June 1st, 1821.—We have just returned to Staningley—that is, we returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I never should be. We left town sooner than was intended, in consequence of my uncle’s indisposition;—I wonder what would have been the result if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books, because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one but myself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may be, hereafter. But, then, there is one face I am always trying to paint or to sketch, and always without success; and that vexes me. As for the owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind—and, indeed, I never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me; and I wonder whether I shall ever see him again. And then might follow a train of other wonderments—questions for time and fate to answer—concluding with—Supposing all the rest be answered in the affirmative, I wonder whether I shall ever repent it? as my aunt would tell me I should, if she knew what I was thinking about.

How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our departure for town, when we were sitting together over the fire, my uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the gout.

“Helen,” said she, after a thoughtful silence, “do you ever think about marriage?”

“Yes, aunt, often.”

“And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being married yourself, or engaged, before the season is over?”

“Sometimes; but I don’t think it at all likely that I ever shall.”

“Why so?”

“Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few men in the world that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to one I may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is twenty to one he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to me.”

“That is no argument at all. It may be very true—and I hope is true, that there are very few men whom you would choose to marry, of yourself. It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would wish to marry any one till you were asked: a girl’s affections should never be won unsought. But when they are sought—when the citadel of the heart is fairly besieged—it is apt to surrender sooner than the owner is aware of, and often against her better judgment, and in opposition to all her preconceived ideas of what she could have loved, unless she be extremely careful and discreet. Now, I want to warn you, Helen, of these things, and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect from the very commencement of your career, and not to suffer your heart to be stolen from you by the first foolish or unprincipled person that covets the possession of it.—You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; there is plenty of time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in any hurry to get you off our hands, and I may venture to say, there will be no lack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you likewise—for, if I don’t, others will—that you have a fair share of beauty besides—and I hope you may never have cause to regret it!”

“I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?”

“Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men; and, therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of trouble on the possessor.”

“Have you been troubled in that way, aunt?”

“No, Helen,” said she, with reproachful gravity, “but I know many that have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretched victims of deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares and temptations terrible to relate.”

“Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.”

“Remember Peter, Helen! Don’t boast, but watch. Keep a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let your affections be consequent upon approbation alone. First study; then approve; then love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears deaf to all the fascinations of flattery and light discourse.—These are nothing—and worse than nothing—snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is the first thing, after all; and next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate wealth. If you should marry the handsomest, and most accomplished and superficially agreeable man in the world, you little know the misery that would overwhelm you if, after all, you should find him to be a worthless reprobate, or even an impracticable fool.”

“But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt? If everybody followed your advice, the world would soon come to an end.”

“Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never want for partners, while there are so many of the other sex to match them; but do you follow my advice. And this is no subject for jesting, Helen—I am sorry to see you treat the matter in that light way. Believe me, matrimony is a serious thing.” And she spoke it so seriously, that one might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I asked no more impertinent questions, and merely answered,—

“I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say; but you need not fear me, for I not only should think it wrong to marry a man that was deficient in sense or in principle, but I should never be tempted to do it; for I could not like him, if he were ever so handsome, and ever so charming, in other respects; I should hate him—despise him—pity him—anything but love him. My affections not only ought to be founded on approbation, but they will and must be so: for, without approving, I cannot love. It is needless to say, I ought to be able to respect and honour the man I marry, as well as love him, for I cannot love him without. So set your mind at rest.”

“I hope it may be so,” answered she.

“I know it is so,” persisted I.

“You have not been tried yet, Helen—we can but hope,” said she in her cold, cautious way.

“I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts were entirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier to remember her advice than to profit by it;—indeed, I have sometimes been led to question the soundness of her doctrines on those subjects. Her counsels may be good, as far as they go—in the main points at least;—but there are some things she has overlooked in her calculations. I wonder if she was ever in love.

I commenced my career—or my first campaign, as my uncle calls it—kindling with bright hopes and fancies—chiefly raised by this conversation—and full of confidence in my own discretion. At first, I was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life; but soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulence and constraint, and sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both male and female, disappointed my expectations, and vexed and depressed me by turns; for I soon grew tired of studying their peculiarities, and laughing at their foibles—particularly as I was obliged to keep my criticisms to myself, for my aunt would not hear them—and they—the ladies especially—appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and artificial. The gentlemen seemed better, but, perhaps, it was because I knew them less—perhaps, because they flattered me; but I did not fall in love with any of them; and, if their attentions pleased me one moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out of humour with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me fear I was becoming like some of the ladies I so heartily despised.

There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich old friend of my uncle’s, who, I believe, thought I could not do better than marry him; but, besides being old, he was ugly and disagreeable,—and wicked, I am sure, though my aunt scolded me for saying so; but she allowed he was no saint. And there was another, less hateful, but still more tiresome, because she favoured him, and was always thrusting him upon me, and sounding his praises in my ears—Mr. Boarham by name, Bore’em, as I prefer spelling it, for a terrible bore he was: I shudder still at the remembrance of his voice—drone, drone, drone, in my ear—while he sat beside me, prosing away by the half-hour together, and beguiling himself with the notion that he was improving my mind by useful information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and reforming my errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to my level, and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he was a decent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had kept his distance, I never would have hated him. As it was, it was almost impossible to help it, for he not only bothered me with the infliction of his own presence, but he kept me from the enjoyment of more agreeable society.

One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually tormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted. It appeared as if the whole evening was fated to be insupportable: I had just had one dance with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham had come upon me and seemed determined to cling to me for the rest of the night. He never danced himself, and there he sat, poking his head in my face, and impressing all beholders with the idea that he was a confirmed, acknowledged lover; my aunt looking complacently on all the time, and wishing him God-speed. In vain I attempted to drive him away by giving a loose to my exasperated feelings, even to positive rudeness: nothing could convince him that his presence was disagreeable. Sullen silence was taken for rapt attention, and gave him greater room to talk; sharp answers were received as smart sallies of girlish vivacity, that only required an indulgent rebuke; and flat contradictions were but as oil to the flames, calling forth new strains of argument to support his dogmas, and bringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to overwhelm me with conviction.

But there was one present who seemed to have a better appreciation of my frame of mind. A gentleman stood by, who had been watching our conference for some time, evidently much amused at my companion’s remorseless pertinacity and my manifest annoyance, and laughing to himself at the asperity and uncompromising spirit of my replies. At length, however, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house, apparently for the purpose of asking an introduction to me, for, shortly after, they both came up, and she introduced him as Mr. Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle’s. He asked me to dance. I gladly consented, of course; and he was my companion during the remainder of my stay, which was not long, for my aunt, as usual, insisted upon an early departure.

I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a very lively and entertaining companion. There was a certain graceful ease and freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense of repose and expansion to the mind, after so much constraint and formality as I had been doomed to suffer. There might be, it is true, a little too much careless boldness in his manner and address, but I was in so good a humour, and so grateful for my late deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that it did not anger me.

“Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?” said my aunt, as we took our seats in the carriage and drove away.

“Worse than ever,” I replied.

She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject.

“Who was the gentleman you danced with last,” resumed she, after a pause—“that was so officious in helping you on with your shawl?”

“He was not officious at all, aunt: he never attempted to help me, till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he stepped laughingly forward and said, ‘Come, I’ll preserve you from that infliction.’”

“Who was it, I ask?” said she, with frigid gravity.

“It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle’s old friend.”

“I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr. Huntingdon. I’ve heard him say, ‘He’s a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish, I fancy.’ So I’d have you beware.”

“What does ‘a bit wildish’ mean?” I inquired.

“It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is common to youth.”

“But I’ve heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when he was young.”

She sternly shook her head.

“He was jesting then, I suppose,” said I, “and here he was speaking at random—at least, I cannot believe there is any harm in those laughing blue eyes.”

“False reasoning, Helen!” said she, with a sigh.

“Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt—besides, I don’t think it is false: I am an excellent physiognomist, and I always judge of people’s characters by their looks—not by whether they are handsome or ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance. For instance, I should know by your countenance that you were not of a cheerful, sanguine disposition; and I should know by Mr. Wilmot’s, that he was a worthless old reprobate; and by Mr. Boarham’s, that he was not an agreeable companion; and by Mr. Huntingdon’s, that he was neither a fool nor a knave, though, possibly, neither a sage nor a saint—but that is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again—unless as an occasional partner in the ball-room.”

It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to call upon my uncle, apologising for not having done so before, by saying he was only lately returned from the Continent, and had not heard, till the previous night, of my uncle’s arrival in town; and after that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at home; for he was very assiduous in paying his respects to his old friend, who did not, however, consider himself greatly obliged by the attention.

“I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,” he would say,—“can you tell, Helen?—Hey? He wants none o’ my company, nor I his—that’s certain.”

“I wish you’d tell him so, then,” said my aunt.

“Why, what for? If I don’t want him, somebody does, mayhap” (winking at me). “Besides, he’s a pretty tidy fortune, Peggy, you know—not such a catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won’t hear of that match: for, somehow, these old chaps don’t go down with the girls—with all their money, and their experience to boot. I’ll bet anything she’d rather have this young fellow without a penny, than Wilmot with his house full of gold. Wouldn’t you, Nell?”

“Yes, uncle; but that’s not saying much for Mr. Huntingdon; for I’d rather be an old maid and a pauper than Mrs. Wilmot.”

“And Mrs. Huntingdon? What would you rather be than Mrs. Huntingdon—eh?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve considered the matter.”

“Ah! it needs consideration, then? But come, now—would you rather be an old maid—let alone the pauper?”

“I can’t tell till I’m asked.”

And I left the room immediately, to escape further examination. But five minutes after, in looking from my window, I beheld Mr. Boarham coming up to the door. I waited nearly half-an-hour in uncomfortable suspense, expecting every minute to be called, and vainly longing to hear him go. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and my aunt entered the room with a solemn countenance, and closed the door behind her.

“Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,” said she. “He wishes to see you.”

“Oh, aunt!—Can’t you tell him I’m indisposed?—I’m sure I am—to see him.”

“Nonsense, my dear! this is no trifling matter. He is come on a very important errand—to ask your hand in marriage of your uncle and me.”

“I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give it. What right had he to ask any one before me?”

“Helen!”

“What did my uncle say?”

“He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked to accept Mr. Boarham’s obliging offer, you—”

“Did he say obliging offer?”

“No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you might please yourself.”

“He said right; and what did you say?”

“It is no matter what I said. What will you say?—that is the question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well before you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.”

“I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for I want to be civil and yet decided—and when I’ve got rid of him, I’ll give you my reasons afterwards.”

“But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. Mr. Boarham is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of your acceptance; and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, what are your objections to him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable man?”

“No.”

“Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?”

“No; he may be all this, but—”

“But Helen! How many such men do you expect to meet with in the world? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is this such an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of such noble qualities without a moment’s hesitation? Yes, noble I may call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many inestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to the list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet. It is in your power to secure this inestimable blessing for life—a worthy and excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly so as to blind him to your faults, and will be your guide throughout life’s pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss. Think how—”

“But I hate him, aunt,” said I, interrupting this unusual flow of eloquence.

“Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit?—you hate him? and he so good a man!”

“I don’t hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so much that I wish him a better wife than I—one as good as himself, or better—if you think that possible—provided she could like him; but I never could, and therefore—”

“But why not? What objection do you find?”

“Firstly, he is at least forty years old—considerably more, I should think—and I am but eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly displeasing to me; and, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person that I never can surmount.”

“Then you ought to surmount it. And please to compare him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contribute nothing to the merit of the man, or to the happiness of married life, and which you have so often professed to hold in light esteem), tell me which is the better man.”

“I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think him; but we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham; and as I would rather grow, live, and die in single blessedness—than be his wife, it is but right that I should tell him so at once, and put him out of suspense—so let me go.”

“But don’t give him a flat denial; he has no idea of such a thing, and it would offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at present—”

“But I have thoughts of it.”

“Or that you desire a further acquaintance.”

“But I don’t desire a further acquaintance—quite the contrary.”

And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room and went to seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing-room, humming snatches of tunes and nibbling the end of his cane.

“My dear young lady,” said he, bowing and smirking with great complacency, “I have your kind guardian’s permission—”

“I know, sir,” said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much as possible, “and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we were not made for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover if the experiment were tried.”

My aunt was right. It was quite evident he had had little doubt of my acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial. He was amazed, astounded at such an answer, but too incredulous to be much offended; and after a little humming and hawing, he returned to the attack.

“I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity between us in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other things; but let me assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults and foibles of a young and ardent nature such as yours, and while I acknowledge them to myself, and even rebuke them with all a father’s care, believe me, no youthful lover could be more tenderly indulgent towards the object of his affections than I to you; and, on the other hand, let me hope that my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection will be no disparagement in your eyes, as I shall endeavour to make them all conducive to your happiness. Come, now! What do you say? Let us have no young lady’s affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.”

“I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain we were not made for each other.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

“But you don’t know me—you wish for a further acquaintance—a longer time to—”

“No, I don’t. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better than you know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one so incongruous—so utterly unsuitable to you in every way.”

“But, my dear young lady, I don’t look for perfection; I can excuse—”

“Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won’t trespass upon your goodness. You may save your indulgence and consideration for some more worthy object, that won’t tax them so heavily.”

“But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am sure, will—”

“I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide with yours; but in such important matters, I take the liberty of judging for myself; and no persuasion can alter my inclinations, or induce me to believe that such a step would be conducive to my happiness or yours—and I wonder that a man of your experience and discretion should think of choosing such a wife.”

“Ah, well!” said he, “I have sometimes wondered at that myself. I have sometimes said to myself, ‘Now Boarham, what is this you’re after? Take care, man—look before you leap! This is a sweet, bewitching creature, but remember, the brightest attractions to the lover too often prove the husband’s greatest torments!’ I assure you my choice has not been made without much reasoning and reflection. The seeming imprudence of the match has cost me many an anxious thought by day, and many a sleepless hour by night; but at length I satisfied myself that it was not, in very deed, imprudent. I saw my sweet girl was not without her faults, but of these her youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an earnest of virtues yet unblown—a strong ground of presumption that her little defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner were not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated by the patient efforts of a watchful and judicious adviser, and where I failed to enlighten and control, I thought I might safely undertake to pardon, for the sake of her many excellences. Therefore, my dearest girl, since I am satisfied, why should you object—on my account, at least?”

“But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account I principally object; so let us—drop the subject,” I would have said, “for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further,” but he pertinaciously interrupted me with,—“But why so? I would love you, cherish you, protect you,” &c., &c.

I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between us. Suffice it to say, that I found him very troublesome, and very hard to convince that I really meant what I said, and really was so obstinate and blind to my own interests, that there was no shadow of a chance that either he or my aunt would ever be able to overcome my objections. Indeed, I am not sure that I succeeded after all; though wearied with his so pertinaciously returning to the same point and repeating the same arguments over and over again, forcing me to reiterate the same replies, I at length turned short and sharp upon him, and my last words were,—“I tell you plainly, that it cannot be. No consideration can induce me to marry against my inclinations. I respect you—at least, I would respect you, if you would behave like a sensible man—but I cannot love you, and never could—and the more you talk the further you repel me; so pray don’t say any more about it.”

Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew, disconcerted and offended, no doubt; but surely it was not my fault.