While she was engaged in superintending her servants, or instructing my young brothers, or occupied in needle-work for us all during whole days, with scarcely the interruption of a walk, or the indulgence of a book, I was pouring over my high-flown studies; perhaps, reading Horace with one brother, or conquering mathematical difficulties with the other; or, seated under an old ilex-tree in the lawn, writing verses. Sometimes, to gratify my mother, I condescended to practise on the piano-forte; but this was one of the secondary employments which I despised; a thing for show; a silly waste of time; nothing that could benefit mankind by the developement of the human understanding.
When I was eighteen, my philosophical enthusiasm became so great, that every moment seemed lost which was not devoted to scientific pursuits. To waste that time and those powers which were given me for the noblest purposes, in the common nothings of life; to sit with my friends listening to the trifling gossip of the country, or to home-spun discussions, were sacrifices to which I would seldom submit, and I always broke away from them with undissembled scorn.
Many a lonely hour that she has passed repairing the clothes of which I disdained to take care, I might have cheered her by my company; or enlivened my father’s evenings by a little simple music, in which he delighted. But conceit and selfishness always accompany each other; and, what is more to the point, always lay the foundation of their own punishment; the very talents and pursuits which, under proper control, ornament and raise the female character, became by their abuse my incessant bane. I had the pride of human intellect; and prayed for knowledge: alas! I never prayed for wisdom, nor for humility.
I will give you an instance of my odious selfishness, because it shews how short the space is between right and wrong. I went one evening to the drawing-room in search of my brother, but he was not there. My father had a book open near him, though he was not reading; my mother was working, and both looking sad and anxious; I was quickly retiring out of the room, when my father, stretching out his hand, and drawing me gently towards him said, “Gertrude, my love, stay with us. We have had some unpleasant news to-day. Your poor mother and I are too low-spirited to amuse each other; and we want you, my dear child, to cheer us a little.”
“Yes, papa,” said I, “I will come as soon as I can,” and I hurried away.—I shall never forget his look of disappointment.—Can you believe it?—I was so callous to every good feeling that I coolly sat down to finish some mathematical question in which I had been engaged, before I condescended to return!—But you will ask—had I no principles, no sense of duty or religion to guide me?—Yes, I had principles, but they were always warped by some silly enthusiasm: I had religion, but it was that sort of highly wrought sentiment which produces no good fruits: it was very spiritual I thought, but it had little influence on my actions.
My mother was anxious to bring me more into the world; and I complained myself sometimes of the want of amusement; but I professed to despise company of all kinds: dancing was an absurd waste of life, and the stiff country dinners were tiresome. Had my vanity, indeed, been more gratified at the balls and parties to which I was taken, I should, probably, have liked them amazingly; but the truth was, the ladies thought me learned, and were afraid of me, and neither my appearance nor my conversation pleased the other sex; I therefore discovered that such occupations offered but little enjoyment to a cultivated mind.
When I arrived at the age of twenty-four, I was a strange compound of selfishness and sentiment, of folly and learning. Of every species of useful knowledge I was ignorant; to make or mend my clothes I considered degrading; and all the details of domestic economy I treated with contempt. My mother reasoned with me, but in vain; my father interfered, but it was too late; my habits were formed. My parents could not always conceal their feelings of disappointment, and I withdrew more than ever to my own ideal world of poetry and science, and to studies which, I cannot too often repeat, are praiseworthy only when kept in due subordination. My father once said to me with tears in his eyes, “The time will come, Gertrude, when you will feel your mistake,”—and it did indeed come.
Mr. P., a college friend of my brother’s, came to visit him about this time, and spent a week at our house. He was as enthusiastic as myself, ardent in science, and perfect in classical literature; he was, in a word, the most amiable and accomplished person I had ever known. Pleased with my conversation, he paid us repeated visits, and without sufficiently studying my character, he sought to win my hand. It was the most foolish thing that Mr. P. ever did!
The attentions of such a man were irresistible; he really gained my heart, and I soon consented; anticipating with delight, as I told my mother, a life devoted to him and to science. My father, however, entirely disapproved of the match, as Mr. P. had a very small fortune, and as it was too obvious that I was unfit to be a poor man’s wife. I exerted all my former influence to coax him into acquiescence; but the most I could obtain was that, instead of an absolute refusal, he insisted on our waiting for a year, that we might each have time to understand the duties and difficulties of a married life.
I had been accustomed, not merely to indulgence, but almost to deference. Gertrude’s opinion had always been consulted; her advice had always prevailed; and was she now, and in a matter of such importance, to be controlled like a child! “No, sir,” said I, “Mr. P. is my choice, and I will not risk my happiness by submitting to any delay.”