by 
 party names, such as never will be recognized in Heaven ?
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 225 
 
 "All this is very beautiful/' said Louisa Temple, as she 
 walked with her guardian along the shore of that slumber- 
 ing sea; "but all this, even the wide ocean, does not 
 seem enough. I never find anything that seems enough 
 to me." 
 
 " I do not understand you, child," replied Mr. Mid- 
 dleton j and well he might. 
 
 " I wish I could explain myself," continued Louisa. 
 
 " I wish you could," responded the good man. 
 
 M It is this pitiful want of words," said Louisa, " that 
 makes me talk in a way which nobody understands." 
 
 "It seems to me that you have a good many words 
 sometimes." 
 
 " Yes ; words — mere words ; but they do me no good ; 
 for, as I said before, I talk, and talk, and nobody under- 
 stands me ; and all the while my mind is so full of strange 
 thoughts, that sometimes I think I must be silly, and all 
 the rest of the world wise ; or else all the world silly, and v 
 I alone wise." 
 
 "Not a very modest idea for a young girl to enter- 
 tain." 
 
 "Perhaps I don't mean that, either. See now, yon 
 glorious moon has risen above all the clouds, like some 
 great queen. But I should like a larger, brighter moon 
 than yon — a deeper, broader sea ; and rocks, one range 
 above another, high up into the sky. How large does the 
 moon look to you ?" 
 
 " To me, child ? Why, I should say about as large as 
 one of the plates in Alderman Greenwood's silver dinner- 
 service." 
 
 " Perhaps you would think a silver plate hung up in 
 the sky quite as beautiful as a moon. Mrs. Garnet would 
 prefer it." 
 
 Q
 
 226 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT, 
 
 " You mistake me, child, if you think that. Few per- 
 sons are fonder of moonlight than I am, and to me it is 
 quite enough to be walking here on such a still sweet 
 evening as this." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is very pleasant, and I ought not to wish 
 for anything more, and yet I do." 
 
 " What is it that you wish for ?" 
 
 " I wish for some one to teach me everything — to tell 
 me all about the moon, and the stars, and the great deep 
 — how they were created, and what they really are." 
 
 " It strikes me you must be very happy at Miss Gar- 
 net's, if such be your wishes." 
 
 H At Miss Garnet's ! Do you think we ever talk about 
 the moon there ?" 
 
 " You learn the use of the celestial globes." 
 
 " Oh ! I understand what you mean now. To be sure, 
 we do. We measure about, this way and that. And there 
 is a dirty mark, a smear of gravy, or something of that 
 kind, just across the milky way, and I always know it by 
 that." 
 
 " I am glad you know it at all." 
 
 " Do you think there is much good in knowing things 
 by what does not really belong to them ? If, for instance, 
 I knew your portrait because of its shabby frame, would 
 that be knowing it as a portrait of you ?" 
 
 " I do not understand you," said the gentleman ; and 
 the fact was, the two friends might have talked together 
 until midnight, without understanding each other one whit 
 the better, for they had scarcely two ideas in common, only 
 that the peculiar circumstances of their relative position 
 had brought them so intimately acquainted, that they were 
 of much more importance to each other, than many between 
 whom there is a better understanding.
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 227 
 
 One thing, however, they could share together, and that 
 was much, for it was a point of feeling. They could both 
 enjoy simple and touching music ; and now when the 
 lateness of the hour reminded them that it was time to be 
 retracing their homeward steps, they turned away from 
 the shore, and winding along a deeply wooded path, where 
 the moonbeams glimmered softly through the foliage, and 
 played upon the green turf around their feet, they soon 
 found themselves at the gate of Mr. Middleton's pleasant 
 garden. 
 
 Here all looked so calm and peaceful, and the window 
 of the parlour, with its trellice-work of dewy plants, so 
 inviting, that they entered from the lawn, and sat down 
 together, still gazing often at the moon, but still too 
 deeply absorbed in their own feelings to desire the inter- 
 change of words. 
 
 " Your mother had a little song about the moon/' said 
 Mr. Middleton. 
 
 " Ah ! I was just at that very moment thinking of it," 
 replied Louisa. 
 
 c< You sing it sometimes, I dare say," said her friend. 
 
 " Never, now," replied Louisa, u for nobody cares to 
 hear it. But I will sing it to you if you like, for the sake 
 of old times." 
 
 " Do, child," said Mr. Middleton, with a voice that was 
 strangely tremulous, and Louisa began her — 
 
 SONG TO THE MOON. 
 
 Oh ! silent Moon ! my upward gaze 
 
 Is on that face of thine ; 
 And I would gather thy glancing rays 
 
 Around my brow to twine. 
 
 q2
 
 228 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Thy silver feet are on the sea, 
 
 Thy golden crown above ; 
 And I would wander, sweet moon, with thee, 
 
 Where'er thy steps may rove, 
 
 Alone — alone ! I fear not when 
 
 Thy light is on my way ; 
 There is no gloom in the mountain glen, 
 
 If only the moon beams play. 
 
 They say that on my mother's grave 
 
 Thy smiles of beauty fall ; 
 Where the shadowy boughs of the yew-tree wave 
 
 Far over the churchyard wall. 
 
 They say that where my father sleeps, 
 
 Beneath the turf so green, 
 Her nightly vigil the pale moon keeps, 
 
 Those shadowy boughs between. 
 
 But let the clouds of sorrow roll 
 Far from our thoughts to-night, 
 
 No dream of sadness can darken my soul 
 When a moon like yon shine3 bright.
 
 229 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Exactly twelve months from the time of the pleasant 
 Midsummer holidays already described, Louisa Temple 
 made her way again to the picturesque residence of her 
 guardian, now however about to be exchanged for one of 
 far higher pretensions as a subject of taste. It was 
 situated at no very great distance from his sea-shore 
 cottage, nor from his intelligent neighbour, Miss Triplett, 
 and in all respects was of that inviting character, to make 
 the gossips of the neighbourhood wonder whose would be 
 the happy chance of sharing such a home with so amiable 
 and worthy a gentleman. 
 
 Already Miss Triplett had been to see the place, and 
 was perfectly at home when talking of the oak parlour, 
 the hall staircase, and a variety of parts and properties of 
 the mansion, as well as in arranging for the furniture of 
 every apartment ; for it is wonderful the interest unoccu- 
 pied people can sometimes take in each other's affairs 
 of this description, to say nothing of the claims of so 
 excellent a bachelor upon the kind interest of a lady's 
 heart. 
 
 Louisa Temple returned this time to her guardian so 
 changed in look and manner, that it was difficult to 
 believe she had been but twelve months away. She had 
 brought with her a larger box than usual, almost entirely 
 filled with books, and when not actually reading, she was
 
 230 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 so absent and absorbed, that her guardian derived but 
 little entertainment from her society, and even began at 
 times to think, that in the long-run that of Miss Triplett 
 would possibly answer all his purposes as well or better. 
 
 That Louisa had grown more womanly was an unques- 
 tionable fact ; but her dress, besides being in the predica- 
 ment which is described when the wearer is said to have 
 grown out of it, appeared not to have been the subject of 
 the slightest portion of care since her last Midsummer's 
 visit. The fact was, Lousia had found another channel 
 for her small allowance of money, always so carefully doled 
 out to her, that it would not have been easy, except on 
 false pretences, to have obtained the least addition. Such 
 pretences Louisa had been sorely tempted to make, for a 
 new era in her existence had just begun to dawn — the era 
 of novels and romances ; and some there are, who know 
 what an insatiable appetite for this kind of reading may 
 be awakened in an unnaturally imprisoned mind. 
 
 It was not the habit of Louisa to do anything by halves, 
 in which her imagination or her feelings took an active 
 part. Thus, to read for the mere amusement of the pass- 
 ing moment, and then to throw the book aside and think 
 no more of it, was a practice unknown to her. In that 
 dismal little chamber of her's at Mr. Garnet's, mounted 
 on a table, and seated on her desk, in order to enjoy the 
 full benefit of its scanty light, she might often have been 
 seen, had there been any eye to observe ; but very favour- 
 able to the undisturbed concentration of her thoughts, was 
 the long line of black windows hedging in her view, from 
 which nobody ever looked out. 
 
 There had come a new teacher to Miss Garnet's school, 
 in place of the one with a perpetual headache — a gay 
 sprightly creature, but well versed in the art of accom-
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 231 
 
 plishing her own ends, even in the subordinate situation 
 to which she had been destined from very early life. All 
 the young ladies in Miss Garnet's school were enchanted 
 with the first appearance of this teacher, for she had some- 
 what of a Parisian air, and was really pretty, except only, 
 as Louisa soon discovered, that the expression of her 
 countenance was no index to the state of her mind. Thus, 
 while everything appeared fair on the surface, there were 
 occasionally strong reasons to suspect, that the pleasant 
 teacher, with all her blandishments, was in reality no very 
 true or substantial friend to any one but herself. 
 
 From such a character the disposition of Louisa Temple 
 would naturally have revolted ; but unfortunately for her, 
 this teacher, being deeply read in a kind of literature to 
 which Louisa had never yet been introduced, soon 
 obtained by this means an ascendency over the mind of 
 her pupil, beyond what any other human being had ever 
 yet exercised. 
 
 Miss Willis, for that was the teacher's name, was a 
 romance-reader of the very worst description, for in her 
 rapid and discursive flights through the circulating libra- 
 ries, she drank in only the effervescence of impassioned 
 love - scenes, and extravagant adventures ; leaving for 
 readers of stronger appetite whatever there might be of 
 characteristic portraiture, moral improvement, or historical 
 truth. It was not possible for Louisa always to go along 
 with her friend in these rapid and airy flights, because in 
 her case the pictures of human life thus suddenly revealed, 
 afforded subjects of deep, of wondering, and often of sad 
 reflection ; and thus to devour the next volume was less 
 an object with her, than to muse over the contents of 
 the last. 
 
 How the lessons in that "school of which so many
 
 232 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 were in want," went on, while the teacher kept her novel 
 in a workbag on her knee, glancing occasionally towards 
 the charmed page, without any interruption to the recita- 
 tions of the pupils, must be left for the annals of scholastic 
 discipline to record. To the deep-feeling orphan it was 
 enough that she had now discovered how and where to 
 allay, though for a transient period of excitement, that 
 constant craving of her nature after something more than 
 she had ever found in her experience of life. To supply 
 the food which this craving demanded, all her resources 
 and all her ingenuity were now directed ; and never 
 having enjoyed more than the slenderest of pecuniary 
 means, all that could be spared out of the mere adorn- 
 ment of her person was gladly given up, with something 
 absolutely necessary for its respectable appearance. 
 
 It was in vain for Miss Triplett to mince the matter 
 any longer. She told Mr. Middleton in plain terms, 
 that the girl was not — she had very nearly said decent ; 
 but from a sudden difficulty of utterance, the word was 
 suddenly converted into lady-like. Mr. Middleton was 
 of the same opinion, and a thorough reform was imme- 
 diately instituted, under the superintendence of Miss 
 Triplett and her dress-maker. 
 
 Thus remodelled, Louisa was again sent back to school 
 at the expiration of the holidays ; and she went the more 
 willingly, that all the books she had taken out of a cir- 
 culating library for the month, had been read through 
 before the expiration of half that time. 
 
 Thus then time rolled on, the orphan devouring with 
 insatiable appetite both the good and the bad amongst such 
 volumes as she could obtain, for she had no one to direct 
 her choice, and the books being all read by stealth — 
 often at midnight by the light of her own candle, even
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 233 
 
 the worst were invested with a secret charm which might 
 have been effectually and for ever dispelled by a single 
 reading aloud before experienced and candid judges of 
 their real value. Louisa was not, however, so blind as her 
 friend Miss Willis to the real merits of some valuable 
 works which by chance, and amongst many worthless 
 ones, were put into her hands. Upon these she paused, 
 pondered, and almost lived, in secret. While reading 
 them she was happy, or believed herself so; but then 
 came the fearful blank, when the last page was devoured, 
 and there was nothing but Mr. and Mrs. Garnet, and the 
 one servant, and the little chamber, left. Intense as the 
 enjoyment was which Louisa derived from some of these 
 volumes, she was at times disposed to look back with a 
 sort of longing regret to the mere girlish cheerfulness 
 she had enjoyed before ; for now her daily walks to school 
 afforded her no amusement, nor could any of those trifling 
 incidents which even in her isolated existence had some- 
 times cast a transient light or shadow across her path, 
 now engage her attention, or awaken so much as a 
 momentary interest. 
 
 In this state of mind, Louisa paid that visit to her 
 guardian, in which, for the first time, he learned to look 
 upon her almost as a woman. He was now fairly estab- 
 lished in his new residence, or more properly in his old 
 mansion ; for it was a venerable and somewhat stately 
 building, abounding in those interesting nooks and cor- 
 ners — those old staircases, towers, and oriel windows — 
 which characterize the architecture of a certain period, 
 giving it all the appearance of being admirably adapted 
 to the prim proprieties of society in that day, not unac- 
 companied by times and seasons of relaxation, and a
 
 234 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT- 
 
 certain snug kind of intimacy, perhaps the more piquant, 
 from being sparingly enjoyed. 
 
 Nothing could have been more in accordance with the 
 lately acquired tastes of Louisa Temple, than this residence 
 of her guardian, and she soon regained her lost place in 
 his esteem and affection, by her genuine outburst of 
 enthusiastic admiration of what he had been twelve months 
 trying to make himself admire, without altogether accom- 
 plishing the desired object. Louisa was the very person 
 he wanted to set him fairly agoing on the right tack ; and 
 many persons wondered — Miss Triplett especially — to see 
 how perseveringly he went about with that young creature, 
 admiring all that she admired, and even catching the tone 
 of her expressions, when she dwelt with rapture upon 
 any particular part. 
 
 u I begin to think I shall really like the house, after 
 all ;" said he, on the second day of Louisa's visit. 
 
 " Like it ?" she exclaimed — " Why, it would be happi- 
 ness enough to me, merely to live in such a house as 
 this !" 
 
 " Would it ?" said Mr. Middleton— " Would it ?" he 
 repeated, regarding her tall womanly figure with a fixed 
 and earnest gaze. " She is taller than her mother," he 
 said to himself; and a long fit of musing followed, during 
 which Louisa drew out a favourite volume, and seating 
 herself in one of the old bay-windows, was soon lost to 
 everything around her. 
 
 Mr. Middleton was no reader himself, and he never 
 felt quite satisfied when Louisa was buried in her books. 
 Perhaps, if the whole truth were told, it would have to be 
 confessed, that something of the fidgetiness of an old 
 bachelor was growing upon him, purely from the fact of
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 235 
 
 his having nothing to do, for he was naturally the reverse 
 of irritable, and had always been remarkable for the 
 placidity of his deportment, i^ow, however, and especially 
 since the house was fully furnished in every part, he began 
 to be peculiarly sensitive as to draughts from the doors 
 and windows, locks that did not catch, and carpets that 
 did not fit; so that the attention of Louisa was perpetually 
 called off from her books, in the vain hope of engaging it 
 upon subjects of household consideration. 
 
 It is true, Mr. Middleton had at this time more cause 
 than usual to complain of draughts, and of ill-constructed 
 doors and windows, for the season was remarkably un- 
 genial, so much so that the sea, which rolled at no great 
 distance from the mansion, presented a continued aspect 
 of dreariness and danger, such as is apt to make the timid 
 and the sickly shrink into the shelter of such warm nooks 
 as they may be fortunate enough to possess. 
 
 Louisa Temple was not of this number. She had once 
 told her guardian, when the sea was calmly slumbering in 
 the light of a cloudless moon, that such an aspect of 
 nature never seemed enough to satisfy her j but the 
 deeper enjoyment of these wild stormy days seemed to 
 grow upon her every hour, until at last her books were 
 laid aside, and taking her station at one of the highest 
 windows, she watched the tumult of the angry waves, at 
 times exclaiming, with clasped hands — " This is enough ! 
 I want nothing more now \" 
 
 " The girl is gone wild," murmured Mr. Middleton, 
 turning away from the cold bleak spot she had chosen, to 
 warm himself at his parlour fire, and yet quickly coming 
 back again with a shawl, or an umbrella, or some other 
 excuse, to see that the wild creature had not thrown her- 
 self from the balcony — •" The girl is losing her senses," he
 
 236 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 repeated, after many vain endeavours to induce her to 
 come down. ei I ought to have brought her up to the sea. 
 There is no living habitably, and in a quiet sort of way, 
 with such a creature as this !" 
 
 Mr. Middleton might well come to this conclusion, for 
 in another moment Louisa had hurried down from her 
 post of observation, and was flying over the intervening 
 ground with the speed of lightning, right on towards that 
 foaming beach, on which she had descried the figure of a 
 daring boy, approaching a point of rock, where, she could 
 see from her high window, what he could not, that there 
 was no passage beyond, and that even if he should succeed 
 in passing the point, he would be hemmed in between the 
 advancing surge and an almost perpendicular barrier of 
 rocks. 
 
 Away — away, flew the girl, her guardian gazing after 
 her, almost distracted betwixt contending doubts whether 
 to send a host of servants after her, or to go himself — 
 whether to despatch them with all the umbrellas, cloaks, 
 and pattens in the house, or to let the foolish creature 
 take her chance, and repent of her folly, as no doubt she 
 would. 
 
 By this time it seemed as if Louisa had begun to 
 repent, for her progress was arrested by the appearance 
 of a man — it might be a gentleman ; but the energy and 
 determination with which he made his way down the cliffs 
 overhanging the exact spot to which the boy was hasten- 
 ing, seemed more like what might be expected from a 
 sailor than a landsman; and Louisa had no sooner 
 observed his figure, and the desperate efforts he was 
 making to accomplish his object, than she saw at once it 
 was no fitting enterprise for her to be engaged in. Indeed, 
 by this time many spectators had collected above the spot,
 
 116RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 237 
 
 and stood watching, almost with breathless interest, the 
 effect of the next few waves. 
 
 Bareheaded, and with her hair floating in the wind, 
 Louisa stood there amongst the rest. It was a scene from 
 which nothing could have torn her away, for there was 
 the boy, all-unconscious of his danger, looking up and 
 laughing at him to whom some attributed the anxiety of 
 a father, while others said he was but the tutor ; though all 
 agreed, that whatever might be their relative positions, 
 nothing could exceed the efforts made by the older of the 
 party. And all the while the boy hastened on, for the 
 wind blew direct from the sea, and such was the roar and 
 tumult beside him, that he heard not the loud shouts from 
 the cliff, nor stayed to observe the many signals that were 
 made to warn him of his danger. 
 
 At last he neared the rock, and before climbing it, he 
 paused a moment, for the last recoiling wave to leave it 
 bare. It did so, and the hissing foam went seething back 
 into the great abyss, and the next-coming wave arose like 
 a charger to the battle, higher and higher still, until its 
 proud mane curled over, and it fell dashing and rolling 
 along the strand, and up against the rocks, lashing the 
 sides of the hollow caves, and sending its white foam high 
 into the air. A general cry had announced that this 
 wave was mightier than its fellows. It ceased, and the 
 boy was gone. A dark speck floated down, lashed under, 
 and almost sucked in, by the retreating surge — another — 
 it was the man, and now both seemed gone. All the 
 spectators, except Louisa, shrieked aloud. She alone 
 stood still, and spoke not ; but her eagle eye was upon 
 the wave — above — beneath it — wherever there was hope. 
 
 " They are safe — They are safe V* cried Louisa, first of 
 all, for she alone had discovered that the man was making
 
 238 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 his way along the shore, bearing in his arms the figure of 
 the boy, which drooped, and hung, as if the spring of life 
 was gone. 
 
 "Let him be taken to my house !" shouted Mr. 
 Middleton, who by this time had come up, panting, and 
 almost smothered amongst capes and shawls. " Run, 
 David, you are the nimblest ; help him to carry the poor 
 boy to my house. There is no place at the village fit for 
 people in their circumstances ; besides, it is considerably 
 further. Come with me, child," he added, addressing 
 Louisa, and at the same time placing on her head the 
 worst bonnet of his housekeeper, which in his haste he 
 had snatched up. " Come home with me. Did ever 
 anybody see the like of this? Out here amongst these 
 people without a hat on your head, or a shawl upon your 
 shoulders ! You must go to bed directly, and have 
 something warm; and your feet all wet I dare say. 
 Dear me — Dear me ! If some people would but learn 
 to think \" 
 
 " There ! did you see that ?" exclaimed Louisa. " I 
 am quite sure the boy moved his arm. If he should live 
 after all \" And she began to weep for very joy — a thing, 
 by the way, which Louisa seldom did for grief. 
 
 Mr. Middleton had heard what was the cause of excite- 
 ment which collected so unusual a number of spectators 
 on the cliff, before leaving his door ; and partly with the 
 hope of being of use, partly, too, impressed with the 
 necessity of his protection being required by Louisa, he 
 had sallied forth, though not without so many precautions 
 against taking cold, that it was only by making most 
 unprecedented efforts in the way of speed, that he could 
 reach the place at all before it became entirely vacated. 
 Already the gazers were dispersing in different compa-
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 239 
 
 nies, and Louisa, now that her highly-wrought feelings 
 were beginning to subside, was glad to take shelter by the 
 side of her guardian, and walk quietly away towards his 
 house. 
 
 It was a mistaken view of Louisa's character which 
 Mr. Middleton took, when he endeavoured to keep her 
 back from following close up to that strange man, and his 
 still stranger-looking burden ; for the boy had evinced 
 no signs of life except that which Louisa's quick eye was 
 the only one to discover ; and strong as the man appeared 
 to be, strong, and resolute, and self-possessed, it was 
 evident that his strength was almost failing, though he 
 still refused to allow any of Mr. Middleton's servants to 
 take his place. It was altogether vain under such cir- 
 cumstances to attempt to keep Louisa back, and she was 
 soon by the side of the pale and ghastly -looking boy, 
 clasping his cold hand between hers, and supporting his 
 poor head with its dripping locks, that it might not droop 
 so frightfully over the shoulders of his bearer. 
 
 In this manner the melancholy group passed on, scarcely 
 exchanging a word with each other, except that ever and 
 anon Mr. Middleton pleaded with Louisa to keep back, and 
 then he was heard giving directions to his servants, until 
 at last the gates of his own court-yard were passed, and 
 the stragglers after the party shut out ; the senseless form 
 of the unfortunate boy was soon after laid upon the softest 
 of down beds in an apartment rich in everything which 
 belongs to modern luxury. 
 
 It was a woeful sight to the old housekeeper, to see 
 how little that strange gentleman regarded the furniture 
 of the rosewood room, for neither the damask curtains, 
 the costly carpets, nor the light and elegant chairs, ap- 
 peared to occupy a moment's attention, when brought
 
 240 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 into comparison with the slightest suggestion about any- 
 thing to be done for the poor boy. 
 
 Nobody there — not even the most curious — could dis- 
 cover what the relation of the boy actually" was to his 
 deliverer. Some thought him too old to be the son, 
 whilst others said it was impossible that any but a father 
 should evince so much anxiety. And anxiety indeed it 
 was, and seemed to be, to those who watched the strong 
 workings of that grave and earnest countenance. Louisa 
 could scarcely be classed amongst these, so entirely was 
 her attention riveted upon the countenance of the boy, 
 except when diverted by rendering any of those little 
 services suggested by the many resources of which the 
 older stranger appeared to be so completely the master, 
 that even while one experiment was being made, he was 
 preparing other means, in order that no single moment 
 might be lost. 
 
 At last the anxiety of the whole party was relieved by 
 the most unequivocal signs of restoration to life and con- 
 sciousness ; and so profound was the joy and the gratitude 
 of the elder gentleman, who now proved to hold the 
 capacity of tutor to the other, that silent tears stole down 
 his cheeks, as he bent over his young charge, soothing 
 him with every expression of endearment, and 1 with many 
 far beyond the phraseology of common love. 
 
 With minds which are themselves exalted, neither their 
 love, nor any other of their passions, or affections, are 
 common. It is strange that people do not think of this 
 when they ask the love of little minds, and expect to 
 be satisfied therewith. It is not because the powers of 
 perception are keen, and the understanding sharp and 
 ready, that there must necessarily be an equal capacity of 
 loving. No ; but such powers as these were never the sol^
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 241 
 
 basis of human greatness. There must be something else 
 before we can either feel generously, or love deeply — there 
 must be a certain expansiveness of mind, a moral as well 
 as intellectual capability; for the highest of all moral 
 attainments, is that of knowing how and what to love, 
 and of loving supremely that which is most worthy. 
 
 " Falkner," said the boy, in a low but earnest whisper, 
 for his voice was faint and weak ; " don't leave me for 
 a single moment. I don't know where I am, and — in 
 short, you must not leave me, will you ? 
 
 " Don't disturb yourself about that," said the tutor, 
 smiling. " I have not the least intention of leaving you ; 
 only perhaps you will allow me to get out of this cold 
 bath, for you see, I, like you, have had a little too much 
 of the salt water." 
 
 The boy consented reluctantly, for, to tell the truth of 
 him, he was a somewhat selfish creature ; and the tutor 
 was but too happy to avail himself of the kind offer of Mr. 
 Middleton to accept the loan of a suit of his own clothes. 
 
 It so happened, there was a standing dispute between 
 Louisa and her guardian, on the subject of his growing 
 year by year considerably more stout. This idea he utterly 
 repelled, as being most repugnant to his tastes and wishes ; 
 while Louisa most pertinaciously and provokiugly main- 
 tained that such was really the case. Great then would 
 have been her triumph, had she felt at liberty to call the 
 attention of her guardian to the figure of the tutor; for 
 though Mr. Falkner was by no means a slender man, 
 there would almost have been room for another of the 
 same size in his borrowed habiliments. 
 
 In spite, then, of her more serious thoughts, Louisa 
 could not help glancing aside at her guardian, and it was 
 
 R
 
 242 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 not easy for her eyes to glance in any direction without 
 being observed. 
 
 "Ridiculous! to be sure;" said Mr. Middleton, some- 
 what embarrassed. " How strange, that a slight difference 
 in the form, should make a coat look so much wider for 
 one person than another ! Really, I should hardly have 
 thought it." 
 
 The tutor caught the expression of Louisa's countenance, 
 and an arch smile passed over his own, as he drew the 
 coat across his person, to prove that it was not a very 
 slight difference of form which left so large a portion of it 
 unoccupied. 
 
 The entire recovery of the youth from all the conse- 
 quences of his disaster, except that fear which sometimes 
 grows with the diminution of danger, left the party at 
 liberty to cultivate a good understanding with each other ; 
 and such was the genuine kindness of Mr. Middleton, 
 when once his feelings of compassion were moved, that he 
 succeeded, by many delicate and well-timed attentions, in 
 prolonging the stay of his guests beneath his roof, for 
 some days beyond the time first fixed upon for their 
 departure. 
 
 It was indeed a rare event within those silent walls, 
 to listen to the cheerful flow of intelligent conversation ; 
 and the master of the mansion felt his mind and spirits 
 exhilarated by hearing so many subjects of interest dis- 
 cussed by his guest, who, had his propensity been that 
 of a great talker, might have been more than repaid for 
 his endeavours to amuse, by the flattering attention with 
 which he was listened to. 
 
 Not, however, by the whole party. There was one who 
 always formed an exception to the rule of patient atten-
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 243 
 
 tion, and that was his own pupil, a spoiled child of fortune, 
 placed under the care of a man of understanding, to learn, 
 in a few short years, what the combined efforts of inju- 
 dicious friends were perpetually teaching him to forget. 
 
 There are few r more repulsive spectacles presented by 
 society, than that of a fine mind with high natural 
 endowments, and all the valuable attainments which 
 learning can impart — a mind experienced, too, in the 
 deep thoughts and things which lie beyond mere know- 
 ledge, yet clogged to the animal youth — the base and 
 grovelling ignorance — the self-willed stupidity of one, who, 
 happening to have been born into the lap of affluence, 
 deems himself thereby entitled to a lordly position amongst 
 intelligent beings, from whence he looks down with con- 
 tempt upon all the great elements of mind and character, 
 by which the high-souled, even when not high-born, are 
 distinguished amongst their fellow-men. 
 
 To such a clog was the tutor already introduced, 
 attached, not by affection, but by the necessity of living ; 
 for he was poor, the son of a widow, and wholly without 
 resources, except such as his learning and his indefatigable 
 mind supplied. Thus it was his doom to teach — to do, 
 what has been nobly called, " God's work on earth." And 
 because he did this work, he was regarded by his pupil, 
 and by many of his pupil's relations, with all the contempt 
 they dared to offer to a man of his high tone of feeling ; 
 for, after all, he was one to stand in awe of, when he set 
 his face against anything wrong, or meanly contemptible ; 
 and his pupil no more dared have openly defied him then, 
 than he would have dared to meet a lion in its rage. 
 
 But Mr. Falkner was not always a man to stand in awe 
 of. He could make himself familiar, playful, and amusing, 
 for his heart was simple as that of a child; and having 
 
 b 2
 
 244 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 spent much of his time in deep and silent study,, the 
 exhilaration of his spirits, when he could throw off the 
 load of thought, was far beyond that of men in general, 
 even at an earlier stage of life than he had now attained. 
 
 Louisa Temple had never seen, or imagined, a man 
 like Mr. Falkner. Like all foolish girls at her age, she 
 either was, or imagined herself, excessively afraid of him ; 
 and this fear, if such it might be called, rendered her 
 awkward, embarrassed, and almost disagreeable, in his 
 presence. Perhaps it was well for Louisa that she 
 occupied but little of his attention, that he seldom 
 appeared to be aware of her presence, except indeed that 
 he sometimes looked round as if astonished when her 
 wild laugh rung out from the fulness of her heart ; on 
 which occasions the laugh almost instantaneously ceased. 
 
 That the tutor felt his occupation an extremely irksome 
 one with such a pupil, was but too evident to those whose 
 interest was sufficient to give them any insight into the 
 true nature of his position. Still he was naturally and 
 habitually so fond of teaching, that if he could but impress 
 upon the mind he had to do with, a single idea, he appeared 
 satisfied for the time being. Thus he persevered at all 
 times, in season — and out of season, the boy would pro- 
 bably have said, had he known scripture enough to quote 
 on such an occasion; — and thus, failing too often in the 
 accustomed lessons, he made both walks and rides con- 
 ducive to the same end, edging in by a vast variety of 
 contrivances, never suspected by the youth, some portion 
 of common information calculated to be of service to him 
 in after life. 
 
 Ah ! could some partial parents know the immense 
 debt of gratitude they owe to a conscientious teacher of 
 this description, how differently would the balance be
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 245 
 
 adjusted between the obliger and the obliged. It was 
 not merely to urge his pupil on in his classical attainments, 
 that the tutor already described was labouring ; it was to 
 make him an intelligent, reasonable, and upright man — 
 a man who need not blush to lift up his voice in the high 
 assemblies of his fellow-men, consulting upon themes of 
 moral or political importance. And what a task was his ! 
 It is said of an imperial madman, that he wished all man- 
 kind had but one neck, that he might sever it at a single 
 blow : Mr. Falkner's pupil would have wished the whole 
 world one sweet-cake, that he might eat it at a single 
 mouthful. 
 
 Still the tutor relaxed not, and the very perseverance 
 with which he pursued his object, gave him an interest 
 in the boy which there was little in his own character to 
 have awakened. If, however, he poured upon one sense- 
 less ear a fund of information purchased at an immense 
 cost of time and study, there was often a listener of whom 
 he took no note, drinking in, like a stream of life, the 
 knowledge he would have been much happier to impart, 
 had he known how deeply it was valued. 
 
 After the removal of the tutor and his pupil to their 
 own lodgings, Louisa and her guardian were still so often 
 the companions of their walks, that it became a familiar 
 and accustomed sort of thing, for one party to call for 
 the other ; and sometimes even when Mr. Middleton 
 thought the excursion of the day too far, he proposed, 
 with the utmost simplicity, that Louisa should supply his 
 place as well as her own, never thinking there could be 
 the shadow of objection to her accompanying so excellent 
 and so wise a man as Mr. Falkner. Indeed, to Mr. 
 Middleton the office of a tutor was sufficient. He saw 
 that the gentleman was not very young. He knew he
 
 245 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 was engaged to take charge of a boy, and lie did not see 
 but he might just as well take charge of a girl at the same 
 time. Besides which, Louisa assured him she learned 
 more in one of these walks than in a whole year at Miss 
 Garnet's school ; at which her guardian marvelled exceed- 
 ingly. 
 
 But the time came at last for poor Louisa to give up 
 this life of perfect happiness — for such it seemed to her, 
 and the more so, perhaps, from being the first real happi- 
 ness she had ever known. Hitherto, no human being had 
 endeavoured, with any kind of earnestness, to expand, 
 direct, or inform her eager mind. In the midst of num- 
 bers, or alone, she had led a kind of isolated life, never 
 knowing what it was to be associated with any one who 
 could share or understand her thoughts. For a time she 
 had persuaded herself that the novel-reading teacher was 
 the companion she required, as a requisite to social enjoy- 
 ment ; and very close, and very secret, was the intimacy 
 established between the two friends, like many other inti- 
 macies of the same kind, doomed to terminate in mutual 
 disappointment ; for nothing could be more dissimilar 
 than their individual characters. Even their strong bond 
 of union, that of an insatiable thirst for the same kind of 
 reading, arose out of circumstances as different as their 
 minds, the one reading purely to relieve the vapidness of 
 life by momentary excitement, the other to dive into the 
 deep secrets of human nature, and to draw forth conclu- 
 sions either right or wrong. 
 
 Louisa soon discovered, and never saw more clearly 
 than now, that studies from subjects generally exaggerated, 
 and pictures overdrawn, were ill calculated to satisfy a 
 mind whose earnest inquiry was for truth — truth, it might 
 be, adorned with all that imagination could paint of the
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 247 
 
 wonderful, the touching, the sublime, or the beautiful, but 
 still truth ; for that is the ultimate aim, the only satisfying 
 end, of all mental effort when rationally and earnestly 
 pursued. 
 
 Not many days had passed with Louisa in the society 
 of Mr. Falkner, before she beheld, to her own surprise, on 
 glancing in review over some of her eagerly devoured 
 volumes, the extreme absurdity of wasting any serious 
 amount of feeling upon scenes and characters less real 
 than the u phantasm of a dream." She saw, too — for 
 some minds possess the faculty of seeing with other eyes 
 than their own — that in looking around upon the creation, 
 even with a very slight amount of scientific knowledge, 
 there are deep truths to be learned from almost every 
 object presented to the understanding ; and once tasting 
 the peculiar enjoyment capable of being derived from this 
 kind of knowledge, an eager desire was awakened to pur- 
 sue each subject of consideration farther and farther, even 
 up to the Great First Cause; and then, through the 
 mysteries of Divine Providence, back again to this earth, 
 teeming with inconsistencies, and disfigured by plague- 
 spots, as it is. 
 
 What fields of wonder w r ere these for the long-imprisoned 
 mind of the orphan to range amongst ! And often when 
 she sat alone at some high window, gazing on the troubled 
 sea, or traced with solitary steps the w ild heights of the 
 bold cliff, or the surrounding hills, the thoughts which 
 crowded so thickly upon her mind, each casting its fire- 
 brand into an imagination always too ready to ignite, seemed 
 too great — too wonderful — too fraught with mighty con- 
 sequences, to be endured without absolute suffering ; and 
 Louisa, at such times, longed to cast away the " mortal 
 coil " which bound her to the earth, not that she might fly
 
 248 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 away and be at rest, for rest had no charms for her ; but 
 that she might become the inhabitant of some blessed 
 region, in which the secrets of creation and of providence 
 should be made known. 
 
 Troubled, excited, and sometimes almost bewildered, by 
 these vague musings, in which the merest glimpses of 
 actual reality found place, Louisa was more than happy to 
 avail herself of the kindness of Mr. Falkner, whenever he 
 offered to be her conductor, either in a botanical excursion 
 up some lovely valley, stretching inland, or through some 
 long day of geological researches along the sea-shore. 
 Nothing of difficulty, or what to other young ladies would 
 have been such, hindered Louisa from making one in 
 these parties. Wind and rain, rocks and torrents, the 
 sand of the shore, and the splash of the sea-foam, were 
 things of no moment to her. A bonnet, absolutely spoiled, 
 answered her purpose as well, or better than a new one ; 
 and only once, when Falkner playfully asked her for the 
 loan of her's, at a time when the party were bent upon 
 catching shrimps, did she feel the least embarrassment 
 about its appearance. 
 
 This was an idea which the pupil was very quick to 
 catch, for he could see when a bonnet was ladylike, though 
 he had hitherto failed to discover the difference betwixt 
 rocks of granite and of sandstone ; and his immoderate 
 laughter at this " superb idea," as he was pleased to call 
 it, brought a heightened blush of something more than 
 embarrassment to the cheek of Louisa Temple. Indeed 
 this boy was, if possible, a greater annoyance to her than 
 Samson Garnet- — if possible, their natures antipathized 
 more strongly ; and what rendered his frequent interrup- 
 tions, and his constant introductions of self in all its 
 puerilities, more intolerable than they otherwise would
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 249 
 
 have been, was, that Louisa had now something worth 
 listening and attending to, a privilege she had never been 
 sensible of in her London life. It required, therefore, on 
 the part of Louisa, some exercise of self-control, to avoid 
 doing the boy some bodily injury j so impertinent and ill- 
 timed were his frequent interruptions, often when she 
 herself was listening with the most profound interest. 
 
 And all the while Louisa saw, to her extreme amaze- 
 ment, that Mr. Falkner bore, with every appearance of 
 composure, what it galled her pride, and ruffled her tem- 
 per, barely to think of. 
 
 " You do not surely like that boy ?" she asked, one day, 
 in an angry, impatient manner, forgetting herself so far as 
 to speak directly to Mr. Falkner, a thing she seldom ven- 
 tured upon. 
 
 " I feel an interest in him," replied Mr. Falkner, 
 smiling. 
 
 " How is it possible ? " exclaimed Louisa. 
 
 " Because he is a human being, and must live for ever," 
 replied her companion. 
 
 Louisa looked earnestly into his face, but said no more. 
 It was a view of the case which had never struck her 
 before ; and the emphasis laid upon the word must, 
 impressed her mind, perhaps for the first time in her life, 
 with the immense responsibility of possessing an immortal 
 soul. 
 
 But now the last day of Louisa's happy holidays had 
 arrived, and Falkner came — it was entirely by chance — to 
 spend the evening at Mr. Middleton's. A sweeter evening 
 never set upon that shore ; and long after the party had 
 returned from their pleasant ramble on the beach, they 
 sat together in one of the old windows, gazing out upon 
 the sea, and watching the little boats which skimmed
 
 250 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 along the wave, every now and then crossing the long line 
 of silvery moonlight, and then passiDg away again into 
 the dim shadows of night. 
 
 " What coach do you go by in the morning ?" asked 
 the pupil of Louisa, for coaches and their drivers were 
 favourite themes with him. 
 
 " Where are you going V s asked Falkner, at the same 
 time, but with the utmost indifference. 
 
 Louisa was about to answer " home," but the word died 
 away upon her lips, and a feeling of desolateness came 
 over her, more wretched than she had ever known before. 
 
 " You don't mean you are going to remain in London 
 in August ?" said the boy — " that is too horrible." 
 
 " It is indeed horrible V s replied Louisa, in a voice so 
 sad and low, that Mr. Middleton grew alarmed, and asked 
 if she was not well. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said Louisa, but her voice was still not like 
 her own ; and he rang the bell, and desired a fire might be 
 lighted, and talked about warm water for her feet, and a 
 basin of hot gruel, with just one tea-spoonful of rum. 
 
 Louisa could not help laughing in spite of herself; and 
 Mr. Fallen er very naturally rose up, and wished his friends 
 good-night. He had not asked again where the orphan 
 girl was going. Most probably he cared not; and the 
 coach which carried her away on the following morning 
 rolled past his window without disturbing his dreams.
 
 251 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A very important change had for some time been work- 
 ing its way in the circumstances of Louisa Temple, as 
 connected with the excellent family under whose roof she 
 had found her appointed home. From the time of Mr. 
 Middletoir's accession of fortune, this change had com- 
 menced, and now it would almost seem as if the once 
 comparatively friendless orphan had become, in her person 
 and character, all that their fondest wishes could desire, 
 so anxious were their endeavours to avoid all cause on 
 her part of complaint against themselves . ' l Dear Miss 
 Temple" had, in short, become a very important person 
 in the household ; and more especially whenever Samson 
 Garnet came home, bright schemes were formed for plea- 
 surable excursions in the way of sight-seeing, or anything 
 else that Louisa liked. 
 
 All this was agreeable enough to Louisa, whose eager 
 curiosity had been so many years at work without any 
 offer of gratification ; nor was the behaviour of the family 
 towards herself, either for better or worse, of sufficient 
 consequence to engage many of her thoughts, though she 
 did sometimes wonder, how it was that she had been 
 translated into the spare bed-room, and actually allowed 
 the use of a mahogany wash-hand stand, supported by 
 its own legs without any artificial aid.
 
 252 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 A conversation which took place between Samson Gar- 
 net and his parents, one night after Louisa had retired 
 to rest, would have thrown considerable light on the 
 subject ; though that conversation having been strictly 
 secret, and carried on within closed doors, we reveal only 
 that portion of it which all the house might hear — the 
 indignant retreat of the son as he retired to his own 
 chamber, exclaiming, " I tell you again, I don't like the 
 girl, and I wouldn't marry her for all his money ! Indeed, 
 my belief is that he means to marry her himself. " 
 
 " Impossible ! " said Mr. Garnet, standing stock-still at 
 the foot of the stairs, for this was indeed a new idea. 
 
 " Impossible ! " repeated the wife ; and yet each looked 
 at the other as they stood there, and the weightier party 
 snuffed his candle in order to see better, and the other 
 pursed up her mouth, and tried to look the thing a little 
 in the face, at least so far as her husband was disposed to 
 make the same attempt ; but no sooner did he utterly 
 reject the idea, with another exclamation of "Impossible!" 
 than the wife exclaimed " Impossible !" too, and they both 
 went up stairs. 
 
 " / say" laying peculiar emphasis upon the first impor- 
 tant letter, was a favourite expression with Samson Gar- 
 net ; and not many weeks after this conversation, he 
 edged himself up rather more closely than was agreeable 
 to Louisa, and in an impressive whispering kind of way" 
 repeated his accustomed " I say." 
 
 Louisa very naturally bade him say on. 
 
 " I say, then," continued Samson, " the old gentleman 
 out yonder is very kind to you, is he not ?" 
 
 " Very. I think more kind than ever." 
 
 " Rather sweet upon you, is he not — eh ?" 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, and if I did" —
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 253 
 
 " Never mind ; never mind. I have made the colour 
 come into your face for once, and that's worth something. 
 Don't go away. I really want to talk to you."" 
 
 " Talk civilly then." 
 
 w Civilly, then, I will, for it is of some consequence to 
 me. Will you answer me a plain question ?" 
 
 " Yes, if it be such as you have a right to ask." 
 
 " I don't know much about that ; but I really do want 
 to know whether you have any reason to think Mr. Mid- 
 dleton intends to leave you his property V 
 
 " That is plain speaking, however," replied Louisa, with 
 a blush of burning indignation, "but I answer you as 
 plainly — that I do not know — that I never asked, even in 
 my own mind — and that I never was told a syllable on 
 the subject." 
 
 " But did you never gather the idea from anything that 
 was dropped?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Did he never, in taking you about his house and 
 grounds, consult you about things to be done ten or twenty 
 years to come, or after his death ?" 
 
 " I have told you the truth, and will answer no more 
 of your questions." 
 
 " Well, then, if you will not let me ask, perhaps you 
 will let me tell you something." 
 
 " Do as you like ; both are indifferent to me." 
 
 " 'Sly father and mother have a little scheme in their 
 heads. They have taken up the notion that you will 
 inherit all Mr, Middleton's property, and they want me 
 to marry you." 
 
 " Do they r" 
 
 " Yes ; but you have no occasion to look so angry,
 
 254 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 because it is not my intention to do any such thing. The 
 fact is, I am engaged. You start." 
 
 " I am thinking what a happy woman somebody will 
 be." 
 
 " I dare say she will. At all events, I know she is 
 pretty, and that is of more consequence to me." 
 
 " I believe you." 
 
 " Come, be serious ; for I do assure you it is a very 
 serious business to me." 
 
 " And to her as well, I should think." 
 
 u The long and the short of the matter is, the girl is 
 poor, and I don't want my father and mother to know 
 anything about the affair, for at least a year to come, 
 when I hope to be independent. In the mean time, my 
 plan is this, and I adopt it purely to obtain peace — I will 
 appear before them to be very much pleased with you — " 
 
 " You !" exclaimed Louisa, ' c pleased with me !" and 
 the burning indignation which flashed from her eyes, 
 absolutely shook the giant frame of her companion with 
 fear, for he had his own wishes and his own interest at 
 stake, and that was something to tremble for — " You !" 
 she repeated, and the terrible outburst of her scorn and 
 her hatred both of the part proposed to her, and the actor 
 in that part, was too rapid and too eloquent for repetition. 
 It fell, however, upon ears insensible to its true meaning, 
 and Samson Garnet allowed her to " rave on," as he called 
 it, until her fury should have spent itself. 
 
 Thinking afterwards more coolly upon this, to her most 
 horrible proposal, at once as revolting to her sense of 
 integrity, as to her delicacy and her pride, Louisa saw 
 plainly, and at the same time with infinite satisfaction, 
 that it might justly be urged upon her guardian as a plea
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 255 
 
 for her removal to another home ; and a visit which he 
 was about to make in London, afforded the hope of obtain- 
 ing her release from what had long been a miserable 
 thraldom to her ; for nothing can be more so, than close 
 and continual contact with uncongenial minds. 
 
 On the first appearance of the worthy man after his 
 arrival at Mr. Garnet's door, Louisa's quick eye discovered 
 that he was arrayed in a remarkably well-made suit of 
 clothes, evidently new, and, as she thought, much too good 
 for the occasion. He appeared to be unusually at leisure 
 too, and he also seemed bent upon taking her about sight- 
 seeing. 
 
 Louisa wondered what had come to all the people, she 
 was growing into an object of such unwonted importance. 
 Sometimes she was half inclined to think that some 
 transformation like the work of enchantment must have 
 converted her into a beauty ; but a single glance at her 
 looking-glass dispelled the flattering idea. On this occa- 
 sion, however, she was so disposed to take the extraor- 
 dinary attentions of her guardian in good part, that her 
 bonnet and shawl were always ready the moment he called 
 for her ; and pleased as a child, she was soon by his side 
 leading him away to some of those exhibitions of art in 
 which she had lately learned to take intense delight. 
 
 Here Mr. Middleton was often kept in long, and not 
 always patient, attendance ; and many were his remon- 
 stances against the danger of standing about with damp 
 shoes, against crowded rooms, and all those weighty con- 
 siderations of health and safety, in which he and Misa 
 Triplett were accustomed to indulge, in their genial 
 retreat on the coast of Devonshire. To all these remon- 
 strances Louisa was sadly insensible, and on one memo- 
 rable occasion, she even ventured to say, she would rather
 
 256 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 catch twenty colds, than miss the sight of a certain 
 celebrated painting ; never thinking at the moment, that 
 if she caught twenty, her guardian would in all probability 
 suffer from twice that number. It was a cruel expression 
 of Louisa's, and he felt it so. 
 
 Before the departure of Mr. Middleton from town, 
 Louisa felt that she had an important subject to bring 
 before his notice, for whenever her thoughts recurred to 
 the proposal of Samson Garnet, and the whole affair 
 which had given rise to it, and which she had but too 
 much reason to believe had not been exaggerated on his 
 part, the more revolting to her feelings was the thought 
 of remaining associated with such a family. It was 
 therefore her intention to request her guardian to place 
 her elsewhere, and, if she failed to succeed in this request, 
 to make him acquainted with the whole transaction. 
 
 All this appeared to Louisa an affair of very easy 
 accomplishment, the more so as she felt convinced that 
 her guardian would be both happier and better for the 
 society of a cheerful companion. Indeed she wondered 
 now, and had often wondered before, that he did not of 
 himself propose, what appeared to her both reasonable 
 and right, that she should be that companion, to watch 
 over him in his declining years, and to share that new, 
 but somewhat desolate-looking home, which he appeared 
 so incapable of enjoying alone. 
 
 What, in short, could be a more likely, a more reason- 
 able plan for increasing the happiness of both ? The more 
 Louisa thought of it, the more it commended itself to 
 her approbation ; only whenever she felt herself upon the 
 eve of proposing it, a strange hesitation and embarrass- 
 ment came over her, and she allowed the time for speaking 
 to pass on until the last day of Mr. Middleton's visit.
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 2j? 
 
 Louisa Temple had no idea of accomplishing any object 
 except in a determined and decided manner. Wholly 
 unacquainted with the art of manceuvering, she often 
 startled her guardian by throwing him at once upon the 
 necessity of saying either yes or no, to what would 
 naturally have occupied his attention for months without 
 resulting in either. Great then as would have been her 
 difficulty on the present occasion, in explaining the whole 
 case to Mr. Middleton, that portion of it upon which she 
 relied for producing the desired effect, she determined to 
 lay before him; and with this intention she willingly 
 complied with his proposal one beautiful day to take a 
 drive with him in the park. 
 
 The scene, always enlivening, was on that occasion 
 more than usually so to Louisa. At all events, she felt 
 herself in excellent spirits ; and with a bright and 
 animated expression of countenance, she was so nearly 
 handsome as to leave nothing but a better choice of dress 
 to be wished for. 
 
 Mr. Middleton saw that his interesting charge did not 
 look like other people. He saw, in fact, that her dress 
 was either badly chosen, or badly put on — perhaps both j 
 but he saw at the same time that there were no eyes so 
 brilliant and flashing as Louisa's ; and when she laughed, 
 or even when she smiled, with that peculiarly arch look 
 of hers, so full of unaffected meaning, he saw, or at least 
 he felt, how much his lonely habitation on the sea-coast 
 needed such a look as that to enliven it. 
 
 It seemed on this day as if Louisa and her guardian 
 had been thinking the same thoughts ; for, looking ear- 
 nestly into his face, she told him she had a plan to propose 
 to him which she had no doubt would meet with his
 
 258 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 approbation, if only he could be brought to see the subject 
 as she did. 
 
 " I dare say it is a very wise and a very prudent plan," 
 observed Mr. Middleton, smiling; "but pray what is it?" 
 
 " Nothing less," replied Louisa, " than that I should 
 go back with you into Devonshire, and leave the Garnets 
 altogether." 
 
 " Do you consider your education then so completely 
 finished ?" asked Mr. Middleton. 
 
 " It is time it should be ;" replied Louisa. " Only think 
 of the many dull years I have spent at that miserable 
 school." 
 
 "Don't speak so extravagantly, child ;" said Mr. 
 Middleton. " You startle me, and make me quite 
 nervous, when you go on in that manner." 
 
 " Ah ! that is another argument in favour of my 
 plan ;" observed Louisa. " I am quite sure you grow 
 nervous with being so much alone. It would do you 
 a world of good to have a cheerful companion always 
 with you." 
 
 " I think it would," said Mr. Middleton very naturally. 
 
 " So far then we are agreed," observed Louisa ; " the 
 next consideration, is, who is to be that companion ?" 
 
 And this was said with the whole force of those 
 brilliant eyes fixed intently upon the face of her guardian, 
 and with a smile which displayed such pearly teeth, and 
 w 7 as in itself so joyous, and so full of truth, yet withal 
 so heightened by an innate love of point and comicality ; 
 that the wonder was, how Mr. Middleton maintained his 
 presence of mind upon that memorable occasion. That 
 he did maintain it, however, was evident from his reply, 
 for he answered very gravely, —
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 259 
 
 " No, no ; it will not do. We must think no more of 
 that." 
 
 " Why not ?" exclaimed Louisa, with unfeigned 
 astonishment. 
 
 " There are weighty reasons/' observed Mr. Middleton, 
 a why we must think no more of such a plan at present." 
 
 " What can they be ?" exclaimed Louisa again. " Do 
 tell me, for I cannot imagine anything more rational, 
 and more likely." 
 
 " In plain words then," said Mr Middleton, " such an 
 arrangement would be considered unsuitable, because 
 I am too young, and you are too old." 
 
 " You too young !" repeated Louisa, and her astonish- 
 ment burst forth in one of those wild laughs, most 
 unsuitable for such a place and scene. Indeed Mr. Mid- 
 dleton did not like the laugh at all this time, and took 
 the opportunity of reminding her how indelicate it was in 
 such a public place, for a young lady to be seen laughing 
 in that manner. 
 
 " But you don't mean in reality that you are too 
 young?" asked Louisa, still finding it impossible to look 
 grave. 
 
 " I do mean," replied her guardian, " that the world is 
 a censorious world, and that Ave cannot be too careful 
 how we bring its remarks upon ourselves." 
 
 " But you are so very old," observed Louisa. 
 
 Mr. Middleton wondered — sat uneasily — grew red, and 
 angry, but still said nothing. Indeed, what could he say? 
 Louisa knew his age as well as he did, and facts are 
 stubborn things ; only sometimes the same fact conveys 
 very different impressions to different minds. Thus, 
 though the age of Mr. Middleton was to his own, but 
 just beyond the utmost limits of juvenility; it was 
 
 s2
 
 260 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 too evident that to the mind of his companion, it placed 
 him in a very different position. What then was to be 
 done ? He fell into a deep silence, and Louisa did the 
 same. 
 
 " Drive straight home," were the first words Mr. Mid- 
 dleton uttered. 
 
 " Not yet, if you please •" said Louisa, laying her hand 
 upon his arm with great earnestness. " Just one turn 
 more. I will not detain you longer." And now her 
 whole look and manner were so changed, that her guardian 
 grew alarmed, more especially as she said there were 
 circumstances connected with her present situation which 
 she felt it her duty to lay before him. 
 
 Mr. Middleton grew alarmed. How could he be other- 
 wise, when Louisa, turning alternately pale and red, went 
 on to tell him all which had occurred to render her situa- 
 tion at Mr. Garnet's more intolerable even than it had 
 been before. But her excitement — her indignation even 
 at their height, were scarcely greater than those of her 
 habitually calm companion, who, throwing off all self- 
 government as the tale went on, burst forth into exclama- 
 tions of anger, defiance, and revenge, such as Louisa would, 
 a moment before, have declared impossible to emanate 
 from such a source. It was her turn now to be alarmed, 
 for Mr. Middleton threatened all sorts of horrid things — 
 public exposure, and all which his imagination could con- 
 jure up, as likely to humble and punish the offending 
 party. 
 
 Happily for all concerned, the drive from the park to 
 Mr. Middleton's hotel occupied so long, that his indig- 
 nation against the Garnets had time to soften down into 
 more than his accustomed tenderness towards Louisa ; 
 and taking her hand within his own, as if afraid lest the
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 261 
 
 very coachman should run away with her, he led her 
 carefully upstairs to the private sitting-room he had 
 engaged, and there demanded of her a second recital 
 of all the facts which had occasioned him so much 
 uneasiness. 
 
 This time Louisa would willingly have softened them 
 down a little, out of regard to her guardian's peace of 
 mind, hut feeling the utter impossibility of again seeking 
 a home beneath Mr. Garnet's roof, and that her only hope 
 of escape rested upon the disclosure of the whole truth, 
 she went through the revolting details again, and again 
 beheld her guardian wrought upon in a manner she had 
 no idea that any earthly event was capable of producing. 
 
 " Poor child ! poor dear child \" said Mr. Middleton, 
 pacing hastily up and down the room, for that had been 
 his occupation during the whole of Louisa's recital — 
 " Poor child V* he continued, " you must not be exposed 
 to this treatment a second time." And then his anger 
 against the Garnets burst forth again, and again sub- 
 sided into a quiet settled resolution that Louisa should 
 pass within their doors no more, but return with him to 
 be the companion of his solitary home. 
 
 It was a happy thing for Mr. Middleton that he could 
 now see this step in the light of a duty ; and a very 
 sacred duty he believed it to be, to rescue persecuted 
 innocence. Indeed, he almost fancied himself one of 
 the brave champions of the days of chivalry, as he rode 
 along the streets in a hackney-coach, with the intention 
 of bringing away with him all the worldly property of 
 his orphan charge. 
 
 Great on that occasion was the surprise, and great the 
 dismay, of little Mrs. Garnet, who, however, prudently 
 adopted the precaution of not asking any questions.
 
 262 TEMTER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 Great "was the curiosity of the servant, as she hastily 
 gathered up one article after another, and stowed them 
 into a box, and a very small box it was, considering it 
 contained the whole, for Louisa had never learned the 
 art of accumulating property. And now the servant had 
 done her last act of kindness for Miss Temple, and stood 
 wiping her eyes as the old gentleman stepped into the 
 coach to drive away, " for she knew, she said," as soon as 
 ever she heard his knock at the door, "that something 
 strange was going to happen, and now there would be no 
 more laughing in that house for many a day to come." 
 
 Never was there a lighter step, never was there a hap- 
 pier look, than those of Louisa Temple as she walked away 
 with her guardian that very day to make arrangements 
 for their journey into Devonshire early on the following 
 morning ; and never was there a more ecstatic arrival 
 than that of the two friends at the door of that pictu- 
 resque and antique mansion on the bold hill-side, from 
 whence it overlooked the sea. Never was liberty to the 
 imprisoned captive more welcome, than the freedom of 
 those hills to her who had been so long pent up in worse 
 than bondage ; and the mere animal excitement of being 
 set free — free to walk, to run, to sing, to wander on the 
 wild sea-shore, was for a time a lot so full of happiness to 
 Louisa, that she never questioned whether it was a happi- 
 ness likely to endure. Endure ? She would have scorned 
 the merest suggestion that it was possible to fail. Was 
 she not free ? In the exhilaration — the delight — the 
 ecstasy of those moments, she never thought that the 
 mind imprisoned in the dark and joyless cell of ignorance 
 has but little cause to exult in the mere liberty of life 
 and limb. 
 
 The season of autumn was far advanced when Louisa
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 263 
 
 Temple first commenced this life of happiness j and there 
 was still a rich tint upon the woods, though the turf on 
 the high ground was short, and almost burnt up with the 
 summer's heat. Thus a dark and sombre hue was 
 spread over the whole face of nature, and the sea — 
 that great and glorious sea which had reflected back 
 the splendour of the summer sun — that sea once so 
 blue, so calm, and like the heavens so " purely beau- 
 tiful/' now rolled its heavy troubled waves in ceaseless 
 murmurs on the shore ; disturbed, not angry ; and rather 
 dull, than dark. 
 
 " I never dreamed the sea could look like that," said 
 Louisa, somewhat discontented for the first time. " It is 
 absolutely green — a dingy dismal green, unfit either for 
 the poet, or the painter. Are there no storms at this time 
 of the year ?" 
 
 " Storms V exclaimed Mr. Middleton with a shudder. 
 " Storms ?" What would the girl have? Here, child. 
 Don't you see that a stitch has been dropped in my com- 
 forter ? Suppose you were to take it up for me." 
 
 " I don't know where to find a needle ;" replied 
 Louisa. 
 
 " Xot know where to find a needle ? Your mother 
 always had her needle ready." 
 
 " What age was my mother when you first knew her?" 
 
 " About the age you are now." 
 
 " Was she like me at all?" 
 
 " Yes, very like." 
 
 " Was she as happy as I am, do you think ? ,} 
 
 " L T ntil sorrow changed her, she appeared very happy." 
 
 " Do you think sorrow will ever change me ?" 
 
 " I hope not — not at least, as it changed her." 
 
 " How was that?"
 
 264 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 " In many ways ; and especially in this, tha , she took 
 no pleasure in her old friends." 
 
 w How strange ! It must have been deep sorrow indeed, 
 to produce that effect ; for I am unable to imagine such 
 a thing." 
 
 " And yet such things do take place. Suppose now if 
 you were to go much into society, and find many people 
 to admire, and be much admired yourself; do you think 
 you would care about the old friend who took you to his 
 home when you had no other?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes. I am sure of myself there. No power, 
 no attraction in the world could make me love you less 
 than I do now. Why do you look away — why do you stir 
 the fire at the very time I am saying this to you?" 
 
 " I want you to say it again. I did not hear you quite 
 distinctly. You said you would forget me, did you not ?" 
 
 Louisa repeated her assurances, but this time with less 
 seriousness, for such things do not bear repetition, even 
 to gratify the vanity of an old bachelor ; and conscious of 
 this, Louisa quickly changed the subject for one less 
 capable of being converted into burlesque. It was at all 
 times difficult however to change the subject of conversa- 
 tion with Mr. Middleton, so very few were the topics on 
 which he was accustomed to descant ; so that whenever it 
 was desirable that a sudden turn should be given to their 
 discourse, Louisa had to tax her invention rather severely 
 to provide a more eligible theme. 
 
 It was the season of autumn when Louisa first com- 
 menced her life of liberty, and November came with its 
 heavy air, and leaden dulness over sea and land; and 
 nobody ever visited that mansion, large and well furnished 
 and handsome as it was, except now and then Miss Trip- 
 lett, and a few neighbours of her cast of character. And
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 265 
 
 now and then a small card-party was made up, now and 
 then a few morning calls were inflicted and endured ; now 
 and then a doctor was called in to still a cough, or arrest 
 an incipient catarrh; now and then a footman was im- 
 pertinent, or a cook forgot her master's favourite sauce ; 
 now and then a daily paper failed to be delivered, and the 
 event sent each individual member of that little select 
 society on a journey of communication from house to 
 house, collecting opinions, and precedents, and probable 
 causes and effects ; now and then a public ball was given 
 in the metropolis, on some great occasion, and the ins and 
 outs of the whole transaction transmitted through the 
 medium of dressmakers and other important agents, came 
 down to the coasts of Devonshire with all the variations 
 and accompaniments which travelled incidents are sure to 
 take along with them j how and then — and here the 
 interest of the whole community was at its height, an 
 accession of gout, or rheumatism, or a paralytic seizure, 
 took place ; and at such times the morning calls were 
 redoubled in their frequency, for every one felt charged, 
 and surcharged, with communicable matter, which must 
 perforce be thrown off. 
 
 Thus rolled away the hours, days, weeks, and months, 
 and still the ocean wore its leaden hue, and the land was 
 bare and brown, and from the woods had vanished the 
 last tint of autumn foliage. And within that old Eliza- 
 bethan mansion — what was there ? Sometimes Miss 
 Triplett with a new lace-cap, and a letter from a nephew 
 in India, upon the interest of which she called and visited 
 for at least a month ; or tidings were brought in that the 
 black hen had laid an e^g } or that the grey pony would 
 not eat its hay, or that the Highflyer coach had passed 
 through the village with only two passengers, and nobody
 
 266 TEMPER AND TEMPERAMENT. 
 
 inside ; and each of these subjects was discussed in a quiet 
 dotting kind of way, such as — " Dear me ! How's that ? 
 I wonder" — and so the hours rolled on, and the house had 
 no library, no music — nothing but highly polished furni- 
 ture — chairs and tables that stood always in their places, 
 and carpets that fitted to a hairVbreadth. And the life 
 led here was liberty ! 
 
 Oh, give the mind but something ! — give it calamity — 
 vexation — trial — torture — only let there be something to 
 fill up its mighty void — to still its natural craving, and to 
 turn away the gnawing edge of its keen tooth from eating 
 out its own vitality. We talk of rest, and high and low 
 are longing for it as their greatest blessing — the epicure 
 upon his after-dinner couch — the workman at his early 
 toil; but rest, in its abstract sense, in its nothingness, and 
 vacuity, is a fearful experiment for mortals constituted as 
 we are, to make. There is no rest in fact to the unoccupied, 
 and if there were — what would it be? Stagnation, and 
 consequent decay. No ; there is no halting-place in the 
 great journey of life, in which a man can safely say — 
 "Here will I take my rest." The principle of life is 
 within him, incorporated with every fibre of his frame, 
 and as surely as the processes of nature will go on, and 
 work their appointed part in the business of animal 
 existence; so surely will the subtler elements of mind 
 advance or retrograde in their eternal work — advance 
 toward the goal of human perfectibility, and human 
 happiness, for ever shifting onward, or fall back recoiling — 
 withering — agonizing under that worst of all diseases — 
 the jail-fever of an imprisoned mind. 
 
 And unquestionably it is imprisonment in its worst 
 sense to shut up all those glorious avenues through which 
 the mind would rush into the fields of knowledge — the
 
 IMPRISONED MIND. 2G7 
 
 elysian fields where blooms the amaranth that never fades, 
 for knowledge is truth made visible, or it is nothing, and 
 truth once seen is seen for ever. Onward and upward 
 ever — this is the glorious tendency of mind — the only 
 effort by which it can work out the end of its creation — 
 the only quest in which it can find happiness or even 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Rest! where is it found? There is no rest on earth. 
 There cannot be. The one great secret of our existence 
 is progression, either in advance or in recoil — either towards 
 perfection, or decay ; and no sooner does the tide begin to 
 turn, than all the elements of mind rush in, swelling its 
 backward course, and leaving as memorials of its wasted 
 power — 
 
 " nothing but wrecks, 
 
 Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. " 
 
 END OF V <">r r. 
 
 FISHER, SON 7 , AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON.