Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/Sefton Church
62
SEFTON CHURCH, LANCASHIRE.
|
SEFTON CHURCH.
HERE are very many devices wherewith we delude ourselves—indeed, human life has never seemed to me any thing more than a series of mistakes. It is a mistake to be born—another to live—and a third to die. However, there is one other mistake, more absurd than all the three—and that is marrying—and which is made worse by the fact, that the other three we cannot very well help, but the last we can. I say nothing of your matches of convenience, for I do not understand how any thing in existence can be other than inconvenient; nor of your marriage for money, as money, like patriotism, is an excuse for every thing; but I speak of your love matches. Now, a love match is like that childish toy which consists of various boxes enclosed one within another, and yet contains nothing, after all. I wonder where Experience got its reputation?—it has been very easily obtained—but it does not deserve it: they say, that it teaches fools; it may teach them, but they do not learn. Every year, one sees a young woman in a white gown, and a young man in a blue coat, adventuring on what is called "the happiest day of one’s life;" so called, perhaps, as they are never very particularly happy afterwards. Equally, every year, does one witness couples who, in like manner, begin in blue and white, continuing in green and yellow melancholy: yet no one takes warning by the example; all seem to expect a miracle from fate, in their own favour—what business they have to expect it, I don't know; but we do flatter ourselves strangely. I must, however, do fate the justice to acknowledge its strict impartiality—all are disappointed alike. I hold that, in marriage, love augments the evil: contrast in such cases is an aggravation of ennui; it is so peculiarly provoking, to reflect how much pleasanter you used to be to each other. Hope and Love are the passions of the heart; the difference between them is, that Hope does not come to an end, but Love does. Love has two terminations; it concludes either in profound indifference, or in intense hate. Now, in the general run of human natures, there is not energy enough for hate; therefore, the usual finale is profound indifference; the most insipid state of existence that can be devised. No wonder that the household gods, like the images on a chimney-piece, often get broken. Quarrels are only the refreshing necessities of married life: but for their valuable aid, a whole city, like that in the Arabian Nights, might get up some fine summer morning, and find itself turned into stone. It being the universal, therefore laudable fashion, on the principle of that never sufficiently to be commended concentration of the whole doctrine of expediency, that "whatever is, is right" to destroy all delusions, whether of piety, poetry, or loyalty; and the universal demand being for facts, I hold, that the vain lights thrown round "the temple of Hymen" ought to be put out, as only false meteors luring to the slough of despond, taking the ignis fatuus shapes of white gloves, silver favours, wedding excursions, and wedding cakes. I have seen many young people immolate love on the shrine of mutual affection—but it is the reckless sacrifice I have witnessed this morning, that has induced my thoughts to take the more tangible shape of words. One goes out visiting for pleasure; a fallacy belonging to that melancholy mania for change which has recourse to stage-coaches, and steam-boats, as if change of scene were change of self. For the last week I have been made, if not exactly miserable, very uncomfortable; and the only difference between them is, that the last wants dignity,—"wearied with sameness of perpetual talk" about the marriage of a Miss Merton. She could not be more glad when the wedding day came than I was—once over, the ifs and buts, the whys and wherefores, of this eternal marriage, would subside into silence. But the worst was yet to come—I love lying in bed, am an invalid, and like the world to be thoroughly aired before I venture into it; yet up was I dragged at seven o'clock, and a rainy morning, merely because my friends were quite sure I should like to see Miss Merton married. What right have people to be sure of any thing in this life? Of course we had no breakfast; nobody seemed to think of it but myself. Off we set through the rain, and arrived in church just by eight o'clock—the bride, though, was before us. There she sat, smiling in ignorant happiness; but what woman could put on a new white bonnet, with orange flowers, a gros des Indes brodè en colonnes, and a blonde veil, and not feel—
"Let what will come, I have been blest."
I found the time very long, and myself very chilly: even as I had wished for the arrival of the wedding day, did I now wish for the arrival of the bridegroom. Nine o’clock struck, every body counted it in silence, then a little talk recommenced—some persons have such spirits! I read the inscription on a marble monument (marble enough in it for three chimney pieces—very extravagant,) erected to the memory of a major killed in the American war; it informed us, that a grateful country would long preserve his name—I cannot say that the information was correct: then I walked up and down the aisle, endeavouring to remember all the happy couples I could; at last I recollected one, and they were very happy indeed; she lived at Amsterdam, and he in Demerara; they used to write each other such affectionate letters! Ten o'clock struck; every body counted it again. Dead silence was succeeded by a thunder-storm of words: one mentioned an interesting fact, how a bridegroom had overslept himself one morning, and shot himself the next; another recollected, that a friend of his had been thrown from his gig, and had broken his neck; while a third stated, that his gardener had been detained too long shaving, and, when the damsel rejected him in consequence, made a vow he would never shave again, and "has now a beard worthy a Jew or a Turk, excepting that it is red." The misfortunes of others beguiled the time, as they always do. Eleven o'clock struck; the matter now became serious—the very youngest of the bride’s-maids ceased to laugh—the bride herself began to cry. At length, a piece of advice I had been offering for the last two hours was taken—a messenger was sent to the inn where the bridegroom was staying. I augured ill, from the rapidity with which he returned:—good news stops to take breath on the road; bad news never requires it. The recreant lover had taken fright and post horses, and had set off at six that morning "over the hills, and far away." We shall now go home to breakfast, thought I: but there was still a deal to be done; all surrounded the lady, and, as the most effectual method of consoling her, began to abuse the departed—a common custom all the world over. More effectual comfort was, however, at hand: a young lieutenant in the navy—a handsome young man he was, too — stepped forward, and addressed her thus—"Madam, I never could bear to see a lady disappointed, that is, if she was pretty. Mr.———(hang the fellow, I forget his name, and you will forget it, too,) he is off, but I am ready to take his place; and I have been in love with you a long time, though I did not know it till this morning." The lady looked at the clergymen, then at the lieutenant, and then on the folds of her white veil. "Well," said she, "it is a pity to be drest for nothing—I shall be very happy." And married they were. True, that at last I got home to breakfast; but, that over, my feelings needed the relief of expression. I must protest against the outrageous recklessness of the young sailor—what can he expect from the future?
"Needs must the chariot wheels of destiny
Crush one who flings him in its onward path
Patient and prostrate."