‘Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart!’ From the Baron’s account she must be perfection, such a perfection as her father’s fancy and fine phrenzy rolling would have imagined. She is highly simple, hateth the city and gay world, and will not be likely to turn up her nose at you and me, the respectable aged friends of her lord.
I believe the Baron has all the elements of domestic felicity in his composition, and it will go hard even if he did not make a good wife out of bad materials. But when the prima materia is worthy of himself, we must expect a scion worthy of the descendants of Locke and Byron, the union of philosophical esteem with poetic ardour.
The book does not progress as much as the chimneys. I never go beyond my cob walls, have never been out fishing, and probably never shall until you reappear in these regions.
Little more than a year later, Ford was writing to congratulate Addington on his engagement.
Heavitree, October 13, 1836.
Dear Addington,
You are right. From 20 to 40 a man takes a wife, as a mistress; and sometimes makes a mistake, gets tired, and wants to change horses. From 40 to 50 (sometimes 55) a man hugs a spouse to his bosom, for comfort and sweet companionship. When the hopes of youth, the heyday of manhood, the recklessness of health and prosperity are waning,—when he begins to know how few things answer, and how hard it is to depend on one’s own resources to pass well through the long day and longer night,—then it is not good to be alone. You have felt that, and have now chosen the right moment. Your wild oats are sown, a good crop of experience reaped, and you have found (and there is no mistake) that the solitary, selfish system won’t do.
Happy, thrice happy are you to be able to bind yourself in those golden threads, woven by friendship, esteem and love! For love, a sine quâ non, must be tempered to become durable. Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.
You will find, after having had your own way so long, how much more it tends to peace of mind to give up and be nicely managed and taken care of. You may amuse yourself with the superintendence of your cellar, and keep a bottle of Valdepeñas for those old friends who may occasionally drop in, and twaddle about that fair land peopled by devils incarnate, male and female.
I have no news. I am content to dig in my garden; like Candide, il faut cultiver son jardin—an innocent, refreshing occupation, which gives health to the body, peace to the mind, oblivion for the past, hopes for the future;—to do no more harm, if possible, and as much good,—to bury resentments and cultivate peace and goodwill, read my Bible and mind my purse, and thank my stars that matters are no worse.