CHAPTER VII.
THE PICKLED SMALLS.
Upon those who live in the midst of excitement, who not only feel the world's buffets themselves, but see the world buffeting all around them—whose lives are one perpetual struggle—whose career is a series of ups and downs—who are constantly compelled to be on the qui vive—who, from morning till night, and from year to year, are engaged in overcoming those barriers by which their progress in life is impeded—who, either to amass wealth, or to gain a mere subsistence, have their minds continually on the stretch—who are surrounded by difficulties springing, not only from honourable competition, but from trickery, malignity, and envy—who are thwarted at every step—who are opposed at every point, and have to dodge through the world, which is to them one huge labyrinth, out of which they scarcely know how to get with honour—troubles of an unimportant caste make but little impression, for they really have not time to think much about them; but they, whose lives are passed in an almost perpetual calm—who live but to live—who have a competence which secures to them comfort—who have nothing but tranquillity around them—nothing to prepare for in this world but the next—whose course is clear, whose career is smooth—who experience neither ups nor downs—who live on, and on, in the spirit of peace, hoping for peace hereafter—who know but little of life, or its vicissitudes—who have nothing to oppose their progress—no difficulties to surmount, no barriers to break down, no competition to encounter, no struggling, no straining, no manœuvring—they magnify every cause of vexation by dwelling upon it, brooding over it, and making it the germ of a thousand conceptions, as if anxious to ascertain what monstrous fruit it can thus be imagined to bear.
The impression, however, is not intended to be conveyed that the difficulties which beset Aunt Eleanor at this period were small: the object proposed, is merely to show that, however great they might be, they were perfectly sure to be magnified; seeing that she had never had but one important trouble, and that, with this exception—the nature of which will be hereafter explained—her whole life had been characterised by an almost uninterrupted flow of tranquillity. But, even if this had not been shown, it would scarcely have been deemed, under the circumstances, extraordinary, that these occurrences—for which she could not in any way account—should have seriously interfered with her spirit's peace.
But these annoyances were not all she had been doomed to endure. In the morning when Mary went to assist her to dress, she went, fraught with another mysterious cause of vexation.
