Lost Lenore Part 68

For the "refreshments" partaken of, an exorbitant price was charged; and then something had to be paid to the ghoul-like creatures who placed them before you.

So enlightened are the people of the world's metropolis, that a man is expected to fee the waiter who sets his dinner before him.

An unenlightened people, who live far away from London, are such fools, as to think that when a dinner is ordered, the proprietor of the place is under some obligation to have it set on the table; but Londoners have reached a pitch of refinement--in the art of extortion and begging--that has conducted them to a different belief.

After staying in the "music hall" about an hour--and becoming thoroughly disgusted both with actors and audience--I succeeded in persuading my friend to take me away.

Our next visit was to a "tavern," where we were shown into a large parlour, full of people, though it was some time before I became certain of this fact, by the tobacco smoke that filled the apartment.

In this place also, part of the entertainment consisted of singing, though none of the singers were engaged professionally. A majority of those present, seemed to be acquainted with one another; and those who could sing, either volunteered, or sung at the request of the "company."

A man sitting at the head of a long table, officiated as "chairman,"

and by knocking on the table with a small ivory hammer, gave notice when a song was to commence, at the same time commanding silence.

In this place, we actually heard songs sung in good taste, and with much feeling, for it was possible to understand both the words and the music.

On leaving this tavern we repaired to another; and gained admission into the "parlour." We found it filled with linen draper's a.s.sistants, and other "counter jumpers."

Their princ.i.p.al amus.e.m.e.nt appeared to be, that of trying which could use the greatest quant.i.ty of slang and obscene language. It had been raining, as we entered the house; and a young man--too elaborately dressed to be a gentleman--who came in after us, reported to the rest of the company, that it was "raining like old boots."

Another well-dressed young man entertained the company with the important intelligence, that as soon as it should cease raining, he intended to "be off like a shot."

The individuals a.s.sembled in this tavern parlour, had a truly sn.o.bbish appearance. Their conversation was too obscene to be repeated, yet every sentence of ribaldry was received by the company with shouts of laughter!

My companion and I stayed but a few minutes among them. On going out from this place, we resolved to separate for the night, as I was quite satisfied with what I had seen of metropolitan amus.e.m.e.nts.

There are many disagreeable peculiarities about London life. It is the only place visited by me in all my wanderings, in which I had seen women insulted in the streets, and where I had been almost every day disgusted by listening to low language.

London, for all this, offers many advantages as a home. The latest and earliest news, from all parts of the world, is there to be obtained, as well as almost everything else--even good bread and coffee--if one will only take the trouble to search for them.

My brother had made London his home. It was the wish of his wife-- backed by that of her mother--that he should do so. This resolution on his part, produced in my mind some unmanly envy; and perhaps a little discontent.

Why could fortune not have been equally kind to me, and linked my fate with Lenore. I had wandered widely over the world, and wished to wander no more. Had fate been kind, I might have found a happy home, even in London. But it was not to be; and I might seek for such in vain--in London, as elsewhere.

Might I not be mistaken? Might I not follow the counsel of Cannon with profit? By once more looking upon Lenore, might I not see something to lessen my misery?

The experiment was worth the trial. It was necessary for me to do something to vary the monotony of existence. Why not pay a visit to Lenore?

Why not once more look upon her; and, perhaps as Cannon had said, "get disenchanted." By so doing, I might still save Jessie, and along with her myself.

Why was the presence of Jessie less attractive than the memory of Lenore? She was not less beautiful. She was, perhaps, even more gentle and truthful; and I believed no one could love me more. Why then should I not follow Cannon's advice? Ah! such struggles of thought availed me nothing. They could not affect my resolution of returning to Australia.

The more I reasoned, the more did I become convinced, that I loved only one--only Lenore!

Volume Three, Chapter XXVIII.

A "BLESSED BABY."

I am afflicted by a mental peculiarity, which seems to be hereditary in my family. It is my fate to form attachments, that will not yield to circ.u.mstances, and cannot be subdued by any act of volition; attachments, in short, that are terminated only by death. Among the individuals of our family, this peculiarity has sometimes proved a blessing--at other times a misfortune. Such an infatuation for Mr Leary existed in the mind of my mother. It had been cured only by her death. My sister and brother had experienced a similar regard for the respective objects of their affection. In the case of both it appeared to have led to a blessing. I had been less fortunate than they; and perhaps not more so than my departed mother: for the memories of a young girl, met in early life, had blighted all my hopes, and chilled the aspirations of my youthful manhood.

It may seem strange that a young man who had seen something of the world--and gathered gold enough to enable him to meet the demands of every day life--should find any difficulty in choosing a wife. Perhaps I may be understood, when I state that I was unable to act as most men would have done in a similar situation. The idea of my being united to any other than Lenore, seemed to me something like sacrilege--a crime, I could neither contemplate nor commit.

This condition of mind was, in all probability, mere foolishness on my part; but I could neither help, nor control it. A man may have something to do in the shaping of his thoughts; but in general they are free from any act of volition; and my inability to conquer the affection I had formed for Lenore Hyland--from whatever source it proceeded--had been proved by long years of unsuccessful trying. My will had been powerless to effect this object.

I had once been astonished at the conduct of my mother. Her long-felt affection for Mr Leary had appeared to me the climax of human folly.

After all, was it any greater than my own? I was a young man, possessing many advantages for a life of happiness. Thousands might have envied my chances. Yet I was not happy; and never likely to be. I was afflicted with an attachment that produced only misery--as hopelessly afflicted, as ever my poor mother had been; and that, too, for one whom it was wrong in me to love, since she was now the wife of another.

In one thing, it might be supposed, that I had the advantage of my unfortunate mother. I had the satisfaction of knowing, that my love had been bestowed upon a worthy object. For all this, my happiness was as effectually ruined--as had been my mother's, by an affection for the most worthless of men!

I believed myself to have been very unfortunate in life. The reader may not think so; but I can a.s.sure him, that the person who imagines himself unhappy, really is so--whether there be a true cause for it, or not.

Call it by what name you will, folly, or misfortune--neither or both--my greatest pleasure was in permitting my thoughts to stray back to the happy hours I once spent in the society of Lenore; and my greatest sorrow was to reflect, that she was lost to me for ever!

My determination to return to Australia became fixed at length; and there seemed nothing to prevent me from at once carrying it into effect.

Something whispered me, however, that before going to the other side of the world, I should once again look upon Lenore.

I knew not what prompted me to this resolve, for it soon became such.

Cannon's counsel might have had something to do with it; but it was not altogether that. I was influenced by a higher motive.

I had heard that after her marriage, her husband had taken her to reside in London. I presumed, therefore, that she was in London at that moment; but, for any chance that there would be of my finding her, she might as well have been in the centre of the Saharan desert. I had no clue to her address--not the slightest. I did not even know the name of the man she had married. The steward, who at Sydney had told me the news, did not give the name; and at the time I was too terribly affected to think of asking it. It is true that I might have found her by advertising in the papers; but the circ.u.mstances were such, as to forbid my resorting to such means as that. I only desired to see her--not to speak to her. Nothing could have tempted me to exchange a word with her. I wished but to gaze once more upon her incomparable beauty-- before betaking myself to a place where the opportunity could never occur again.

I thought of Cannon's conversation--of his plan for becoming disenchanted; but I had not the slightest idea, that, in my case, it would prove successful.

While reflecting, on how I might find Lenore, a happy idea came to my aid. She had lived in Liverpool--she had been married there. I was acquainted with some of Mrs Hyland's friends, who must still be in Liverpool. Surely they would know the name and address of the young lady, who was once Lenore Hyland? It would only cost me a journey to Liverpool--with some disagreeable souvenirs, to spring up in my mind while there--but my reward would be to gaze once again upon the beauty of Lenore.

I had seen in the papers, that Captain Nowell's vessel was to sail for Melbourne in a few days. I was pleased at this information: for I intended to take pa.s.sage with him; and might antic.i.p.ate a more pleasant voyage, than if I went with a stranger.

Before setting out for Liverpool, I wrote a note to Captain Nowell-- informing him of my intention to go out in his s.h.i.+p; and requesting him to keep for me one of the best berths of his cabin. This business settled, I took the train for the metropolis of Lancas.h.i.+re. I was not over satisfied with myself while starting on this journey. I was troubled with a suspicion, that I was doing a very foolish thing. My conscience, however, became quieted by the reflection that it was of very little consequence, either to myself, or any one else, whether I went to Liverpool, or stayed in London. I was alone in the world--a rolling stone--and why should I not follow the guidance of my destiny?

I became better satisfied with my proceedings when I reflected that they would lead to my finding Lenore, and once more looking upon her.

I knew that by so doing my unhappiness might only be increased; but I fancied that even this would be a change from the dull aching misery, I had been so long enduring.

My railroad journey by Liverpool was not without an incident that interested me. In the carriage in which I had taken my seat, was a man--accompanied by his wife, their child, and a servant girl who nursed the "baby." I had not been ten minutes in the company of this interesting group, before I became convinced that it was worthy of being studied, although like a Latin lesson, the study was not altogether agreeable.

The husband was a striking example, of how a sensible man may sometimes be governed by a silly woman. The child was about two years and a half old; and the fact, that it had already learnt to cry, seemed to its mother something to be surprised at!

The selfishness which causes that painful reserve, or want of sociability, observable amongst the travelling English of the middle cla.s.s, was in the case of the woman in question, subdued by a silly conceit about her child--which she appeared to regard as a little lump of concentrated perfection. Before we had been in the carriage half-an-hour, she had told me its age, the number of its teeth, what it did, and did not like to eat, along with several remarkable things it had been heard to say.

"But is it not strange," asked she, after a long speech in manifestation of its many virtues, "that a child of its age cannot walk?"

"There is nothing strange about it," muttered the husband, "how can the child learn to walk, when it never has an opportunity of trying? It'll never have a chance to try, as long as there is a servant girl in the United Kingdom strong enough to carry it about. I'll answer for that."

"John, dear, how can you talk so?" exclaimed the mother of the blessed baby, "you have not the least consideration, or you would not expect an infant to be a man."

During the two hours I shared the carriage with this interesting family, I heard that mother use to her child about one-fourth of all the words in the English language--adding to each word the additional syllable "ee."

When the father ventured to open his mouth, and speak to the child in plain English, the mother would accuse him of scolding it; and then the little demon would set up a loud yelling, from which it would not desist, until mother and nurse had called it every pet name they could think of--adding to each the endearing syllable "ee."

Becoming perfectly satisfied at the observations I had made of the peculiarities of this pleasant family, I took the first opportunity of "changing carriages;" and left the fond mother to enjoy, undisturbed, the caresses of her spoilt pet. Perhaps, had Fortune been a little kinder to myself, I might have felt less afflicted in such society. But as I had no intention of ever becoming a family man, I thought the knowledge of "what to avoid," was hardly worth acquiring--at the expense of being submitted to the annoyance that accompanied the lesson.

Volume Three, Chapter XXIX.