The young Lord Aveleyn returned to the hall of his ancestors, exchanging the gloomy cockpit for the gay saloon, the ship's allowance for sumptuous fare, the tyranny of his messmates and the harshness of his superiors for adulation and respect. Was he happier? No. In this world, whether in boyhood or riper years, the happiest state of existence is when under control. Although contrary to received opinion, this is a fact; but I cannot now stop to demonstrate the truth of the assertion.
Life may be compared to a gamut of music: there are seven notes from our birth to our marriage; and thus may we run up the first octave—milk, sugar-plums, apples, cricket, cravat, gun, horse; then comes the wife, a da capo to a new existence, which is to continue until the whole diapason is gone through. Lord Aveleyn ran up his scale like others before him.
"Why do you not marry, my dear Frank?" said the dowager Lady Aveleyn, one day, when a thick fog debarred her son of his usual pastime.
"Why, mother, I have no objection to marry; and I suppose I must, one of these days, as a matter of duty: but I really am very difficult to please; and if I were to make a bad choice, you know a wife is not like this gun, which will go off when I please."
"But still, my dear Frank, there are many very eligible matches to be made just now."
"I do not doubt it, madam, but pray who are they?"
"Why, Miss Riddlesworth—"
"A very pretty girl, and I am told a large fortune. But let me hear the others first."
"Clara Beauchamp, well connected, and a very sweet girl."
"Granted also, for anything I know to the contrary. Have you more on your list?"