June 1st, 1821. - We have just returned to Staningley - that is, wereturned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if Inever should be. We left town sooner than was intended, inconsequence of my uncle's indisposition; - I wonder what would havebeen the result if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamedof my new-sprung distaste for country life. All my formeroccupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements soinsipid and unprofitable. I cannot enjoy my music, because thereis no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my walks, because there is noone to meet. I cannot enjoy my books, because they have not powerto arrest my attention: my head is so haunted with therecollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot attend to them.My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the sametime; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one butmyself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, maybe, hereafter. But, then, there is one face I am always trying topaint 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 mightfollow a train of other wonderments - questions for time and fateto answer - concluding with - Supposing all the rest be answered inthe affirmative, I wonder whether I shall ever repent it? as myaunt would tell me I should, if she knew what I was thinking about.

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

'Helen,' said she, after a thoughtful silence, 'do you ever thinkabout marriage?'

'Yes, aunt, often.'

'And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being marriedyourself, 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 theworld that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten toone I may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it istwenty to one he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy tome.'

'That is no argument at all. It may be very true - and I hope istrue, that there are very few men whom you would choose to marry,of yourself. It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would wishto marry any one till you were asked: a girl's affections shouldnever be won unsought. But when they are sought - when the citadelof the heart is fairly besieged - it is apt to surrender soonerthan the owner is aware of, and often against her better judgment,and in opposition to all her preconceived ideas of what she couldhave loved, unless she be extremely careful and discreet. Now, Iwant to warn you, Helen, of these things, and to exhort you to bewatchful and circumspect from the very commencement of your career,and not to suffer your heart to be stolen from you by the firstfoolish or unprincipled person that covets the possession of it. -You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; there is plenty oftime before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in any hurry toget you off our hands, and I may venture to say, there will be nolack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a prettyconsiderable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell youlikewise - for, if I don't, others will - that you have a fairshare of beauty besides - and I hope you may never have cause toregret it!'

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

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

'Have you been troubled in that way, aunt?'

'No, Helen,' said she, with reproachful gravity, 'but I know manythat have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretchedvictims of deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen intosnares and temptations terrible to relate.'

'Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.'

'Remember Peter, Helen! Don't boast, but watch. Keep a guard overyour eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lipsas the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness.Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you haveascertained and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and letyour affections be consequent upon approbation alone. First study;then approve; then love. Let your eyes be blind to all externalattractions, your ears deaf to all the fascinations of flattery andlight discourse. - These are nothing - and worse than nothing -snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure the thoughtless to theirown destruction. Principle is the first thing, after all; and nextto that, good sense, respectability, and moderate wealth. If youshould marry the handsomest, and most accomplished andsuperficially agreeable man in the world, you little know themisery that would overwhelm you if, after all, you should find himto be a worthless reprobate, or even an impracticable fool.'

'But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt? Ifeverybody followed your advice, the world would soon come to anend.'

'Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never wantfor partners, while there are so many of the other sex to matchthem; but do you follow my advice. And this is no subject forjesting, Helen - I am sorry to see you treat the matter in thatlight way. Believe me, matrimony is a serious thing.' And shespoke it so seriously, that one might have fancied she had known itto her cost; but I asked no more impertinent questions, and merelyanswered, - 'I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense inwhat you say; but you need not fear me, for I not only should thinkit wrong to marry a man that was deficient in sense or inprinciple, but I should never be tempted to do it; for I could notlike him, if he were ever so handsome, and ever so charming, inother respects; I should hate him - despise him - pity him -anything but love him. My affections not only ought to be foundedon approbation, but they will and must be so: for, withoutapproving, I cannot love. It is needless to say, I ought to beable 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 inher cold, cautious way.

'I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts wereentirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier toremember her advice than to profit by it; - indeed, I havesometimes been led to question the soundness of her doctrines onthose subjects. Her counsels may be good, as far as they go - inthe main points at least; - but there are some things she hasoverlooked 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 thisconversation - and full of confidence in my own discretion. Atfirst, I was delighted with the novelty and excitement of ourLondon life; but soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulenceand constraint, and sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. Mynew acquaintances, both male and female, disappointed myexpectations, and vexed and depressed me by turns; I for I soongrew tired of studying their peculiarities, and laughing at theirfoibles - particularly as I was obliged to keep my criticisms tomyself, for my aunt would not hear them - and they - the ladiesespecially - appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, andartificial. The gentlemen scorned better, but, perhaps, it wasbecause I knew them less - perhaps, because they flattered me; butI did not fall in love with any of them; and, if their attentionspleased me one moment, they provoked me the next, because they putme out of humour with myself, by revealing my vanity and making mefear I was becoming like some of the ladies I so heartily despised.

There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a richold friend of my uncle's, who, I believe, thought I could not dobetter than marry him; but, besides being old, he was ugly anddisagreeable, - and wicked, I am sure, though my aunt scolded mefor saying so; but she allowed he was no saint. And there wasanother, less hateful, but still more tiresome, because shefavoured him, and was always thrusting him upon me, and soundinghis praises in my ears - Mr. Boarham by name, Bore'em, as I preferspelling it, for a terrible bore he was: I shudder still at theremembrance of his voice - drone, drone, drone, in my ear - whilehe sat beside me, prosing away by the half-hour together, andbeguiling himself with the notion that he was improving my mind byuseful information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and reformingmy errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to mylevel, and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he was adecent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had kept hisdistance, I never would have hated him. As it was, it was almostimpossible to help it, for he not only bothered me with theinfliction of his own presence, but he kept me from the enjoymentof more agreeable society.

One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usuallytormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted. It appeared as ifthe whole evening was fated to be insupportable: I had just hadone dance with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham hadcome upon me and seemed determined to cling to me for the rest ofthe night. He never danced himself, and there he sat, poking hishead in my face, and impressing all beholders with the idea that hewas a confirmed, acknowledged lover; my aunt looking complacentlyon all the time, and wishing him God-speed. In vain I attempted todrive him away by giving a loose to my exasperated feelings, evento positive rudeness: nothing could convince him that his presencewas disagreeable. Sullen silence was taken for rapt attention, andgave him greater room to talk; sharp answers were received as smartsallies of girlish vivacity, that only required an indulgentrebuke; and flat contradictions were but as oil to the flames,calling forth new strains of argument to support his dogmas, andbringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to overwhelm mewith conviction.

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

I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a verylively and entertaining companion. There was a certain gracefulease and freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense ofrepose and expansion to the mind, after so much constraint andformality as I had been doomed to suffer. There might be, it istrue, a little too much careless boldness in his manner andaddress, but I was in so good a humour, and so grateful for my latedeliverance from Mr. Boarham, that it did not anger me.

'Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?' said my aunt, as wetook 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 apause - 'that was so officious in helping you on with your shawl?'

'He was not officious at all, aunt: he never attempted to help metill he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he steppedlaughingly forward and said, "Come, I'll preserve you from thatinfliction."'

'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 heardhim say, "He's a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bitwildish, 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 iscommon to youth.'

'But I've heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when hewas young.'

She sternly shook her head.

'He was jesting then, I suppose,' said I, 'and here he was speakingat random - at least, I cannot believe there is any harm in thoselaughing blue eyes.'

'False reasoning, Helen!' said she, with a sigh.

'Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt - besides, I don'tthink it is false: I am an excellent physiognomist, and I alwaysjudge of people's characters by their looks - not by whether theyare handsome or ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance.For instance, I should know by your countenance that you were notof 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 occasionalpartner in the ball-room.'

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

'I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,' hewould say, - 'can you tell, Helen? - Hey? He wants none o' mycompany, 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, youknow - not such a catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won't hear ofthat match: for, somehow, these old chaps don't go down with thegirls - with all their money, and their experience to boot. I'llbet 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'drather 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 yourather 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 inuncomfortable suspense, expecting every minute to be called, andvainly longing to hear him go. Then footsteps were heard on thestairs, and my aunt entered the room with a solemn countenance, andclosed 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 avery important errand - to ask your hand in marriage of your uncleand me.'

'I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to giveit. 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 toaccept 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, youmight please yourself.'

'He said right; and what did you say?'

'It is no matter what I said. What will you say? - that is thequestion. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider wellbefore you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me yourreasons.'

'I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for Iwant 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 youracceptance; and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, whatare 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 theworld? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is thissuch an every-day character that you should reject the possessor ofsuch noble qualities without a moment's hesitation? Yes, noble Imay call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how manyinestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to thelist), and consider that all this is laid at your feet. It is inyour power to secure this inestimable blessing for life - a worthyand excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondlyso as to blind him to your faults, and will be your guidethroughout life's pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss.Think how - '

'But I hate him, aunt,' said I, interrupting this unusual flow ofeloquence.

'Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit? - you hate him? andhe so good a man!'

'I don't hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love himso much that I wish him a better wife than I - one as good ashimself, or better - if you think that possible - provided shecould 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, Ishould think - and I am but eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-mindedand bigoted in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings arewholly dissimilar to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and mannerare particularly displeasing to me; and, finally, I have anaversion to his whole person that I never can surmount.'

'Then you ought to surmount it. And please to compare him for amoment with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contributenothing to the merit of the man, or to the happiness of marriedlife, and which you have so often professed to hold in lightesteem), tell me which is the better man.'

'I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you thinkhim; 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 atonce, 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 ofmatrimony 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 andwent 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 greatcomplacency, 'I have your kind guardian's permission - '

'I know, sir,' said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much aspossible, 'and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but mustbeg to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we werenot made for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover ifthe experiment were tried.'

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

'I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparitybetween us in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other things;but let me assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults andfoibles of a young and ardent nature such as yours, and while Iacknowledge them to myself, and even rebuke them with all afather's care, believe me, no youthful lover could be more tenderlyindulgent towards the object of his affections than I to you; and,on the other hand, let me hope that my more experienced years andgraver 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'saffectations and caprices, but speak out at once.'

'I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certainwe were not made for each other.'

'You really think so?'

'I do.'

'But you don't know me - you wish for a further acquaintance - alonger time to - '

'No, I don't. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better thanyou know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one soincongruous - 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 worthyobject, that won't tax them so heavily.'

'But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I amsure, will - '

'I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide with yours;but in such important matters, I take the liberty of judging formyself; and no persuasion can alter my inclinations, or induce meto believe that such a step would be conducive to my happiness oryours - and I wonder that a man of your experience and discretionshould think of choosing such a wife.'

'Ah, well!' said he, 'I have sometimes wondered at that myself. Ihave sometimes said to myself, "Now Boarham, what is this you'reafter? Take care, man - look before you leap! This is a sweet,bewitching creature, but remember, the brightest attractions to thelover too often prove the husband's greatest torments!" I assureyou my choice has not been made without much reasoning andreflection. The seeming imprudence of the match has cost me manyan anxious thought by day, and many a sleepless hour by night; butat length I satisfied myself that it was not, in very deed,imprudent. I saw my sweet girl was not without her faults, but ofthese her youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an earnest ofvirtues yet unblown - a strong ground of presumption that herlittle defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or mannerwere not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated bythe patient efforts of a watchful and judicious adviser, and whereI failed to enlighten and control, I thought I might safelyundertake to pardon, for the sake of her many excellences.Therefore, my dearest girl, since I am satisfied, why should youobject - on my account, at least?'

'But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account Iprincipally object; so let us - drop the subject,' I would havesaid, 'for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further,' buthe pertinaciously interrupted me with, - 'But why so? I would loveyou, 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 hardto convince that I really meant what I said, and really was soobstinate and blind to my own interests, that there was no shadowof a chance that either he or my aunt would ever be able toovercome my objections. Indeed, I am not sure that I succeededafter all; though wearied with his so pertinaciously returning tothe same point and repeating the same arguments over and overagain, forcing me to reiterate the same replies, I at length turnedshort and sharp upon him, and my last words were, - 'I tell youplainly, that it cannot be. No consideration can induce me tomarry against my inclinations. I respect you - at least, I wouldrespect you, if you would behave like a sensible man - but I cannotlove you, and never could - and the more you talk the further yourepel me; so pray don't say any more about it.'

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